“Will the estate owners make up the bulk of the concert audience?” Karl asked.
Octavia gave a chuckling snort. “How many estates do you think there are in the near vicinity? The people of Molina Mori will fill most of the seats, and I can just imagine how grateful they will be to hear snatches of an opera that is quite beyond their reach. I’m told that even now my husband is receiving Mayor Bartoli—an estimable man, though his good wife dresses years behind the fashion—I’ll make sure he knows about my concert before he leaves the house.”
As Octavia paused for breath, her expansive smile mimicked Juno or some other ancient goddess favoring mere mortals with her noble generosity. Then her gaze lit on me, and she was once again the commander marshalling the troops for her assault on Society. “Ah, Tito, there you are. I must say, you’re certainly one for wandering off. I’ve put you down for several arias and a duet with Madame Fouquet. Yesterday, I thought you two sang very prettily together. Let me see…” She shuffled through a clutch of papers scrawled with lists.
Fixing a mutinous eye on Octavia’s lists, Karl said, “I agree that our principals complement each other. In fact, their voices blend like a braid woven from matching ribbons. Their stage mannerisms, as well. If Gabriele weren’t a Frenchwoman, I would almost think she and Tito were sister and brother. But that still doesn’t make Il Gran Tamerlano ready for performance.”
A flush sprang to Grisella’s wide-eyed face, and I had to clear my throat to mask a breath of surprise. Karl’s impromptu remark seemed to waver in the air like a banner proclaiming news of the greatest import, but no one beside my sister and me seemed to see it. The others were all focusing on our hostess.
“Fiddle-faddle,” said Octavia, actually shaking her finger at the composer. “The parts you’ve been rehearsing sound wonderful. You’re just afraid that someone in the audience will take a liking to one of your tunes, rush back to town, and publish it as his own.”
“It has happened.” Karl’s sepulchral tone reverberated through the salon.
“A hazard of the trade, mio caro. Surely, those who follow the occupation of music must learn to take such things in stride.”
Several of the company gasped. The Gecco brothers traded popeyed looks.
Veins began to bulge on Karl’s forehead. “Is it possible you don’t understand? After all I’ve suffered through? Presenting another man’s achievement is theft of the basest sort—”
Finally realizing she’d pushed too far, Octavia bit her lip in distress.
“My work is my life and my love,” Karl flew on. “I’d rather have them take my last penny than pirate my music. Just thinking about it rips my heart in two.” As if to underscore this sentiment, the composer tore his waistcoat open and beat his breast. Gold buttons ricocheted off the unyielding floor tiles.
“Santo Dio,” Octavia exclaimed, hurrying to Karl’s side. “Calm yourself, my poppet, I spoke without thinking. But you truly have nothing to get so worked up about. Not one person of my rural acquaintance possesses the skill to set down a nursery tune, much less one of your inspired scores.”
All this was said as she hauled her protégé to the opposite end of the salon. They stopped at the loggia doors where Karl buried his face in his hands and swayed on his feet. Though it was scarcely past noon, the outdoor vista was as dusky as twilight. Gray clouds scudded across the piece of sky that was visible through the glass; the cheery sunlight of yesterday might never have existed.
As I watched Octavia console the composer with clumsy caresses and numerous thimble-sized glasses of cordial-water, I thought it prudent to refresh my memory about the duel that had forced our maestro to leave Italy in the first place. Naturally, I approached Carmela. While I drank at the font of all operatic gossip, the rest of the company milled about the salon, quietly speculating, gloating, or joking about the latest delay in rehearsal.
“Don’t you remember, Tito?” Carmela grinned like a she-wolf drooling over a fat grouse. “The duel took place in Milan during the theater’s Easter season. Maestro Weber’s popularity had been gradually growing over a span of months, but when the theaters reopened after being dark for Lent, opera fever gripped the town. People went wild over his new production set on the exploits of Alexander the Great. The gazettes took to calling him the new Handel.”
“How long ago was this?”
She counted on her fingers. “Must have been over six years now.”
I racked my memory, not really surprised when details failed to emerge. I’d been more than a little preoccupied with murderous doings at my own opera house in Venice at the time. “Did they fight with swords or pistols?” I asked.
“Pistols.”
“What led up to it?”
“Well, people were literally tripping over themselves to get into Karl’s performances—the manager of the Teatro Ducale was able to auction tickets for two or three times the price printed on the playbill. Karl’s success seemed assured until one evening when he jumped up from the audience and accused a rival composer of quarrying melodies from one of his productions from the previous season.”
“In the middle of a performance?”
“Yes! It was one of the few nights that another composer’s opera was on the bill. The Duke and his retinue were in attendance, as well as the cream of Milan aristocracy. In front of everyone, our maestro stormed the orchestra pit and dragged the offending composer from the harpsichord by the scruff of his neck. Urged on by the Milanese—you know they love a good fight even more than a good opera—the two faced each other in the open market directly in front of the theater. Their affair of honor might have passed off as a one-night wonder if they had fired pistols over each others’ heads—”
“I remember now,” I broke in excitedly. “It was a tragic scandal. Karl’s bullet pierced his rival’s chest. He staggered to the steps and collapsed under a poster advertising his opera, then bled to death affirming that every note was his and no other’s. He was another German—a mere youth who had already made a name for himself as a child violinist. Pindor. No, Lindor.”
“That’s right. Lindor was at the beginning of his career as a composer, untried and somewhat raw, but popular. He was accustomed to traveling in aristocratic circles, and his good looks counterbalanced his musical flaws.”
“Had he copied from Karl’s score or not? Seems rather foolhardy to steal from a composer whose work is being staged at the same theater.”
Carmela shrugged. “I wasn’t there, but rumor has it that our maestro took exception to only one aria. You know how melodies stay in your head and eventually you begin to forget where they came from—it would be easy to duplicate a few phrases and not even realize it.”
“Happens all the time.” I nodded. “Some composers take offense, but I’ve never known one to become so incensed that he assassinated his rival.”
“I’ve always liked to think that Karl was trying to aim safely above Lindor—just to make his point, you understand—and as music makers are not the best of shots, the bullet went unintentionally awry. They do say Karl fainted when he realized he’d killed the poor fellow. His supporters roused him just in time to flee and escape arrest.”
“And now he’s returned to Italy.”
She broke into her wolf-smile one more time. “Our hostess may have managed to tempt him into Venetian territory, but I’ll wager he won’t take one step inside the Duchy of Milan. Some people have long memories.”
“I’ve been wondering…” I said, casting a pointed glance across the room toward Octavia and Karl. “How did those two happen to join forces?”
Carmela fingered one of her exquisite earrings, suddenly hesitant. Then she spoke slowly, as if the words were revealing themselves through a dim mist. “I believe Karl told me they met in Switzerland, at the spa in Baden…”
“That’s all?” I prodded when no ela
boration was forthcoming.
Carmela lowered her voice and spoke quickly; Romeo was striding across the salon in our direction, lank wig flapping on his shoulders. “Octavia had gone to bathe in the sulfur spring, and Karl was providing musical entertainment in the pleasure garden. That’s all I know for certain, though you can probably fill in the rest of their story as easily as I.”
Of course. A matron with the energy of a whirling dervish, childless, largely ignored, or at best, airily placated by a husband whose passions were reserved for his factory and his farm: Octavia would not be the first to throw herself into a love affair with a moody, young artiste. How convenient that her lover also happened to possess talents that could farther her social aspirations.
And Karl: a disgraced composer reduced to competing with illuminated fountains, games of chance, fireworks displays, and other typical spa amusements. He must have died a thousand deaths dribbling his music away before the holiday makers who lent him half an ear at best. And then Lady Bountiful appeared, her purse weighed down with the profits from tons and tons of ironwork. He need only act the part of an attentive lover to gain another opportunity to stun the world, or at least Venice, with a new opera. If he was successful, doors that had been firmly shut would fly open. Impresarios would race to offer contracts.
Across the salon, a sheaf of light piercing a hole in the clouds turned the door panes to liquid gold. Octavia and Karl stood illuminated. Their story should have been as easily perceived as his sulky pout and her overweening concern. Why did I feel that I was overlooking something?
***
A few minutes later, Vincenzo entered the salon to find us receiving our marching orders for the concert. When no one paid him the slightest attention, he crossed to the fireplace, selected a poker, and nudged the waning flames back to life. He then took up a position before the fire, warming his backside and observing the company as if we were exotic beasts rounded up for exhibition.
With scant reference to Octavia’s lists, Karl assigned me two arias, one sentimental and one exceedingly florid, as well as a duet with my sister. Romeo seemed pleased with his two arias, but Emilio flushed when he received only one in addition to a duet with Carmela. As that soprano was nodding over her assigned pieces, Octavia could hold her tongue no longer.
“Why are you allowing Signora Costa to sing that lovesick aria? The mood calls for a sorrowful, lyrical touch. Her blistering plaints could melt an alpine snow. People will find it vulgar.”
“I know what the mood calls for. I wrote the piece, after all.”
“Well, she makes a mess of it,” Octavia retorted.
Karl squeezed his eyes shut in distress, apparently tongue-tied for the moment. Romeo was not.
“The hell you say,” the basso rumbled from his barrel chest. “I’ll hear no words against our Carmela. There’s not a finer soprano in all of Italy.”
As her protector glowered, the soprano in question darted toward Octavia, shoulders hunched, airs and graces thrown aside. “You’re off your head if you think I’ll stand by and let you go on about my singing. What do you know? You’re just a tattered old crow trying to pass herself off as a nightingale.”
Romeo nodded decisively.
Octavia’s chin shot out at a menacing angle, but she took a step or two backward.
Finally coming to life, Karl stepped between the women and barred the soprano’s way with an outflung arm. “I’ll thank you to hold your tongue, Carmela. You too, Romeo.”
“I will not,” Carmela flung back. “The future of your career may be dangling between your legs, but mine isn’t. I could set out for Venice this minute and find another position by the end of the week. In a better production. At a better theater.”
“No one wants you to leave,” Karl answered more gently. “I cast you as Irene, and I would be desolated if anyone else sang that role in Venice. I need you.” He gripped both of her hands in his. “But you must let me handle this. Please.”
Carmela shook her head, anger still obvious, but she quickly cooled. After a few seconds’ thought, she sauntered the length of the salon to a sofa where she plopped down and stared fixedly toward the loggia which was now bathed in weak sunlight. Romeo’s gaze swiveled between our maestro and Carmela. I thought the big basso might join her in exile, but he stayed where he was.
Karl turned back to Octavia. Except for a twitch in his left eye, the composer’s face could have been sculpted from granite. He said, “Not over ten minutes ago you promised that you wouldn’t interfere.”
“Do you call it interfering if someone merely makes suggestions?”
“Yes.”
“Then that merely proves how much you need my guidance,” she replied breezily.
Karl squeezed his eyes shut again. Perhaps he was counting to ten. I reckoned time enough to count that far and beyond before he blinked them open to say, “You’ve set the time and place for your concert. If I’m to direct it, I will select the pieces. And who sings them.”
A cough from the fireplace forestalled Octavia’s reply. Vincenzo pocketed the large watch he had been fingering and strode in among us. “Ah, my dear. I think Maestro Weber is dispensing wise counsel. If a window shatters, we call in a glazier, yes? And if a key breaks off in a lock, we seek out the locksmith.”
Octavia rounded on her husband. “Vincenzo, what are you rattling on about?”
“You keep telling me you’ve hired a first-rate composer and musical director. Maestro Weber is the expert, the one you chose, so let the man get on with what he’s meant to do. There are plenty of other details that require your touch. Once the grapes are in, you must organize the construction of a stage, procure seating, write out invitations…”
“Invitations!” Octavia threw up her hands and waggled her fingers in the air. “You’ve not let our visitors leave, have you? Oh, Vincenzo. I wanted to speak with the mayor. I’m sure I told you.”
“Mayor Bartoli left some time ago, my dear. Signor Luvisi and Padre Romano, too,” Vincenzo answered in his patient, good-humored way. “I saw them out through the barchessa. I wanted them to see the studio I’ve set up for Augustus.”
“You and your painter,” his wife retorted. “As usual, your head is too full of your own schemes to attend to my wishes.”
Vincenzo stared down at his boots, calmly raising one to inspect some mud clinging to the instep. “I did put my schemes, as you call them, aside long enough to have one hell of a dust-up with Ernesto over the grapes. But I am sorry about the mayor. Perhaps you could write to him.”
“Yes, of course. Written invitations are in order. I must make a list.” Octavia’s voice sank and her gaze turned inward. “No one of quality must be left out. Besides the mayor, there’s Doctor Gennari and…” Her words trailed off as she bustled away.
Her new fixation did not preclude one last shot aimed at her husband, however. Pausing half-turned in the doorway, she said, “You forgot to clean your boots on the scraper, Vincenzo. That’s the third time this week. Please do try and remember. The servants have more important work to do than trailing after you with a brush and dustpan.” She completed her scolding with a sharp nod and was gone.
Vincenzo left, too. But not before he approached Carmela’s sofa. Smiling down at the soprano, he said, “If you’ll accept the opinion of a man whose ears might as well be made of flannel where music is concerned…”
She looked up, dimpling. “Please go on, Signore.”
“I think you’re a fine songstress—much more spirited than those whey-faced ladies who think all it takes to display passion is a bit of eyelash fluttering.”
Much mollified, Carmela returned to the group at the harpsichord and declared herself “positively itching” to get on with rehearsal. With the Dolfinis out of the way, Karl was of like mind. Handing scores around, he directed the Gecco brothers to their instrume
nts and announced Emilio and Carmela’s duet that opened Act Three. “We will take some time with this,” our maestro advised. “The rest of you are at liberty until after dinner.”
Perhaps feeling that Carmela still required his bracing presence, Romeo threw her a moist glance of approval, seated himself at the card table, and laid out a game of solitaire. All without a word to Grisella or me.
This was the opportunity I’d been waiting for, my chance to have my sister to myself. We both had several hours free, and I’d not laid eyes on Jean-Louis all morning. To my surprise, Grisella did not immediately fall in with my suggestion of a walk.
“I’m not feeling well, Tito. It’s better that I rest.” She held up her book and ruffled its creamy pages. “I’m almost finished with my novel. I’ll read for a bit and perhaps take a nap.”
I had escorted her into the foyer. During the scene in the salon, she had held herself aloof: a silent, but fretful observer. I had noticed her left shoulder twitching and her mouth also drawing in that direction. Those signs were still in evidence, worse if anything.
“I promise I won’t take you far. The sun has come out, and you may find a bit of air soothing.”
She gazed up the stairs, her hands clenching the slim volume.
“Please, Grisella,” I whispered. “We must talk.”
“I know, but not now. Later, I promise.” With an apologetic shrug, she started for the stairs.
I couldn’t let her slip away so easily. Who knows when we would have this chance again? I lifted my voice a notch. “If you won’t walk with me, perhaps I should ask Madame Chevrier.”
“Madame Chevrier?” she echoed on a tremor.
I nodded grimly.
“Let me fetch my shawl.” Ducking her chin, Grisella sped up the stairs.
Realizing that my hat and walking stick were in my room, I followed at a more leisurely pace. I retrieved those items, emerged into the second floor hall, and waited for my sister.
And waited.
Either the shawl was buried deep in her trunk or she also had some other feminine rite to perform. As I rocked back and forth on my heels, I became aware that each second of each minute was literally ticking away. The tall clock at the front of the corridor was in operation again.
4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Page 12
