“…tinto e coperto del color di morte…”
She felt Mozart’s surprise from where he stood at the harpsichord. His eyes lifted to hers, and a moment of understanding flashed between them. She turned back to Don Ottavio and went on with the scene, but it was different now. The music was something unified, not a succession of notes and rhythms but a living creation of sound in which every forte, every piano, every accidental had meaning. Her voice became more than a solo instrument. It became a part of the whole, connected to the strings and the winds and the harpsichord. She could see beyond the current scene, sense the whole of the opera, the progression of harmonies, the relationships of keys and tempi.
She knew in her soul that music had changed forevermore. Mozart’s genius, something rarified, far above her own small talent, was now part of her own memories. This was the second gift Zdenka Milosch had spoken of.
She might still be the voce bianca. But no singer on the stage made music the way she did that night.
The burden of such a gift would make itself clear in the months to come. But for that moment, that particular evening, Teresa sang as she had never sung before, and it all seemed worthwhile.
16
Ohimè, respiro!
Ah, I breathe again!
—Don Ottavio, Act One, Scene Two, Don Giovanni
Benson, predictably, elected to cut Ugo’s trousers off, despite a polite request to unzip and remove them properly.
“Roberto Cavalli,” Ugo sighed as Benson began to saw at the fabric with a knife. “What a waste.”
Benson leered at him. “Too small for me.”
Ugo was tempted to make a remark about the repugnance of Benson wearing his clothes, but at that moment Domenico leaned over him, holding the scalpel an inch from his eyes.
“Where do I find them, Ugo?” Domenico grated. “I’m tired, and I want to know now.” He brandished the scalpel, just a little, and Ugo felt it brush his eyelashes.
“It’s clear you have no stomach for this, my friend,” Ugo said. “Why don’t you simply let me out of here and take my word for it? You don’t want to know this. You really don’t.”
Domenico exhaled noisily and straightened. “Strip him, Benson.”
Benson, his bald scalp gone pink with heat, ripped Ugo’s shorts from his body, holding them up like a tattered flag. He grinned at Domenico and said, “Hey, you want me to do it?”
Ugo could see that Domenico considered this for a bare second. He had it right, evidently. Domenico had no personal taste for violence.
But his captor visibly steeled himself. “No.” He reversed the scalpel, holding it in his fist like an icepick. “See this, Ugo? Do you want to be a eunuch?”
“Castrato,” Ugo said softly. “The word you want is castrato.” The centuries-old scar in his groin tingled. It was time.
He twisted his head to look at Benson. “Farewell, my brutal friend.”
“What does that mean?” Benson blustered.
Ugo said, “Your boss had it backward. About my medicine.”
“What?”
Domenico snapped, “Shut up. Just get Marks in here.”
Benson went to the door. A moment later, they gathered around the noisome bed, Benson’s eyes greedy for more agony, Marks looking confused and a little fearful, Domenico weary and a bit nauseous.
Rather fussily, his lips pulled back in distaste, he placed the edge of the knife against Ugo’s right testicle and pressed it into his skin.
This new, exquisite pain flashed through Ugo’s groin and up through his abdominal wall to pierce his solar plexus. There was no music in this sensation, but there was a fierce potency in it, the slancio of transformation.
Blood began to roar in Ugo’s head. His teeth ached, and the follicles in his skin erupted all at once, like a hundred thousand tiny volcanoes. His brain began to burn, synapses afire with change. His bones swelled. His spine curved and lengthened. The shackles that held him to the cot were no more than threads, and he burst them effortlessly. He growled, then roared, and leapt up to claw at Benson’s stunned face.
Canis lupus sicilianus.
Ugo ceased. The wolf began.
17
Rammenta la piaga del misero seno,
rimira di sangue coperto il terreno…
Remember the wound in the unhappy breast,
recall the ground running red with blood…
—Donna Anna, Act One, Scene Two, Don Giovanni
Octavia arrived early in the rehearsal room. Massimo had not yet arrived, but Richard was there, and Giorgio. They had their heads together over a score, conferring. Giorgio looked up as she came in.
“We’ll start with your entrance, Octavia, I promise. As soon as everyone’s here.”
She slipped out of her coat and draped it over a chair. “If we have a few minutes, then, I’ll run down and get a coffee.” Giorgio nodded and spoke to Richard again.
Octavia shouldered her bag and went back out into the hallway. In the elevator down to the canteen, she caught herself running her finger over her teeth, and she forced herself to put her hand in the pocket of her slacks. When the elevator doors opened, she found herself looking up into the caramel eyes of Massimo Luca. He had a cup and saucer in his hand, with a small cornetto in a napkin. His eyelids were heavy, as if he hadn’t slept. He bore a purple bruise in the hollow of his jaw, with abraded skin around it, as if someone had struck him with a fist. She could see someone had treated the mark with ointment of some kind, but a trickle of blood oozed from beneath it.
“Buongiorno,” Octavia said. “Massimo, what happened to you?”
He said abruptly, “Buongiorno.” He looked away, as if she might not notice if he turned his head.
“Are you all right?” She touched her own jaw. “You should ice that—”
“No.” He said it in the Italian way, sharp and short. She let her sentence go unfinished. He made an exasperated noise, and then gestured with his coffee cup. “I don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind. Let me buy you a cappuccino.”
“That’s sweet of you, Massimo. I can get it. I just—”
The elevator doors began to close. He had no hand free, but he stuck his booted foot out to stop them. He gave her a rueful smile. “I want to apologize to you, Octavia.”
“Apologize!”
She stepped out of the elevator. He moved his foot to allow the doors to close, then turned back toward the canteen. She walked beside him, waiting for his explanation. When they reached the canteen, he pushed the door open with his hip. “Ma certo, Octavia,” he said in a low tone. Two people brushed past them in the doorway. He waited until they were gone before he said, “I broke my promise to you.”
She looked at him blankly. “Promise?”
He set his burdens on a nearby table and took her elbow to escort her to the counter. It was hard not to notice the warmth of his hand, nor to appreciate anew the comfort of a tall man at her shoulder. When they had obtained her cappuccino and were headed back to the elevator, Massimo said, “I promised dinner only, nothing more, and then I—well. I’m sorry.”
As the elevator bore them up, she sighed. “Massimo, I’m the one who should apologize. It was a lovely evening. I enjoyed it all—the dinner, the conversation, everything.”
The elevator stopped, and the door slid open. “Let’s begin again, Octavia,” he said quietly. “Next time I’ll keep my promise.”
She looked up at the chiseled line of his jaw, the line of his neck outlined by the open collar of his white shirt. “Massimo. I think it’s better not to have a next time.” As he shot her a look, she said hastily, “My assistant will be back soon, and…”
“But your assistant—he’s not your—” Massimo didn’t finish his thought, but Octavia knew what he was asking.
She laughed a little. “No, no, he’s not. He’s my assistant, and my friend. But he will certainly want me to concentrate on the opera.”
They reached the rehearsal room and went in to
find Giorgio and Russell with their heads bent together. Angelo Marti, the Don Giovanni from the alternate cast, was seated in one of the folding chairs, chatting with Peter and Richard. He lifted a hand in greeting when he saw Octavia and Massimo. They crossed to him.
“Che successa?” Massimo asked. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Angelo shrugged. “I receive a call this morning,” he said, in heavily accented English. “Barrett-Jones, he is…” He seemed to be searching for a word.
Massimo said, “Octavia speaks excellent Italian, Angelo.”
The bass-baritone smiled at her. “Bene! That’s so much easier.” He went on in Italian, “Your Giovanni is ill, it seems. Flu or something. They asked me to sing your rehearsal.”
Octavia frowned. “He was fine yesterday. I hope we’re not all going to get it.”
Angelo stood up and pointed at Massimo’s face. “You’ve been boxing in your free time?”
Massimo shook his head. His eyes darkened with what Octavia took to be anger. He didn’t answer Angelo but turned abruptly away, a muscle flexing along his jaw. Octavia watched him, surprised by this side of him, then remembered the angry hiss of the Mercedes’s tires as he had spun away from Il Principe.
There was no time to press him further. Giorgio called places to finish scene two, beginning with “Or sai chi l’onore.” Peter and Octavia knew their blocking thoroughly, and Angelo knew his as well, so Giovanni’s scene with Leporello went swiftly forward. Marie arrived, and Giorgio, with a satisfied nod, pressed on into scene three, for Zerlina’s and Masetto’s argument.
Massimo and Marie began, with Giorgio coaxing the most amusement he could out of Zerlina’s charming “Batti, batti.” Everything went well, with Russell conducting from his stool beside the piano.
The couple turned in the direction the audience would be. Massimo, according to Giorgio’s direction, swept Marie into his arms and sang his lines with his cheek pressed to her hair.
“Guarda un po’ come seppe questra strega sedurmi!”
When he lifted his head, Octavia bit her lip with concern. Blood trickled freely now down his jaw.
He felt it and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to press against it. Marie turned to see what was happening and exclaimed in sympathy.
But Russell, with a gasp, turned away and leaned on the piano, blood draining from his face. Octavia, watching from a few steps away, rushed to him and put her arm around his shoulders.
“Russell! Are you all right, dear?”
His body trembled beneath her hand, and he choked, “Sorry! So sorry, everyone…I just…”
Giorgio trotted over, his face pink with concern. “Russell, do you need a doctor? Someone, call down to the infirmary—”
“No, no,” Russell protested, weakly, but with energy. “No, I’ll be fine. Oh, my God, it’s so embarrassing….”
Octavia took a firmer hold on his shoulders and guided him to a chair. “There, now, Russell. Put your head down. You’re feeling faint?”
He did as she bade, bending to put his head on his knees. In a muffled voice, he said, “Yes. It’s…I’m so sorry….”
“Is it the blood?” Octavia asked, in a tone meant only for Russell’s ears.
He nodded without lifting his head. “I can’t stand the sight of it. So childish, I know.”
“It’s all right, Russell. No one likes the sight of blood. But we don’t have to tell them. I’ll just say you’re feeling faint, shall I?”
“Thank you,” he said, with obvious misery. “So kind.”
Octavia patted him and straightened to face the others. “I think Russell might need a little break for some food,” she said. “He’s been working too hard, and he’s feeling a little faint.”
Giorgio nodded vigorously. “Of course, of course. We’ll all take a break. Shall I send someone—”
“No, thank you, Giorgio,” Octavia said firmly. “Why don’t you all go down to the canteen, and when Russell’s feeling better, I’ll walk down with him.”
“Sì, sì, va bene,” Giorgio said, and the others agreed. Angelo and Richard turned to walk away with Giorgio, and Marie, with a glance up at Massimo, followed.
Massimo hesitated, looking down at Russell, still bent over his knees, and at Octavia. He lowered the handkerchief, leaving a smear of blood on his cheek.
“You might want to visit the pronto soccorso for that,” she said.
“No. It will stop bleeding in a minute.” He swiped at it again. “See you downstairs?”
“Yes. We’ll be along in a minute.”
He nodded, turned, and strode toward the door. She watched his retreating back, wondering what could have happened between their dinner last night and this morning, what it was that he wouldn’t explain.
She patted Russell’s back, waiting for him to feel better, and contemplating a disturbing urge to lick the blood being wasted on Massimo’s cheek.
Octavia hardly knew how she got through the long hours of rehearsal. She left before Massimo, and even before Russell, who seemed fully recovered from his faintness of the morning and looked as if he might be waiting for her when they were released for the evening. She hurried out, shrugging into her coat as she went, wrapping her scarf several times around her throat against the chill evening breeze. She thought someone spoke her name, but she didn’t turn. She flagged a taxi, though she knew the doorman at Il Principe would scold her for not calling for the limousine. All she wanted was to be in her suite, the door closed and locked. Her throat had begun to burn.
The smell of blood that had clung to Massimo all day had nearly driven her mad.
When she shut the door of the suite behind her, she stood in the center of the lush carpet, shivering. Her teeth throbbed, and she was afraid to look at them. She hugged herself tightly, as if she could hold in this drive, this awful desire. It had been more than a century since she had resorted to the tooth. Was Ugo right? If she was thirsty enough, would she lose control?
18
Dalla sua pace la mia dipende;
quel che a lei piace vita mi rende.
On her peace of mind my own depends;
her wishes are the breath of life to me.
—Don Ottavio, Act One, Scene Two, Don Giovanni
Hélène found a willing enough victim on the ferry, but the delay had made her ravenously thirsty, and out of control. She didn’t know, when it was over, quite what she had done, but she feared the worst.
The next morning, at breakfast in the Palace dining room, she saw the Chronicle headline. A body had been found on the ferry, dead of mysterious causes. A bad photograph showed the very face she remembered, whiskered, thick-nosed, middle-aged. Lifeless.
Hélène abandoned the poached eggs and fresh biscuits set before her and blundered out of the hotel, her empty stomach roiling. She turned north, toward the bay, walking as fast as she could in her heeled boots. She paid no attention to where she was going, only following the soothing lure of the waves and the clanging of the warning bell from Alcatraz.
After a walk of thirty minutes or so, she found herself on Battery Street, skirting the foot of Telegraph Hill on her way to the shore. Thick gray fog roiled above the bay, hiding the roofs of Sausalito on the opposite shore. The tang of fish from the wharf reminded her of the salt taste of fresh blood. As she paced the grass above the beach, the hem of her skirt grew heavy with the damp.
She had meant not to kill him! She had tried to hold back, to stop before she went too far. It was the great danger in getting too thirsty, in letting too much time lapse between feedings. Her own reluctance made her inefficient, even after all these years. She resisted the thirst, and she resisted its satisfaction.
Somewhere above her, hidden by the fog, a seagull gave its tritone call, F–B, F–B. For a painful moment, she was Teresa Saporiti again, leaving her home in Limone sul Garda to begin her life as a singer. Sorrow filled her breast for lost innocence, and for the heartache of a life lived alone.
She tur
ned to walk back toward the docks, where the fishing boats bobbed as they waited for the fog to lift. She wrapped her coat more tightly about her and pulled her scarf down over her forehead, retracing her steps along the shore. The fog swept up over the beach, and she walked into it, glad to be isolated with her misery and her guilt.
He seemed to coalesce out of the drifts of fog, first his flat cap, then the sweep of his gray worsted topcoat, the jut of white that was his stiff collar. His face was a blur of shadows against the gray, but Hélène recognized him instantly.
She swerved abruptly to her left to avoid him, but he moved easily, wolflike, and blocked her path. “I need to talk to you.”
“Leave me alone,” she said. “You’ve caused enough damage.”
His smile was as cool as the fog itself. “You have no idea,” he said lightly. “But I’m going to explain it.”
“Explain what? Why you made me kill some poor innocent man?”
He shrugged. His black eyes were as cold as the fog. “He wasn’t innocent. I’ve seen him before. He haunts Jackson Street for whores. He doesn’t always pay for what he takes.”
“I don’t care. I didn’t intend to kill him.”
He put out his hand and gripped her elbow. She tried to pull away, but his fingers were like steel. “Hélène. I’ve come to you as a friend.”
“A friend!” she spat. Her lip curled and she knew her teeth were showing, but she didn’t care about that, either. “Are you going to expose me?”
He pressed a hand to his chest, and laughed. “Expose you! Mon Dieu, ma chérie! We are both creatures of secrecy. To expose you would be to expose myself. And besides, who would believe me?” He turned her toward the beach. “Come now, mademoiselle. Let’s go down to the water’s edge and make ourselves comfortable. I have a great deal to tell you.”
“I have a performance tonight.”
“Yes, I know.” He gave her a cool smile and urged her forward with a steady pressure under her arm. “Carmen. With the great Caruso. And Fremstad. I hear she’s a bitch to work with.”
Mozart’s Blood Page 16
