3 - Cruel Music

by Beverle Graves Myers

  I approached the bed. The cardinal beckoned with a clawing gesture.

  “Ah, my songbird. You’ve come at last. I need rest if I’m to last through the opera tonight. Sing something that will soothe me to sleep.” Fabiani stretched his lips in a beatific smile and addressed me as if Gemma’s horrifying death had never occurred.

  “Do you enjoy Vivaldi, Your Eminence?”

  He frowned. “Too gaudy. Give me simple melody, not fireworks.”

  I knew just the thing. I modulated my voice to its softest tone and began a sweet rendition of a canzonetta by one of my old maestros, a tender reflection on unrequited love. The valet applied a cloth to Fabiani’s brow, and the cardinal sighed and snuggled into his pillows. Before I reached the end of the second stanza, the cardinal was the picture of repose: eyes closed; catlike nose no longer twitching; lips parted to emit deep, regular breaths. I took particular note of the pale, unblemished hands crossed loosely on the coverlet.

  Before sleep totally prevailed, Fabiani opened one eye to whisper, “You’d best rest, as well, Tito. You’re coming to the Argentina with me tonight.”

  ***

  “Guido’s saying that Gemma quit. Just demanded her wages, threw her clothes in a bag, and walked out.” Benito frowned at the velvet patch which refused to adhere to the skin between my right eye and temple.

  “Doesn’t that strike anyone as odd?” I was trying to talk and hold my head still at the same time. “Are positions in service so easy to find in Rome? Judging by the number of beggars I’ve seen in the street, I’d guess that jobs are hard to come by.”

  “Guido says that Rome is a dole town. There’s a free bread ration, and the religious confraternities fall all over themselves to fulfill their charitable duties. Plenty of free hospitals, too. Why should a man work when everything is provided?”

  “Why is Guido working, then?”

  Benito grinned as he applied another dot of mastic to the star-shaped patch. “Ambition. Guido says he wants more than a crust of bread and a spot of sunshine to nap in.”

  “Your new friend seems to say a great deal. I trust you’re not revealing any of our secrets in return.” I had recounted the details of the midnight tragedy when Benito found me puzzling over the cimaruta that morning.

  “Don’t worry about me, Master. I understand what will befall Signor Alessandro if we fail. As far as Guido is concerned, I’m valet to a dimwitted but kindly castrato who thinks of little besides the health of his throat and his next good meal.”

  “Dimwitted? Me?” My jerk of annoyance dislodged the tiny patch that Benito had labored over.

  Licking his forefinger, Benito nudged the reluctant patch back to its original position. As he reached for more mastic, he calmly stated, “You know how it is—people tend to discount castrati as vain, self-absorbed songsters—as if cutting off our balls removed any other interests or pleasures besides music. It will work to our advantage if people believe we’re a pair of lightweight fools. They’ll be less on guard and the more we’ll learn in the end.”

  Sighing through my nose, I gave his strategy a nod of assent. “Did Guido mention how the staff learned of Gemma’s supposed decampment?”

  “Rossobelli announced it this morning, at breakfast in the house servants’ dining hall. Said that Matilda would be seeing to the old lady’s needs from now on. That’s why nobody wondered. The marchesa gave Gemma fits—the girl had threatened to quit a hundred times. Now, Guido’s taking bets on how long Matilda will last. I put ten paoli down on three weeks.”

  “There is something else. Guido called Gemma away from the music room, right after the conversazioni. Why, I wonder.”

  “Oh, I know why. He found the marchesa outside without her shawl. Gemma and Matilda were still trying to coax her inside when I went down to the kitchen for your dinner.”

  I nodded thoughtfully.

  Benito curled his tongue over his upper lip, intent on his task. “Good God, but this patch would try St. Peter’s soul.”

  “Just put it back in the box—it’s time I should get downstairs. It hardly fits my mood tonight, anyway.” I was, of course, referring to the convention that a patch placed at the corner of the eye denotes a man of passionate temperament.

  “Is that so? I would have thought that spending the afternoon with Signorina Del’Vecchio would have raised a bit of passion in your breast…or perhaps lower down.”

  “Oh, Benito. What am I going to do with you?” I moaned in mock exasperation as I shrugged into my coat. “Do try to remember, she’s Signorina Pellegrina now, and we’re just getting to know each other again.”

  “She may have changed her religion and her name, but she’s still Liya, daughter of a ghetto rag merchant.”

  “Not a fair statement. Her family deals in high quality used clothing.”

  He rolled his expressive eyes. “You know what I mean—it’s like the old saying about a leopard and his spots. We are who we are, though we may try mightily to convince ourselves and others that we’re not.”

  I nodded, assessing my reflection in the mirror. Even without the beauty patch, I looked a fine sight: coat of claret-colored brocade that I’d worn for my first concert at the villa; shirtfront of Burano-lace ruffles; full dress bob-wig, powdered to a starch white; and a subtle dewing of cosmetics to give my skin the lily-and-rose complexion that was fashionable for both men and women. But was that really me? Somehow I pictured my true self at about nine years old, chasing Alessandro and his friends through the calli and campi of Venice, dreaming of sailing away on a pirate ship and discovering buried treasure. Back then, becoming one of those peculiar eunuchs that I’d seen singing the high parts of Mass at the Basilica was the farthest thing from my mind.

  I dragged myself back to the present and addressed Benito’s back as he rummaged through a drawer. “While I’m at the opera, perhaps you can get this loquacious Guido talking about Gemma. Was she friendly with the rest of the staff? Or were there feuds?

  “And…” I fingered my neckcloth thoughtfully. “I’d also be interested to know if there’s any possibility that her relationship with the cardinal went beyond master and servant.”

  Benito flashed a saucy grin over his shoulder. “It will be my pleasure, Master. Here…” He stood up and unfurled a handkerchief for my perusal. “Silk, don’t you think? For the opera?”

  I gazed at the lace-edged fabric in horror.

  “Master?”

  “Oh, Benito, I must be the biggest fool in all of Italy. I’ve left my handkerchief stuffed in the secret door of the pavilion.”

  “Not one with a monogram?” Benito’s expression mirrored my own.

  “I’m not sure.” I took off at a run. “I’ll have to get it.”

  Darting past me, Benito pressed his back against the door. “No, let me. The back stairs will be quicker, and no one will think twice about me running up and down.”

  I hesitated. It was my mistake and I should be the one to rectify it.

  “Besides, it’s time for you to go down.”

  “It is, but I would like to be sure that all is well before I leave the villa.”

  “I’ll bring it to you in the front hall, as if I had forgotten to supply a handkerchief for your pocket.” My manservant nodded decisively.

  We entered the long corridor. While Benito trotted toward the servant’s staircase, I made my way downstairs by the sweeping marble cascade. I’d been told that Cardinal Fabiani’s box at the opera house contained six seats. Rossobelli and I were to ride with the cardinal in his black and gilt coach; a small party from Prince Pompetti’s circle would meet us at the theater.

  Fabiani greeted me with a nod, obviously anxious to be off. But as he donned an ermine-trimmed cloak, the old marchesa came loping through the grand hall. A diamond headpiece circled her tangled locks and scarlet dots of
rouge decorated her cheeks. Even more startling was the outdated ball gown of crushed velvet that covered her bony form. No one had done the laces up the back, so the bodice had slithered down to reveal breasts as limp and flat as two empty meal sacks.

  Holding her skirts bunched in two fists, she made a beeline for her son. “Lorenzo, caro. Don’t leave without me,” she entreated in a rasping croak. “I want to see the opera…I’m all dressed.”

  The cardinal’s mouth fell open. “Merciful Heaven! What nonsense is this? Rossobelli, find Matilda at once.”

  The abate scurried off, knees pumping awkwardly from side to side.

  Fabiani fixed an apprehensive smile on his lips. With tentative fingers, he tugged the marchesa’s bodice to a less revealing position, then took his mother’s hands in his. I observed her hands with interest. A thick ring, embossed with the Fabiani crest framed in tiny seed pearls, sprouted from her forefinger like an ornamental carbuncle. Blue veins snaked between wrinkles and spots of brown discoloration, but the skin on the back of her hands was unbroken. “Mama,” he said, “you can’t…that is, you wouldn’t want to come. This opera will be very dreary. And long, very long. You would be bored to tears.”

  The old woman drew one hand away. She plucked at her gown, then at her straggling hair. “I want everyone to see my diamonds. Especially the Marchesa Albioni. She brags on her jewels, but they aren’t nearly so fine as these.”

  Fabiani spoke slowly and firmly, “Mama, just think a moment. It’s 1740. The Marchesa Albioni has been dead for five years. And you are ill—in no shape to go to the opera. You must go back to your room with Matilda.”

  The marchesa’s new nursemaid had arrived. Quailing under the cardinal’s dagger-like gaze, Matilda patted her charge’s bare shoulder. “Yes, My Lady, back to your room. I’ll make you some chocolate. And we’ll play a game. Any one you like.”

  The marchesa gave the woman a gaping smile, but her milky eyes darted this way and that, searching the air, wordlessly asking: Who on earth are you, and what am I doing here? Hugging her velvet bodice up under her neck, she allowed Matilda to guide her. They were turning toward the stairs when the marchesa’s gaze caught mine. She wriggled away from her keeper and threw herself in my arms.

  “I know you. You’ll take me, won’t you? We’ll see the opera together.”

  “Mama, stop,” Fabiani gasped.

  But the marchesa did not stop. “Yes, my pretty tall one.” She rose to her tiptoes and pressed her fingers to my lips. “Your beautiful mouth. Kiss me now, carissimo, show me all the wonderful things you can do with that mouth.”

  “My Lady, please…” I stammered as footmen came running and Matilda flapped her arms in useless agitation.

  The marchesa fought like a tigress. Her memory may have betrayed her, but her will endured. By the time she was carried away, one footman was limping, one had a bloodied nose, and Matilda had been knocked flat on her skinny rump.

  I hardly knew what to say. Should I beg my patron’s pardon for being the unwitting spur to his mother’s outburst? Or pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred? Rossobelli offered no clue. He merely shuffled a nervous tattoo on the marble tiles, bleated a cough, and announced several times that the carriage was waiting. And where was Benito? The unfortunate drama had given him more than enough time to run to the pavilion and back.

  Fabiani no longer seemed to be in a hurry. While Rossobelli dithered, the cardinal stepped closer to me. He stopped only when his face was inches from mine. Like a scholar examining an ancient parchment, he studied my features with narrowed eyes, parted lips, and quivering alley cat nose. Somehow I sensed that silence was the only proper response.

  After an uncomfortable moment, rapid steps clattered over the terrazzo and Benito appeared at my elbow.

  The cardinal broke his gaze. “I’m sorry, Tito. As you know, my mother can be quite…unpredictable.” With that, he turned abruptly, his scarlet cloak billowing in his wake. The bronze doors parted. Over his shoulder, he flung a glittering smile. “Come, Signori. An evening of music and magic awaits.”

  “Did you find it?” I whispered out of the side of my mouth.

  Benito slapped a folded square of fabric in my hand. Glancing down, I was puzzled to see the silk handkerchief that he had removed from my drawer earlier in the evening.

  Rossobelli sidled close. “If your ensemble is complete, Signor Amato, His Eminence is waiting.”

  I followed Rossobelli, but watched Benito over my shoulder.

  My manservant shook his head and silently mouthed: Not there.

  ***

  We entered the cardinal’s box at the Argentina just as perfunctory applause rose to greet the composer taking his place at the harpsichord. Fabiani settled himself in the best seat and gestured for me to sit at his left hand. We overlooked the stage so closely I could see the cast as they waited in the wings gargling spring water and adjusting costumes. The stage was set with a scene from ancient Rome. The buildings of the Forum rose against a backdrop of impossibly blue sky, cotton wool clouds billowed from the rafters, and an avenue of triumphal obelisks seemed to stretch to infinity. When two singers joined hands and entered stage right, I leaned forward with avid curiosity.

  The recitativo that set up the opera’s story line went well enough and the first solo was rewarded with loyal cheers, but it was the following duet that let me know I was in for a treat. The castrato who sang Ricimero, a barbarian king who hastened the fall of the Roman Empire, was a sound musician and even better actor. He commanded attention with every noble gesture, and the immense chest beneath his costume armor swelled with a voice of compelling resonance. More than a few ladies swooned when he directed his powerful soprano toward their boxes. The castrato who filled the prima donna role was even more interesting.

  The playbill listed his name as Albertini, an obvious nod to an influential patron. He must have been almost straight from the conservatory—more boy than man—certainly not a day over eighteen. His youthful beauty made him a natural to play a female. The corseted waist, padded bodice, and porcelain face paint only gilded the lily that he already was. But it was his voice that had me hugging the box railing.

  Any intelligent person can learn the language of music. It’s a sort of code. Blobs of ink on the staff signify certain sounds that the human throat has the capability of creating. Learn what each blob means and you can sing. The result can be dull, plodding, competent, or inspired. Every singer imbues the process with his own style and personality. Albertini’s contribution to Jomelli’s score was playful delight. The boy sang with melodious abandon, his face shining with the joy of producing such marvelous sounds. His agile soprano ran up and down trills with astonishing ease and filled the auditorium like a peal of perfectly tuned church bells. Albertini’s only sin was excess. With undisciplined enthusiasm, he improvised embellishments that overshadowed Jomelli’s melodic line. I found myself adjusting and correcting his performance in my head—how I would love to take on a pupil of his caliber. I had become so engrossed that I failed to notice two latecomers entering the box.

  When Rossobelli hissed and gave me a sharp poke in the ribs, I whirled around to shush him and instead found myself staring into the amused brown eyes of Prince Aurelio Pompetti.

  “Amazing, isn’t he?” The prince nodded toward Albertini. The duet had concluded with a stirring cadenza, and the singers were basking in wild applause and collecting the flowers that admirers tossed on the stage.

  I nodded, still half-entranced by the music. “The best I’ve heard in many months.”

  Another poke from Rossobelli reminded me that I was addressing one of Rome’s elite aristocracy. I quickly scrambled from my seat and gave the prince the bow that was his due. He responded with an abbreviation of the usual courtesies and presented me to his female companion.

  Like most of the English,
Lady Mary Sysonby was blond, rosy, and well-washed. She also possessed strong features and a vigorous frame which would have told well on a prima donna but struck me as overbearing in the small confines of the box.

  “I’ve seen you before, Signor Amato, on the stage in London,” she said in precisely enunciated Italian.

  I bowed my acknowledgment.

  “My father took me to Covent Garden to celebrate the birthday that occasioned the opening of my third decade of life. Though never inclined to novelties, Father thought I should see the Italian Opera before the fever for eunuchs abated.”

  “I hope we provided a fitting accompaniment for your special day.”

  She tossed her head in an equine gesture. “I admit to finding your songs extremely skilled. Some touching, even. But still, I must condemn your mutilation. Nature undoubtedly intended you to have a fine, deep voice. Why not leave it at that? This fad for frivolous trilling has robbed you of your generative organs and deprived you of posterity.”

  I clenched my teeth to keep my jaw from dropping. Few Italian women would have expressed themselves so boldly, but Prince Pompetti didn’t seem troubled. Indeed, he inclined his handsome head in a series of nods, as if encouraging a star pupil in a recitation. As Albertini favored the audience with an encore, Lady Mary amplified her assertion with a detailed history of what she called “illegitimate eunuchism.”

  It was Cardinal Fabiani who insisted on the last word. Finally tearing his eyes away from the stage, he spoke regretfully. “My dear Lady Mary, if your ears were as keen as your intellect, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I confess I swelled with pride at Fabiani’s comment. The cardinal might be up to his neck in secrets and schemes, but it warmed my heart to know that he appreciated splendid music and the pleasure it could bestow. I sent him a grateful look which he returned with an amicable smile. Perhaps I was working my way into his good graces at last.