Tales from the Vatican Vaults

by Barrett, David V.

  I took the folder and opened it; inside were sheets of spidery handwritten choral music in a rather poor and indistinct photocopy.

  ‘This is the Allegri Miserere. And yet . . . it’s different.’

  ‘I knew you were the right man for this job!’ Gareth said triumphantly.

  ‘But how did you – ?’

  ‘It seems there are two. The first one, the “official” one we all know with the ethereal high Cs, that’s been reworked by several other composers down the years.’

  ‘Didn’t that infuriating little prodigy Wolfgang Amadeus notate it from memory after a single hearing in the Sistine Chapel?’

  ‘Mozart, the wunderkind?’ Gareth said with a wink. ‘So we’re told by his fond papa, Leopold. And Charles Burney reports it too, after meeting father and son in Italy in 1770, so maybe there’s more than a scrap of truth in the story.’

  I could not stop myself pointing out, ‘It’s Burney’s 1771 basic version that we use today.’ I had recently published an annotated performing score of the Burney original myself. ‘With modifications.’

  ‘Remember the old chestnut about Pope Urban VIII threatening to excommunicate anyone who smuggled the Allegri Miserere score out of the Vatican?’

  ‘But we always held that to be apocryphal, or, at best, a scholarly misinterpretation of the few existing facts.’

  Gareth leaned towards me, a malicious little flame glinting in his eyes. I remembered that look and what it meant: he was about to divulge something scandalous. ‘It turns out it may have been true after all. But it refers to the “other” Miserere.’

  ‘Do you know why it was suppressed? Is there any contemporary documentary evidence to shine a light on the reasons?’ I heard myself asking.

  ‘My contact in Rome is working on that – he says he’s found a few diary entries, a letter or two. They don’t add up to a complete picture, but he’ll send them over, anyway.’

  ‘Just how reliable is this contact?’ I was still suspicious; something didn’t feel quite right.

  ‘Does it matter? He’ll get his money. And the Stradella Singers will be the first choir to sing this lost version in over three hundred years. That’s if you can make us a performing copy.’

  ‘But supposing this “contact” of yours is trying to foist a fake onto you? This could all be an elaborate hoax. A prank.’

  ‘That’s where you come in, James. I trust your scholarship. I trust that you’d be able to sniff out a fake.’

  ‘But my reputation will be on the line if I – we – have both been deceived.’ The prospect of academic disgrace appalled me. ‘I could lose my fellowship. I—’

  ‘Steady on, old chap! If you judge that it’s bogus – or in any way suspect – we’ll just forget about the whole affair. But if it’s all kosher, I have an invitation from the Master to give the first performance in the college chapel. There’s a first recording rights deal involved as well.’

  ‘You lucky sod.’ I heard myself saying, with more bitterness than I’d intended. ‘You get all the breaks.’ Was it the wine talking? I’d tried for so long to cover up my resentment at the different paths our careers had taken after we graduated.

  ‘Don’t worry; you’ll get your percentage.’

  ‘Generous of you.’

  ‘Just make sure you get that performing copy ready for us in good time for Holy Week.’

  ‘Holy Week?’ I took out my diary and started to count the days; Easter was early this year.

  ‘So here you are, Gareth!’ A woman’s voice rang out, clear and penetrating, even above the blur of conversation and background music. I looked up to see Wanda coming towards us, elegant in a cobalt blue coat that enhanced the colour of her eyes. It was too late; there was no means of escape. I’d just have to bluff my way through what would, at best, be an awkward reunion.

  ‘James?’ She forced her red-glossed lips into a bright smile. ‘It must be an age.’ She made no effort to lean forward to give me a kiss of greeting; I made no effort to rise.

  ‘You’re looking well, Wanda,’ I said levelly.

  ‘Did Gareth tell you we’re off to Rome on Thursday? To sing in the Vatican.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ I could fake a smile too.

  ‘All part of a day’s work.’

  ‘We could never have won that BBC award without Wanda’s heavenly top Cs,’ Gareth said, slipping one arm around her waist and giving her a familiar squeeze. The gesture said quite clearly Mine. It was hard not to remember a time when the situation was reversed . . . and the adoring look in those black-lashed blue eyes had rested on me.

  ‘Well, James, this has been fun.’ He drained his glass. ‘I wish I could stay longer and catch up but we’ve got a rehearsal in Ely. Busy, busy . . .’

  I lifted my glass in an ironic farewell toast as Gareth and Wanda hurried away. The deliciously crisp Soave had lost its bouquet and tasted bitter as vinegar. Busy, busy . . . Just like Gareth to be so wrapped up in his own success that it never occurred to him to ask me what I was doing. Or perhaps he just hadn’t wanted to humiliate me in front of Wanda by rubbing my nose in my lack of achievement compared to his own meteoric rise.

  For a moment I was tempted to leave the folder on the table. Dammit, why did I have to get caught up in Gareth’s gilded snares again? He was still so seductively charming and adept at using people to get exactly what he wanted.

  And then . . . maybe a touch of the old persuasive charm had rubbed off on me – or my own scholarly curiosity had got the better of me – for I found myself walking back to my rooms down King’s Parade over rain-slicked pavements, with the folder still in my hands. In my study, I pushed the pile of essays I was marking to one side on the cluttered desk, switched on the lamp, and sat down to examine the photocopies.

  Fragments of a conversation we’d had years ago as undergraduates came back to me. Then it had been just the three of us against the musical establishment: Gareth creating his elite choir, one voice to a part, Wanda, with her pure and treble-like soprano, bringing a brilliant lustre to the vocal ensemble, and me, good old James, reliable James, the all-round accompanist and gofer. It was exactly the right moment, a time when a worldwide interest in forgotten baroque choral music meant that the Stradella Singers were always in demand – and with Gareth conducting and me transcribing a wealth of neglected treasures dug out of dusty folders in the University Library Music Department where they’d been languishing for years.

  Where had it all gone wrong? Why was I not still part of that gilded, gifted group I had helped Gareth to establish?

  Cherchez la femme.

  I had – foolishly, of course – brought my girlfriend Wanda to audition for Gareth. I should have known from the way she looked at him in rehearsals that she was not just being a model chorister keeping her soulful blue eyes fixed on the conductor at all times, hardly glancing at her music. Then, when I walked in on them naked in bed together, just the week after Finals, I knew I could never forgive either of them.

  I was awarded a First and a bursary to start a doctorate. Gareth and Wanda got away with a 2:2 each and went off with the Stradella Singers on a concert tour of Italy, with a mutual friend of ours replacing me on continuo (organ and harpsichord).

  And now, seven years on, I had achieved my modest place in the music faculty with my doctorate on the historical significance and interpretation of abbellimenti in works of the Italian baroque. Gareth knew that I could never resist an old manuscript; scholarly curiosity got the better of me and I began to examine the photocopies.

  Another ‘lost’ version of Allegri’s Miserere . . . Two choirs? Check. One with four voices, one five, adding up to the mystically significant nine (three times three)? Check.

  The secret lay in the extraordinarily elaborate decoration practised by the elite singers selected for the Vatican choir at the time, I had written in my doctorate. Trained in a unique, intuitive method of vocal improvisation, they could raise hairs on the backs of the listeners’ necks who would
come away convinced that they had been listening to the music of the angels, so exquisite was their choral artistry . . .

  Yet it was the handwriting on the score that first caught my eye. No music historian worth his salt could mistake that strong, distinctive writing, the hand of a composer whose brain was working so fast that he could hardly scribble down what he was hearing in his mind quickly enough. A young, fresh, prodigiously gifted boy –

  A soft tap at the outer door interrupted me just as I was about to compare the handwriting with the facsimile of a Minuet and Trio composed by the boy wonder in Salzburg in late 1769.

  ‘Dr Martagon?’

  I was expecting some completed stylistic studies from my undergraduate students, so I merely said, ‘Just leave your work on the bookcase by the door . . .’

  A waft of perfume made me look up. Wanda stood in the doorway, smiling at me.

  ‘I’m disturbing you.’

  I leapt up, almost knocking the photocopies onto the floor. ‘No. Not at all. C . . . can I get you anything? Coffee? Sherry?’

  ‘Sherry with my supervisor? That takes me back.’ She came into the room, gazing around at the over-stuffed bookshelves, my college gown slung over the back of a chair. ‘It feels just as if time has stood still in here.’ She ran her fingertips over the piano keys, treble to bass, releasing a little ripple of notes.

  ‘Meaning?’ Unsettled by her sudden appearance, I hovered in front of the desk, not knowing what to do.

  ‘It’s safe. Stiflingly safe. Don’t you ever want to risk going out into the Big Bad World?’ She turned around suddenly to face me and the false smile had vanished. ‘James, I’m sorry. I hurt you. I never meant to hurt you. It’s too late now . . . but I wanted to tell you face to face. And it’s taken me seven long years to summon the courage to do so.’ To my surprise, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘I wish there was some way we could start over.’

  Start over? I could hardly believe what I had just heard her say. ‘But you and Gareth—’

  ‘We were both very fond of you, you know. Both of us.’ She came towards me until she was so close I could breathe in the clear floral scent she was wearing – and kissed me.

  Memories I had tried to forget came back in a sudden rush. Wanda cycling across Magdalen Bridge, her battered hat caught in a sudden gust of wind and blown into the river; Wanda coming out of Fitzbillies, eating a freshly baked Chelsea bun, knuckling the dark spicy stickiness from her cheek; Wanda sight-singing over my shoulder as I played the Stradella transcription I had made for her, her pure, sweet voice sending chills through me as she brought the long-dead aria back to life . . .

  ‘Wait,’ I said, gently but firmly pushing her away. ‘Has Gareth put you up to this?’

  ‘How could you think such a thing?’ She looked at me with such an innocent, aggrieved look that I was almost convinced.

  ‘Nice try, Wanda. What do you really want?’

  She pouted a little, then pointed to the photocopies. ‘Well, Dr Martagon,’ she said, laying emphasis on my title, ‘is it the real deal? Is it the lost Mozart transcription?’

  ‘Why ask me now?’ I was in danger of losing my temper. ‘Gareth must have taken it to Mozart scholars for verification.’

  ‘Strangely enough, no. Gareth wanted to keep it a secret for as long as possible. But he – we – trust your opinion, James.’

  I showed her the first page. ‘At a first glance you can see that it’s very different from the version we sing now. All the abbellimenti are fully notated.’ I couldn’t deny that I was utterly fascinated by what lay in front of me. ‘It’s going to give musicologists a great deal to argue over.’

  ‘So you think it’s authentic?’

  I was tempted for a moment to toy with her as she had just toyed with me and say no. But I knew myself to be a bad liar. ‘I think it probably is,’ I said.

  *

  The posters had gone up all over Cambridge announcing a Holy Week concert:

  The Stradella Singers

  at St Alphege’s Chapel

  Baroque Music for Holy Week

  including the

  First Performance of the original version of

  Allegri’s Miserere

  But the singers – and their conductor – would not arrive back from their Italian tour until just before the concert.

  ‘Dr Martagon?’ Burridge, the head porter, hailed me as I passed through the lodge, holding out a package. ‘This just came for you.’

  I examined the slender package as I walked back to my rooms; it was postmarked ‘Roma’ and the handwriting was unfamiliar.

  Inside, I found no letter of explanation, just an assorted collection of photocopies which I leafed through, a little baffled at first until I noticed that each one bore the faint stamp of the Vatican Library and the label ‘Allegri’s Miserere’.

  Someone in a position of authority in the Vatican must have compiled a dossier and filed all the evidence away, including, I guessed, the long-lost transcription by young Wolfgang Mozart which the Stradella Singers were going to perform tonight. But why go to such trouble?

  The first photocopy was a letter, written in a strong, elegant hand; fortunately my doctoral thesis had given me plenty of practice in translating such manuscripts.

  To His Holiness, Pope Urban, from Antonio Barberini, Cardinal Archivist:

  I can confirm that a secret rite of exorcism was performed last year (as you suggested) after several congregants and members of the choir reported seeing the ghost of a young singer, Amadeo, at the Holy Week service during the performance of Gregorio Allegri’s Miserere again.

  We had thought the matter resolved but this Holy Week, when the work was performed, the hooded figure of Amadeo Vitali was seen in the congregation by more than one person. We can only conclude that someone is out to play a singularly malicious prank upon the members of the chapel choir by impersonating the dead boy, possibly because he bears a grudge – or that supernatural forces are at work and the boy’s spirit appears when the Miserere is performed.

  Furthermore, another member of the choir has subsequently fallen ill (as has happened after each performance) and died, giving rise to the unfortunate rumours that the work is in some way accursed. I can only suggest that we conduct another exorcism and put an end to these rumours . . .

  ‘A ghost,’ I murmured, scanning the second photocopy which seemed to be a page from the records of the Vatican Choir itself, a footnote, scrawled beneath the list of members and difficult to decipher.

  . . . to record the tragic death of Amadeo Vitali from a sudden fever. This young castrato had the voice and appearance of an angel; a single glance at his soulful expression as he sang and one would think that one of Botticelli or Perugino’s heavenly choir had stepped down from one of the frescoes. However it had been remarked on more than once that Maestro Allegri had singled this boy out for special tuition in composition – which gave rise to unfortunate allegations of favouritism – or worse. Amadeo had, after all, a remarkably beautiful face and a voice to match . . .

  The next photocopy was relatively terse but I read on with a growing sense of disquiet:

  From Pope Urban to the Archivist, Cardinal Antonio Barberini:

  . . . there can be no doubt of the remarkable healing effect that this Miserere has upon all who hear it sung with the abbellimenti by the Vatican Choir. One congregant has even described it as experiencing ‘absolution through music’. That, alone, is a reason for us to keep this work to ourselves as the Vatican’s unique treasure.

  However, as there is also an inexplicable association between the performance of this version of the work and an unfortunate series of tragic deaths afflicting the performers, it is advisable that we restrict further performances until we can ascertain if this is just a coincidence or some supernatural force at work. So let it be known that anyone seeking to copy or steal this work will be excommunicated.

  The last photocopy was dated 1770, more than a century later than the first
three:

  To His Holiness, Pope Clement, from Giuseppe Martucci, legate:

  I am sending you the illicit copy of the Miserere which I obtained today from young Wolfgang Mozart. He has given his promise never to reveal the secret abbellimenti to another living soul. What an extraordinary talent that boy possesses! It seems that he saw the restless spirit of Amadeo Vitali after the service but, thank God, no harm has befallen him since then.

  ‘No harm?’ I said aloud. An unfortunate series of tragic deaths afflicting the performers . . .

  Surely it was just superstition . . . I looked up from the legate’s letter just as the distant bells of Great St Mary’s began to ring out eight o’clock. I was late for the concert. A concert in which the first performance of Mozart’s transcription of the lost Miserere was about to start.

  *

  The Stradella Singers always performed by candlelight and the soft ochre flames lit the intent faces of the performers as Gareth lifted his hands to shape the opening of the Miserere. ‘Have mercy upon me, O God, after Thy great goodness . . .’

  As the hushed notes began to fill the echoing vaults of the college chapel, I was suddenly reminded of everything I had lost in turning my back on the Stradella Singers. And I felt tears pricking at my eyes as if I was hearing them sing for the very first time.

  I had sat here countless times in the last years, listening to St Alphege’s college choir, even rehearsing and conducting them in the new editions I had spent my days transcribing, bringing obscure treasures of the baroque repertoire to fresh audiences. But the excitement had gone from music-making for me, and every exquisite phrase and elaborate cadence only served to remind me of what I had lost.

  ‘Thou shalt purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean.’

  But this was like walking through a cleansing shower of rain that was gently washing over me, rinsing away all the accumulated bitterness that had poisoned my outlook on life.

  ‘Thou shalt wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.’ Wanda’s soprano, piercingly clear and pure, soared above the other singers as the Stradella Singers interpreted the version notated by the young Mozart – and never performed in that way outside the Vatican since the days of the last castrati.