A Cadenza for Caruso

by Barbara Paul

  Caruso had trouble falling asleep that night.

  The next morning he had to put Puccini’s troubles aside long enough to deal with a small domestic crisis. He was only half dressed when it came out why Ugo had spent the previous day pouting.

  Mario’s new suit.

  “I tell him to buy a new suit, Ugo,” Caruso said. “I do not want my valets looking shabby.”

  “Then let him look not shabby for less money!” Ugo protested. “Do you know how much he spends for the suit? Eighteen dollars! Eighteen dollars, Rico. That is three dollars more than a member of the Metropolitan Opera chorus earns in a week!”

  Mario looked mournful and said nothing.

  Martino tried to help. “Eighteen dollars is not so much money for a good suit, Ugo. And prices do keep going up.”

  “He is taking advantage of you, Rico,” Ugo said, ignoring Martino. “Eighteen dollars for a suit!”

  Caruso looked his disgruntled valet straight in the eye. “Do you want a new suit, Ugo?”

  “No, I do not want a new suit! I want you to stop wasting money! Tell him to take it back, Rico. Take it back and exchange it for something cheaper.”

  “Eh, well,” Caruso said. “Clearly there is only one thing to be done. Mario!”

  The young valet lifted his sad eyes.

  “You are to return the new suit. Take it back and exchange it for a forty-dollar suit!”

  “Forty dollars!” Ugo screeched. Mario looked stunned, while Martino just laughed. “Rico, you don’t mean that!” Ugo cried.

  “Ah, but I do! A forty-dollar suit, Mario, do you hear? Not a penny less. And Ugo, not one more word about this matter! No complaining, no pouting in your room—not a word!” he said sharply, as Ugo started to speak. “I have more important matters on my mind. You must not bother me with trifles at a time like this.”

  “What is it, Rico?” Martino asked, concerned. “What is the matter?”

  Caruso looked at the three of them and wondered if Ugo had kept his word about not telling the other two of the blackmail. This might be a good time to find out. “The police,” he said slowly, “suspect Puccini of murdering Luigi Davila.”

  Martino’s cry of distress could have been a woman’s scream. “No, it is impossible! Mr. Puccini a murderer? How can they even think such a thing! And Luigi Davila? Why, Mr. Puccini would have nothing to do with a man like that! Are you sure, Rico?”

  Ugo pressed his lips together, not speaking; Mario looked confused. “I am sure,” Caruso said. “Last night Lieutenant O’Halloran practically accused him to his face. And then later he warned me to be careful. He thinks Puccini killed Luigi Davila, no question of it.”

  “He is crazy!” Martino said emphatically. “Anyone who knows Mr. Puccini would never think a thing like that!”

  “Who is Luigi Davila?” Mario asked.

  “Bah! Such an innocent!” Ugo spat out. “Luigi Davila is the dead man Rico found, dummy!”

  Mario’s mouth formed an O and his eyes grew wide. “And the police think Mr. Puccini killed him?”

  “But why?” Martino asked. “Why do they think so? Did Mr. Puccini know him? Luigi Davila was a dreadful man,” he said to Mario. “He once tried to bribe me! To get to Rico.”

  Caruso was convinced that neither Martino nor Mario knew about the blackmail. Ugo, he noticed, had not offered an opinion. He started to ask him but then hesitated. He thought a moment. “Martino, I want you to go to Puccini and see if he is all right. Invite him to have breakfast with me. He will probably refuse, but invite him just the same.”

  “Yes, certainly. Perhaps there is something I can do for him.” He hurried away.

  That took care of Martino. “Mario,” Caruso said, “I want you to mix up a new solution of throat spray. Put more salt water in it this time. And do it now, please—I want to take it with me to rehearsal.”

  “Yes, signore, right away.” Mario left.

  Caruso looked at his remaining valet. “Well, Ugo? What are you thinking?”

  Ugo’s eyes glittered. “I know Mr. Puccini is your friend, Rico—but he could have done it, yes? He could have killed the blackmailer.”

  Caruso was shocked. “Ugo! How can you say such a thing! Puccini is no killer.”

  “He had good reason, Rico.”

  “Yes, yes, that is what Lieutenant O’Halloran keeps saying. But no matter how good the reason, Puccini could never kill anyone. Not even a blackmailer.”

  They were interrupted by a sharp rat-a-tat-tat at the door—which Ugo opened to reveal a smiling Pasquale Amato standing there, his face still ruddy from the winter cold.

  “Good morning, Rico! It is a clear December day, the snow is crisp and clean upon the ground, and I have come to take you to breakfast! So finish dressing, my friend, and we will go out into this beautiful day and … what on earth is the matter?” He’d finally noticed the expressions on their faces.

  “The police think Puccini killed Davila,” Caruso said bluntly. “Help me finish dressing, Ugo.”

  Tenor and valet went into the former’s bedroom, leaving Amato standing by the door with his mouth open.

  For the first time in more years than he could remember, Caruso didn’t finish his meal.

  “You must really be upset,” Amato said, eyeing the cream pastry with one bite taken out of it. They hadn’t gone out after all, eating instead in the Knickerbocker dining room, where Puccini could find them if he decided to accept Caruso’s invitation to breakfast. “What did this Lieutenant O’Halloran say, exactly?”

  “He said Puccini is the only one they find who has a motive.” The tenor told his friend in detail what had happened the night before. “Just being accused can make a man look so guilty! Ugo has already started to wonder whether Puccini might not be a murderer.”

  “Ugo? What does Ugo have to do with it?”

  Caruso stirred the coffee he wasn’t drinking. “Oh, he is there in the room when Puccini tells me about Davila—about the blackmail. He knows the whole story.”

  “Mm,” Amato mused. “Do you think that is wise? Allowing him to stay and hear everything, I mean?”

  “I do not know what Puccini is going to say before he says it, do I?” Caruso snarled—and was immediately contrite. “Ah—I am sorry, Pasquale. I am not myself this morning. The day starts off badly. Ugo complains about Mario’s new suit and I am worried about Puccini—you understand.”

  “Don’t concern yourself, Rico, I do understand. What did you say Ugo was complaining about?”

  “A suit Mario bought. Ugo thinks he paid too much for it, and he didn’t. Fuss, fuss, fuss. Oh, how Ugo likes to fuss!”

  The baritone nodded. “He does complain a lot, doesn’t he? A natural-born grumbler.”

  “Why does he do it?” Caruso asked, welcoming the change of subject. “Martino and Mario—they never complain. Only Ugo.”

  “I have a theory about that,” Amato announced playfully. “Ugo’s problem is that he is not sure how he fits into your family.”

  “My family?” Caruso was puzzled. “All my relatives are back in Naples.”

  “I mean your traveling family, the one that goes with you wherever you go. Consider. You are the papa, the provider, the head of the family. Martino is the mama, making sure the household runs smoothly. Barthélemy is the eldest son, helping Papa in the family business. Mario is the well-loved baby. And Ugo—Ugo is the child in the middle, the one whose role is not clear.”

  Caruso looked at his friend askance. “Pasquale, that is the silliest thing I have ever heard you say!”

  Amato laughed. “Why do you have three valets anyway, Rico? I get along perfectly well with only one.”

  “Too much work for one person. I need them all.”

  “Do you? Emmy Destinn needs only one maid, and she has almost as many clothes as you do. And Puccini is making do with no valet at all, now that his new man has run out on him.”

  They were back to Puccini. “He is not coming, is he?” Caruso said, looking at
his pocket watch. “I worry about him, Pasquale. Last night he said something about killing himself if those forged letters are made public.”

  “Ah, well, he is under stress. People make extreme statements when they are under stress.”

  “But he has thought of suicide before! Right after Doria died—when it looked as if Elvira would go to prison. He blames himself for what happened.” Caruso shook his head in wonder. “He blames himself!”

  Amato nodded, seeing the composer’s point of view. “Puccini is one of those people who turn their anger inward, who punish themselves instead of hitting out at others. If he were going to kill anyone, he should have thought of killing Elvira for making so much trouble. But he still loves her in spite of everything—he does, you know. And his own hands are not completely clean. So whom does he punish? Himself.”

  “I do not understand that at all,” Caruso muttered. “People hurt you, you hurt them back. You do not hurt yourself more.”

  His friend smiled. “Puccini is a very complicated man—he does not have the direct response to life that you do, Rico. In a way, you are better equipped to survive than he is. Puccini would be more likely to kill himself than an enemy like Luigi Davila.”

  “So how can Lieutenant O’Halloran think he is guilty?” Caruso proclaimed loudly, attracting the attention of three or four other diners.

  Amato turned his palms up. “Your Lieutenant O’Halloran does not know Puccini the way we do. And even if he did, it would probably make no difference. Policemen do not think the way other people do,” he finished trenchantly. “All they care about are clues and evidence and matters of that sort.”

  Caruso snorted. “So what do we do? What do I do? How do I help Puccini?”

  “Do?” Amato shrugged. “What is there to do? I see nothing you can do—unless you find the real killer yourself.”

  Caruso let a smile spread slowly across his face. “Ah. Aha.”

  “Rico?” Amato said, alarmed that the tenor had taken him seriously. “You are not thinking—”

  “Yes,” Caruso nodded, his smile now full-blown. “That is what I do. I find the real killer myself.”

  “Rico, don’t be crazy! You cannot solve a crime the police themselves are having trouble with!”

  “How do you know I cannot solve a crime? I have never tried before.”

  “And you are not going to try now! Be sensible. You are a singer, not a detective!”

  “Perhaps I am detective too. I have more than one string to my bow! I am a versatile man,” he proclaimed proudly, liking this image of himself. “I can improvise when I need to. It is like singing a cadenza, Pasquale. You take charge of the music yourself.”

  Amato threw up his hands, got up from the table in annoyance, and left the tenor to pay the bill. Caruso carefully wrote the amount down in his notebook.

  7

  “He wants to do what?!” Emmy Destinn was astounded.

  “He wants to give us kissing lessons,” Caruso said apologetically. “Mr. Belasco says we are not doing it right.” What he’d actually said was that Caruso wasn’t doing it right—but no need to tell Emmy that. “Let us indulge him, Emmy,” Caruso grinned. “It might be fun!”

  Emmy rolled her eyes and walked away.

  Caruso was in a more cheerful frame of mind than he’d been in earlier in the morning. When he and Amato arrived at the Metropolitan, they’d found Puccini already there, a new look of determination on his face. “I will see this through,” he’d told the tenor. “I survived before, I can survive again. I will fight this ignominious accusation!”

  “And I will help you!” Caruso answered enthusiastically. He was delighted with the composer’s new attitude—that, coupled with his own resolution to do something, had got his juices flowing again. There was only one small problem.

  How did one go about solving a murder?

  Maestro Toscanini wanted to start out with the third and final act of Fanciulla, the one in which the chorus figured so prominently. It was the point in the story where the miners turned into an ugly lynch mob, and Caruso was the man they wanted to hang. David Belasco was on the stage, trying to convince the unwieldy chorus to show more restraint.

  “You must learn the value of repose on stage,” he was saying. “No more unmotivated actions, please—no shrugging your shoulders, no grimacing, no gesticulating with your hands. Do you understand?”

  The fifty chorus members responded by nodding vigorously, shrugging their shoulders, and gesticulating with their hands.

  Belasco tried again. “The men who settled the Old West were an uncommunicative lot. They did not give away their feelings through gestures and facial expressions. Some of you tend to make faces, and all of you wave your arms too much—whenever you feel like it, it seems, regardless of what’s happening in the story. You must be more reserved, like the Westerners you portray.”

  “Simple men,” Toscanini said helpfully, “for whom Puccini has written the appropriate music. You sing in unison or in octaves—no sophisticated harmonies for you! Be simple. Listen to Mr. Belasco, do as he says.”

  “Ben volentieri!” “Sure thing, Maestro.” The men of the chorus started moseying off the stage at Belasco’s gesture of dismissal.

  Caruso went up to the stage director. “I do not think Emmy is too happy about practicing the kiss.”

  Belasco was unperturbed. “I’ll speak to her later.” He watched the last of the chorus trail off into the wings. The first time Belasco had seen the chorus make its entrance, he’d been appalled. Tenors and baritones and basses had trooped out onto the stage by the score, lined up in rows, and turned themselves into an arm-waving backdrop for the soloists. “If they would only stop wriggling,” Belasco lamented. “There’s something you and Mr. Amato need to rehearse,” he said to Caruso, “but it will have to wait—I think Maestro Toscanini is ready to begin.”

  The rehearsal started, and Caruso was surprised to see Puccini watching from the wings instead of his usual place at the back of the auditorium. The chorus members proceeded to work themselves up into a lynch mob ready to slip a rope over the tenor’s head. Then it was time for Ch’ella mi creda—the first aria Caruso had ever sung that ended with his neck in a noose.

  The aria was short and relatively simple, but Caruso loved it so much he gave it all he had. When he’d finished, the chorus burst into thunderous applause punctuated by cries of “Bravo!”—even though there was no break in the music at that point. Caruso fully expected a roar of outrage from the orchestra pit, but even Toscanini was clapping his hands.

  In the wings, Puccini nodded approval. Caruso wanted to gesture modestly but his hands were tied behind his back. “Such a beautiful aria!” he called to Puccini. “Singing it is like a caress to the throat. Exquisite!”

  “Ah yes,” the composer said dismissively. “But it’s so Puccini!”

  “Now that we’ve stopped,” Belasco said, walking back out on the stage. Toscanini was delivering an impassioned lecture to the orchestra’s horn section, so Belasco used the time to work out a little stage business. At the end of the aria, Pasquale Amato was supposed to slap Caruso; the other times they’d rehearsed it, the slap had looked phony—because the baritone had pulled his punch, not wanting to hurt his friend. Belasco showed Amato how to swing his extended arm so the tips of his fingers missed Caruso’s nose by a bare inch or so. Then he showed Caruso how to jerk his head to the side at just the right moment so it would look as if he’d been hit hard.

  “But there is no sound that way,” Amato objected. “The audience will know it is fake if there is no sound.”

  Caruso pretended to be hurt. “Do you really want to slap me, Pasquale?”

  “There will be sound,” Belasco assured them. He positioned one of the chorus members out of sight in back of Caruso and told him to clap on cue, showing him how to cup his hands to produce a louder sound. The three of them practiced the slap until Belasco was satisfied.

  “We continue!” Toscanini cried.


  Emmy Destinn marched out onto the stage. “When do I get my horse?” she demanded.

  “Final dress rehearsal,” Belasco told her.

  “That is not enough time.”

  “Madame Destinn, you ride in and dismount immediately. One rehearsal with the horse will be enough.”

  “I do not like horses. I will need more time.”

  “If you please!” Toscanini bellowed. “We worry about your horse later, yes? Right now we sing.”

  The soprano stalked off. The music started. Emmy walked on majestically, not deigning to pantomime riding and dismounting. The opera called for her literally to come riding to the rescue. She’d talk the miners out of lynching Caruso (she’d sing them out of it, rather); and La Fanciulla del West would end with the girl and her bandit lover going off arm-in-arm into the sunset. A happy ending—unusual for a Puccini opera.

  Belasco had divided the large chorus into smaller groups and gave each group different stage movements. Unfortunately, the chorus members not only had difficulty remembering where they were supposed to move on what cue, they also kept forgetting which group they were in. Every time they made a mistake, they waved their arms to make up for it.

  When the act was ended, Belasco separated the dozen worst offenders from the rest of the chorus and gave them special instructions. “Put your hands in your pockets and keep them there,” he told them. “The whole time. The audience is never to see your hands. Can you do that?”

  “It will be hard,” one of them said earnestly.

  “I know,” Belasco sighed. “But try.”

  Toscanini announced a lunch break.

  “Do not lose heart,” Caruso said to Belasco. “They will learn to be still.”

  “They were still while you were singing Ch’ ella mi creda,” Belasco remarked. “I don’t suppose you know anything about mass hypnosis, do you?”