by Barbara Paul
“How long will it take?”
“Twenty, thirty minutes.”
Two hours, Gatti-Casazza thought. “I would appreciate haste on your part. We have a rehearsal here this afternoon.”
“Haste makes waste,” the plumber replied sententiously.
“Does it really? Well, do the best you can.” He left the washroom—and found Caruso flattened against the wall outside the door, a foolish look on his face. “Enrico? If you want to use the washroom, I’m afraid the water will be off for a while.”
“I can wait, I can wait,” the tenor muttered and hastened away.
Gatti-Casazza checked his watch; if he hurried, he could squeeze in a visit to the silversmith before rehearsal started. That was one job he didn’t want to delegate.
The December wind cut through him as he hurried east on Fortieth Street, turned left on Fifth Avenue past the new Public Library, bucked the wind for another block until he came to the establishment of E. Klein and Sons, Silversmiths. Mr. Klein greeted him personally.
“Is it finished?” Gatti-Casazza asked eagerly.
“It is finished,” Mr. Klein beamed. “Wait—I show you.” He disappeared into the back room of his shop and reappeared carrying a folded black velvet cloth, which he opened ceremoniously to reveal an ornate silver wreath.
“Oh, Mr. Klein! It is beautiful!” Gatti-Casazza rotated the wreath in his hands, looking at it from all angles. “Truly beautiful! Oh, yes! I must congratulate you on an exquisite piece of workmanship!”
“You are satisfied?”
“I am more than satisfied, I am delighted! Mr. Puccini will adore it!” The general manager was planning to present the wreath to the composer between Acts II and III of the Fanciulla première, and it was to be a surprise; Gatti-Casazza worried about keeping it secret. “You have told no one?”
“Only my son Abraham knows,” Mr. Klein said. “He did part of the work. Do not worry, Mr. Gee Cee, Abraham is a good boy—he will not speak of the wreath.”
Gatti-Casazza nodded. “And you will deliver it on the tenth? It must be the tenth—I do not want to have to hide it before then, and even one day later will be too late.”
“At eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, the tenth of December,” the silversmith intoned solemnly, “I personally will place the wreath in your hands.” Suddenly he started, and hastily wrapped the wreath back up in the velvet cloth. “Someone is looking!”
Gatti-Casazza glanced over his shoulder—and saw Caruso out on the street, hands cupped around his eyes, peering through the shop window. In two strides the general manager was at the entrance; he pulled the door open angrily. “Enrico! What are you doing here?”
“I, uh … I start my Christmas shopping! Yes! I look for silver cuff links. This is a nice place, yes?”
“What did you just see?”
“See?”
“Yes, Enrico, see. What did you just see?”
Caruso shrugged. “I see you looking at a kind of wreath.”
Gatti-Casazza groaned. “You must mention this to no one.” He told Mr. Klein goodbye and started walking Caruso back to the Metropolitan. He explained what the wreath was for, and urged the tenor to secrecy.
“Of course!” Caruso agreed enthusiastically. “What a wonderful gesture! Puccini will be enchanted. Do not worry, I tell no one. Mom’s the word.” He was quiet a moment, thinking. “Do you know, Mr. Gatti, our friend Belasco has worked very hard on Fanciulla. Perhaps some token for him, too? To let him know how much we appreciate all his effort?”
Gatti-Casazza groaned again. “I will be presenting Mr. Belasco a memorial plaque at the same time I give Puccini his silver wreath. Now that makes two secrets you must keep. Can you keep two secrets, Enrico?”
Caruso waved a hand airily. “Piece of torta.”
They were almost back to the Metropolitan when Gatti-Casazza thought of something. “Enrico—you were at the opera house when I left. Did you follow me to Mr. Klein’s?”
“I? Follow you?” Caruso appeared astonished. “Why would I follow you? I am Christmas shopping early this year, that is all.”
The general manager eyed him suspiciously but said no more. In the Met lobby they parted; Gatti-Casazza hurried up the stairway to his office.
To find Pasquale Amato waiting for him there. “Ah, Mr. Gatti—I come to beg. I desperately need two more guest tickets to the première. I promise them long ago, but—alas!—I do not have enough of my own.”
The general manager shrugged out of his overcoat and sat at his desk. “I am sorry, Pasquale—there are no more tickets available.”
“Perhaps just one?”
“Not even one. I am sorry.”
The baritone sighed. “I was afraid of that. But always there is someone unable to come at the last minute. If I could have those tickets …?”
Gatti-Casazza pulled at his beard. “Perhaps. Well, I shall speak to the box-office chief—we will see what can be done.”
Amato bounded up out of his chair. “Thank you! I am eternally in your debt, dear Mr. Gatti!” The manager waved a hand at him as he left—and then heard a muffled sound from outside the door. “Oof!” came Amato’s voice. “Sorry, Rico—I did not see you standing there.”
Gatti-Casazza jumped up from his desk and hurried to the door, just in time to catch a glimpse of the broad back of his star tenor, beating a hasty retreat down the stairway.
Emmy Destinn sat in her dressing room, frowning as she read a letter from home.
Sigrid came in, carrying the soprano’s Fanciulla costume. “Bad news?”
“Gunfire in the streets of Prague again.” She folded the letter and put it away. “Ever since I was a little girl—they fight. They fight, then they sign a treaty not to fight, and then they fight some more.”
Sigrid laid a sympathetic hand on Emmy’s arm. “It will stop some day. And you are safe here.” She put up an ironing board and started pressing the soprano’s costume.
Emmy was troubled. The shaky Austro-Hungarian Empire was obviously trying to hold itself together by whatever means possible and at whatever cost. Time and again the Austrians had put down the Czech rebels, but the movement simply would not die. Slavs deserved their own federation! Emmy had long since given up trying to keep track of the various factions involved in the fighting; what she knew for a certainty was that her section of Europe had not known true stability once during her entire lifetime.
You are safe here, Sigrid had said. Not for the first time, Emmy wondered what was involved in becoming a citizen of the United States of America. She was a little awed by her own daring; she’d never even been to this country until two years ago. And Prague was home—beautiful Prague, with its big house she’d filled with antiques and cats and friends. On the other hand, there was a great deal to be said for waking up in the morning knowing that an armed force from New Jersey would not be invading Manhattan that day.
She watched her maid at the ironing board. “Sigrid—do you miss Sweden?”
“I miss Stockholm,” Sigrid said without hesitation. “The rest of the country, you can have.”
Emmy smiled; Sigrid would be no problem. She’d come with her wherever she decided to live—unless it was Italy. Sigrid didn’t like Italy. Her maid had had to learn the language, since Italian was the international speech of opera. But she’d once dismissed the entire country as “heat, dust, loud voices, and bad manners.” Poor Sigrid! A great deal of her life was spent backstage at the various opera houses of the world; but no matter which opera house it was, she was always surrounded by volatile Italians. No wonder she got what the Americans called “peckish” once in a while.
The soprano touched her jaw. If she moved it just right—here!—she could still feel a twinge from the poke she’d taken yesterday. She was beginning to regret walloping Pasquale Amato so hard; she’d simply taken out on him all the frustrations aroused by that ill-fated rehearsal. But she would not apologize to the baritone—no indeed! Let him stay intimidated. It might
teach him to be more careful.
“Does your jaw still hurt?” Sigrid asked sympathetically.
Emmy put on a fairly good martyred look. “I try not to think about it. Sigrid, if you iron that skirt much longer you’re going to wear a hole in it!”
“You must look nice,” the maid said in a no-argument voice.
“Mr. Belasco doesn’t think so,” the soprano grumbled. “He wants me to look dowdy. Cotton stockings!”
“He does not mean that, surely.”
“He does mean that, surely.”
Sigrid shook her head, not convinced. “Such a nice man—so polite and well-spoken. He will not make you wear something you do not wish to wear.”
“You deceive yourself. That mild manner is just a face Mr. Belasco presents to the world. Underneath is a will of iron.”
Sigrid was finished. She put the costume on a padded hanger and held it up for inspection. Both women stared at it in distaste. A plain white long-sleeved blouse, and a floor-length corduroy skirt. A far cry from the silks and satins of Tosca and Butterfly or the exotic garb of Aïda.
Sigrid gave that half-sniff, half-tsk that only the Scandinavians can manage and took the costume over to the wardrobe cabinet—which wouldn’t open. Each time Sigrid pulled the handle, the door would give maybe an inch and then snap back. “I can’t get it open—it’s caught on something.”
Emmy went over to help. She gave the wardrobe door a hard jerk and it flew open—to reveal Enrico Caruso crowded in among the dresses, grinning fatuously, embarrassed to death at being caught.
Sigrid squawked and dropped the carefully pressed costume while Emmy stared open-mouthed. “Rico! What are you doing there?” the soprano demanded.
Sheepishly he held up a cigarette. “Looking for a match?”
“Get out of there, you foolish man!” Emmy said angrily. “Get out at once! I want an explanation, Rico!”
Awkwardly the tenor stepped out of the wardrobe cabinet. A flood of high-pitched, unintelligible Swedish assailed his ears; then Sigrid realized he didn’t understand what she was saying and switched to Italian. “So! Now you hide yourself in wardrobe cabinets where you can peek out at the ladies when they are not looking!”
“I? Peek? I never peek!” Caruso proclaimed indignantly.
“Peeping Tommaso! Spying on innocent ladies!”
“How can I spy? There are no peepholes in the cabinet! See for yourself!” He gestured grandly at the wardrobe and started inching toward the dressing-room door.
Sigrid inspected the wardrobe cabinet for cracks or holes. She found none but refused to be mollified. “Look at Madame’s dresses! You have crushed them! Now I will have to press everything again!”
“Rico,” Emmy said curiously, “when did you take up eavesdropping as a hobby?”
Caruso bolted through the door.
Toscanini muttered to himself as he paced up and down one of the side aisles of the Met’s auditorium. He was not satisfied with the chorus of tenors that hummed offstage in accompaniment to the soprano-tenor duet in the first act. Their attack was smooth and the various voices blended nicely—but the result was curiously empty, not nearly sensuous enough. More work was needed there.
The duet itself was exquisite; Destinn and Caruso got better every time they sang it. But the duet—all the duets in Fanciulla, in fact—might cause a problem for American audiences. These duets were different from what the Americans were used to; they were duologues, actually—the soloists taking turns singing, the two voices uniting only toward the end. Well, Toscanini thought, the Americans would just have to learn to appreciate the beauties of the verismo duet and it was up to him to teach them!
Puccini had mentioned he thought Emmy Destinn lacked energy in her performance; he obviously wanted a strong heroine in this opera, a change from the ultra-fragile heroine of Butterfly. But Toscanini had reassured the composer that Destinn always started slowly and built gradually to a performance peak. The night of the première she would sing with the same soaring urgency she brought to the role of Aida. No problem there.
Toscanini stopped his pacing. Surely the plumbers were finished by now? He directed his steps toward the gentlemen’s washroom backstage.
The bass singing the Wells Fargo agent and the tenor singing the bartender were both beginning to push a little—trying to make their small roles larger. He’d have to put a stop to that. But Toscanini could understand their eagerness; the music invited that sort of pushing. No other score of Puccini’s was punctuated with so many markings for excessive dynamics—allegro brutale, allegro feroce. And he couldn’t think of another opera score in which the word tutti appeared so frequently: all the instruments of the orchestra playing together at the same time. The result was a massive, primitive sound that the conductor found tremendously exciting.
When it was done right. How that orchestra infuriated him! Parts of it, at any rate—the woodwinds, for instance. Puccini had orchestrated for a much larger woodwind section than usual, and they had had to hire extra musicians. Musicians—bah! Not one of those newcomers was able to tease out the best tone his instrument was capable of producing. How many times had he told Gatti-Casazza, you simply cannot expect a first-rate orchestral sound from second-rate musicians! But no, the penny-pinching general manager went right on hiring any low-priced hack he could find—
Toscanini stopped himself. His breath was short and his face flushed; he was doing it again. He fumbled something out of his coat pocket and made himself focus his attention on it. A few minutes of forced concentration did the trick and left him calm once more. The conductor heaved a sigh of relief; his temper had almost gotten away from him again. He went into the washroom.
No one was there. Had the plumbers finished or just quit work for the day? He tried a faucet—ah, the water was back on. Toscanini took off his coat and fastidiously hung it up before going into one of the stalls.
Quietly, stealthily, Enrico Caruso tiptoed into the washroom, keeping one eye on the closed door of the stall. He felt in Toscanini’s coat pocket; his fingers closed around an object made of metal and glass. Carefully he took it out.
And almost dropped it in his surprise. Per dio! It was a—what did they call it?—a Bughouse puzzle! Bughouse, yes. A glass-covered box marked off into little compartments, with bits of lead that had to be fitted into the proper places entirely by external manipulation. Bughouse puzzle—a child’s toy.
Caruso put the puzzle back in Toscanini’s coat pocket and tiptoed out of the washroom.
At last, Toscanini was satisfied with Act II. Caruso would not be needed immediately in the third act, so he hurried up the stairs to his dressing room and shut the door. He sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands. What a day!
He’d certainly be glad when this rehearsal was over. David Belasco had cut him dead when they’d met backstage. Mr. Gatti had followed him everywhere, watching every move he made. And in the part of Act II where he was seated at a table, Emmy Destinn had clamped a strong hand on his shoulder to prevent his escape—and proceeded to sing full voice directly into his left ear. His head was still ringing.
Only Toscanini had been in a good mood; he could afford to relax a little, he’d had his breakdown. And if the biggest secret in the conductor’s life was that he liked to play with a Bughouse puzzle, then Caruso could cross him off the list of suspects. List. That’s what he should do—make a list. And notes. Detectives always kept notes.
He moved over to his writing table, but found he was out of paper. The tenor made a sound of exasperation. How could he make notes if he had nothing to write on? He distinctly remembered telling Martino to get more writing paper—no, that was not precisely true. He distinctly remembered meaning to tell Martino. Ah well, he would borrow some of Pasquale’s. The baritone was on stage at the moment, but he would not mind if Caruso helped himself.
The tenor found what he was looking for in a drawer of Amato’s make-up table. He found something else as well: at the back of th
e drawer was a single letter, addressed to the baritone in a slanting feminine handwriting. A billet-doux? A good detective checks everything, Caruso thought gleefully, and took the letter out of the envelope.
My beloved husband—
I long for the day you return to our warm bed in our cozy house in Milan.…
Milan? Caruso frowned. Amato’s home and family were in Salerno.
We have an anniversary to celebrate, my dearest one. Soon it will be exactly two years since you and I were first united in holy matrimony.…
Two years? Amato had been married a lot longer than that. A horrible suspicion crept into Caruso’s mind—quickly he checked the signature.
Your loving and faithful wife,
Francesca
Caruso let out a Pagliacci sob; Amato’s wife was named Rosa. After a moment he went on with the letter.
I think of you there in New York surrounded by beautiful women and my heart breaks. Pasquale, my love! Hurry home to me. I have made plans for the celebration of our anniversary.…
Caruso felt his face turning red as he read the woman’s graphically detailed description of exactly how she planned to celebrate. He stopped and fanned himself with the letter. Then he went back and read the good parts again.
Finally he folded the letter carefully and replaced it where he’d found it. Who was Francesca? Some lusty young thing Pasquale Amato had deceived into “marriage” by neglecting to mention he already had a wife? Poor Francesca! Poor Rosa! Caruso felt pity for both the women who called themselves Pasquale’s wife.
And poor Enrico! How was he going to cope with this horrible knowledge, this unwanted news that one of his oldest and dearest friends was a bigamist?
9
Martino uncorked a bottle of witch hazel and poured some of the liquid onto a wad of cotton. “Close your eyes.”
Caruso obeyed. His face was still pink from the medicated steam he’d been breathing that nevertheless had failed to relieve his headache. Martino dabbed the tenor’s forehead with the witch hazel, being careful not to let any drip on Caruso’s green-and-gold satin robe. The cool liquid evaporated almost immediately. “More,” said Caruso.
