by Barbara Paul
“And you think that is all there is to it!” Ugo sneered. “You write down a number on a piece of paper, and everything is magically taken care of! Rico, what do you do with those pieces of paper after you write your little figures on them?”
“I give them to you,” Caruso said heavily.
“You give them to me. I have to pay the bills, I am the one who keeps track of where the money goes! You have never appreciated how hard I work for you, Rico!”
“How hard you work at cheating him, you mean,” Amato said dryly.
“How did Davila find out?” O’Halloran asked.
“A cousin of his sells linens,” Ugo said. “The cousin tells him about the little arrangement he has with me. I order from him and he overcharges—then he and I share the overcharge, yes? The cousin, he is pleased with the way we do business and he wants to brag a little to his relative—you see?”
“Uh-huh. And maybe you had this same arrangement with a few other merchants? How many, Ugo?” Ugo did not answer, pouting. “How many?” O’Halloran roared.
“Seventeen, maybe twenty. I do not remember exactly.”
Caruso was outraged. So many people conspiring to cheat him out of his money! He was tempted to bang Ugo in the shin with one of his spurs.
“So then what?” O’Halloran went on. “Davila asked around, found out which merchants you deal with?”
“He must have,” Ugo said unhappily. “He knew the names of—oh, quite a few. But to demand half! It is too much. I go see him, I try to talk him into taking less. He is sitting there on his bed peeling a small apple with a large knife. He refuses to take less than half. He becomes angry, I become angry—we fight. He puts his hands around my neck”—Ugo raised both hands to his throat to demonstrate—“and I am afraid! I grab the knife and … I do not mean to kill him! I swear it!”
A long silence followed, broken only by an occasional sob from Ugo. Then Lieutenant O’Halloran said, “Did you take any letters or other papers out of Davila’s office?”
“I take nothing. I think only of getting away—I do not think of papers.”
“No other blackmail victims, then,” O’Halloran muttered. “That’s one good thing.”
“So I was wrong about that, too!” Caruso moaned. “What a hypocrite you are, Ugo! All that time, you are just pretending to help me look for the killer! First you pretend you have trouble remembering who Davila is, and then you pretend to search out his address—so I will be the one to find him dead! Then you ‘investigate’—while you know all along you are the one I am looking for!”
“You said there might be other people Davila was blackmailing,” the valet answered sullenly.
“And you look for one to put the blame on. First you blame Puccini, and then Sigrid. Ugo, believe me, I can understand how a man might kill in the heat of a fight—if he is frightened enough. But to allow another person to be punished for it—oh, Ugo! Of all the things you do—stealing from me, killing Luigi Davila, trying to blackmail Pasquale—I think the worst thing is incriminating an innocent person. For that, I never forgive you!”
“Ugo?” said a feminine voice from the side of the stage. “Ugo killed that man?” Caruso turned his head to see Emmy Destinn, now changed into street clothes. She looked straight at the tenor, still sitting on the floor. “Your servant is the killer—instead of my servant?”
“That’s right, ma’am,” Lieutenant O’Halloran answered her. “Mr. Caruso’s valet here is the one we’ve been looking for.”
Caruso groaned. “I harbor a criminal in my own household!” With a great straining of muscles he got up from the floor. “Emmy, I am so sorry I accuse Sigrid! I am desolate! I—”
“Don’t.” She held up a hand to stop him and then walked over to where he was standing. “Do not apologize—I am no longer angry, Rico. In fact, I have come to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“Yes. If you had not accused Sigrid, then I would never have been able to explain the truth about the child before the entire company. So you see, you have done Sigrid a favor!”
“Get up,” O’Halloran said to Ugo.
“And now that everybody knows the truth about Sigrid’s niece,” Emmy continued, “there will be no more of that ugly gossip! I am grateful to you, Rico—thank you!” Emmy gave the astonished tenor a warm hug. She shot one appalled look at Ugo and started to leave. “Take care of your voice, Rico!” she trilled, and was gone.
“Well!” Amato said with a big smile. “That worked out nicely, didn’t it?”
Puccini was talking to O’Halloran. “What is my status now, Lieutenant?”
“I’d say you were completely off the hook, Mr. Puccini. I have to talk to the district attorney, but I doubt he’ll even need you to testify at the inquest now. And Mr. Caruso, I take back what I said. If you hadn’t meddled in the case, all this would never have come to light. You helped me catch a killer, and you helped yourself, too—you’re lucky to get this scum out of your house.” He took out a pair of handcuffs. “Come here, you,” he said to Ugo.
Caruso did a little dance. “Eh, Pasquale! What do you say to my ‘meddling’ now?”
“I will say this,” Amato laughed, shaking his head, “you are one of a kind, Rico!”
Caruso lowered his voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “And I do it all without letting anyone else find out about your secret!”
“My secret? What secret is that?”
Caruso looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I know about Francesca!”
Amato raised his eyebrows and, surprisingly, smiled. “Oh? Is she writing to you too now?”
The tenor looked at him blankly. “Why would your wife write to me?”
“Francesca is not my wife! You know my wife’s name is Rosa.”
“But Francesca signs her letter ‘Your loving and faithful wife’!”
“Rico, have you been reading my mail?” Amato asked in helpless exasperation.
“No, no—just the one letter.” Caruso decided to take the offensive. “You should not leave letters like that lying around in a closed drawer where anyone can find them! Why does she call herself your wife? Who is this Francesca?”
Amato smiled wryly. “I do not know—I have never met her! I do not even know her last name. Our Francesca likes to fantasize—pretending we are married and all the rest of it. She is just a woman who enjoys writing that kind of letter.” He grinned. “As I enjoy reading it.”
“A fan?!” Caruso said incredulously.
“A fan,” his friend nodded. “She writes to me in every city where I sing—for two years now she has been writing. Except once, in Paris, there was no letter.” Amato sighed. “I rather missed hearing from her.”
“A fan,” Caruso repeated, dumbfounded. “I never get letters like that! My fans write asking for money.” He shook himself, thoroughly ashamed that he had ever believed his friend to be a bigamist. “Does your wife know you get these letters?”
“Dio, no!” Amato said, shocked. “She would kill me!”
Lieutenant O’Halloran was ready to take his prisoner in. “Well, that should wrap it up. And Mr. Caruso, if you ever decide to play detective again—come to me when you find something, will you, instead of going off on your own? Good luck to all of you Saturday night. Come on, you.” He hauled Ugo unceremoniously away.
“Signore!” Mario stood at a respectful distance, looking more funereal than ever. “You do not mean what you say, do you? About never forgiving Ugo?”
Caruso was surprised to see real tears in the valet’s sad young eyes. “Do you think I should forgive him, Mario?”
“Ugo is not a happy man, signore—and unhappy people do not make wise decisions. In all the time I know him, I never once see him happy.” Mario scrunched up his face, holding back the tears. “I know I make him unhappy.”
Caruso shook his head. “Mario, Ugo would manage to be discontent whether you are there or not. You are not to blame for his unhappiness … nor am I. Ugo hims
elf is the cause of his problems.” Caruso glanced over to where Barthélemy was trying to console Martino, who still looked upset. “I worry about Martino—see if you can cheer him up, Mario.” Sending mournful Mario to cheer anyone up struck him as slightly ludicrous, but he wanted to give the young man something to do.
Amato smiled as he watched the three remaining members of Caruso’s household trying to make one another feel better. “You are a good papa, Rico.”
A throat-clearing sound made them both turn. Puccini was watching Caruso, looking both awed and humble—something neither singer had ever seen before. “Caruso,” the composer said simply, “I owe you my life!”
“Oh, you exaggerate, my friend,” Caruso said in a totally unsuccessful attempt at modesty.
“I owe you my freedom, and that is the same as my life,” Puccini answered. “I do not know anyone else who would do for me what you have done. What risks you must have taken!”
“Only a few,” Caruso said, pleased, resisting the urge to bow.
“To take it upon yourself to go out and look for a murderer!” Puccini shook his head in amazement. “Incredible!”
“I advised him to mind his own business,” Amato sighed.
“Then I thank God he did not listen to your advice! I would be in jail within a week if he … Caruso, how can I thank you? I am indebted to you for the rest of my life—I owe you everything!”
“No, no, you must not feel that way!” Caruso cried. “You owe me nothing! What I do, I do out of friendship. There is no question of ‘owing’ me anything!”
Puccini smiled slowly. “Yes, you do see it that way, do you not? I think you must be the most generous-spirited man in the world.” The composer’s smile broadened; he held out his arms. “Enrico!”
Caruso held out his arms in return. “Giacomo!”
The two men embraced—and passionately pledged their undying friendship, in the grandest of grand opera traditions.
On Saturday evening, December 10, 1910, La Fanciulla del West premièred at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City. Nothing disastrous happened; the performance went as smooth as clockwork. The first-night audience was overwhelmed. Cast, conductor, and composer took a total of fifty-two curtain calls.
Fifty-two.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Opera Mysteries
1
It was a mistake, I should never have done it, I should have stood firm, I should have said no. Rule number one for sopranos: Never sing in a world première when you’re sick.
I can’t really complain about the reviews, I suppose. The critics were kind for the most part, although not one of them passed up the chance to mention I was still suffering the effects of my “lingering indisposition,” as they so prettily put it. (I had a cold—a plain, ordinary cold.) The critics all praised my acting, bless them, but The New York Times suggested a little more restraint. As usual. Whatever I do, The New York Times suggests a little more restraint. They suggest, and I ignore—as I would this time. Madame Sans-êne is broad comedy; it has to be played big, with oversized gestures and the like.
The telephone hadn’t stopped ringing all morning—first my manager, then friends and well-wishers, and even a few rivals bent on keeping up appearances. Scotti called twice, dear man. Some fans showed up here at the apartment building and the doorman had to shoo them off, go-away-little-girls, have to speak to him about that. Last night may have been a qualified triumph, but it was a triumph nonetheless.
Geraldine Farrar in Umberto Giordano’s new opera, “Madame Sans-Gêne.” Has a nice sound to it, don’t you think?
Actually, I fared better than the opera itself did. The critics one and all agreed that Madame Sans-Gêne, while tuneful and pleasant, is not particularly distinguished or original, tut tut. ’Tis neither grand nor eloquent, those overpaid arbiters of public taste have declared, nor does it contain any real—take a deep breath—passion.
Well, I knew that, for heaven’s sake! Not every new opera can be a Tosca or a Butterfly. And besides, there’s a real place on the operatic stage for the lighter works. It can get a bit wearying, singing the same standard roles over and over again. I’m always on the lookout for something new, or at least something I myself have never sung before. In fact, it’s time I started thinking about my next new role. Perhaps Thaïs? I want to get something this time that the critics won’t be so quick to dismiss as unworthy of everybody’s efforts.
Just the same, last night’s glittering audience at the Metropolitan Opera had been excited and uncritically enthusiastic; in the long run, that’s what counts. The truth is, I have a large and faithful following that always watches with fascination every new thing I try. The Metropolitan has only two singers who can be relied on to fill every seat in the house every time they appear. Caruso is one, and I am the other. There’s no modest way to say it, but my fans adore everything I do. Truly. With that kind of support, who wouldn’t keep trying new things?
But the fact remains I did not sing well last night; that blasted cold robbed me of all my top notes. I should have refused to sing at all. But that mule-headed Gatti-Casazza had been adamant; and once the Metropolitan’s general manager puts his size-eighteen foot down, there’s no budging him. He’d postponed the première once because of my illness, from Friday to the following Monday. On Friday Mr. Gatti had hurriedly substituted another opera from the company’s repertoire—and most of the audience had asked for its money back. That little item of news hadn’t depressed me one bit, ha, nosiree it hadn’t. But Mr. Gatti had been appalled at the thought of the same thing happening again, so I had to sing the première performance of Madame Sans-Gêne on Monday, January 25, 1915, cold or no cold. Frankly, I was just as glad Giordano, the opera’s composer, hadn’t been able to come to New York for the première after all. There’s nothing more disheartening than an unpraised composer drooping around an opera house.
The telephone rang. It was Caruso, bubbling over with italianate good cheer. “Gerry, mi amore, you were magnificent! But then you always are, are you not? Me, I cannot tell from listening that you are sick at all! Not even a little bit sick!”
I appreciated the lie and was quite willing to go along with it. “Why, thank you, Rico—what a nice thing to say! If you believed the newspapers, you’d think I dragged myself from my deathbed last night.”
“Pooh! What do they know? Just the same, you must take care of yourself,” Caruso fussed. “No vocalizing today, not even scales. Stay in bed, rest. Do you hear, Gerry?”
“I hear.”
“I send Mario with my special throat spray—you use it, yes? And I send some to Pasquale also.”
“Pasquale? Why?”
“His throat burns like furnace, his eyes they water, his nose does not permit the proper breathing …”
I groaned. Pasquale Amato sang the role of Napoleon in Madame Sans-Gêne; last night I’d noticed he was looking a bit peaked, but he’d sounded superb and I was so wrapped up in opening-night nerves I hadn’t paid much attention to anything else. And now it looked as if I’d passed on my cold to Amato. I asked Caruso, “Will he be all right by tomorrow night?” The three of us were scheduled to sing Carmen on Wednesday.
“Who knows?” I could hear the shrug in his voice. “This morning, he cannot sing even a nursery tune. But by tomorrow night … who is to say? Tomorrow night he may sing his best Escamillo ever!” Caruso, the eternal optimist.
I had been worrying whether I would be ready Wednesday night; Carmen is much more demanding a role than Caterina in Madame Sans-Gêne. But I was getting over my cold—Pasquale Amato was just starting his. On impulse I said, “I’ll take him some of my medicine.”
“No!” Caruso commanded with authority. “I take care of Pasquale. You stay home and take care of yourself.”
“I feel responsible, Rico. I’m sure he caught his cold from me.”
But my favorite tenor was in a paternalistic mood that morning and kept insisting, so finally I promised to do as he
said just to stop his well-meaning badgering. The minute I hung up I called to one of the maids to bring my hat and coat. I started packing a small valise with the various medicines I’d accumulated lately; Caruso’s throat spray was good for the ordinary hoarseness that plagues every singer, but it wouldn’t do anything for Amato’s cold. I checked my appearance in the mirror and ten minutes later was away on my errand of mercy.
The chauffeur drove me from West Seventy-fourth Street down Central Park West, around Columbus Circle, and on to Broadway. Everywhere I looked, bold black-and-white posters were exhorting me to give to the War Relief Fund. Sidewalk billboards proclaimed the day’s headlines: German Submarine Sinks Three Steamers in Irish Channel, Bread Riots in Florence. I found I was clenching my jaw and had to do a breathing exercise to relax. I would not let the European war depress me, even though everyone was saying it was only a matter of time until America joined in.
The limousine pulled up in front of the Hotel Astor in Times Square. I’d decided that if Pasquale Amato was sleeping, I’d quietly leave my valise of nostrums and not disturb him. But Amato’s valet assured me that his master was awake and ushered me into the sick man’s bedroom.
The first thing I saw was the huge rear end of a woman who was bending over the sickbed straightening the covers. She had all the grace of a Guernsey cow; and when she looked back over her shoulder with enormous cow eyes, I fully expected her to moo. “Hello, Emmy,” I said.
“Good morning,” Emmy Destinn answered amiably enough. “You have come to visit our ailing baritone?”
No, I’m having an affair with the valet. “Rico telephoned me,” I said, figuring that was sufficient explanation. Amato did not look good; he was feverish and had dark shadows under his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Pasquale,” I said. “I never dreamed I was making you sick too. I should have been more careful.”
Amato gave a gallant little wave of his hand. “Do not blame yourself, cara Gerry. These things happen. I—” He broke off, coughing violently.
