by Mary Gentle
Torn between annoyance and amusement, Conrad thought, Oh hell, how do I rescue this?
King Ferdinand turned back from dismissing the servants from the chamber. “I’m sure you’ll work well together, gentlemen.”
More of an order than an observation, Conrad reflected.
The Count swirled his brandy and inhaled. “Give me the libretto and I’ll see what I can do.”
“There is no libretto as yet, Count.” Conrad was proud of his level tone.
“Very well: the first Act, then—”
“Oh, can you handle more than one Act?”
The words emerged before Conrad could censor them. He avoided Ferdinand’s gaze.
I may be many things, but I’m not a football—to be kicked whenever it’s convenient.
Roberto Capiraso shifted his ground. “I trust the libretto will be of some quality when it is done? I’m used to a sophisticated audience. Who appreciate art, and don’t demonstrate their displeasure with fish.”
I suspect I’m going to be sorry I ever mentioned that…
“It isn’t the sophisticated audiences who make opera,” Conrad found himself saying. “Not the nobles who own boxes, and close the curtains so they won’t have their conversations interrupted by singing. Not the Mayors and police chiefs and local civil servants who hire boxes by the season. We need to hook the citizens of Naples, Signore Count. The ones that come in to sit on the lower benches, or stand in the pit, and pay night by night for their place. They know opera—and they recognise every bit of orchestral fudge, and every note transposed for a weak singer. They come in every night of a run for three weeks, as enthusiastic and intimidating on the last night as on the first. Or they break an opera before its third performance.”
Capiraso raised a dark brow, and spoke with toneless false sympathy. “I understand many of your works, regrettably, haven’t survived the first performance. Without even an electrical storm to blame for it…”
Conrad caught sight of Ferdinand’s face.
The King’s given him Les Enfants du Calcutta to read… Wonderful.
Conrad managed a careless shrug and returned the shot. “You’ll need to visit the San Carlo, Conte. Check its size. I know your productions will have been held in the drawing-rooms of aristocrats…”
Conrad gazed up at the extravagant plaster wreathes on the ceiling, apparently innocently.
“…You could hold a one-act opera in the Teatro San Carlo—and a circus too; likely both at the same time.”
Roberto Capiraso blinked, his heavy lids giving his eyes a lizard quality. “Up until now, signore, I have never participated in a circus.”
“Gentlemen!”
Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily rose to his feet, signalling impatiently that they should keep their seats. He paced the room agitatedly for some moments.
He turned on them, his back to the bright windows. “Let me explain, gentlemen—”
“I apologise, sir,” Conrad said, before Ferdinand could continue. He offered a conciliatory nod to the Conte di Argente, who appeared to have some cutting remark just aching to leave his tongue. “This opera is vital, sire, and no idiot should stand in the way of it. Certainly not the ones who are supposed to be assisting you.”
Roberto Capiraso returned the nod of acknowledgement, his remark left unspoken. “I—believe I understand what’s at stake. I shall be pleased to have an associate who understands the mysteries of a libretto.”
The bearded man’s concession warmed Conrad. Both of us behaving like schoolboys—it must come from having five weeks now to produce an entire opera…
Ferdinand leaned forward on his satin-backed chair. He said crisply, “We’re not here to debate the merits of drawing-room operas versus the cut and thrust of commercial life. Corrado, be aware I’ve read the Count’s scores; you have no reason to fear any lack of talent or commitment on his part. Roberto, you’ve studied Signore Scalese’s libretto for Il Terrore di Parigi; I think I need not say more. Can I assume you’ll work together? You both know what is at stake.”
Conrad’s yes came a scant fraction after Capiraso’s.
Ferdinand smiled his brilliant, entirely open, smile. “Good. I understand from Conrad that we have some of the primary singers?”
“Three, sire.” Conrad added reassuringly, “We have four sets of church choirs who are used to singing in the chorus; we have the San Carlo’s notoriously good orchestra; and Michele Angelotti’s crew have signed on to do scenery and stage machinery.”
The King nodded, pleased. “And a first violin willing to take on the business of conducting the orchestra, as I understand it. I assume, Count, you’ll want the time to compose, rather than to conduct your own rehearsals? In that case I see nothing more except setting the pair of you to work to produce a libretto and a score.”
It was unwise, and very likely because Roberto Capiraso was frowning and looking likely to protest, but Conrad couldn’t resist repeating airily, “Of course, Highness—people put on operas in five weeks every day…”
“I dare say they do, in the commercial sphere.” Roberto Capiraso very evidently had no idea there could be any objection to his remark. “My last work took me the better part of two years to compose.”
“Don’t worry,” Conrad advised amiably, “I’m sure you’ll learn to compose faster now.”
Capiraso gave him a suspicious look.
Just as the man turned back to the King, however, Conrad saw a small quirk of the lip that might have been a restrained smile—as if, having crossed swords and found his attack returned, the Conte di Argente was both challenged and satisfied to have found his opponent not a walkover.
Perhaps this won’t be so impossible after all…
“Good!” Ferdinand clapped his hands and stood—barely giving his subjects time to scramble to their feet as well. “I’ll show you where you’ll work.”
Another trek through endless baroque rooms succeeded.
With a view to being amiable—and, it occurred to him, saving considerably in work and time—Conrad asked, “Is it absolutely necessary we have a full four act opera?”
Roberto Capiraso’s dark brow went up again. “I know Signore Donizetti has put on some singular one act operas for court performances at the San Carlo.”
Conrad nodded thoughtfully. “Luigi—Captain Esposito—recommended me to see his Elvida if it was ever revived.”
Although that, Conrad remembered, had been more to do with the striking girl who played the villainous King’s sympathetic son, in tight-fitting white breeches.
Ferdinand beamed back at them amiably. “Court performances can be remarkably stuffy. Don’t think I don’t know! Nobody allowed to clap until the King applauds… Pah!—And no composer wants to use his best music, because there’ll only be the one performance. Signore Donizetti is a notable exception. All the same, I think to build up the emotional power, we’re liable to need a performance open to the public, and a full four acts.” He frowned. “Given what my astronomers say, it may have to be an afternoon rather than an evening performance, keeping in mind what time the partial eclipse begins. We can’t be caught beginning too late… but I would sooner have had an evening audience.”
Ferdinand took out a pair of keys from his pocket, and himself let them through one door into an obscure anteroom, and through the next door into what had plainly been one of the Palace’s libraries.
This room had windows that opened on the Bay, but was smaller, and the walls were lined with locked cupboards and locked chests. A number of statues occupied crowded shelves, and two huge green-topped desks took up all the centre of the room.
An upright piano stood by the window, incongruously pushed into too small a space.
“I was thinking, since yesterday, how to solve the problem of how confidential your work must be, both of you… This will be your place of work, gentlemen,” Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily announced.
Conrad’s gaze focused.
He realised that he was staring at
one of the marble statues set out on the shelves. The stone still had the dry remnants of dirt in the crevices, looking as if it had not been cleaned since excavation from some Roman archaeological site. It stood twelve inches tall, and was the figure of a satyr. Conrad at first thought the shaggy figure, half-goat and half man, was holding a tree-trunk.
What projected up past its wicked grinning face was its phallus. Its cock was almost as large as the creature itself, and the carved satyr needed to support it with both hands.
Conrad mouthed an “oh,” which he meant to say aloud, but found himself lost for a voice.
“This is Naples’ secret museum,” Ferdinand continued, blasé as any collector of Classical artefacts. “Some years ago the Church made representations to me that having the more—unrestrained—Roman and Greek statues on public display was an incitement to sin. I had them collected and placed in here. These galleries are always kept securely locked, and guarded, in case of theft. It takes two letters from recognised Classical scholars for any man to be admitted—and the curator has been given orders to defer any such requests. I had the piano put in here this morning… Is this acceptable, gentlemen?”
Roberto Capiraso was not blushing—he had the look of a man who had not blushed since the age of twelve—but he did look a little startled. “Ideal, sire.”
Conrad collected himself enough to agree. “Yes, sir.”
Ferdinand gazed at them both with a deliberately cheerful expression.
“I’ll see that you both have keys. They are not to be given into the care of any other person, no matter how much you trust them.”
Conrad dumbly nodded.
Ferdinand dusted off his gloved hands, and looked fondly around at the erotica. “No one will be surprised to find this room locked. Which it will be, gentlemen, when neither of you is here. Please take great care with any of your working documents. I assume you’ve spent time considering ideas for the libretto and the music we need, and that you’re ready to begin? Remember, Roberto, Conrad: we have just under five weeks to our first night.”
The door closed behind the King of the Two Sicilies.
Roberto Scalese looked around at the numerous man-beasts engaged in acts of fornication—and visibly eradicated them from his notice. He said absently, “Was it ‘Corrado,’ signore?”
I wonder if I shall be free to call “il Conte” Roberto?
Amused despite himself, Conrad said, “Corrado or Corradino—or Conrad—depending on how Italian you’d like me to be.”
“You’re not native to Italy?”
Conrad would not have noted it under other circumstances, but alert as he was, he noted that Il Superbo seemed to relax slightly at that. He put it aside for later thought.
“Born in the other Sicily,” Conrad answered, “but bred up mostly in the German states. My father was native to the Duchy of Bavaria.”
“Very well, Corrado. I am Roberto.”
He’s genuinely intending to be friendly.
He just can’t help sounding like he has a broom up his arse.
But Ferdinand’s chosen him, and I have to have a better reason than that not to work with him.
“Roberto…” Conrad opened the various desk drawers, looking for paper. “The Argente family is Italian?”
“Now.” The Count took a sheaf of paper marked with staves out of his inner coat pocket, and moved cautiously towards the upright piano. “But Spanish in origin. We moved here recently, some three hundred years ago, when there was war with the Arabs and Hebrews in Granada, and the Counts of Argente wished to live at peace… You and I appear to take in considerable amounts of Europe between us—one hopes, it will spark fresh talent.”
The Wars in Granada were a melange of bright armour and heraldry in Conrad’s mind. “A shame I didn’t know about your family history before. It sounds an interesting setting for a libretto.”
Roberto struck middle C, listened, and unexpectedly smiled. “A good sound considering this is an upright piano… I’d thought perhaps something more exotic than wars against the Moors and Jews?”
“Exotic.” Conrad found himself also smiling, at first with relief, and then with enthusiasm. He put down the book of engravings that he still carried with him. “I think we can contrive something exotic. Look at these plates and tell me if your music thinks them worthy.”
“I refuse to write anything purely for uncivilised flutes, drums, and cymbals!”
“I don’t recall Signore Rossini sounding particularly Turkish when he put his Italian girl in Algiers—and Signore Donizetti, when he set Il paria in India, didn’t—”
Conrad caught the glint in Roberto Capiraso’s eye and realised, I’ve bitten the bait again.
He diverted himself smoothly: “But of course, if you think it’s too difficult a setting for an opera…”
Il Superbo smirked. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”
Conrad suppressed the urge to throw something at the man, or burst out laughing, or both. “On reflection, I doubt the censor will let us put a queen on stage at all, so I had thought we might call it The Aztec Princess.”
The Count paged slowly through the engravings.
Conrad put out his own papers. “I’ve noted down our basic triangle of lovers for the main plot. Our hero, Fernando Cortez, the only European explorer in South America that anyone’s ever heard of—Who they usefully appear to think may have been a god, whose title was ‘the Plumed Serpent.’”
Conrad shifted the wooden chairs so that he could sit at the table, in the narrow gap between that and the locked cupboards of antiquities. After a moment, the Conte di Argente joined him.
“Our heroine, the Aztec Princess herself, is ‘Tanis.’” Conrad went on, flicking through his notes. “Of course, she’s the betrothed of the Aztec’s chief General. Every opportunity for martial music… Do you want to stage an actual battle between the Europeans and the Aztecs, by the way? I know the Aztecs are supposed to have been terrified by the appearance of fighting men on horse-back, like centaurs… Velluti might get his up-stage entrance on a white horse, but I don’t think Angelotti and the stage-crew can adequately manage enough horses for a convincing battle…”
“There might be certain practical problems,” Roberto agreed dryly.
The Count reached out for the stack of notes detailing ideas for the plot, with such authority that Conrad didn’t stop him taking them.
“Very well. L’Altezza azteca, ossia La principessa di sangue—‘The Aztec Princess, Or, the Princess of Blood.’ Our Princess—‘Tanis’?” He raised dark eyebrows.
“‘The serpent lady,’” Conrad translated.
“…Princess Snake-lady—you have too many princesses in your title, by the way—loves the Spanish explorer Fernando Cortez, but she is betrothed to Lord-General Chimalli, Commander of the Jaguar Warriors. And I suppose his name also translates?” Roberto sounded amused.
“To ‘shield,’” Conrad said absently, busy setting out his inkwell and pen. “A Jesuit writer made a list of Aztec words; I think they cry out to be used as names.”
Il Superbo gave him the look of an educated man. “‘Tanis’ would be Greek, surely? A form of the Carthaginian Goddess ‘Tanith.’”
Conrad shrugged, declining to be baited. “I like the meaning. Her name in the Nahuatl language was originally ‘Tecuichpochtzin’—”
Even with practise at reading it, he stumbled hopelessly.
“—Which means ‘Lord’s daughter,’ and we’re not using it! If it helps,” Conrad intercepted the Count’s visible frustration, “she was baptised ‘Doña Isabel’ after she converted! But ‘Isabella’ hardly sounds exotic.”
Roberto Capiraso rubbed his hand across his face, with an odd little sigh. “No; hardly!”
I should show willingness to compromise, I suppose, Conrad thought. “I did consider calling her ‘Tayanna’ or ‘Zayanna’; that’s a name in Nahuatl, meaning ‘sunrise.’”
He was surprised to see the other man try the names silent
ly on his tongue, in the way that singers did.
“Three syllables, ends in a vowel—easier to scan, surely?” Roberto Capiraso cocked a dark eyebrow. “I prefer Tayanna. The other version sounds too…”
“Soft?” Conrad agreed, before he realised. After a moment’s silent contemplation, he drew a thin line with his pen and added “Princess Tayanna” to the list of characters. “We can still have a costume of feathers and snake-patterns for her.”
“Mm.” The Count turned back to the papers. “So Chimalli loves his betrothed, Tayanna.—I suggest our Aztec princess was betrothed by her late father to this Jaguar General, she won’t look so flighty then when she prefers Signore Cortez.”
Conrad nodded. He took back his first page and—after tapping the steel pen nib thoughtfully for a moment—scribbled industriously. “Better title?”
The drawing-room composer received the title sheet back and studied it.
“Il serpente pennuto ossia La Principessa di Sangue… ‘The Feathered Serpent, or, The Princess of Blood.’ Not there yet, but improving.” Roberto Capiraso thumbed through the synopsis. “So we have a triangle between Princess Tayanna, her Jaguar General, and Signore Cortez…”
“…And naturally both of them can’t have her.” Conrad tapped his pen again. A blot fell on his clean page. “No one in the audience will spare more than a passing sympathy for the villain, so we have to work on that aspect. Difficult when the hero and heroine obviously belong together.”
Roberto picked the pen out of Conrad’s hand to make a note of his own, and passed it back. “Even though the Jaguar Knight General is legally betrothed to her?”
“This is opera.” Conrad smiled, very innocently. “I’ve often thought that the country of origin might be Catholic, but opera itself is wholly Protestant…”
Roberto Capiraso leaned back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, face almost masking his amusement. “And why would that be, Signore Heretic? There have been many operas on Catholic heroines.”
“The subject of operas might be Catholic—Signore Donizetti’s English queens and rebels—or it might not be. Example, the Romans of Spontini, Mercadante, Pacini. But the format of opera is Protestant.” Conrad idly drew spider-legs from his inkblot. “Everything is about the individual, not the family or the congregation. The individual’s emotional development—their ‘spiritual’ health, if you like. Love, hate, loyalty, guilt, bliss… all of it has the highest priority. In the case of our love-triangle—love is the law, and the Law counts for nothing.”
