by Mary Gentle
Sleep evaded Conrad, except for the coldest hour, before dawn. He got up from it and moved around briskly, to stir the blood. The starless grey sky felt as though it shut him in.
When the city was rousing, they put on coats and left without attempts at disguise.
“Too late for that now,” Conrad said, buttoning his coat up to his throat in the damp sea-fog. “If the Conte di Galdi expects us to be doing anything—this is what he expects. Likewise the other people.”
The swift light came, burning off the mist. Conrad abandoned caution and spent the morning attempting to find someone who might lend him what Tullio dropped into the conversation as “a ferocious amount of money.”
“That our patron will pay back within the week,” Conrad added.
Sandrine and a number of the other singers had nest eggs squirreled away, but none were sufficient.
“What about a money-lender?” JohnJack Spinelli recommended.
“No capital.”
Conrad went from there to call in on Luigi Esposito for a game of chess and an appeal.
“I may be offered a considerable number of bribes, but I’m not, in fact, that rich,” the police chief said. “Do you actually know anyone who is?”
Gianpaolo Pironti and Tullio were shown back in just as Luigi asked. A look flashed over Tullio’s face as he heard the question.
“Porca vacca!” Realisation made Conrad abruptly choke on the remainder of his wine. “Damnation!”
Luigi waved the others forward, seeming amused. “You do know a rich man? And that’s not good news?”
“Not considering who it is!” The after-taste of the wine seemed sharply acidic. Conrad shook his head. “I only know one significantly wealthy man, Luigi, and if I tell you who it is, you’ll know why I never even considered asking him.”
“Il Superbo!” Isaura exclaimed.
“Roberto Capiraso. Conte di Argente. Il Superbo. Not only would he not lend me money—” Conrad looked down into his empty glass. “—But right now he wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.”
“That may be true.” Luigi had effortlessly possessed himself of the gossip about Leonora, Contessa di Argente, and in self-defence Conrad had contradicted it with the truth. “But I really don’t want to have to arrest you again.”
Conrad put his head in his hands.
They always say you should ask yourself what your father would do under these circumstances.
I can’t run away from Naples. I honestly can’t.
I don’t want to.
Paolo interrupted Conrad’s thoughts. “He is rich.”
“I’ll have to ask him,” Conrad said, sitting up. “Il Superbo” is one of the few other people who do know what’s truly at stake. “I’m still not looking forward to it.”
Luigi clapped Conrad on the shoulder as he ushered them out of the door. “Good luck!”
Conrad took a breath after he was shown into the Conte di Argente’s mansion, and the servants left them alone. It calmed him enough to deliver his prepared speech. The importance of the counter-opera. The disaster if it was not completed on time. The absence of King Ferdinand, and their complete inability to reach him before the Count di Galdi’s (expired) deadline. A reprise of just how significant the counter-opera is to Naples and Italy.
Conrad concluded it with, “I hope that you’ll be reasonable, and forget our differences.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Roberto Capiraso stood watching the harbour from glass doors that opened onto a balcony. Curtains were drawn back—great drapes of linen-backed red silk, ornamented with tassels. The walls were swathed in silk. The drawing-room reminding Conrad more than anything of his father’s brief sojourn in Constantinople.
The Conte di Argente had evidently been out riding; he wore spotless buckskin breeches and a topcoat after the English fashion, and high boots that it would take his valet an hour or more to polish. With his back to Conrad, he helped himself to brandy, for all it was still morning. Conrad was not surprised to be offered nothing.
With all the quiet poise he could manage, Conrad said, “It’s no coincidence that this has come up now. This is a first attack by the Prince’s Men.”
“Possibly.” Roberto Capiraso put his glass on the mantelpiece and turned to observe the room.
Conrad might have been a specimen under glass hung on the wall for all the notice in the man’s gaze. The barbed companionship and dry humour of their working partnership might never have existed.
“Then—” Conrad began.
“Do you know,” Roberto Capiraso interrupted him without apology, “that I had the pleasure, when your note arrived, of hearing my wife request that I consider helping you.”
His voice was cold and level, but Conrad heard it increase in intensity at the phrase “my wife.”
Two contradictory emotions flooded him. A reckless gladness—She actually cared enough to speak in my favour!—and a cold misgiving, guessing the Count’s possible reaction.
The clear morning light through the windows made him wince.
Conrad sat on his exasperation. “You need the libretto to set, even if I end up giving it to you a scene at a time. We have to work together, after all!”
Roberto Capiraso stood with his back to the fire, legs apart, cognac glass in one hand. He gently swirled the alcohol, inhaling, not looking at Conrad. “There is absolutely no reason I can think of why I should help you.”
Conrad drew in a breath, preparatory to going through the whole matter again—and caught a glint in the Conte di Argente’s eye at that display of impatience.
At this moment, he doesn’t care about King Ferdinand, the opera, the Prince’s Men. None of that is more than theoretical to him at this moment. What he cares about is that I’ve had to come here, cap in hand, and ask him.
Because of Leonora.
Conscious that his cheeks must be reddening because of the warmth he could feel in his face, Conrad hoped that might be put down to the hearth-fire’s heat. A glance at Roberto Capiraso’s face disillusioned him.
I know what he wants.
That “Il Superbo” might put his own pride above any emergency was not a surprise. The realisation and the prospect were enough to make Conrad hot behind the ears.
Considering that Leonora spoke for me—it’s not surprising he wants to see me crawl.
There was even some small part of him that briefly sympathised with Argente. It was that same part that wrote verse for each character based on their own position and sympathies, rather than his own.
While that emotion buoyed him up, Conrad took the risk, stepping forward to where the Count surveyed the last drops of his cognac clinging to the glass. The gilt mirror over the mantle showed both of them, limned by sunlight, and Conrad wished it was otherwise. He did not want his face to be clearly seen.
“Conte,” he said formally.
Roberto Capiraso’s head lifted, dark eyes transfixing him.
Conrad swallowed with a sudden dry mouth. “I ask you for your help, sir.”
He paused, hoping against hope. Is that enough?
Clearly, from Capiraso’s expression, it was not. A hunger showed in the other man’s gaze.
“I ask for your help,” Conrad repeated.
“Do you?” Capiraso sounded almost bored. “Do it properly, then.”
Conrad knew he must be either flame-red or stark white; he felt hot and cold by turns. He bit his tongue, suppressing all the threats he might have made with the backing of King Ferdinand.
They’re useless. That’s not what he wants.
Conrad managed, “Please.” It was no easier to repeat. “Please. Will you help me? Will you loan me this money?”
A glint of absolute satisfaction showed in Roberto Capiraso’s eyes. He tilted his head as if he listened.
“I beg you,” Conrad said, with as much formality as he could.
The silence stretched out—until Conrad knew he was about to turn and slam his way out of the
house, no matter the importance of anything else—or else lay Capiraso out with one punch.
The Conte di Argente put his empty glass down. His baritone voice sounded smooth and untroubled.
“No.”
Conrad found, after a long moment, that his mouth was open.
He shut it.
“‘No’?” He wanted to sound enraged; his voice came out stunned with shock instead. “No?”
Roberto Capiraso smiled. “‘No.’ Is that not plain enough? No, I will not help you. No, I will not lend you money to stay out of jail. No. Is that clear enough for you?”
Conrad closed his eyes, unwilling to have Roberto Capiraso witness his scalding and absolute humiliation.
All that, and then he refuses me?
Humiliation turned to white-hot anger.
“Conte.” Conrad’s voice dripped contempt, and he made no attempt to sound different. “Is it beyond you to be reasonable? You—”
“I am reasonable. What does it matter to me if you’re arrested for debt? It hardly matters if you’re in jail, does it? It won’t stop you writing the libretto.” The Conte di Argente looked far too amused. “You can write as well in a debtors’ jail as you can in that hovel you call your lodgings. I’ll send one of my servants to the debtor’s prison every morning, to collect the next few pages of your libretto. This problem of yours won’t prevent me setting the lines to music.”
Conrad forcibly and deliberately battened down all the words he would have screamed. Pressure build inside him. His attention focused down—he was conscious of nothing but the point on Capiraso’s bearded jaw where his clenched fist would hit.
“If the King doesn’t like it,” Il Superbo added, “let him bail you out. He has no one else to compose his music.”
Roberto Capiraso didn’t say, I’m indispensable, but Conrad read it clearly in the man’s expression.
I swear—I swear to the God I don’t believe in, I will kill him—
The pressured silence shattered at a soft knock on the door.
One of the Count’s servants apologised in quiet tones. Capiraso shook his head, and gave a snort of something that sounded like amusement. “No, send him in. Let them all come!”
The doors opened fully, and Luigi Esposito appeared, accompanied by two grim-faced officers.
“I apologise, Signore Conte,” the police captain said, “but my men followed Signore Scalese to this house, during his evasion of bailiffs. I have a warrant for his arrest for debt.”
Roberto Capiraso glanced back into the room. His dark gaze burned, and Conrad did not know for one vertiginous second what the man would do.
Il Superbo smiled.
“Then, Captain, do your duty.”
CHAPTER 18
Comedy tended to occur to him at the most inopportune moments, Conrad thought, observing the two officers in square-topped hats with crowning green cockades. They stood either side of Luigi Esposito, evidently not aware that the Two Kingdoms’ uniforms had any element of hilarity.
“Conrad Arturo Scalese…” Luigi Esposito sounded emotionless, repeating the words of the warrant.
Anger and humiliation dowsed the spark of Conrad’s humour.
The Conte di Argente sat down at his desk, pulling a score towards himself, seeming not aware of anyone else’s presence in the room.
Conrad thought calmly, They’re already going to put me in prison. The English have a proverb about a sheep and a lamb—
As if Luigi Esposito could read minds, the sleek-haired man fiddled with the buttons of his uniform cuffs, and under cover of the movement murmured, “Debtors’ prison, Conrad.”
Meaning that I could be worse off. Make it murder and I could be in chains out on the Isle of Ischia.
And Roberto Capiraso, Conte di Argente…
…Is right, Conrad reflected, adrenaline urging his body to violence, and only a thin thread of reason holding him back.
That realisation—that Il Superbo is correct, that Conrad can write a libretto under those conditions—is bitter to choke down.
Yes, I can write. I can delegate most duties of an impresario. By the time it comes to rehearsals, and they need me present, Ferdinand will have returned, and settled this.
So Il Superbo gets the opportunity to humiliate me, and no one will chastise him for doing it.
It could be worse. Leonora could be here while he lectures me about my “wastrel ways.”
Conrad felt the police chief’s touch on his shoulder. Luigi appeared genuinely uncomfortable. Conrad nodded, praying his face was not as red and hot as it felt.
“Shall we go, then?” Luigi Esposito bowed with the utmost politeness to Roberto Capiraso—which the Count ignored—and took Conrad by the elbow. The two officers fell in behind.
At the foot of the mansion’s steps, an unobtrusive carriage waited in the sunlight, horses’ breath steaming in the air.
Conrad turned his head, and discovered Luigi tugging at the cuffs of his white gloves again. “No official coach?”
“It would please some people if you were dragged off in ignominy…” Luigi politely gestured for Conrad to precede him inside. “That wouldn’t please me. And since this is my department—I handle arrests as I please.”
The parchment-coloured curtains were pulled down over the windows, leaving them in a honey-shaded dimness. A soft word from the driver, outside, and the closed carriage dipped and creaked, moving off.
Conrad eyed the two officers sitting one either side of him on the uncomfortable seat, and returned his gaze to Luigi. “Can I send word to my servant?”
“Rossi should be there to meet you.” There might have been a smile on Luigi’s face. “You’re a gentleman, Conrad; you shouldn’t spend even one night down in the dungeons.”
It didn’t seem wise to talk with the two hulks either side of him, but Conrad gave Luigi a speaking look. When was the last time you called me a gentleman!
A sudden splash of reality, like a dose of cold water, ended his amusement. The gaolers will need bribing.
Conrad leaned forward, ignoring how the officers tensed. “I don’t have a scudo on me—!”
“Tullio has a purse. You should be able to have a room above ground—though I can’t guarantee it’ll be furnished in the very best style. And no leg-irons.”
With the police officers so close, Conrad couldn’t say anything without being overheard.
Although I expect Luigi will have looked after this lot—corruption in Naples is the air that one breathes!—but to speak of sensitive matters here… no.
The first thing I will do after I get out of prison is talk to Luigi Esposito.
Because if Tullio has a purse—I’m damn sure it isn’t mine.
The jailers who took him from the police—hustling him with far less politeness down the corridors of the forbidding large building—opened a door and pushed him through.
Tullio turned away from a bare window and took three quick strides across the room. Conrad found himself seized and briefly if intensely hugged.
“Sorry, padrone.” Tullio swept his arm around as he stepped back, indicating the bare floorboards and Spartan room. “Even with Captain Luigi’s help, this was the best we could do.”
Three strides had been enough to cross from window to door, and it was no wider from the wall against which a palette-bed lay, to the tiny fireplace opposite—currently empty of fire. A bag which Tullio had evidently packed stood by the bed.
“You and Luigi want your heads knocked together! Do you have any savings left?”
Tullio scratched at his shaved head. With the air of a man finding something useful to get him out of a confrontation, he pulled six wax candles out of one of his pockets, and a candle-holder out of the other, and put them down on the room’s sole plain wooden table. “Isaura’s bringing some coal for the fireplace, and ink and paper. I guess the faster you write, the faster you get out of this place.”
Conrad lifted his face to the light coming in through the uncurtai
ned windows. He’s not going to answer questions about money.
“And don’t you worry about that Il Superbo,” Tullio added with a growl, as he set kindling ready for the coal. “There isn’t a good bone in that man’s body; he wouldn’t know natural human feeling if it ran over him in a horse and cart!”
Conrad pulled out the elderly high-backed wooden chair, and all but fell into it. The tension of the past hour instantly dispelled, leaving him feeling like cooked spaghetti. He gripped Tullio’s arm and released it.
“I want you or Paolo to keep watch on that place, now.” Conrad saw Tullio mouth “Palace,” and nodded. “Safely. Without being noticed. I need to get word to our friend as soon as he returns.”
The day passed, hours unmarked by any clock. Paolo brought him a carpet-bag of belongings and vanished again.
Conrad drew the wooden stool up to the table, and began paring down a quill. His hands cut expertly, all the while his thoughts scurried around like a disturbed colony of mice.
“There’s nothing we can do. Yet.” He put the quill down and picked up another gull’s feather, aware of Tullio’s hovering worried form. Conrad didn’t look up from trimming. “Can I rely on you to bring food in? What they serve here would poison a camel.”
Tullio grunted and folded his arms. “You want me to check for our friend every day. What about—shall I keep an eye on our composer?”
The jailers in any prison are notorious for listening at spy-holes, in case they should overhear anything to blackmail more money out of their prisoners.
“The composer—” Conrad pronounced that without spoken insult, but in the tones Tullio usually used while cleaning horse-muck off his shoes. “—will be kind enough to send me his musical score, as he completes the scenes. You should ask every day if he has anything for me, when you take what I’ve written to him.”
“Sure.” Tullio looked about himself. “Hang on, padrone, there’s one more thing I can think of that you need. Let me go put the fear of God into ’em—”
“The fear of Sergeant Rossi is likely to be more effective!”
