Manzoli's soft bulk shuddered. Watching Akos, he raised the line of flesh over his eyes where the brows should have been. His man servant, who had been riding the back luggage step, hobbled to the open door to see what his master's pleasure was.
Manzoli gestured, speaking in swift Italian: "Come inside, Vincenzio. Keep me company."
Using his crutch as if it was the missing leg, with an accompanying grimace, the servant made his way into the opposing leather seat.
"Grazi, Signore." He slipped the staff forward so the space would accommodate it. "The wind has teeth this afternoon. Do we go home now, Signor?"
"Yes," Manzoli nodded. After the servant called the direction up to the driver and they had turned and started off again toward the new destination, the old singer murmured, almost to himself, "A most dangerous young man."
"Sir?" Vincenzio queried. His battered face registered surprise. "Prince Vehnsky's apothecary?"
"Ah," Manzoli murmured. "That one is a man of many parts, Vincenzio. He's also house-musician to the prince. Plays cembalo and harpsichord admirably. But what," he continued after a meditative study of the coarse features beside him, "would you take him for if you knew none of those things?"
"Well,” the man said after a moment’s thought, “he carries himself like a soldier, Signor."
"Indeed."
"Yes, Signor. And, sir, there's something else about him, now I think on it."
"Well, say on."
"You know I lost my leg serving under Count Vencel, Prince Vehnsky's second son."
"Yes, of course."
"Well, sir, that young fellow's got the look of them, don’t you think? The Vehnskys, I mean."
"You confirm my observation." Manzoli’s mind had been pouring like quicksilver ever since Akos had departed. "And there is only one thing, my old friend, more dangerous than a vengeful aristocrat."
"And what is that, Signor?"
"An aristocrat's bastard, Vincenzio. They are gunpowder waiting for a spark. And when that spark ignites, they destroy everything around them, friend and foe alike."
Chapter 7
Klara remembered the first time she'd gone to Manzoli’s apartment, how she'd been shown up the dingy stairs to his third floor apartment, quite a climb in heels and panniers and pillow bustle, high wig and hat, all the paraphernalia of the prima donna which Max insisted she always go out wearing. The woman who'd opened the door to the apartment was a curious creature, painted and wigged, too, but less than four feet high, her voice squawking harshly, like someone mimicking a parrot.
There were smells too. Some were foreign kitchen smells, Italian ones of garlic, oregano and basil. Some Klara recognized from her own house: there was vinegar used for cleaning and a musky odor of felines, who might sometimes make use of the low bins into which the ashes were swept. The furniture was heavy, gilded in a style that was now old-fashioned, with stuffing poking out through frays at the corners and bottoms in a way that confirmed the presence of cats. This desire to scratch was a perennial household war Klara also fought. Although Max insisted that cats properly belonged to barns, kitchens and roof tops, not in parlors with the good furniture, Klara allowed her Satz everywhere, with similar annoying results.
In fact, as she came further into the room, her eye was attracted by a long-haired black cat gliding away under a couch. The plumy tail, like an animate feather duster, twitched upon the terrazzo floor for a time before withdrawing into shadow.
"The Maestro will be right with you, Prima Donna Silber. He begs your patience."
The door had closed behind the squat little maid, leaving Klara alone in the music room. A monstrous, painted harpsichord had once been the centerpiece, but one of those dainty new fortepianos had been tucked in beside it. Both were neatly placed with their keyboards facing the window, so that anyone playing or reading music would have the best light.
There was music everywhere, heaps in boxes beneath the instruments and sheets on the music stands. The first ones she picked up had words in French, though it was a piece with which she was unfamiliar. Ordinarily Klara would have been intrigued and would have begun to hum what she was reading, but the strangeness of the room compelled her to study it further. She saw several wing chairs upholstered in scarlet rowed against the wall. The longest uninterrupted space was decorated with lively and well-drawn classical frescos in the Italian manner, a tall, handsome Apollo, whose expression, Klara noted, was more than usually ecstatic, perhaps because of the scantily clad Muses dancing before him.
The back of the long room was dim. It was an unfortunate fact that in this, as in so many other apartments, the middle and inner rooms had no direct access to light. As Klara's eyes became accustomed to the shadows, she saw several items of furniture. One was a baize covered card table with four chairs around it.
In the farthest corner was a long divan covered with pillows, a sensual touch, which, considering the condition of Signor Manzoli, gave her an unpleasant shuddery flicker, calling up murky visions of appetites hitherto unimagined. She imagined obscure perversities of the sort Max liked to threaten her with when he was angry.
On the darkened wall, however, she spied something comforting. A violin and a viola hung neatly side by side, in a place where neither heat from the stove nor light from the window could easily reach them, the way a real musician would care for them. She moved toward them, wanting to see them better.
As her eyes adjusted, her gaze fell onto the card table where she saw cards laid out in a circle, not in the rows of solitaire. It wasn't only the pattern, but the cards themselves which were unfamiliar. They were large and marked with suits Klara had never seen before. There were stars, swords, cups, and another, a face card, she guessed, of a queen on a throne holding a leafy staff.
Tarot cards? She'd heard of them, but had never before seen any. There was another disturbing thing, too. The round ivory base upon which a guttered candle sat proved to be a human skull. As she came closer, the floor boards set up a noisy squeaking, but she was willing to risk the noise in order to be certain of it.
Resting a hand beside it, Klara bent to stare into the empty sockets. Layers of pale yellow wax had cascaded down the cracked dome like a bizarre wig. This emblem of mortality seemed an odd bit of decoration.
Just then the door opened, and through it came the dwarfish woman and her Signor Manzoli, dressed in long black robes like a surgeon or an apothecary. He was extremely fat, his once legendarily beautiful face now doughy. His approach was almost silent. Klara was to become familiar with that stealthy glide, though she never did quite understand how a man so enormous could step so lightly.
"Prima Donna Silber." He gracefully inclined his head, and a hand with long nails gestured. "I apologize for keeping you waiting. I hope that you are not out of patience."
"Not at all, Signor."
"Strega!" The plump face, jowls wobbling, had turned to the little woman. "Did you not show the lady into the light by the harpsichord?"
The woman's painted mouth drew into a pout and she glared up so fiercely from under her heavy black brows that Klara quickly said, "Ah, the good woman did as you asked, but I am afraid I did not stay where I was put."
Manzoli turned and apologized to the woman in a gracious ripple of Italian. She, slightly mollified, bobbed a stiff curtsy and then went out.
"On occasion, she can be quite spiteful." The castrato gestured towards the light that came filtering in their direction. "To the harpsichord, Fraulein Silber. We shall away from this dusty lair."
Klara obeyed, but not without another glance into the empty sockets of the skull. Who might it have been? Some luckless creature mired in poverty, no doubt, consigned to the common pits which were dug up every eight years to make way for other unfortunates.
"An unusual candle stand, isn't it?" Manzoli had followed her eyes.
"I hope I haven't trespassed, Signor.”
"Not at all. I often find myself imagining that this long room is rather like the wo
rld itself. Half of it is dark, the other half is light. The plain fact, however, is that the room cannot be complete without both sides." His voice was a melodious alto, the voice of a singer, issuing from that robed, amorphous body.
"Then you believe," said Klara as they moved together into the light, "that evil is a natural condition of our world?"
"Decay is a natural condition," Manzoli said. "The unraveling comes to us all." He gestured at himself.
His features, Klara saw, were oddly delicate, the cheek bones high beneath the powder covered peppering of smallpox to which his skin had long ago been subjected. Made up and upon stage, in younger, thinner days, he was said to have made a handsome hero, or even heroine! Though his brows were absent, his eyes were a lovely pale blue. In them Klara saw experience and suffering yoked together by a lively awareness.
"Forgive me for the presumption, Fraulein Silber, but when I came into the dark side of that room just now and saw you gazing into the eyes of my friend there, well, it was a moment I believe I should like to have painted. Youth, beauty and talent of the highest sort, the glory of the world, contemplating the eventual end."
Klara felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up, but her new Maestro shifted topic.
"I was flattered to receive your letter, Fraulein, and flattered you have come to visit me. Having heard you sing during the last year with ever increasing admiration, I would be delighted to offer my services. I shall be honored if there is any way I may assist you in honing and in preserving your voice, that glory with which the Good God has seen fit to adorn the world."
"Grazi! Grazi, you are far too kind, molto bene Signor. I believe I still have a long path to travel before such praise is merited. "
Max too awarded these accolades, but idolatry from any source made Klara uncomfortable. Her gift, the nuns had lectured, was ephemeral. It could be lost in illness, in childbirth, to an injury, or simply to some random winter illness. Most likely, however, the ordinary passage of twenty-five years – and a few injudicious high notes – would be the thief.
Vanity! The nuns had taught her about this sin, and the life she led now was a welter of it. She feared this particular sin greatly. First, she understood vanity affected the judgment. She'd seen the songbirds flaunting along the Grosse Schulerstrasse like empresses, and hoped never to be as full of folly, as easy a prey to flatterers as these other ladies. Also, of course, she had grown up in a convent, and had heard a great deal about the inevitable, terrible punishment which awaited those who succumbed to the world and the flesh. Klara, who had by this time done both, made confession regularly and with some anxiety.
"You came from Saint Cecelia’s orphanage, did you not, Signorina?" Manzoli extended his hand to indicate where he wanted her to stand by the fortepiano. His thin lips parted in a smile, revealing Madeira-darkened teeth as he settled himself with a swish of robes upon the bench.
"Yes, Signor. I thank God daily for my great good fortune."
"No need for humility,” Manzoli said crisply. "I loathe the kind of piety that causes a person to belittle and distrust themselves. Here you are free to love and admire yourself as you should. As your Padrone knows, I am the foremost Maestro de la Voce in Vienna. I am proud and wayward enough not to take on the merely fashionable or well-connected. I have known ever since Kapellmeister Bono died that although Count von Oettingen and I are not particular friends, he would end by sending you to me. His ear will let nothing stand in the way of perfecting the talent of such a gifted protégé."
"You are not a friend of Count Oettingen's?"
"It is possible to do good work for someone one doesn't like. I'm sure you didn't like Signor del Dano with whom you last sang, but the artistic impression which you made together was exemplary."
Klara nodded. Manzoli was right, del Dano was a despicable little man who spent every night trying to upstage her. As she would soon learn, they often agreed about people. Still, that first visit, Signor Manzoli left her feeling so uneasy. He'd been so full of philosophy and then so oddly personal. She’d felt out of her depth.
Once at the fortepiano, he had gone straight to business, to the singing of scales. These he listened to carefully. After a little, Klara relaxed into the lesson. When the familiar vocal routines were concluded, Manzoli leaned back and studied her thoughtfully.
"Very good, Signorina Silber. You are ready for a rest, though. A good thing summer is coming, though I suppose the Count keeps you singing for him and his friends at his house parties."
"Yes, Signor, but in a small room it is not so taxing as it is at the opera, or at all those palace parties."
"You must get more sleep, my dear. There are such big black circles under those beautiful eyes. Are you tired during the day?"
"Lately, I've been wanting to go back to sleep as soon as I'm dressed."
"Well," Manzoli was thoughtful, "obey the impulse. And be sure to drive to the Augarten or the Prater with your servants so that you can get down and walk, properly accompanied, of course. Fresh air and sunlight in the summer is imperative for good health. Especially for singers, who must work so hard in the most trying times of year. Even a poor peasant gets a little extra sleep in the dark days, which is more than you can say for us performers."
He had been kind, understanding , and, at first, not particularly exacting. She came to understand that he was sizing her up, her strengths and her weakness. By the time he was ready to play the strict, demanding Maestro, she trusted him, and accepted all he had to teach.
A peculiar and grotesque figure the old castrato might be, but Klara had come to value his manner of teaching, had, in fact, come to think of him as a friend. Even more, in some ways, than the Adambergers, he was privy to her secrets, to her professional triumphs and fears.
***
If Klara visited Manzoli when he had his cards spread out, he'd simply pick them up, one at a time, carefully observing the order, and put them away. She knew he had a taste for occult things, among them these instruments of fortune telling. Once when she had playfully asked him about his cards, he’d made a little speech. Divination was nothing for a young women to dabble in, not a business to be engaged in lightly.
"Be wary of consulting the cards. In fact, I beg that you never do so, except with me."
"But Signor, is it truly so dangerous? At parties, I have often seen them used for parlor games.”
“Games! Ha! These are no game, Signorina!”
He seemed so disapproving that she’d quickly added, “I’ve heard people say they never lie."
"Sometimes the meaning is obscure, but if the ritual is performed correctly, they will always give a good answer."
One day, he’d left his cards laid out in rows across the table. For the first time Klara saw them clearly, the unfamiliar suits and odd pictures.
"Do you wonder why I have not put these away?"
"Yes, Signor."
"Because the question I asked today deals with you. Would you like me to read them for you?"
"Did you not say they are dangerous?" She remembered Manzoli’s stern warning. The Count, of course, made fun of fortune telling. The nuns simply labeled it ‘deviltry’.
"Today is different, Bellissima. It will cheer you."
And he had read to her a future in which she had good luck, in which she began a journey which would lead to prosperity. The cards spoke of fulfillment, but they also spoke of loss. It seemed a paradox.
Later, however, thinking about it, she thought she understood. After all, to make an entrance onto the stage of the Viennese Court theater, to sing an aria that poured from her throat like oil from a bottle, in supple, full-throated glory, to hear a Crown Prince say “Bravo!” was an experience of artistic gratification which had once been beyond her wildest dreams. To appear at magnificent parties upon the arm of a mighty aristocrat, to have rows of the rich and famous pay her compliments – she who had once been a thrown away child from a convent school – was miraculous! Such adulation was as tempti
ng as a ball of opium, a fulfillment of the highest order.
But, after spending an afternoon in the house of Florian and Olympia, after watching them with their children, arguing, eating and playing in their own happy fashion together, she'd return to her apartment feeling a great emptiness. Manzoli spoke of the glory of a singer’s fame and the agony of its passing; so did all the other singers that she'd met.
"Like the brief life of a songbird, whose life is a few short years, my darling, such is the tragedy of those of us who are fated to be Nightingales."
Once her career was launched, once she was the accepted darling of Vienna and all heads turned when she arrived in any public place, he did not read the cards for her again. Now if she came upon him with Tarot laid out, he'd shoo her away, back into the bright part of the room where the harpsichord stood. Sometimes, though, even during the lesson, she felt as if they were calling her, those cards stacked on the green baize, in the shadow side of the room.
Chapter 8
Days passed since his visit, but Klara heard nothing more from Signor Manzoli. She was concerned, for on his daily visits, Akos never failed to ask if the ‘Maestro’ had communicated further with her. She could sense from the tone of his questions that something had happened between the two men, something Akos was not going to talk about.
Daily she felt her strength returning. Soon there would no longer be any excuse for Akos to visit. He still tended her assiduously, yet he too became ever more solemn. She didn't feel like cheering him, either, for the approaching loss of his easy entre to her house weighed heavily upon them both.
Almost a week after Manzoli's discovery of their affair, a note came from him, delivered at supper. Klara was somewhat surprised to read that he requested her company for a drive on the following morning. "Only for a few hours, even though I am loath to risk you so much. I have consulted your Hungarian physician, and he says that a short journey cannot, at this juncture, do you harm. In fact, Herr Almassy will wait upon us at our destination."
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