The Devil's Song

by Silvana G Sánchez

  “An agreement?” I stutter.

  Pietro takes a step closer. The air seals inside my lungs. His rugged hand scrapes my cheek.

  Amidst the myriad thoughts racing in my mind, I remember the knife in my hand. Will it be sharp enough to slit his throat? Am I capable of committing such a heinous crime?

  I press the knife’s handle tight, and in one quick move, I flash it before Pietro’s eye.

  “Step back!” I say.

  Contrary to what I expect, the ruffian seems pleasantly surprised. “Or what, pretty dove?” He sneers.

  “Or I’ll give you the last scar you’ll ever have in your miserable life!” I press the knife against his throat. My rattled nerves blind me, and I misjudge my strength. A drop of crimson blood streams beneath the blade, and for a second, true fear gleams in Pietro’s eyes.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” A stranger’s voice cuts through the air’s thickness.

  I’m not alone. I can breathe again.

  “Grazie, signore. This man is no longer a threat to me,” I say without moving an inch.

  “I was not addressing him, ragazza. I was speaking to you.” The stranger snickers. “That man deserves death like no other. His place in the Gehenna is all but guaranteed… But are you sure you want to join him there?”

  What am I doing? Murder has never lurked in my heart before, nor do I believe I have the makings of a killer. But given the circumstances, had this stranger not arrived on time, I believe I would have done it. I would have killed him.

  The knife drops from my hand. My every limb quivers. I step back.

  “You are not needed here,” Pietro growls at the man standing at the doorway. A hideous grin reveals his black and yellowed teeth. “Go back from whence you came, signore!”

  The stranger lowers his gaze. Shaking his head, he steps close enough that he now stands behind Baresi’s man. “I promise you, Pietro,” he whispers, “that when I do, you will be there to greet me.”

  Dumbfounded, Pietro turns to face this man. He now stands between us, obstructing from my view any detail of this man.

  “Guarda il tuo destino.” Look at your fate, the stranger says.

  A few minutes pass. No words are spoken. Suddenly, Pietro’s hands drop at his sides, shaking violently. Baresi’s man clears his throat. He takes a step back, and with a hurried pace, his muddy boots tread away from me, away from this house.

  As Pietro’s silhouette diminishes in the distance, he does not look back—not once.

  “Buonasera,” the mysterious man says. The brim of his cavalier hat casts a shade over his eyes, but I catch a spark of vivid green in them. He moves to the doorway and leaning against the jamb, he peers outside. Is he astonished by Pietro’s reaction or does he mock him?

  He removes his hat and looks at me. Feigned astonishment looms in his bright green eyes. He wears a light grey three-piece suit embroidered in silver brocade. Impeccable lace cravat, pristine silk stockings… A highborn man, without a doubt.

  Knowing himself the object of my infatuation, the man slowly raises his chin while holding a smirk.

  “I have seen you before…” I step closer.

  The subtle raise of his brow reveals he’s intrigued by my words. I’m beginning to enjoy his game. The fear and anger of minutes before slowly leave my body.

  “Have you?” he asks with a pretense of shock.

  “Across the street…” I nod. “What is your name, signore?”

  “My name is of little consequence,” he’s quick to dismiss. “And yes, you are right. I have stopped by on occasion—”

  “On occasion?” Hastiness takes over my tongue. “You mean to say you have come here more than once?”

  “I must confess that I have.” The man purses his lips.

  “Yet you have never stepped inside, signore.” I am incapable of holding my tongue. My cheeks burn immediately. “Perhaps you admire the building’s fading glory?”

  “It is not this house that I come to admire from afar…” He’s genuinely amused by our conversation. “I take delight in other matters.”

  “What matters? Pray, tell me.” I am compelled to ask. His entire demeanor is alluring and intriguing, I cannot help speaking my mind. He’s the kind of man with whom I’d want to speak for hours. The mere thought of this conversation reaching the end sends a blow of misery through my heart.

  “Do you not know?” His eyes fix on mine as if he intends to read the truths in my soul. “I often find myself wandering to this street because of your talent.”

  “My… talent?” I step closer. He’s the ocean and I’m a forgotten river streaming towards him. The smoothness of his skin is one I need to capture closely. His delicate pink lips stretch in an enticing smile.

  “Your voice, of course.” He closes the door behind him and leans against it. “I am certainly not referring to your baking skills…” A brief snigger. “No offense.”

  His words both pierce me and lure me, but I cannot question it. I like it… I like him.

  “I have never pretended to be the best baker in Venice.” My pride is wounded, but not so much that I cannot forgive him immediately.

  “Ah… But the best singer?” he asks. “You are such by all and any standards.”

  “I am not so sure of that…” I pause with a lowered gaze and a humble smile. However, my reaction is not true humility, but the secret pleasure of being praised.

  “Letizia… Your voice is too grand for such a meaningless establishment.” His voice is velvet that laces around my neck, it glides to my ears and covers my eyes. “Your voice is destined to fill theaters and stir life into the city!”

  “Do you know music, signore?” I ask, hopeful. He knows my name. It flatters me.

  “I know many things…” he whispers. His eyes darken. His lips curl in a sinister smile. “For instance, I know your voice echoes the songs that cherubs cry in heaven.” An odd comparison—an unsettling comparison. But then, everything about this man is unsettling and provoking. A faint warning sparks inside me with his every word. But this kind of danger is one too alluring to resist.

  “Your voice deserves a proper forum. You deserve to be heard across the most renowned stages in Europe… Fame and fortune lay before you within grasping distance.”

  “Who are you?” I ask, marveled by his promise.

  “I am a great collector of beautiful things,” he says, stepping closer. His strut is confident and full of intention. “And your voice is beautiful.”

  He now stands inches away from me. A lustful gleam shines in his eyes. His alluring fragrance fills my lungs. His scent is that of green woods after the first summer rain… Say something, Letizia. Say something before you kiss the tempting lips of this handsome stranger.

  “Fortune and fame… You can give me all that?”

  “Say the word and this house will be yours to dress in the most expensive furnishings…” he whispers in my ear, encircling me like a bird of prey. “Emeralds and diamonds—”

  “I like rubies…” I smile.

  He utters a soft laugh, amused by my response. “Then rubies and pearls… Precious silks will gird your frame, Letizia. Riches will be yours to spare, and your name will pass into the annals of history as the most proficient opera singer the world ever knew.”

  My heart races in anticipation. His words quicken the blood in my veins. I cannot help being fascinated and attracted to his promise.

  “Opera?” I muse. Is this a dream? If it is, I do not wish to wake. This man fell into my life out of the very heavens.

  Grimani, Tron, Giustiniani…? Surely he belongs to one of such families. Unlike Florence and Rome, the opera scene in Venice is a business. Powerful families have long commissioned singers and composers to improve the quality of their productions, and by doing so, attendance increases—along with the prices.

  Is this man a patron?

  “Do you doubt me, ragazza?” he asks, raising his brow.

  He is a patron. Only such a
man could offer this promise. I cannot fathom the transcendence of this moment. Words elude me. I shake my head in denial.

  Now he frowns. “Then, why do you hesitate, my dear?” Straightening his back, his hand grasps firmly the malacca cane to his right. “These opportunities rarely present themselves to a lovely girl like you.” He pauses. “Ah, but perhaps I have been presumptuous. Perhaps this is not your dream... Alas, someone else may benefit from my influence.” He taps the floor once with his cane, grabs the stick and turns to the door, ready to walk out of my life forever.

  “No!” I cry, taking a step forward. “Please…”

  Slowly, he turns. The corner of his delicate lips curls with excitement. “Is that a yes, ragazza?”

  I purse my lips. The blood rushes to my cheeks. My hands clasp over my apron. I give him a slight nod.

  The man’s smile disappears. His polished demeanor is gone. “Say it.” A feral gleam looms in his eyes.

  “Y—yes…” I say. “I accept your offer.”

  He taps the cane against the floor once more and the pleasing smile returns to his handsome face.

  “Meraviglioso!” Wonderful, he says. “Meet me tomorrow evening at La Scuola Veneziana dell’Opera.”

  Before I can utter a single word, he reaches my hand. He pulls and presses the back of it against his silken lips. “I always seal my deals with a kiss…” Locking his gaze in mine, he winks.

  Infinite glory flashes before my eyes. The answer to our struggles is here. I will sing. I will become the most famous soprano that ever lived.

  “Grazie, signore…” I muse, but he’s already gone. His figure dips into the crowded street.

  As the mysterious man is swallowed by the jostling horde, a mysterious silhouette emerges from the crowd.

  It moves towards me.

  “Carina?” I meet her at the doorway. “I did not expect you, dear friend. In fact, I was planning to call—”

  “That man…” Unsteadiness filters through her shaken voice. Carina’s warm hands press mine. Her grip is firm enough that her knuckles whiten, but she takes no notice.

  “Do you know him?” Looking past her shoulder, I see his darkened figure disappear in the street, swallowed by the crowd.

  Carina nods. “Il Diavolo…” she whispers, The Devil. Her ominous tone makes me shudder. A couple of blinks later, her soul dives back into her body. “What was Il Diavolo doing in your house?”

  “Carina, you frighten me.” I cannot help but frown. “Must you call him by that name?”

  “And which of his many names would lessen your fear, dearest?” she asks, smoothing her hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s freezing out here. Come inside—”

  “I should go,” she muses, stepping back. “Take care, Letizia. That man is trouble. He’s a friend to no one.”

  With a countenance pale as snow, Carina steps back into the street. Pressing her wicker basket against her chest, she turns and walks away.

  I am left dumbfounded and with ardent curiosity. As little as I know of this man who sprung into my life out of thin air, I cannot escape the feeling that he will change my life forever. Whether such a change will steer my path towards good fortune remains to be seen, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take.

  Tomorrow, I shall meet him at the Scuola Veneziana dell’Opera, and nothing—not even Carina’s prejudice—will deter me from such a great opportunity.

  Thunder echoes in the narrow calle. Gusts of cool wind howl in my ear. As darkened clouds hide the sun, twilight sifts over the piazza.

  I hug my arms and quicken my pace, swiftly skipping muddied puddles of rain. My gown’s hem is drenched, it’s all but ruined… And it’s such a shame because this is my best dress—dark green taffeta. It was my mother’s. With a few minor mendings, it had looked as good as new.

  When Signor Baresi took our palazzo, he kept our furniture and most of our belongings. I considered myself shrewd enough to have packed my mother’s finer pieces of clothing… As I think back to those first moments after they delivered us the bad news, I still cannot understand what drove me to pack Mother’s things. My strange reaction makes me quite a fashionable orphan. Destitution never dressed so well.

  Imposing double doors stand before me. Above them, gilded letters chiseled on white marble gleam by the flickering torchlight.

  Scuola Veneziana dell’Opera

  La Scuola Veneziana dell’Opera is one of the finest musical academies in Europe. It has given the world prodigious singers, among them, known virtuosos as the great soprano, Syneca Fiori.

  This man—the one Carina calls Il Diavolo—I cannot help but wonder what plans he has in store for me. Why would he choose such a setting for our meeting?

  Rain pours for the second time this evening. I take cover in the building’s frontispiece. Turning back, I sweep the piazza with one quick look. Il Diavolo is nowhere to be found—was it all a trick? Mayhaps. Am I as desperate to leave behind our current living that I would give my trust to a complete stranger?

  “Foolish Letizia…” I muse, heaving a heavy sigh. When I lean against the door, it moves beneath my weight. Turning back, my hands land over the paneled wooden door. “Well, I am here now.” I push the door further.

  A tall vaulted room welcomes me as I step inside. Exquisite frescoes decorate the stuccoed ceiling. Choirs of angels gather in heavenly bliss to proclaim God’s grandeur over a song of praise. La Scuola served as a chapel centuries ago...

  “Ahem…” A voice echoes in the room.

  Startled, I turn to find a man as tall as the door standing behind me. His complexion is frail, the features of his countenance are delicate with thin lips and deep-set brown eyes. A graceful wave of his long-fingered hand urges me to speak.

  “I... I would never have walked in had the doors not been open, signore. And the rain—”

  “What do you want, ragazza?” he asks with a frown. “We are in the middle of a rehearsal. State your business. Quickly, now!”

  “I have an appointment, signore.” I bite my lower lip. “But it appears he will not come. Forgive me. I will leave immediately.” A quick curtsy and I turn towards the doorway.

  It’s foolish, foolish to believe in the word of a stranger. His words of promise were no more than a dream, a beautiful fantasy… How I want them to be true.

  “Signorina Leone?” he asks.

  Failing to conceal my surprise, I turn to face him. “Yes, signore. That is me.”

  “Hmmm…” He raises his chin, studying my general appearance with an air of uncertainty. “Come this way.”

  I move behind the man, following him through a long hallway—the side aisle of the old church. “Careful now,” he says without looking back. “The paint is fresh.”

  My eyes feast on dozens of paintings on the walls. Cherubim and seraphim gather in an untamed garden where nymphs play various instruments… I wish I could stop to see more, but the man quickens his pace.

  Although the aisle is vastly lit with blazing torches, the air turns cooler the deeper we move into the building’s entrails.

  Thunder rumbles. The walls tremble at the strike of lightning. I’m quick to cover my mouth but a whimper escapes through my parted lips.

  “You are right to worry,” the man says. “We are still not done repairing the damage from the last time the Scuola was hit by lightning… We lost a whole wall!” He chuckles.

  Is he being serious?

  We turn left and stop at the old chapel’s entrance. Red draperies hang from the stone walls. Before me lies a vision of velvet bathed in candlelight, but my eyes widen with wonder the minute they land on the most ethereal sight of all—the virtuous prima donna, Syneca Fiori. The soprano stands a few feet away from me at the center of the ancient altar.

  The gold brocade sewn into her luxurious red velvet gown gleams of amber light from the candelabrums that fill the room. So many wax candles surround us that the room is heavily warm.

  A wave of excitement spreads throu
gh my body as the first strike of a violin appears. The melodic tune of a harp follows.

  Syneca’s eyes close for a moment. When they open once more, her lips part and the most prodigious song pours from her mouth into the warm air.

  After the first words are sung, her voice lingers in the air, embracing my spirit as the warmth embraces this room. I hold each note in my heart, each phrase is a loving memory that I will cherish for years to come.

  Midway through the song, a magical moment occurs. Syneca Fiori’s eyes land on me. My heart beats fast and hard against my chest, but the feeling lasts very little.

  Wearing a grimace of utter disgust, Syneca clenches her fists. She abruptly stops singing.

  “Is that her, Giovanni?” she mutters, stepping off the altar. Her determined strut as she heads towards me through the central aisle freezes every nerve in my body.

  “You bring me this… thing?” She frowns. “This… papillon? Is she supposed to replace me?”

  What can she mean? Syneca Fiori stands inches away from me. She called me a papillon, French for butterfly. But why?

  A light hand lands on my shoulder—the man now stands behind me. His fingers sink deep in my flesh and the man pulls me back with a quick tug. It is as if he fears for my sake. Am I in any danger of suffering an attack by the hands of the most talented Italian opera singer?

  Meanwhile, Syneca’s discontent rises by the second.

  “We have spoken endlessly upon the matter, dearest Syneca…” Giovanni replies. “No one can ever take your place, but we do need someone to step in if ever you are indisposed.”

  “And that makes her my replacement!” Syneca says in a burst of fury. “Giovanni, tu sei pazzo! You cannot go through with this. The people will hate you for it!”

  “And what choice do I have? If your voice fails you as it did last season…”

  A deafening silence fills the room. Stares of astonishment are exchanged between the musicians, but no word is uttered.

  “It will not happen again.” Syneca lowers her gaze. “The people come to hear my voice, Giovanni. They want Syneca Fiori on the stage, not some random girl.”