Gilded candelabrums stand on the bedside table. There must be at least a dozen lit candles conveniently distributed in the room, but no putrid stench lingers in the air. Wax candles are a luxury most would reserve for special occasions, not to be wasted on ordinary affairs... which brings me to another question.
“Where am I?”
“Carissima…” Carlo’s hand slips over mine. “What you went through was terrible. It was so horrible that your mind chose to shut off to prevent you from suffering.” He stops to look away. He takes a deep breath and looks at me again. “What you saw—do you remember anything at all?”
I shake my head in denial. But I do remember. Up to the last sordid detail of Giovanni’s festering countenance remains engraved in my memory. Hours —perhaps even days of his death— must have elapsed before I found his rotting body hanging high in the center of the stage.
“Letizia, I cannot stop myself from thinking what might have been… Had the duke and I not been there—”
“Duke Contarini?” The blood quickens in my veins as I pronounce his name. “He was there?”
“He’s the one who found you, carissima.” Carlo shrugs. “The duke gave orders to bring you to his home…” He sweeps the room with a quick glance. A deep sigh escapes through his lips. “And here we are.”
“Thank you for staying with me,” I whisper, slipping my hand over his. A sudden realization hits me as hard as lightning. My eyes widen. “The opera season starts tomorrow. I have to…” Only when I push away the heavy covers do I realize I am dressed in a nightgown of the finest silk and most delicate embroidery.
“Oh, no… No, my dear.” Carlo tugs the linens back into place, covering my chest quickly. “The theater is closed. And it will remain closed until Signor Giovanni’s death is dealt with and a new direttore is appointed.”
The door knocks two times. As it slowly opens, the shadow of an arm dressed in dark velvet looms through the crevice. I find myself longing to set eyes on the one man capable of driving my restlessness away, and at the same time, capable of stirring a whirlwind in my heart.
“Buonasera…” he says with a velvety voice. Il Diavolo stops in the room’s threshold, both hands clasped behind his back.
“Thank you for your generosity, signore.” Carlo gets on his feet and gives him a slight bow. Il Diavolo—indifferent to his words of praise—moves past him and now stands beside the bed.
“Do you feel better?” he asks with the same soothing voice.
My lips part, but no sound comes through, so I nod. The air grows thick and a sudden stillness takes over the room.
Without saying a word, Il Diavolo turns back and gives a hard look at Carlo as if he expects something more from him.
“I shall leave you,” Carlo says, holding his hat chest-level with both hands. “Rest, carissima.”
Before a word escapes from my mouth, Carlo walks out of the room. His footsteps resonate across what I imagine as a long corridor with ancient portraits hanging on its draped walls.
“You must forgive the state of this room, I did not expect any guests…” He draws closer to the window, and although he pretends to stare at the Grand Canal, I know he secretly glances at me by the corner of his eye.
“I do not wish to inconvenience you any further…” My words seem to elude him, unresponsive as his gaze lands on the palazzo’s tower. From where I lie, I can see the imposing construction gleam against the clear moonlight.
“Signore?” I add, hoping to gain a reaction from him.
“Must you call me so?” he says in a whisper without moving.
“Would you have me call you Duke Contarini... Your Grace, mayhaps?” I ask.
“No,” he replies in a failed attempt to conceal his irritation.
Have I said something wrong? “What should I call you then?” Clarity is a luxury most of us cannot afford.
At last, he turns. Tilting his head to one side, his green eyes lock in mine and half a smile curls on his lips. “Call me as everyone does… Il Diavolo.”
Blood rushes to my face and warms my cheeks. “I believed you unaware of that nickname.” I bite my lower lip.
Looking away, he sniggers. “I made that name.”
“You seem proud of your achievement,” I utter, regretting my words the second they are spoken. “Do you like being called by that name?”
Il Diavolo clasps his hands behind his back once more. He walks about the room as if it were the first time he ever laid eyes on its interior. “Are you comfortable here?” he asks, dismissing my question.
“More than that…” I say, paying close attention to his movements. I am keen to discover what drives his curiosity for the items in this room.
“Good.” He stops, compelled by the view at the window. “I hope it will be so for the remainder of your stay.”
The remainder? My back stiffens. “I am perfectly well,” I say. “I will leave this instant.”
“You will do no such thing,” he says, looking back.
“Pardon me?”
“Letizia, you are not fully recovered…” His voice loses all tone of command and steers to a plea. “I have spoken with your brother, Fabrizio. It is all settled. You will remain here until you are strong enough to return home.”
My heart beats faster. An impulse to prove him wrong takes over me and I push the covers away, glide to the side of the bed, and spring to my feet.
His expression is that of complete astonishment. I have made my point, haven’t I?
“Are you all right?” he asks, stepping closer to me.
“I… I do not know.” A sudden tremble spreads through my legs and my knees buckle. Il Diavolo is quick to hold me in his arms and prevents me from a certain fall.
“Stubbornness suits you poorly, Letizia.” He smirks. “You will stay here and you will rest and you will do as I say for the following days. Agreed?”
Defeated, I nod. But then, his nearness allows me to linger and appreciate the subtle iridescence of his eyes. And I feel I could stay in his arms for as long as he would hold me and more.
“You were there,” I whisper.
“There? What do you mean?” He frowns, parting the hair from my brow with his delicate fingers.
“When I found Signor Giovanni… you were there.” I probably should not have said a thing, but it was too late to take it back.
“Mm…” A quick nod. “It was fortunate that I arrived a few minutes after you.”
The vivid image of Giovanni’s glazed eyes appears before my mind’s eye. The swollen tongue slithering through his gaping mouth is a haunting memory I cannot escape. “For days, his body rotted as it gently swayed from that beam… That crackling… That horrible crackling!”
“You must not think about that,” he whispers, carefully setting me on the bed once more.
“How can I?” I frown. “He took his own life!”
“Calm yourself, Letizia.” Il Diavolo smooths his hand over my jawline, leaning close enough that he might kiss me… Will he kiss me? “Giovanni… He’s only dead.”
What things could Il Diavolo have seen in his life to render such a horrid sight utterly meaningless? “How can you say that? His image haunts my mind ever since that moment. Each time my eyes close I see his livid neck and vacant eyes—I cannot be rid of him!” I stammer, and finally, I sob like a child.
His warm chest presses against me as he wraps me in a soothing embrace. Il Diavolo’s hand glides over my forehead. “Alaha hayasa… Htam liba. Mar, mari, pira anat Haiy,”1he whispers in my ear. Slowly, he parts from my side until his gaze meets mine. “You will remember, Letizia. But your suffering ends tonight.” Il Diavolo gets on his feet, and my heart aches as he moves farther.
Whether by his words or because of his presence, all restlessness inside me is gone, overtaken by a sudden quietness.
“Giovanni’s was not a great loss, I should imagine…” He stops at the foot of the bed.
“He took his life, do you not see?” I ask, l
eaning forward. “His soul is damned forever.”
“That is the Devil’s business now,” he says. The detachment with which he speaks of death horrifies me as much as Giovanni’s corpse. “The man was a fool.” At last, he turns. “Did he not make the most questionable advances towards you?”
“How would you know?” I’m taken aback. “I am quite sure I never told you of Signor Giovanni’s ill behavior towards me.”
Half a smile comes in reply. “I once told you I have ears and eyes all over the city…” He takes a deep breath. “It is late. I will leave you. Dinner will be brought up to you any minute now.”
“I can never thank you enough for everything you have done—” I stop as he raises his hand.
“Eat, sleep… Feel better,” Il Diavolo says as he heads to the doorway. “I have plans for us tomorrow.”
“Plans?” My interest pends from his every word.
“Buonasera.”
The door closes behind him.
1 Aramaic for “Compassionate God: seal (her) heart, mind, soul. Lord, my Lord, You are the tree of Life.”
Darkness spreads inside the theater, an ominous sheath that covers every seat in the empty house. At the end of the central aisle appears the dangling silhouette pending from the stage’s beam.
The old beam creaks as the body gently sways back and forth. A pale beam of light filters through the stage. I want to run away from this place, but I carry on the walk down the aisle until I reach the proscenium.
Giovanni’s eyes are closed. His skin is blue and swollen. Water oozes from his neck in tiny drops that roll down and stain the stage. I lean closer to the floor only to discover… blood?
A sudden pressure grips my wrist. I step back, my wrist still freezing cold. And as I look up, his eyes open, glazed and vacant still.
“Mmm….!” The guttural sound comes from his throat. Giovanni’s livid lips purse and the sound comes again. “Mmm… Murder!”
A hard blow echoes in the theater like nails hammered into a coffin’s lid. Again, it hits and reverberates, so strong that it echoes in the corners of my soul.
A heavy knock pounds on the door. I open my eyes from a dream most bizarre.
“Signorina Leone,” a voice calls from the other side of the door.
“Come in,” I say.
A parlormaid appears on the doorway with hands clasped over her apron.
“What time is it?” I ask, looking through the window. It is dark outside still.
“Six o’clock, signorina.” The woman does not move. “You slept through the entire day. His Lordship said you were not to be disturbed, but the guests have arrived and—”
“Guests?” Am I still dreaming?
“Yes, signorina. His Lordship’s guests for dinner.” The parlormaid bites her lower lip. “I have laid out your clothes already, will you need any help?”
“Thank you.” I push the sheets away and discover a tray of warm tea and biscuits laid over the table. A lavish royal blue silk gown sewn in golden thread is spread over the dressing table.
I hurry to get dressed and be able to meet Il Diavolo as soon as possible.
Behind imposing double doors with intricate carvings, I hear the bustle of ongoing chatter and clanking of crystal, laughter and joyous conversation merge in a luring melody.
Pressing both hands against the doors, I take a deep breath. The time has come to push them open and discover the scene waiting inside the hall. And my racing heart flutters as my mind entertains the moment when our eyes will meet again.
A gathering of perhaps two dozen people scatters in the room. A smaller group plays cards in the corner while another stands by the balcony smoking as they watch the passing boats drift along the Grand Canal. And there, standing by the hearth, dressed in an impeccable black satin suit is Duke Contarini.
“Lorenzo!” a woman calls from the balcony. The moonlight casts an ethereal gleam to her pale skin, enhanced only by her dark red hair and red taffeta gown. “Lorenzo, come join us!”
Il Diavolo turns to her, hints a smile, but does not move. He disregards the invitation and turns his gaze towards me. His hand smooths over the chimney’s mantelpiece and his body sensually leans against it, beckoning me to move closer.
“Lorenzo?” I ask, stopping inches before him. “So, that is your mysterious name.”
“One of many…” He shrugs his shoulders. “Feeling better, I trust?”
I nod. “I am sorry I missed dinner…” While I construe an ill attempt of an apology, Il Diavolo grabs my hand and leads me to the center of the room.
“People, dearest friends!” he says, becoming the cynosure of all eyes in an instant. “I have much talked to you about my most recent discovery. Her voice is a treasure envied by the angels of God Himself. And tonight, we are lucky enough to have her amongst us.” Immediate silence prevails upon the room as their curious glances pierce me through and through. “Allow me to present to you, the Scuola dell’Opera’s prima donna: Letizia Leone.”
“Oh, good!” the woman says, gesturing feigned applause. “Some entertainment! Will she sing for us, Lorenzo?”
“If she so desires, Bella…” Il Diavolo turns to me. “Do you remember what I told you?” he purrs in my ear. “The heads of the most powerful Italian families are gathered in this room. Play your cards right, and you will soon find yourself singing in exclusive Parisian manors.”
His charm makes me smile. I nod in agreement.
“She will sing!” Il Diavolo opens his arms in a dramatic gesture. He sweeps a glass of wine off the table and pours it down his throat in one quick swig.
“What should I sing?” I ask, noticing the empty harpsichord and the lack of musicians.
“I have just the thing…” Il Diavolo moves to the musical instrument at the end of the room. He opens the harpsichord and takes a sheet of paper which he now contemplates in utter solemnity. “This is one of my favorite songs. Would you sing it for me?”
Entranced by his irresistible smile, I take the piece of parchment and begin to read. It is a musical aria with Italian lyrics, but this composition is one I have not heard before. Perhaps it was commissioned by the Contarini family? It certainly is old, judging by the parchment’s deep creases and fading ink.
“I will sing it for you, Lorenzo,” I am surprised to say.
“And I will play, tesoro mio.” Il Diavolo slid on the bench before the harpsichord. People gather around us, rearranging the room’s furniture as they prepare to be entertained, unaware of the repertoire Lorenzo has chosen for the evening.
The sullen scale of notes begins, climbing to an entrancing basso continuo that compels the guests to absolute silence. As I stand behind Lorenzo, I read the melody over his shoulder, ready to begin:
Lost is my dream
In solitude I weep,
My heart sings Him a song of praise
Forsaken is the prayer I raise
I walk alone, my hope is gone
And all my dreams, forlorn.
A change takes hold of the guests while a sudden darkness sifts over them, a transformation that often accompanies a singer’s melisma. I see postures stiffen, lips purse, and eyes gleam with withheld tears—none of which surprises me much.
But something brews in the air that I have not witnessed before. A sharp sense of kinship is woken amidst them. They exchange furtive glances, aware of a secret unknown to me. It strikes me as odd, but I pay no mind to it and continue the song.
How they all sit perfectly still, too inanimate to trust in their humanity, an audience of marble statues dressed in the finest clothes.
It happens when I sing the second verse. I see it in the woman’s eyes—the one Lorenzo called Bella. At first, I believe I imagine it—the fiery gleam inside her hazel eyes—but then I see it again in the man sitting behind her, and the man next to him.
I want to dismiss it entirely, to blame hunger or exhaustion for what my eyes have seen—but I cannot, for it is as certain as I am standing in t
he middle of Palazzo Contarini’s dining hall.
By the time the melody ends, I am thankful, relieved to see the guests move and become human once more.
“Brava! Bravissima!” A man sitting on the back of the room stands. He claps and the others follow his lead.
“See how you’ve moved them. Your voice is far too precious,” Il Diavolo whispers in my ear. His hand swiftly brushes mine, and a surge of warmth climbs my arm immediately. “Prepare yourself for a whirlwind of success.”
I focus every effort to seem untouched by his words of promise. I gently bow with gratitude towards the guests, still shaken by the strange events I witnessed a few minutes ago.
Lorenzo’s guests quickly engage in smaller groups. They slowly return to their previous activities. The man who stood in the back of the room now stands beside Il Diavolo. He whispers in his ear and both men move outside, to the balcony.
“A word, Signorina Leone?” The soft touch of silk gloves smooths over my arm. Hazel eyes greet me with their curious stare. It’s the woman in the red dress, Bella.
“Of course.” I give her a swift curtsey.
Bella wastes no time and locks her arm around mine. “Shall we take a walk around the room?” she asks. Such an odd request.
Not knowing what to say, I nod.
“You are quite talented, Signorina Leone…” Gazing at me by the corner of her eyes, she smirks.
“Thank you, er…”
“I am Contessa Isabella di Viscardi,” she adds. “But you may call me Bella, my dear. I consider Lorenzo’s friends as my own…”
A countess, no less. No wonder she possesses such an air of entitlement. She moves across the room as if indeed this residence belonged to her.
“You are more than gracious, Bella.” Is that a subtle gesture of surprise I see loom on her countenance? Perhaps she did not expect her offer would be taken.
Bella stops in front of the fireplace. I stand before her. Her eyes reflect the amber gleam of the flames but never as they did while I sang Lorenzo's song.
The Devil's Song Page 8
