4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight

by Beverle Graves Myers

  Gussie flinched. “You singers are an emotional lot.”

  I shrugged. “It could be members of the household. Or servants.”

  “Well, whoever it is, they’re not happy.”

  ***

  We found the company on the first-floor loggia, the recessed porch that overlooked the rear lawn. Its velvety carpet of green sloped away to a man-made lake crossed by an arched footbridge. On the far side, a farmer’s cottage nestled in a ring of feathery cypress trees. Shadows were gathering, and in the eastern sky, a single star glimmered. Near at hand, a tray of wine glasses stood on a marble-topped credenza. Our hostess was holding court across the tiles, expounding on the merits of the Teatro San Marco for mounting her production of Tamerlano.

  Propped up by the loose pillows of a long chair, Octavia Dolfini was attended by several men who appeared to be hanging on her every word. The masculine half of our cast, I presumed. Though opera was one of Venice’s ruling passions, there were always more singers than good roles to support them. A patron willing to sink a fortune into producing an opera could be assured of any number of fawning admirers.

  The moment Octavia caught sight of Gussie and me, she broke off in mid-sentence and extended a hand. Her onlookers bumped against each other in their zeal to assist her to her feet.

  “Signor Amato,” she exclaimed, sailing across the tiles with her arms spread in an expansive gesture. “Our final treasure has arrived.”

  Our hostess appeared to be sliding into her middle years, but not without digging her heels in for all she was worth. The gingery hue of her brittle curls had come from a dye pot, and every crevice on her square-jawed face was chinked with paint and powder. Her gown, indigo blue over canary yellow petticoats, was padded with wide panniers. A shallow bosom dripping stones of golden topaz and aquamarine completed the picture. The excess sent a chuckle to my lips, but Octavia’s hawk-like gaze stopped it at my teeth. Despite her almost comical appearance, this was a woman who took life very seriously indeed.

  Octavia didn’t halt her progress until her toes nearly touched mine; then she reached up to press my cheeks between her hands. I smiled weakly. Her rings made cold dimples in my skin.

  “So tall, and even handsomer than I remember. Yes, Signor Amato, I’ve seen you before—on the stage. But you wouldn’t remember. To you, I was simply one of those adoring faces in the crowd. Ah me, what a sublime addition to our opera you will make.” She raised her voice, spraying my chin with a mist of spittle. “Karl, stop brooding. Come and meet your Tamerlano.”

  A slight man in a blue coat stood alone at the balcony rail. He looked to be around thirty, with a pale complexion and deeply set eyes capped by prominent brows. Tilting his head to let the gentle breeze ruffle the sandy hair that dusted his shoulders, he gave the impression of being consumed with altogether higher matters. His lofty thoughts, however, did not prevent him from sending me a brief, curious glance from under half-lowered lids.

  The composer aimed a faint nod in my direction but stayed where he was.

  Octavia plowed on, seemingly oblivious to Maestro Weber’s want of manners. “You wouldn’t know, of course, but I’m more than a simple music lover. I’ve been singing since I was a girl. Before I married, I was often encouraged to put my voice to advantage and take to the stage. Despite my obvious gifts, Mama and Papa wouldn’t hear of it.” She heaved a sigh. “Like a dutiful daughter, I abandoned my divine calling. But I still vocalize a bit… in my own home… when I’m asked most particularly…”

  Never one to miss a cue, I replied gallantly, “Is it too much to hope that you might favor us with a few songs after dinner?”

  “Well, perhaps, if you insist.” She smiled and fluttered her eyelashes in a caricature of coy acceptance.

  Gussie had been waiting patiently throughout this exchange. Now he cleared his throat. Several times.

  I made introductions.

  “Ah yes, the painter,” our hostess replied vacantly. “Delighted.”

  If Octavia’s delight left something to be desired, there was one person who seemed to find Gussie as enchanting as a carnival regatta and fireworks display rolled into one. Vincenzo Dolfini emerged from behind a potted palm where he had evidently been sitting alone. Broad shoulders dominated a rangy, six-foot frame. Bright eyes glittered from a smoothly hewn, pleasant face. “My painter? He’s arrived?”

  Octavia’s husband looked the prosperous iron merchant from his neatly folded neckcloth to his sensible buckled shoes. Let others ape the silks and embroidery and laces of fashion, his appearance proclaimed, I’ll wear sturdy broadcloth and worsted stockings and be proud of them. He advanced in long-legged, bouncing strides.

  “Signor Rumbolt! At last. You’ve brought your canvases, I hope.”

  Gussie acknowledged our host with a deep bow, then replied, “I have a number stretched and ready, but first I’ll need to do some preliminary sketches.”

  “Good man.” Vincenzo clapped Gussie on the shoulder. “Come along to my study. I want to show you a map of the estate.”

  “Don’t be silly, Vincenzo.” Octavia’s tone rumbled like distant thunder. “Dinner will be served any moment.”

  The master of the villa dug into his waistcoat and consulted a large watch. He shrugged his shoulders, saying, “We’ll have trays in the study, my dear. Inform Nita.”

  Ignoring his wife’s stormy gaze, Vincenzo steered Gussie across the loggia and chattered on: “In the morning, I thought you might start with the vineyard. And when you’re ready to move indoors, I’ve had Ernesto clear out the barchessa that usually houses some cattle and wagons and whatnot. It has several high windows. You’ll have to tell me if the light is sufficient. That’s what you painters reckon of prime importance, I believe.”

  Gussie smiled his agreement and asked several questions as the pair passed into the salon. By benefit of our long association, I could tell that my brother-in-law had taken an immediate liking to Vincenzo Dolfini.

  Beside me, the climate wasn’t nearly so pleasant. Octavia was still simmering, and I wondered if my presence had forestalled the tempest that would usually rage over such an ill-timed desertion. Then again, our hostess might simply be holding her forces in reserve. I didn’t envy her husband their next tête-à-tête.

  After shifting her stare toward Maestro Weber, Octavia transformed the mood with a bright smile. Like a child eager to show off a new toy, she called the composer and my fellow musicians to gather around. Weber must have heard her, but he remained at the rail, leaning over at a precarious angle, almost as if he meant to throw himself on the breeze to swoop and dive with the evening swallows.

  Octavia stretched up to whisper near my ear, “Don’t mind Karl. He’ll be over directly. When he’s tinkering with a melody, he can think of nothing else. Karl is a poppet, really. I’m certain you will become fast friends.”

  I nodded, though in truth, I had no ambition to make a friend of the composer. All I wanted from the moody German was a satisfactory score and sensible direction.

  Octavia gave my arm a motherly pat and gestured to a tall man in a neat bob wig. “Ah, here is someone I think you must already be acquainted with.”

  Indeed, the first man to make his bow was Emilio Strada, a fellow castrato with whom I’d often shared the stage. His face was as smooth as my own, of course, barely capable of raising a single whisker, and he had the wispy, attenuated stature that many of us are left with. There our resemblance ended. Emilio’s nose was a squashed lump of dough—I had always wondered how it afforded the breath necessary for song—and his mouth was narrow and wrinkled. Despite these physical drawbacks, Emilio had worked hard at his craft and developed a precise soprano with an appealing silvery quality. Emilio was also ambitious. Though he welcomed me with light banter and spoke proudly of his role of Andronicus, Tamerlano’s rival in love, he didn’t fool me. Emilio cove
ted my title role with the relentless greed of a Barbary corsair.

  Octavia then introduced a man who had just come onto the loggia, the basso Romeo Battaglia. I fear my jaw dropped when Romeo announced that he was singing Bazajet, the Ottoman sultan defeated and humiliated by Tamerlano. Bazajet was a tragic figure who was allotted almost as many arias as my character. In scoring the role for a low voice, Maestro Weber had made an audacious choice.

  I could see that the mellow depth and power of Romeo’s basso would serve the drama well. But what would Venice make of it? The Venice that reveled in the acrobatic roulades and endless trills of the castrati? I had only to hit high C to bring the box holders to their feet with wild applause, while a poor basso could sing his heart out and be ignored by those who couldn’t be bothered to raise their heads from their card games or their socializing. I glanced toward the composer. Maestro Karl Weber must have a stiffer backbone than it appeared.

  If Romeo Battaglia had any qualms, be didn’t show them. He planted himself before me with feet spread wide, took frequent swallows of wine, and discussed his role with the heedless enthusiasm of a puppy chasing a ball—a very large puppy of the sheep-herding variety. The loose curls of his formal wig hung to his shoulders, and his waistcoat swelled over a well-padded belly that jiggled whenever he laughed, which seemed to be a frequent occurrence. I put his age at a callow twenty-five.

  Romeo didn’t strike me as the sort of fellow who would carry on like the man we had overheard as we came downstairs, but I couldn’t help noticing that he was the only male of the company to follow Gussie and me onto the loggia. After the young basso had invoked the names of some mutual acquaintances and praised the musical taste of our hostess, he retreated so that Octavia could present the accompanists.

  I had worked with Mario and Lucca Gecco several times before. They were short, weasel-thin fiddlers who had been making the rounds of theater orchestras since long before I made my stage debut. As competent, but uninspired players, they fulfilled menial roles in the spectacles where musicians of greater talent achieved sublime heights. To them, the opera was merely a way to put bread on the table. I found it difficult to appreciate their philosophy. Though my vocation had been forced upon me, I always gave it my best and experienced boundless joy in using the amazing voice that the knife had bestowed. To do otherwise would make a mockery of my sacrifice. I exchanged only a few words with Mario and Lucca before they retreated to down another glass of wine before dinner.

  “But where are the ladies?” I asked my hostess. The cast contained two female characters. Asteria was Bajazet’s daughter, a Turkish beauty who would inflame my lust, and Princess Irene was my faithful betrothed. I had yet to see a sign of either.

  Octavia rolled her eyes. “Madame Fouquet is in her room, battling an attack of migraine.”

  “That would be our prima donna, the French soprano?”

  Octavia nodded. “Our Asteria.”

  “I am most anxious to meet her. I hear Madame Fouquet has captivated the Parisian audiences to the point of provoking them to riot if she refuses to give encores.”

  “I can well believe it, but you will have to wait until tomorrow to be caught in her snare. I doubt that she or her husband will join us tonight.”

  I cocked my head at the bitterness of her tone.

  “It’s her régime, you see. Madame Fouquet takes exquisite care of herself. She has a time to eat, a time to rest, a time to gargle and spray her tonsils. And if she comes down with one of her headaches, rehearsals must grind to a halt until she feels ready to continue.”

  I chuckled. “True prima donna behavior. I know some castrati who are equally guilty. I suppose a certain amount of temperament goes with the territory.”

  Octavia snorted. “Gabrielle Fouquet can cosset her pretty throat on her own time. I’m funding this opera, not only the singers, but every last inch of canvas and drop of paint once we take it to the theater. Now that you’ve arrived to complete the company, there will be no more time wasted.” She smiled broadly, exposing healthy teeth and a glistening expanse of pink gum. “One way or another, Madame Fouquet will be brought to heel.”

  The appearance of Nita at the doorway, apron showing evidence of a kitchen catastrophe, took my hostess away.

  I was drifting toward the rail to attempt to shift Maestro Weber’s attention away from his latest melody when I felt a tug at my sleeve. “Tito?” The voice was soft, almost intimate.

  I spun around, then had to lower my chin to meet Carmela Costa’s eyes. Petite, compact, with an intelligent gaze that seemed at odds with her loose, pink mouth, Carmela was a soprano I had often appeared with. Tonight, a simple chignon confined her lightly powdered hair, and a sprinkling of Alençon lace ornamented her rose satin gown. The effect was a delicate spring flower peeking through an unexpected April frost. Octavia Dolfini could use a few fashion lessons from Carmela.

  “Hello, old friend.” The soprano smiled, then gabbled on, “I’ve been dawdling tonight. I just came down. What a treat to find that you’ve arrived. I was so pleased when I heard you had joined the cast, but surprised, too. I’d heard you were in Rome.”

  “I was for a while, but happy to be back. The pope’s hand rests a little too heavily on the Roman opera houses for my taste.” I detected a speculative look in Carmela’s gray eyes. “Was there another reason why you were surprised?”

  She pulled on one of the teardrop pearls that hung from her ear lobes. “Well…”

  “Speak freely. I doubt you could tell me anything I haven’t thought of myself.”

  “All right, if you like. Since your role contains so many bravura arias, I expected that Maestro Weber would engage a singer with a sustained fortissimo, someone who can raise the roof, as they say. Your excellence lies in other directions.”

  “You don’t think my expressive style is up to the task?”

  “Let’s just say that rehearsals are likely to be… interesting. Our maestro doesn’t stint his criticism. You may want to gird yourself in mental armor.”

  I shrugged, then glanced toward the German. He had moved to converse with Romeo and Emilio, but he was still well out of earshot. “Maestro Weber must think I can sing Tamerlano. He cast me, after all.”

  When Carmela narrowed her eyes, I remembered what an avid collector of backstage intrigue she was. And how much she enjoyed springing her information on unsuspecting innocents.

  “What do you know, my lovely friend? Out with it, or I’ll make sure I stumble over your entrance in each of our duets.” Not certain whether I was joking or not, I smiled to make Carmela think I was.

  “Only this, Tito dear. Maestro Weber didn’t want you for the part. The French songbird was the one who insisted.”

  “Madame Fouquet?”

  “Umm.” She rolled the sound on her tongue like a mouthful of chocolate. “Gabrielle Fouquet refused to join the cast unless you were engaged for the title role. Absolutely adamant, they tell me. Maestro Weber and Signora Dolfini were so determined to have the new French sensation sing Asteria, they finally agreed. At some point, you must have impressed her most satisfactorily.” She finished with a questioning eyebrow and a knowing pout.

  “But I’ve never met the lady,” I replied, well aware of Carmela’s titillating implication. Many women were enchanted by my kind. During performances, they cheered, moaned, and swooned. They threw flowers. Once the curtain came down, they fought like tigresses to get backstage. It was not true, as many thought, that we castrati were unable to complete the act of love. Some of us were quite able to fulfill our admirers’ desires, though none of us were able to plant the seed that would lead to pregnancy. Most women deemed this another point in our favor.

  “Really, Carmela,” I continued. “I don’t think I had even heard of Madame Fouquet until a few months ago when she burst on the scene at the Italian Opera in Paris. Has she been
to Venice, do you know?”

  “Her husband says she has sung only in France and Germany. He should know. He has managed her career from the beginning.”

  “Is he a singer, as well?”

  “No, he’s rather close-mouthed about both their backgrounds, but I gather that he’s been knocking around several countries as an impresario.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jean-Louis Fouquet.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of the man.”

  She responded with an impish grin. “You wouldn’t have. The type of talent he engages runs more to ridottos and masquerades, the sort that gentlemen frequent.”

  “I wonder how he came to hook a soprano of his wife’s caliber,” I murmured.

  She shrugged. “Even the worst fisherman gets lucky sometimes.”

  Carmela’s words heightened my curiosity about Gabrielle Fouquet, but as it appeared I would not set eyes on the lady until the morrow, I changed the subject. “What about you? You must have been on an extended tour. Now that I recall, our last opera together was over two years ago.”

  She looked out at the darkening sky, again pulling on her earring. “Yes, quite an extended tour.”

  “Where did you sing?”

  “Last month I sang at the Italian Opera in Paris. That’s where I made the acquaintance of the Fouquets, not that they mix with other singers any more than is necessary. ”

  “And before that?”

  “Oh, here and there. We’re all such vagabonds, aren’t we? Singing for our suppers wherever they’ll have us.”

  “I’m surprised our paths haven’t crossed more often. There are only so many opera houses, after all. Before Rome, I spent some months in Dresden—a very congenial city for musicians. Did your tour take you there, by any—”

  “Oh, look,” Carmela interrupted, pointing excitedly. “A shooting star. Did you see it?”

  I hadn’t.