The Queen of the Night

by Alexander Chee

  I stood for a while, waiting, sure my hopes were lost, looking out of the nearest window.

  I also had changed into a reed in order to escape a god. Was there a way to change back?

  What then? I asked myself.

  In the dark, the vast shapes of the palace seemed like the pieces of ancient nights remade into this place at the prince’s will. Sure my vigil had finally come to some lonely end, I left for Sant’Agata after the run in Milan concluded.

  There, the Verdis greeted me with great affection. They told me they’d heard the tenor had been killed in a duel and expressed their condolences. I expressed shock and grief, kissed them, and sat down to listen to Giuseppina tell me what she knew.

  §

  After a very long, very fine dinner, I bid the two of them good night and went back to my rooms.

  I felt it before I entered, the warmth ahead of me in the dark as I walked the halls to my rooms with a lamp. I heard the fire in my apartment and moved toward it quickly, expecting Doro to appear and help me dress for bed. Doro had refused me when I gave her notice, insisting I was not well, and saying, Would you really refuse me a trip to Italy?

  Instead, there in an armchair was Aristafeo, exhausted and afraid, and in his lap an envelope I had long expected, very like the one he’d sent before.

  I knew it had to have been a magnificent bribe for Doro to do this; the ferocity of her loyalty had never once allowed such a thing. I’d had no shortage of admirers attempting to sneak into my rooms. I admired them both in this instant.

  I shut and bolted the door before I walked behind the chair and embraced him, bending down. His head tilted back against my brow then.

  I did not think I would get here, he said. He looked at his hands.

  He turned the envelope over to me. I peeled open the flap, tossed the wax into the fire where it sizzled against the wood, and sat myself in the chair opposite him.

  What did you tell Verdi? I asked. Or does he approve?

  It was your maid I bribed, he said. The master never saw me. He does not yet know I am in his house.

  He then reached and poured himself a cognac from the table beside him. He reached and handed me a cognac of my own.

  It has been reported the tenor was killed in a duel, I said, of Giuseppina’s news. Was it you? I asked.

  At first I thought it was, he said. We had set the date for the morning after his last performance in Carmen so it would not disturb the run. But he never came. Even his valet was surprised. It was very sad, in its way. We waited on the lawns of the Baroness’s estate in Rouen until evening, and I was declared the victor. I had the news published to shame him, he said, when he failed to show.

  To first blood? I asked.

  To the death, he said.

  And on what terms? I asked.

  Pistols. For your honor, he said. But my own as well. In truth, for many things.

  When were you going to tell me?

  Tonight, he said. If I had lived.

  What delayed you, then? I asked.

  The fire cracked and sputtered, and I could not look at it.

  I was under suspicion for his murder, he said. Until they found his body in the Seine. The Baroness and her staff testified I had been in Rouen all night preparing to meet him, and I was cleared. And as I had not actually fought the duel, I could not be charged with dueling, either.

  Are we free, then? I asked.

  It may be we are, he said. At last.

  I drew his ring out from the pocket at my waist and put it on, slid out a cigar and lit it, offering him one as well, which he took. As he did so, I saw in his eyes that he had guessed.

  He was waiting for me to tell him what I could not tell him.

  I must go, he said. I will spend the night nearby and arrive in the morning as a proper guest.

  I reached back and undid the diamond comb holding my cadogan in place so my hair fell down around me in a dark wave past my shoulders. I stood and opened my dress swiftly at the back until it slid down before his chair. He sat forward to rest his face against my bare stomach.

  Thank you, he said. And he then rose from his chair, turned me around, and brought me into the bed.

  §

  We lay there together afterward.

  What of your curse—what will you do when you become a circus rider? he asked.

  It was only a lie, I said. There is no curse.

  He laughed. Then, yes, it’s fine; it’s clearly impossible. The rest of the opera is there, he said, indicating the manuscript. For you.

  I went to the new pages after he left, finding the final scene. He had reminded me of my dissatisfaction with the ending. I was pleased he’d altered the end, at first. The circus rider found her old circus as before, but now she sang as a way to remind the angel who she was—it was the aria at the end of which she would lose her voice.

  While she performs, the wizard, her former captor, and the wingless angel lost in his amnesia both sit in the audience. Her voice is the one thing that reminds him of who he is, the angel gradually remembering her, this last aria concluding on a high E-flat over high C.

  This was my favorite note of my register for the imperial quality to it; a note, that if sustained, could cover the sound of the orchestra, the other singers, the crowd, all of it gone and only the E-flat remaining until it was the only thing you knew. For me, it felt like the one true thing about me, that I could produce this note.

  What of your curse? I thought again, this question still in his eyes as he waited for me to admit what I would not admit. And I would not; I could not. I would never tell him, could never tell him. This now was the curse. He would never forgive me.

  Let me prepare for my return to the back of a horse, then, I said to him. Good night to you.

  He tried to smile at the joke as he stood and dressed. Then he kissed me good night, and was gone.

  §

  Doro came red faced the next morning to set my fire and lay out my clothes.

  I’m proud of you, I said. I’m sure it cost him dearly.

  She nodded and held out her hand, palm up. A beautiful ruby ring, face turned in.

  It’s quite fine, I said. You did well.

  She held out her hand, admiring the ring before turning it to face her and returning her attention to my dressing table.

  §

  When Aristafeo arrived, we were still at breakfast. As he was announced, I noticed, behind my feigned surprise, the Verdis gave each other a knowing glance.

  The sun outside was so bright it seemed to roar, and it filled the room so that when he came to a stop in front of us his face was difficult to see.

  I was waiting for a sign he had possibly forgiven me for this secret he knew I carried, the one I could never admit to or apologize for. I wanted to know this before we began what was next, but I could not, and so I had to content myself with that as he greeted our hosts warmly and then came around to my side, where he took my hand.

  He looked down at me and smiled, a smile of pure love, more intimate than if he had kissed me there.

  She has accepted a role in my opera, Aristafeo said. They cheered, and next Verdi said he had received my note regarding I Masnadieri, which had pleased him. I am afraid I replaced you, but I do not care for the singer if you are still available. I hoped you would come to your senses; I can now replace her. Then he called out for champagne to be brought despite the early hour. The bottles were opened and we toasted the two operas.

  After we had drunk our toast and the glasses were refilled, Verdi suggested we take them into the garden. As we went out, Giuseppina said, I wish you more luck than we had with Il Trovatore.

  What is this? Aristafeo asked.

  It was a terrific struggle to get it to the stage, but I think they all must be, she said, before she went to examine the shrubs along the wall. Aristafeo followed, chuckling.

  This is the garden that inspired the one in the opera, Giuseppina said. Did you never know that? She asked this of Aristafeo, wh
o said he did not: and he asked her questions as to which part was which as she took us around, pointing out the plantings. Verdi followed behind.

  Did you originate the role? I asked her finally, as she finished her explanations and Verdi and his protégé walked on ahead.

  Oh, no, my dear. You may remember that I retired; I wanted some respite from operas coming true. She winked. But I translated the play he took it from for him, she said. I did most of the work here. And then when he wrote the opera, he walked here quite often to think on it. It’s very pleasant here. In any case, I think of it as our opera, as you two should of yours.

  She came to a stop. Imagine it, if you will, and she pointed back to the villa. Here is our trovatore come to serenade his beloved. There she is, waiting for him. Over there, the count hidden, jealous. Sometimes he would have me stand there and sing from it to see how it sounded.

  I looked back. I could not see her. I saw instead a shadow, the Leonora of the night the tenor sang at the Théatre-Italien, the night I was given back to him. I could see him bringing me to Baden-Baden, full of hope that I would learn to be his Leonora there; I could see the garden at Villa Turgenev, where I sat imagining, again and again, the reappearance of the man standing near me now, my fearing his death, fearing us all caught in some game of Fate that would lead relentlessly to the place we apparently stood now and end with the two of us dead—the tenor our killer. I saw all that I had done to keep Aristafeo and me from this garden, and so I could not help but feel as if being here this way was yet another joke between me and whatever god had chased me for so long. Despite all my efforts, we stood here, so very alive. And the one we’d feared was dead.

  I laughed. It was the wrong sort of laugh, I knew—this laugh spoke to the joke, the one this god had made of my life, and not to my companions, who could tell there was something strange to it and who watched me, waiting to know more. I set the champagne down instead, pointed at my glass, my hand over my mouth, as if the wine were at fault, at which they all three smiled as I mastered myself.

  Afterward, the Verdis excused themselves, and Aristafeo and I were left alone. We sat on a bench in the cold sunshine and made our next plan: He needed us to travel to the Russian empress at once to secure her approval of the commission. Only after securing that approval would he then return to Paris and officially end his ties with the Baroness. When he returned from that trip, our new life together would begin in London.

  He withdrew the tiny rose, my knife, and my old route book, and set them on the bench between us.

  Until then, he said. Let them remind you of me.

  §

  After his departure, I decided to speak with Doro about her notice again and returned to my rooms.

  When I’d given Lucy her notice, she had been simplicity itself; she said she understood. She had always been sweet to me, content to do her one job well, and if she’d ever stolen from me or cheated me, I never knew it. After I provided her with a letter of reference and a reward for her long service and loyalty to me, she’d hugged me and we agreed she was to leave shortly after my return to Paris. Doro had scoffed and refused, however, insisting I would need her, and . . . I had needed her. This, in turn, had shamed me a little—my resolve looked foolish. We both knew I relied on her good humor and gossip, as well as her ways of tending my hair and clothes, and looking after the upkeep of my accommodations, were they in Paris or Milan or Saint Petersburg. But I was now what I had once pitied, the grand lady with too many gowns and jewels, and not enough friends she could trust, and Doro was the companion I saw every day who knew most of my secrets, if not all of them, and of whom I knew very little. I disliked this. I still did not know where in Italy she had come from, for example; and during our time here, she’d never spoken of it despite insisting on this return. I thought to begin there when I saw her by the dresser, a strange expression on her face.

  Are you sad to leave? I asked, as she packed our things.

  I am, she said. I have a presentiment that I may never see Italy again.

  I would speak to you again about your next placement, I said. I am moving to London, and I would see you taken care of, placed in a new situation. Here, even. Madame Verdi might need someone with your talents or be able to help place you.

  She paused—she had been smoothing my coat—and then said, That’s very kind. Thank you. I will take that under consideration. I meant to ask sooner, she said. I found this empty flask on your dresser back in Paris. It smelled faintly of pétrole. What is it for? Will you need it again soon? Should I ask the Verdis if they have pétrole to refill it?

  I had been so sure it was in the Seine, this frightened me; it was as if the tenor’s ghost had brought it himself. How had I been so stupid to keep it? And yet I had. I remembered I had put it in my pocket and now it was here.

  The flask gleamed in her hand. She held it up, turning it so the light reflected on it, as if my silence meant I didn’t recognize it.

  How strange, I managed to say. I don’t know anything about it. Perhaps it is Lucy’s?

  I think not, she said. But it is safe; we will discover the rightful owner. And with that, she put it away. I did not think there had been malice or suspicion in her voice; she seemed only genuinely puzzled, but I was not sure. As she did this, I noticed the bed, where a modest black suit was laid out for me, waiting like my own shadow.

  What is this? I asked.

  I thought mademoiselle would wear mourning, she said.

  And why?

  Your fiancé is dead. This is customary.

  You know he was not—

  If I may, Madame Verdi did not seem to know why you were not in mourning. She asked her maid as to it. She does not seem to mourn him. She did not even cry out at the news of his death. Her maid told me when she asked of it to me. I said, no, you were bereft, of course, but when you left Paris, he was still alive. You are in shock.

  This surprised me—she had just been so happy for Aristafeo and me. Yes, I said. Of course. But you of all people know I was not engaged, I said. Did you not tell her maid this also?

  I did not say. I don’t gossip about you, she said. If you wish Madame Verdi to know this, would you not tell her yourself? I feared offending you. But may I be frank?

  Of course, I said.

  You should not return to Paris. Not for some time.

  What? Why not?

  Mademoiselle should go directly to London. In Paris you will most likely be under suspicion for the murder of your tenor friend. And if you should not appear in mourning, whether here, on the train, or in London, suspicion for his death will fall on you—especially if you are seen with your new lover. The police will always look for the surviving fiancée who does not grieve—and who takes up with another man in public immediately.

  And here the sunlight coming in from the window behind me seemed to flash like the sword of an angel. Michael himself swinging it down.

  I stared around me at the dark wood furniture lining the elegant guest room as if it offered protection.

  Are you feeling faint? she asked. I can call for the salts.

  No, I said, and, finding a chair, sat, at last in shock.

  We will dress you in that suit, she said, pointing at the bed. And we should leave at once. Downstairs, ask Madame Verdi about where we may go to purchase a mourning toilette in Sant’Agata. I’ll enter and say there was a telegram, that you are needed back in Paris urgently, and we will leave, but we will go directly to London instead. And you should not return until the murder is solved and the killer is found.

  Mademoiselle, she said, when I did not stand. We should be on our way.

  §

  Giuseppina was both sad to see me go and also, I could see, pleased to see me dressed in black. The shock of my conversation with Doro neatly masked me as someone finally beset with grief. When I asked as to where to purchase a mourning toilette in town, she began to weep as well—I had forgotten that, of course, they knew him. A bell rang, and shortly after, Doro appea
red to announce there had been a telegram, and we were to leave for Paris at once. Verdi fussed, made me the present of an unwieldy ham for the journey, and both of them kissed me and conveyed condolences of such heartfelt sadness that they made me ashamed of my bringing these theatrics with me as I bid good-bye to them and the sweet golden rooms of their home.

  We went in the Verdis’ carriage to the train station, and on Doro’s advice, I bought tickets for travel through Switzerland rather than France so as to avoid any French authorities. Once we were on the train, Doro took out her cards and dealt me into a game of piquet I was grateful for, playing in quiet nearly half the way to Zurich.

  Do you truly imagine you will not need a lady’s maid in London? Or do you have one there already? she asked.

  I shook my head. I’ve not even a household yet, I said.

  And will you bring nothing from Paris?

  I want nothing of it, I said. I want to begin with new things. All new things.

  I don’t, she said. It was very kind of you to offer me help finding a new position, but I am an old woman or will be soon, and it would be hard to learn the ways of a new mademoiselle, she said.

  England will be strange to you, I said.

  Not as strange as a new mademoiselle, she said. Bring me with you. I can be new, too.

  I studied her then, waiting for her to meet my eyes. I was, in fact, contending with a new maid—she was a stranger to me now. Who had she served before me? From where came all of this knowledge of avoiding the police? When she looked up at last, she smiled, and I returned the smile. I will have Lucy do an inventory of the house in preparation for the sale, she said. I will instruct her to put black paper over the windows, to continue ordering food as normal, and to refuse all visitors, saying you are grieving. And we will get you as thick a veil as they make. You must go in secret.