Mozart’s Blood

by Louise Marley

  Teresa, still trembling from the drama of berating Don Giovanni and kneeling at the Commendatore’s side after Giovanni ran him through, averted her eyes. She tugged her arm free with a muttered excuse and hurried to the cramped, dark dressing room she shared with Caterina Bondini. She had to walk sideways to fit her panniered skirts through the doorway. She pushed past the rack of costumes that filled most of the space, and sat down on the stool before her dressing mirror to stare at herself in dismay. Her face flamed with embarrassment, and her hair was falling out of its arrangement. She patted fresh powder onto her scarlet cheeks and repinned her hair. As she rose to return to the stage for her scene with Ottavio and Donna Elvira, she swore to herself that what had happened the night before would never be repeated.

  As she stood in the wings, awaiting her cue, she looked past the proscenium and saw Herr Mozart beside the harpsichord. He played the chords for Masetto’s recitative, smiling up at the singer. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright as buttons in the flicker of the oil lamps. Teresa’s heart fluttered, watching him, listening to the magic his small hands brought from the keys.

  Teresa had not yet felt the thirst. That would come later. What she felt now was only hunger. She hungered for Mozart.

  The limousine slowed, and Octavia Voss blinked, bringing herself back to the present. Even after all these years, these rushes of memory, detailed and vivid, undimmed by the passage of years, had the power to unnerve her. It was both the curse and the gift of Zdenka Milosch’s bite. The sword of genius cut two ways.

  The car turned into Via Filodrammatici and pulled up near the artists’ entrance. Octavia stepped out of the limousine, remembering to smile at the driver and thank him. She glanced over her shoulder at the looming statue of Leonardo scowling at her across the Piazza della Scala. She frowned in return, drew a deep breath, tightened the belt on her coat. She must put aside her anxiety—and her memories—and concentrate. When the rehearsal was over, at the end of the day, both would still be there.

  She nodded a salute to Leonardo, whose expression did not relent. She smiled and shrugged, and turned to go in through the glass door.

  They spent the entire morning on the first scene, giving Octavia cause to be glad she had worn comfortable shoes. Nick Barrett-Jones could not, it seemed, learn his blocking. Again and again Octavia lightly sang her lines as she chased him out of Donna Anna’s house into the imagined garden. She sang them at least half a dozen times before he could remember where he was supposed to go, which way to turn, when to stop and face her.

  The rehearsal space was enormous, to match the stage, and it echoed with their voices and footsteps. There were as yet no real sets to work with, only a wood framework against one wall to simulate the noble house of Seville. Strips of masking tape marked the floor where the shrubs and columns and garden gate would be. It was to be a completely new production, from the costumes to the lighting to the set design. If only their Giovanni could manage to learn his staging.

  Nick sang everything full voice, as well, which made Octavia’s nerves flare. After the fifth run-through of the opening of their scene, she seized his arm and pushed him into position.

  “There’s your mark, Nick, dear,” she hissed into his ear. “Stand still, for pity’s sake, and let’s get past this.”

  He grinned at her as if she had made an excuse to get close to him, and bellowed the first phrase of the trio. Octavia put a hand over her left ear to block out his volume and sang her own part sotto voce. Russell colored and winked at her from his perch on a tall stool beside the Steinway. No one else sang out. Even Richard Strickland, the Leporello, marked his aria, but this seemed to make no impression on Nick Barrett-Jones.

  He should have been a tenor, Octavia thought wearily. He has the ego for it. Whereas Peter, her Don Ottavio, was as mild and unselfish as she could possibly wish, one of the nicest tenors she had ever worked with.

  Only in the duel between the Commendatore and Don Giovanni did Nick Barrett-Jones show flair for the rôle. He was surprisingly good with the épée, wielding the sword with the ease of long practice. The staging of the duel went swiftly, and soon Richard lay on the floor, the Don standing over him.

  “A fencer,” Peter said. He and Octavia were standing to one side, watching.

  Octavia nodded. “Too bad that scene goes by so quickly.”

  She could not escape to her dressing room at the break this time. One of the patrons of La Scala had arranged a luncheon for the principals, to be served in the airy foyer behind the loggione, the upper gallery. Russell took her arm as they all trooped out to the elevator and wound through the carpeted corridors.

  “It’s going to be beautiful, Octavia,” he said.

  “Thank you, Russell,” she said. She felt the trembling of his fingers under her elbow. He was so highly strung, like a piano wire stressed to the breaking point. “I do hope so.”

  “I was sure your voice would be perfect for the rôle. Your high notes are glorious, of course, but your low voice is so clear. None of this muddy, choking stuff some sopranos have.”

  “I’ve been lucky,” she said modestly. “I had a great teacher.”

  “Who was it? Did you study in New York?”

  “Oh, no, I grew up in a tiny place no one ever heard of. You wouldn’t recognize my teacher’s name, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s hard to believe this is your first Donna Anna,” he said.

  “Oh, well,” she said lightly. “So many times in the studio, you know, and then I must have sung the arias dozens of times in auditions.”

  “It’s not really the same, though, is it? I mean, with the staging, and the ensembles…”

  “I was terribly nervous, of course, Russell. I still am, really. This is Milan, after all.” She laughed a little. “Thank goodness they don’t still throw things at the stage!”

  “Only flowers,” he said. He released her elbow and patted her arm with still-unsteady fingers. “For you it will be flowers.”

  They reached the door of the foyer, and Russell stood back to let her go ahead of him. The patron, a Signor Ammadio, hurried past the faux marble columns to bow to Octavia, lavish her with compliments on her Rusalka, which he had heard in Paris. She smiled, nodded, shook his hand and that of his wife and two of his friends. Nick came behind her, and the admirers shifted their attention to him, and then to Peter and Marie, Richard and Brenda. The alternate cast had also been invited, and the room was crowded. Octavia found Russell waiting for her at the buffet table, an empty plate in his hand.

  The table was set with dishes of antipasto, the traditional salsicce and olives, freshly made bruschetta, a salad of tomatoes and mozzarella and basil drizzled generously with a vividly green olive oil. At the far end, a caterer in a white apron was dishing out risotto alla Milanese. “Signor Ammadio has been generous,” Octavia murmured. Something in her stomach turned, and she bit her lip, wishing the nausea away. It was another sign of the coming thirst.

  “Please, go ahead,” Russell said, ushering her ahead of him.

  Octavia picked up a pair of silver tongs and transferred two olives, a slice of cheese, and the smallest piece of bruschetta she could find to her plate. She took a little salad and allowed the chef to give her a small spoonful of risotto, hoping the rice might settle her stomach.

  There were mirrors at the end of the room, and bouquets of flowers in standing vases. A spinet piano was tucked into a sitting area. Octavia found a chair at one of the tables scattered around the room, set with flatware and white linen. A bottle of sparkling water was open in the table’s center, and Octavia filled her glass and drank it down immediately. Russell joined her, and to her dismay, Nick Barrett-Jones, his plate heaped with salami and cheese and tomatoes.

  Octavia let the men talk while she refilled her glass and sipped it more slowly this time. The bubbles felt good in her throat and in her stomach. Nick took a huge bite of bread and salami. “The food in London is never this good!” he chortled through a full mouth. “I
love singing in Italy.”

  Russell ate more slowly, but with obvious pleasure. Octavia took a forkful of tomato and mozzarella, and put it in her mouth. The nausea didn’t return. She managed several mouthfuls of salad, and some risotto, before her throat closed and she laid down her fork.

  The chef was at her side in a moment. In Italian, he said, “Signorina, do you not like the risotto? Would you like me to bring you something else?”

  She took a deep breath, putting one hand on her breast. “No, no, grazie mille,” she said, in the same language. “Il risotto è perfetto. It’s just that I haven’t been feeling very well.”

  He murmured another offer, and at her refusal, whisked away her plate, frowning over his uneaten creation.

  Nick waved a piece of bruschetta in Octavia’s direction. “You speak beautiful Italian.”

  She shrugged. “My first teacher was Italian,” she said. “He insisted.”

  Russell nodded. “It’s why your inflection is so good in the recitatives,” he said. “And probably why it doesn’t seem like your first Donna Anna.”

  “I coached the rôle thoroughly in New York, of course. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  His thin cheeks colored again, and the tip of his nose reddened. “You would never do that,” he murmured.

  Nick got up to replenish his plate, and Octavia drank more sparkling water. She looked around her at the roomful of singers and admirers. Marie sat with Massimo, her head close to his as she chattered in French, gesturing with a salad fork. Brenda’s table companions were Lukas and Peter, and Peter’s partner David. They were speaking German. When Nick came back from the buffet, he grinned down at Octavia. “Good thing you speak English,” he said. He laid down his full plate and pulled out his chair to sit down. “I sing them all, but I speak only one.”

  “That’s brave of you,” Octavia said mildly. “You’ve sung in Paris and Vienna and Rome, as I recall. Don’t you speak a little French or German, at least?”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “No. That’s why theaters have managers!”

  Octavia heard Russell’s slight sigh of irritation. She avoided looking at him. She picked up her water glass and drained it.

  Octavia was not in the next scene, and she had been scheduled for a costume fitting. Giuditta came to guide her to the costume shop, where the gown for Donna Anna hung on its dress form, an elaborate creation in the robe à la française style. Octavia smiled over its silver floral brocade and emerald green silk taffeta. The stomacher was an embroidered panel of silver satin, and as the seamstress fitted it around her, she murmured approval. The whalebone stays and busks of the past were long gone and unlamented. This costume, though it would be hot under the lights, was easy to slip into and would be light to wear.

  The seamstress and the designer walked around her, pinching seams here, lifting hems there, chattering about alterations.

  “You are so slender, Signorina,” the designer said. “You will look like a dream. Over there is your mourning dress, but it’s not yet ready to try on. It’s been cut, but not sewn.”

  Octavia glanced over at the costume. It hung in disjointed layers of black velvet, black silk, and a rich plum brocade.

  “Everything’s beautiful,” Octavia told him. “I love the colors.”

  He held up a hooded cloak of green velvet so dark it was almost black. “A domino,” he said. “For the second act.”

  Octavia smoothed the material with her hand. She looked around at the dress forms holding other gowns, at the men’s suits, the racks of choristers’ costumes, all in jewel tones. The fabrics simulated the costumes of the late eighteenth century to perfection. “The whole production looks marvelous,” she said. “I loved the sketches.”

  He smiled and bowed his thanks. The seamstress helped her out of the gown and back into her sweater and slacks, whispering admiration of the labels. By the time Octavia had brushed her hair and tied it back, and followed Giuditta back to the rehearsal room, Brenda and Nick and Richard had finished the second scene and were taking a break.

  Brenda sat in a chair that barely accommodated her wide hips, fanning herself with her hand. Her round face was red, and her mascara had run, flecking her cheeks with black. Richard was at the Steinway, leaning over the pianist for a closer look at the score. Nick, with a white towel slung around his neck, lounged against one wall, while Massimo Luca and Marie Charles conferred with the director about their first entrance.

  Russell laid his baton on his stand and beckoned to Octavia. When she came close, he said, “You can go home if you like. We won’t get past the next scene, and you look a bit tired. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Although if you don’t need me, I will go and rest. The costumes are gorgeous, by the way.”

  “Oh, good.” He looked up at Massimo and Marie, and said, “Excuse me. I think they’re ready.” He lifted his baton, and the pianist struck the chords of Zerlina’s and Masetto’s entrance. Octavia stepped back, out of the sight line. Nick walked past her to join Richard for his entrance, but as he passed, he touched her shoulder with his palm.

  She shuddered and pulled away. He gave a slightly embarrassed laugh. “My, my,” he said in an undertone. “A little jumpy, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry,” she whispered back. “I didn’t know you were there.”

  He had no chance to respond. The director beckoned to him and to Richard and began walking about the set, pointing to their marks, posing to show them what he wanted.

  Octavia turned away, resisting an urge to rub away the touch on her shoulder. It had been a silly reaction. Nick wasn’t attractive, but he was hardly disgusting. There was no reason she should shiver at his touch. No reason at all.

  Octavia stood once more in the window of her suite, gazing out into the heavy darkness. The rain had stopped, but beyond the tall windows of Il Principe the city streets still gleamed with it. Despite the warmth of the suite, Octavia felt she had never known Milan to be so cold. She tried to convince herself to eat something. She had eaten very little all day, and she would lose weight she couldn’t spare.

  Ugo, Ugo, dove sei? She rubbed her temples with icy fingers and stared down at the boulevards leading away from the Piazza della Repubblica. A chilling truth washed over her, insistent as the rain. If Ugo didn’t come back soon, she would have to go into the streets, or…She shook her head and turned away from the window. She couldn’t bring herself to consider the consequences.

  She had first met Ugo on a dark, foggy night in San Francisco when her thirst had driven her into the streets.

  She left the Palace Hotel very late at night, avoiding chance meetings with Caruso and Fremstad and her other colleagues who were staying in the same hotel. She prowled down Market Street toward the Embarcadero, hunting. It was late, and the streets were empty, but she knew there would be a few people in the Ferry Building, or in the plaza. She pressed on toward the docks.

  Her very first sight of him had been on the footbridge spanning the Embarcadero between Market Street and the Ferry Building plaza. He was a slight, dark figure appearing out of the mist. His shoulders were narrow, and he was no taller than she. He looked vulnerable.

  She wore a heavy scarf tied under her chin that night, hiding her bright hair from anyone who might recognize her from the Carmen rehearsals. She was singing the rôle of Micaëla, and her name was Hélène Singher, a young soprano from a French village so small no one could find it on a map. After endless auditions and multiple disappointments, Hélène had won a post with the Metropolitan Opera’s touring company, and she had been so relieved that she hadn’t considered how she would manage in the western territories of America.

  It was to be a fabulous production. Caruso was the Don José, and the great contralto Olive Fremstad would sing the vixen, Carmen.

  But rehearsals were going badly. Caruso resented being sent to a place he considered primitive and dangerous, and had complained incessantly on the long train journey from New Y
ork. In San Francisco, he and Fremstad had screaming arguments. She was a two-hundred-pound Wagnerian, and Caruso stood no more than five foot eight. Their backstage clashes were as dramatic as any staged before their audiences. The contralto’s great bosom thrust at Caruso’s livid face as if she could crush the fire of his temper with her flesh. The barnlike Grand Opera House reverberated with their big, angry voices.

  Hélène had left the train in Chicago, driven by a desperate thirst. By the time she returned to the station, her train had departed for the West without her. She caught another train, but she was a day late arriving in San Francisco, and she missed the first rehearsal.

  She found the entire company on edge. Their first production, The Queen of Sheba, had been excoriated by the press. Caruso, already upset by the recent eruption of Vesuvius and the rumored destruction of his native Naples, swore he would abandon the cast if the quality of its performances did not improve. The company argued and fought its way through every rehearsal.

  In the midst of this turmoil, neither conductor nor colleagues had any forgiveness for a young, unknown soprano. Everyone treated Hélène as if she were still a comprimario, as if she had been handed the plum of Micaëla by default. She felt thwarted at every turn.

  Hélène had heard Bizet play the tunes of his opera in a salon in Paris. She knew what he intended in Micaëla’s aria, but though she argued every point with all her energy, the conductor wouldn’t listen to her.

  Her costume, too, was a disaster, a concoction of gathered, printed cotton that turned her slim body into that of a dumpy Spanish peasant. The costume designer, like everyone else in the production, paid no attention to Hélène’s pleas, and Hélène had no doubt that the diva had her thick-fingered hand in the matter. Fremstad’s broad figure was impossible to disguise as the seductress Carmen. The contrast between her ample outlines and Hélène’s slenderness would be anything but flattering.