“Why should I do these things? Surely I can find this—this herb—” He held out his palm with the crumpled leaves and flowers in it. “I can find this on my own.”
“I assure you, Ughetto,” Zdenka said, “that in time you will accept our ways. They are perfectly natural.”
He spat, “Natural!”
“They are the ways of nature, the way of the world. Predator and prey, rulers and the ruled. You eat meat, don’t you? In time, it will mean nothing to you to kill, as the wolf kills. You will find that everything, and everyone, is meat in the end.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“No,” she said, closing her eyes again and settling back against the sofa as if she meant to stay there all day. “No. But you will. You will.”
30
Son per voi tutta foco!
I am aflame for you!
—Donna Elvira, Act Two, Scene One, Don Giovanni
Octavia moved through the days following Zdenka Milosch’s appearance in a haze of misery. On alternate cast nights she obediently attended the opera, ready to rise from her seat and go to work should her colleague be indisposed. On her own performance nights she left her dressing room only to go onstage. When the theater was dark she paced her suite, longing for Ugo, loathing Zdenka Milosch, and remembering. Always remembering.
The specter of the street girl’s shocked face—“What did you do? What was that?”—haunted her. At night, tossing in the wide bed at Il Principe, a parade of such faces marched through her mind, hundreds of them, escaped from her mental cubbyhole and refusing to go back inside. All of these, according to the Countess, dead. Convicted by the edict of La Società. Driven to their deaths by Teresa, by Hélène before Ugo came, and now, all unwilling, by Octavia.
After curtain calls one night, Peter took her arm. “Halfway through,” he said.
Octavia looked at him in surprise. “Are we?”
“Yes,” he said. “Didn’t you know that?”
She shook her head. “I’ve lost track of the days.”
“You need your assistant, Octavia. It’s difficult to do this alone.”
“I do, Peter. You’re right. And tonight was…a little hard.”
It had indeed been a difficult evening. Russell’s beat had occasionally been erratic, but worse, her voice felt stiff, a little heavy, as if she hadn’t slept. Her ovations had not been satisfying, and she knew the performance had not been her best. It had been hard to concentrate, and she had nearly missed two cues, something that had never happened in rehearsal. It hadn’t helped that Nick got in a muddle with his blocking in the second act.
David came up on Peter’s other side and leaned around him to say, “Octavia, when the run is through, Peter and I are going on a nice holiday in Tuscany. Wouldn’t you like to join us? There’s room in the villa—six bedrooms. You can bring your delightful Ugo!”
Octavia smiled, touched by the kindness. “Why, thank you, both of you. But I’m going directly to Houston from Milan.”
“Oh, I don’t think you told us. That’s your first time with Houston, isn’t it? What are you singing?” Peter asked.
Together, the three of them threaded their way through the maze of set pieces backstage. Octavia was aware of Massimo walking behind them. Massimo’s performance tonight had been as strong as hers had been shaky. He and Marie had been charming in their duets, and Massimo’s character had grown convincingly through the opera, from the gawkiness of a country boy to the dignity of an enraged husband. His voice grew richer and more confident with each performance. He was on the verge of great success, Octavia felt certain. A sudden longing seized her, and she wished she could turn to him, run to him, hide her face against his strong shoulder. It was a preposterous thought, of course. How Ugo would laugh at such weakness! And how shocked Massimo would be to know the truth about her.
These thoughts made her answer Peter a beat too late. “Oh, Houston. It’s Figaro.”
“The Countess,” David said, a hand to his heart. “You must be divine in that rôle.”
Octavia laughed. “Flatterer. I love singing the Countess, though.”
“Why didn’t Ugo come to Milan with you?” David asked. “Peter always envies you your wonderful assistant.” He chuckled and put his arm across Peter’s plump shoulders. “He has only me, and I forget things constantly!”
Peter smiled and patted his partner’s hand as they watched Octavia, awaiting her answer.
“Ugo had…had business,” Octavia said. “Out of the country. He’s supposed to meet me at the end of the run.”
“That’s good,” David said. “Maybe he’ll be here for the last party.”
“I hope so,” Octavia said. She turned in at her dressing room. “Good night. Good show tonight, Peter. I’ll see you both Thursday.” She slipped inside and tried to shut the door, but found a strong brown hand between the door and the jamb.
Massimo pushed the door open gently and put his head inside the room. “Octavia. You’ve been avoiding me.”
There was an edge to his voice. She looked up at him. The dark pancake makeup made his eyes vivid as candle flames. He needed no wig, and the usual lock of hair hung over his forehead. He looked delectable in Masetto’s peasant coat and breeches. The knee pants and traditional white tights accentuated the long muscles of his calves.
Octavia sighed. “Massimo, I’m sorry. I hate theater gossip.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t speak to each other.” He came in, bringing the rich scents of sweat and soap and melting makeup with him. He closed the door behind him. “They’ll be saying we’ve had a falling-out.”
The dresser called from the corridor, “Signorina?”
Octavia called, “Momento, per favore.” To Massimo, she said, “I have to shower.”
“So do I,” he said. His usual smile was absent, and there was an air of tension about him. “Have a drink with me afterward.”
The mention of a drink reminded her she needed water. She turned away from him to pour from the bottle of Pellegrino on her dressing table. She took a deep draught of it, and then another. She had turned off the lights around the mirror, and her eyes looked shadowed, her cheeks colorless. She turned her back on her image. “Massimo, I don’t think…”
“We’ll go somewhere private. My hotel. Or yours.” When she hesitated, he said in a low tone, “I won’t leave until you say yes.” He smiled then, but there was something in it, some emotion she couldn’t quite identify. He seemed older somehow. Harder.
She set her glass down. Her thoughts were sluggish, slowed by the fog in her mind. She gave her head a little shake, as if that might clear it. Massimo gave her a quizzical look, and she shrugged. “Go now,” she said, striving for a light tone. “The dresser’s waiting.”
He bent and kissed her cheek. She closed her eyes at the sensation of his smooth lips against her skin. Remembered passion quickened her breath.
He whispered against her ear, “I’m waiting, too,” and a thrill ran through her belly. “Meet me outside.”
The words to refuse him simply would not rise to her lips, though she despaired at her weakness. He opened the door. The dresser sidled past him to come to Octavia and begin undoing the fastenings of her costume. As Octavia unpinned her wig and settled it on its stand, she tried to remonstrate with herself, but it seemed she had lost the argument before it began.
She peeled off her false eyelashes and laid them in their case, then stepped into the little shower. As she scrubbed pancake and powder from her face and neck, she promised herself she would have a drink with Massimo, nothing more. She would tell him something, anything, to put him off.
She made herself take her time about dressing, applying street makeup, brushing out her hair and tying it back, winding her long scarf around her neck. When she emerged from her dressing room, the corridor was empty. Massimo’s door, with his name scripted beneath the little star, was closed. There was no sound behind it.
He was waiting for her at the
artists’ entrance, lounging in the glass-doored lobby, chatting with the guard behind the desk. He wore his usual jeans and white shirt and leather jacket. His hair was still damp from the shower. She joined him, feeling a twinge of compunction at the sweetness of simply walking at his side, going out into the cool bite of the breeze, strolling with him down the street to the waiting Mercedes.
Massimo held the car door for her, and she slid onto the leather seat with a dangerous sense of belonging. Octavia knew better than to form attachments to such things. But Massimo’s profile against the city lights, the smell of his shaving lotion, the scent of old leather lulled her. It all seemed so normal. Other people had drinks together, went out to dinner, had love affairs. Ugo would have prevented this, by his very presence. But Ugo was not here.
And Massimo was.
He drove her to Il Principe in silence and let the doorman call for someone to park his car. They walked together into the bar. Without consulting her, Massimo ordered a sparkling prosecco and a plate of antipasto, which came in the form of black olives, tender baby artichokes, paper-thin slices of prosciutto. When he tipped his head back to gaze up at the Tiffany-style ceiling, his jaw muscles flexed as if he were controlling himself. When their order arrived, he nodded his thanks at the waiter and poured her a glass of wine.
Octavia said, frowning, “Massimo. Are you angry with me?”
He shook his head and drained half his glass in a single swallow.
“You’re angry about something.”
For a moment he was silent, as if he were gritting his teeth. Then, pushing the antipasto plate aside, he leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Octavia. I thought if we—I thought I could distract myself.”
She put her head on one side, regarding him, waiting.
He made a rueful face. “I told you about my brother.”
“Yes—your family’s black sheep.”
“He’s in trouble.”
Octavia’s eyebrows rose. She picked up the bottle and poured more prosecco into his glass, and waited.
“You might remember the bruise I had. Made Russell ill.”
“I remember,” Octavia said carefully. She remembered how she had wanted to lick the blood from his cheek.
“The night before that rehearsal, I had to go and roust my brother out of a card game. It wasn’t easy.” He gave a sour chuckle. “He’s bigger than I am. He socked me.”
Octavia winced at the thought. “He was gambling?”
“Again.” He sighed. “And it didn’t do any good. He’s gotten sideways with some pretty bad people, and my family expects me to do something about it.”
“What can you do?”
He shrugged. “Nothing at all that I can see. But my mother—” His face tightened, and he averted his eyes. “He’s her baby. It’s hard being the oldest.”
She put her hand over his. “Massimo, you must let it go.”
“I know,” he said. “I just wanted to enjoy this run. This chance.”
“Is he jealous of you?”
Massimo said bitterly, “Of course. But what can I do about that?”
“I don’t know, Massimo.”
He brought her hand to his lips, and his eyes softened a bit. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to talk about it, really.” He reached for a slice of prosciutto. “Let’s forget it. I’m sorry I told you.”
“No,” she said firmly. “Don’t be sorry. I’m glad to know.”
He smiled at her, a little sadly. “It’s nice to be able to talk to someone.” He chewed the prosciutto with a slice of bread and poured the last of the prosecco into her glass. “I envy you, Octavia. You don’t have to answer to anyone, do you?”
It was her turn to shrug and avert her eyes. “Ugo, sometimes. But that’s not always good, Massimo. It can be lonely.”
He took her hand again and caressed the fingers with his thumb. In an intimate tone he said, “Not lonely tonight, though.”
She smiled. “No. Not tonight.”
He grinned, looking more like himself. “And now let’s talk about something else—anything else! Nick forgot his blocking again tonight, didn’t he?”
She laughed. “That was a mess! Nothing I could do because he was halfway across the stage from me.”
He grinned. “Poor Richard! How did he manage?”
She began to tell him, pleased to hear the edge vanish from his voice, to see his eyes brighten. Other people in the bar looked at them from the corners of their eyes, as if trying to guess who they were. It felt to Octavia as if she and Massimo sat in a bubble of light. They were golden people at that moment, young, successful, fortunate. She was sorry when the barman began putting things away, getting ready to close. With reluctance, she said, “We should go.”
“Wait,” Massimo said. He went up to the bar and came back a moment later grinning, flourishing a bottle of uncorked Barbaresco in one hand, two wineglasses in the other. He nodded toward the bank of elevators.
Octavia hesitated only a moment before she followed Massimo into the elevator. She told herself that she would be gone soon in any case. This affair, if that’s what it was, would be over. It was perfectly likely she might never see Massimo again.
She leaned against the elevator’s parquet wall and looked at their reflections in the gold-flecked mirror opposite. Her eyes sparkled now, and her cheeks were pink with wine and laughter. Massimo looked tall and dark and delicious.
The Barbaresco was magnificent, a spicy, strong red. It was not until Massimo poured her second glass and began to slowly unwrap her long scarf from her throat that she felt the first intimations of real thirst come over her. She tried to pull back then, but his lips were already on her cheek, on her neck. His strong arm pulled her against him, inviting her, tempting her.
With his free hand, he touched her glass with his. “To you,” he murmured. “My favorite soprano. La divina.” Octavia drained half of her glass at a gulp, hoping to quell the sensation rising in her throat. She was burning now, not only with desire, but with the sudden, devastating onset of thirst. There was no time to wonder how she had not seen this coming, had not known.
He kissed her mouth, then set his glass down and took hers to set beside it. He drew her into the dark bedroom, one hand on her waist, the other wound gently in her hair. He coaxed her to lie down, then stretched his length beside her.
He pressed his mouth to hers, and her lips parted, not with volition, but helplessly, eagerly. Encouraged, Massimo kissed her more deeply, stroking her face, her breast, her back with his fingertips. His mouth tasted of wine, and her head spun with it.
“Clothes,” he laughed, his mouth still on hers. He began to tear away his shirt, wriggle out of his jeans. He held her close with one arm and unbuttoned her blouse with his free hand.
Her blood rose in answer to his, a surge of heat, a flood of passion. Her skin came alive at every touch of his hands, his thighs, his smooth chest. Her eyelids were heavy with desire. Her lips swelled with hunger for the taste of him, for the feel of his body against hers, for the hard pressure of his mouth…and with thirst.
At the supreme moment, when the pleasure was almost too great to be borne, when his body arched above hers, he threw back his head. His throat hovered above her face. Just above the collarbone, the muscles stretched aside and revealed the beating pulse, the external jugular vein, where the blood ran tantalizingly, maddeningly close beneath the surface of silken skin. She heard the call of that hot tide and craved its source.
In her moment of abandon, her upper lip lifted and her mouth opened. It was involuntary. Instinctive, as always. She sank her teeth into and through the barrier of Massimo’s skin.
He stiffened in shock, moaning something, but she held fast. She couldn’t help herself. The taste of him, sweet and hot and salty, filled her mouth. She clung to him with her arms, her legs, her teeth. He fell back, and she rolled with him, her body covering his, her hair spilling across his face, across both of them, a golden veil behind which Octavia took from Massi
mo what she so desperately needed, and he, shivering in ecstasy and submission, gave it. Energy poured through her, thrilling in her arms and her legs and her breast. The murk she had been moving through lifted all at once.
With the return of clarity, her mind rebelled against the demands of her body. Panting, she withdrew. Still holding him close, she licked his skin where two scarlet drops welled, then licked it again. When no more drops appeared, she untangled herself from him, pulling back to look down at him, pushing her hair back so she could see his face.
Confusion shimmered in his eyes. He tried to speak to her, to say something, but it was no more than a mumble. A second later his eyelids fluttered closed.
Numb horror seized Octavia. Her blood, which had been so hot a moment before, ran suddenly cold. She jumped from the bed and stood looking down at Massimo, lying naked and vulnerable on the tumbled bedclothes. With shaking hands, she pulled the quilt up over him, tucking it under his shoulders as a mother might do, trailing her fingers across his cold cheek. He sighed at her touch and rolled to his right side. His thick mop of hair fell back, exposing the two umistakable wounds at the base of his neck.
Octavia covered her mouth with her hands. Her lips were sticky with his blood, and her body glistened with sweat. With a moan, she tore her eyes from Massimo’s inert body and rushed to the bathroom.
She stood under the shower for a long time, letting the hot water sluice her. Every cell of her body seemed to vibrate with energy and strength. It was her mind that reeled, turning this way and that, looking for escape.
How would she ever forgive herself? She let the water sting her eyelids and soak her hair until it hung in lank strands across her shoulders. How would she explain—aside from the guilt and regret that consumed her—the changes that would come over Massimo? He would demand answers from her, as she had demanded them from Zdenka Milosch. She didn’t know if she could face it.
But she must. The only other option was the one that Vivian Anderson had been forced to exercise. She hated to flee now, abandon her contract, ruin the years of work in building the life and career of Octavia Voss. Even worse, she could never bring herself to abandon Massimo Luca to the cruelty of Zdenka Milosch and La Società.
Mozart’s Blood Page 29