She gave a light laugh and took his hand in both of hers, crouching beside his chair. “It’s a long story, Russell, and I’ll tell you all about it. But now, you need to rest. Do what the doctor tells you.”
“But, Octavia…”
She stood, and touched his cold forehead with her hand. “Don’t worry about anything, Russell. It’s over now.”
He let his head fall back again, and his eyes closed. “I’m going to miss the party,” he said in a thready voice. “I just don’t feel well enough.”
“Of course. What you need is several days of peace and quiet.” Octavia raised her eyebrows in the doctor’s direction. “Va bene?”
“Sì, esatto, signorina,” the doctor answered. She already had her coat on and was snapping her medical bag closed. “Rest, good food. He will be fine.”
On an impulse, Octavia bent and kissed Russell’s cheek. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, and he gave her a tremulous smile. “I feel such a fool,” he said. His eyes fell to the bloodstained lace at her neck, and what little color was left in his face bleached away. “Octavia! You’re hurt!”
“No,” she said, with a firm pat on his shoulder. “No, I’m not, dear. I’m not hurt in the least.”
When she came out into the corridor, Octavia found herself surrounded by her colleagues. They were in various stages of undress, some still with their makeup on. She stammered the explanation she and Ugo had concocted, choosing her words carefully.
“I knew he was no good!” Brenda McIntyre announced to one and all, circling Octavia’s shoulders with what was meant to be a comforting arm.
Marie Charles, wide-eyed at this latest disaster, breathed, “Oh, ma pauvre!”
Peter, with David at his elbow, uttered a number of British public-school curses.
Someone found Giorgio, and he came trotting down the hallway to join the growing crowd around Octavia. “Che successa?” he demanded.
She repeated her story. Her eyes stung at the kindness in the other singers’ faces. “It was Nick, I’m afraid,” she said. “He was so angry. He—he struck me. I had a ghastly nosebleed, Giorgio, and I didn’t dare go onstage for the curtain calls.” She made a vague gesture at the stains on her bodice. Everyone nodded, murmuring over the obvious evidence.
“Where is the bastard?” This was Lukas, in an absurd red silk dressing gown, his face still white with the Commendatore’s ghostly makeup.
Richard said, “What on earth did you argue about?”
Octavia dropped her eyes. “He said I ruined the ‘Non sperar.’ That I upstaged him.”
Richard gave a shout of laughter. “He’s one to talk about upstaging!” There were more nods and general agreement that Nick Barrett-Jones was difficult to work with, although no one had suspected he could lose control in such a way.
At last Giorgio asked, “Where is he, Octavia?”
She turned to him, spreading her hands. “Giorgio, I’m sorry. I don’t know. When he saw that—that I was bleeding—” She put her hand to her head, as if she had only just realized her wig was gone. “Oh, Lord, where is it? He pulled it right off my head.”
“He ran off, didn’t he?” Peter said. “The filthy coward!”
Giorgio sputtered, “He will never again sing at La Scala!”
At that moment Ugo sidled through the little crowd to put a protective arm around Octavia’s shoulders. “Excuse us, everyone, won’t you? She’s had such a shock. She just wanted you all to know that she would never have missed her curtain calls, not for anything.”
He led her away amid assurances from everyone present. Brenda called after her, “You’ll come to the closing party, though?”
Octavia said, over her shoulder, “I don’t know, Brenda. I think I need some time to—collect myself, I suppose.”
Ugo said, “I’ll take care of her. I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’ll see you there.”
Once the dresser had taken the soiled costume away with her, and the dressing room door was safely closed, Octavia reached into the shower and turned on the taps. Her body sang with energy and warmth, and she yearned to be moving. She wished she didn’t have to stand around at a cocktail party. She would rather have gone walking, prowling the streets of the city. She slipped out of her lingerie and dropped it on the floor. “Where did you leave him?”
Ugo was at the closet, laying out a dress and shoes for her. “In the attic,” he said shortly. “I’ll see you off to the reception, then I’ll go back for him. I’ll take him to his hotel, I think.”
“He’s still in costume,” Octavia said, testing the water with her hand.
Ugo laughed. “I’ll have it sent back to the theater. Non ti preoccupare!”
She climbed into the little shower, and said, over the rush of the water, “They believed me, didn’t they?”
“Ma certo, bella. You told them the truth.”
“So far as it went.”
“Esatto.”
Octavia took her time with her makeup. She smoothed on a pale foundation and chose a bright red lipstick that made her skin look even paler. Ugo had brought a long sheath in dark blue silk. She stepped into it and gave herself a satisfied glance in the mirror.
Ugo chuckled. “Feeling better, I gather.”
She smiled. “Yes. But I’m trying to look as if I’ve had a shock.”
He narrowed his eyes, assessing her. “Muss your hair just a little. It’s too smooth.”
“Shall I put it up?”
“No, I like it like that, hanging loose down your back.”
Obediently, she ran her fingers through it and shook her head to let it fall naturally. She put on the Ferragamo pumps, and Ugo held her coat for her. “Ready?” he said.
“Yes. More than.” They went out into the corridor, empty now. As they emerged from the artists’ entrance into Via Filodrammatici, she said, “You’ll be careful, won’t you? He may be stronger than you think.”
“He’ll do as he’s told,” Ugo said. “I’ve had all I’m going to take from Domenico.”
“You’re not going to—”
He shook his head, and led her toward the waiting limousine. “I’m not going to kill him.”
“But La Società will want him out of the way.”
“I’ve got this, Octavia. Put it out of your mind.”
The limousine driver got out and opened the back door. Octavia said quietly, “Ugo. Do you know who will take over La Società? Who will be in charge?”
“Oh,” he answered, with a casual wave of his hand. “Someone will step in.” He held her arm as she got into the car, then closed the door. As the car pulled away, she watched him turn and go back into the theater with a brisk step.
The privè of Ristorante Romani was already crowded when Octavia arrived. Candlelight glowed on its dark wood and bordeaux leather furnishings, and side tables steamed with some of the best antipasto and seafood in Milan. A waiter ushered her in, and as he opened the door for her, a burst of applause broke out. Octavia stopped in the doorway, one hand to her throat.
Peter came to meet her, smiling. “Your curtain call at last, Octavia,” he said.
She smiled at everyone, and accepted the glass of champagne someone pressed into her hand. She felt the curious gazes of those who had not been backstage, who had not yet heard the story. Peter and David escorted her to the corner they had staked out amid the crush of people. David went off to fill plates for them while Octavia began to receive compliments and questions from a steady flow of opera patrons.
She was cautious about explaining the aborted bows. “It seems Nick isn’t feeling well,” she said, over and over. “Not well enough to come to the party.” This she said without a flicker of her eyelids. It was true, of course. Perfectly true.
A reporter from Il Corriere della Sera came up and introduced himself, but Giorgio interrupted him just as he started to ask about the bizarre events of the evening, and carried him off to introduce him to Brenda. David returned with a platter filled with olives and
bruschetta and tiny rolls of prosciutto stuffed with melon. Octavia accepted a napkin and took some prosciutto. “Thank you, David,” she said fervently. “Suddenly I’m starving.”
“Of course you are,” he said, his round face creasing with his smile. “You look like you’ve lost ten pounds. Such a ghastly run,” he added, shaking his head. “First Massimo ends up in the hospital—”
“Hospital,” Peter put in with a laugh. “You Americans and your extra articles! He ended up in hospital.”
David flapped one hand. “Whatever. The poor boy looked so awful, didn’t he? And now Nick flips out! You’d think you were all doing Macbeth.”
Octavia gave a delicate shiver. “Don’t say that! I’m going right on to Figaro, and I don’t want any superstitious thoughts!”
Peter, crunching on a piece of bruschetta rich with olive oil, suddenly choked, and pointed. David and Octavia turned to see what had caught his attention. Octavia hastily set her glass on the nearest table and wiped her fingers with her napkin. Conversation around them quieted as everyone stared at the doorway.
“Massimo,” Octavia whispered.
Across the room, for a crystal moment, Massimo Luca’s eyes found hers, and held them. He looked pale, and he was leaner than before, which made him seem even taller in his usual leather jacket and slim jeans. His hair was a bit long, as if he hadn’t had a chance to get a haircut, and it made him look boyish and vulnerable. She forgot to breathe, just for that moment. Time seemed to stop as they gazed at each other above the heads of the crowd.
Then, in a rush, people began to say his name, to push toward him. He was surrounded, having his hand pressed, his cheek kissed by Marie and by Brenda, Giorgio and Richard and Lukas each taking their turn to go to him. David and Peter, too, sidled through the crowd to welcome him.
Throughout it all, Octavia stayed where she was. Her stomach contracted with a mix of dread and pleasure.
A woman at her elbow said, “That’s the bass, isn’t it? The one who fell ill during the opera and missed the final performance?”
And the man with her said, “Massimo Luca. They say he has a serious case of anemia.”
Octavia had not meant to stay long at this reception. It had been important to put in an appearance, of course, after the mess of the curtain calls, but she had intended to get back to Il Principe at the first opportunity.
But now she couldn’t leave. Not until she found a moment alone with Massimo.
She turned and picked up her champagne glass again. She could feel his eyes on her back, those sweet caramel eyes. She moved farther into the corner. A waiter refilled her glass, and she leaned against the wall, sipping it, waiting.
The older patrons began to depart, shaking Giorgio’s hand, nodding to the singers, embracing each other as they said their good-byes. The cast began to leave, too—first Lukas, with his elegant silver-haired wife on his arm; then Brenda and Marie and Richard. Peter came back to Octavia to ask if she wanted to share a cab with him and David.
“No, thank you, Peter,” she said. “I’m going to stay a bit longer and chat with Giorgio.”
“Good luck in Houston.”
She smiled and pressed her cheek to his. “It was lovely working with you again. I look forward to the next time.”
The room emptied soon after, leaving only the stage manager and Giorgio, who had their heads together, and Massimo Luca, with three girls clustered around him. The waiters began to clear the tables, offering the guests one last drink, then carrying the dishes out. Octavia stayed where she was until she was sure Massimo knew she was still there before she went to say good-bye to Giorgio. Without glancing at Massimo, she left the privè and asked for her coat. As the restaurateur was helping her on with it and offering to call a taxi, Massimo came striding out into the entryway.
“No, grazie,” Octavia murmured to her host. She stood in the doorway, pulling up her collar against the cold, smoothing the cashmere around her throat.
She knew he was beside her by the warmth of his long body. Without speaking, she stepped out into Via Zebedia and began to walk.
He fell into step beside her. She lifted her head to let the chill night breeze riffle her hair. Via Zebedia was dark, but when they came out into Corso Italia, the lights of restaurants and hotel lobbies seemed to glare. Massimo took her elbow with a firm hand and turned her to the left. In Piazza Missori, the ruins of San Giovanni in Conca stood alone, its colored bricks an odd and lonely splash of color amidst the tall, many-windowed office buildings around it. It glimmered in the center of the piazza, lights outlining its curving, broken wall. Shrubbery softened the blind arches of the ruined apse. Its single mullioned window gave onto busy Via Albricci on the other side.
San Giovanni in Conca dated from the fourth century. It had been destroyed and rebuilt over the years, consecrated and deconsecrated, given to the nuns of the Carmelite order, then taken away from them. Teresa had visited the church of San Giovanni in Conca at a time when it was the private chapel of one of Milan’s noble families, when she could still participate in the Mass. Whenever she passed it, she felt a twinge of loss, not only because it had been torn apart again, but because of that other, great loss that never ceased to trouble her.
Massimo disdained the bench that ran around the inner side of the old wall. He steered Octavia around to the back, where a little iron fence blocked the stone steps leading down to what was left of the crypt beneath Piazza Missori.
Octavia could have resisted him. Perhaps he was so angry with her that he meant to do her harm. Perhaps he meant to take from her what she had taken from him, and leave her bleeding and weak in the dark. She didn’t care. She submitted to his intent, following where he led. She would accept—she was even eager to accept—whatever he had in store for her.
As he helped her over the iron fence and down the cold, rough stairs to the crypt door, a sort of eagerness came over her. She was ready to have it over, whatever it might be. And despite everything, she was glad to be with him, glad to feel the strength of his hand, the height of him next to her. She felt as alive as she had ever felt, skin and bone and blood. She felt as if she were poised on the brink of something, and whatever it was to be, she welcomed it.
The crypt was closed and locked, open to the public only a few days a week. In the doorway, below the reach of the headlights of passing cars, Massimo turned to her. His eyes were like coals in the darkness. They burned like coal, too, a spark of fury she recognized. Just so had she glared at Zdenka Milosch, those long years before.
Octavia said, “I’m sorry.” The Countess had never said those words to her. Indeed, Octavia felt certain Zdenka Milosch had never felt regret about anything.
“Sorry?” he said. His deep voice resounded from the bricks, filling her ears with its richness. It seemed the cars passing over their heads should be able to hear it.
“I didn’t mean to do it, Massimo.”
He made a dismissive gesture with one fine, large hand. It hurt her to see it. She felt as if it were she being dismissed.
If he were as appalled as she had been, then he must hate her as she had hated Zdenka Milosch. He must wish he had never met her, never held her in his arms.
He said in a level tone, “Can it be undone?”
She shook her head, slowly, sadly. “No.”
His voice dropped to a rumble. “All those people…”
“I know. I know.”
He folded his arms and leaned against the thick door. He lifted his chin, and a glimmer of reflected light fell across the clean line of his jaw. “I haven’t been thirsty yet.”
“You’re already having memories,” she said.
Any hope she might have harbored for him—for the two of them together—slipped away like water poured out, leaving her empty, without expectations.
His eyes searched hers. “I have your memories. And Mozart’s,” he said. “Leopold, and Constanze…Prague…England…”
“Yes.”
“It’s asto
unding.”
“Mozart couldn’t bear it.” She hesitated, almost afraid to ask the next question. She spoke softly. “And you? Can you tolerate it?”
He took a long time answering. She saw in his face the same conflict she had lived with for such a long, long time. “It’s terrible, Octavia. And it’s magnificent. To know what he meant, to know what he intended…”
“Yes.”
“But at what a price!”
“I no longer resort to the tooth.”
He gave a bitter, chest-deep laugh. “Except for me.”
She turned her head away to hide the pain that must show in her face. “Yes, Massimo. Except for you.” She didn’t want to mention the Milanese street girl, though he must remember that, too. The memory of those wide eyes and stricken face was too grievous, and she shut it away as swiftly as she could.
“But, Octavia, someone provides what Ugo gives you. Is there a great difference?”
She stared blindly at the locked door of the crypt, the long-empty tomb. The treasures it had once held had been moved to a museum. “I was so glad,” she said slowly, choosing her words with care, “when Ugo presented another way. I have asked where he finds his—his supply. He won’t tell me.”
“I know that.”
A small noise escaped her throat that may have been a laugh or a sob. “Of course you do. I didn’t think. It was different for me. It was some time before I experienced the memories.”
“The moment I was out of the hospital,” he said.
The little door before her blurred, and she realized with a start that there were tears in her eyes. It was guilt over Massimo, so young and fine and promising. And it was the rending sense of loss over what might have been.
She swung around to face him, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. “You have to block the memories, close them away,” she said. “They’ll destroy you if you don’t.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, tipping his head to one side. “I know how you do it,” he said. “It’s as if there’s a room, or a lot of rooms, where you store them.”
Mozart’s Blood Page 38