Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle

by Blechta, Rick

  “Why would you think I sleep naked?”

  “I thought all spies do.”

  “Only in the movies.”

  “So you don’t?”

  “Modesty prevents me saying.”

  At the apartment door, I told him I was hitting the hay early so I’d be well-rested for the next evening. “I don’t plan on getting up before ten. Hopefully you won’t hear from me until then.”

  And I was as good as my word.

  It’s easy to get caught up in the backstage excitement of an opera house on the night of a performance. Everybody is racing around making sure all is ready when the maestro raises his arms to begin the performance. I make every effort to keep myself aloof from that because I don’t need backstage distractions keeping me from focusing on my job. With a full house, I wanted to be at my very best. A day later, De Vicenzo’s words still stung.

  In act 1, I tried really hard to forget the fact that I would have to be touched by De Vicenzo. When the director had blocked the part where Scarpia tricks Tosca into believing that her lover, Cavaradossi, has been meeting another woman, he specified for De Vicenzo to touch my hand as he approached me from behind.

  When the time came that night, instead of touching my hand lightly, in a gesture to get my attention, De Vicenzo grabbed my wrist roughly and squeezed very hard. To say the least, I was shocked and just froze. Nobody from the audience would have noticed what was happening, but Giorgi from the pit sure did. He jumped to my rescue, mouthing the words for me, a good thing because I’d completely lost the thread of what I was supposed to sing next.

  It was a childish attempt to make me screw up and it would have worked if my magnificent conductor hadn’t noticed. In my surprise, I’d once again completely forgotten to look at the prompter.

  My next entrance was a bit ragged and I spun out of De Vicenzo’s grasp, rubbing my wrist, which I was sure would be bruised. From that point on, I kept my distance, looking daggers at the baritone who returned a smirk when he got the chance.

  To say I was pissed off would have put it mildly. As soon as I was offstage, I ran to the safety of my dressing room, hoping to regroup in time for the critical second act. The hugely ominous chords from the brass that end the first act sounded to me in my state of upset like the earth opening up to reveal hell.

  Lauretta Santarossa, my dresser, was suitably shocked when I told her what had happened, having already spoken to me about what had occurred at rehearsal the day before.

  “What are you going to do, signora?”

  I caught myself frowning into the mirror in front of me. “I am going to massively enjoy plunging that knife into him in the next act, real or not.”

  About five minutes before the curtain, Giorgi knocked on my door. Sticking his head in, he said, “Marta, I will make that swine pay for what he did. Leave it to me. He has caused trouble which I will make him regret!”

  I hugged him. “Tomasso, let’s not make this any worse. I can take care of myself.”

  He shook his head violently. “No, no! He has crossed the line. No one does that when I am in command!”

  To make this a truly operatic moment, he should have cried out, “Vendetta di Giorgi!”

  As I waited stage left to make my entry, I fought a losing battle with the butterflies in my stomach. Here my voice was feeling really excellent, I had a full house to share it with, but I had to deal with De Vicenzo’s idiocy. I made a silent prayer to get through this and turn the adversity into a strength, though I had no idea how that could be pulled off. At least I would have no trouble conveying to the audience that I was completely and totally repelled by the man attempting to claim my body. My skin crawled at the thought of his hands touching me.

  We both chewed up the scenery that night. I had to give it to De Vicenzo. He was absolutely brilliant in conveying the lecherous and cruel Scarpia. I expected the audience to hiss whenever he opened his mouth. He had a magnificent voice and acting chops I could only dream about. Why did he have to be such a miserable bastard?

  For my part, I didn’t have to act at all. The result was I could give one hundred percent of my attention to singing, and since De Vicenzo had my back up, sing I did, pouring everything I had into my performance, especially in the exquisite “Vissi d’arte.” The bravas at the end of it were simply deafening. I acknowledged them with a tiny smile and nod of my head. Giorgi in the pit was beaming.

  In the climax of the scene, when Tosca agrees to give herself to Scarpia to save Cavaradossi, De Vicenzo again surprised me by wrenching my right arm behind me and pulling hard. A spasm of pain shot through my shoulder, certainly visible on my face, but I kept my head. To get back at him, I tromped down hard on his instep with the heel of my shoe and felt him stiffen satisfactorily. It must have been pretty painful, but ever in control, he sang right through it as if nothing had happened.

  Moments later, when I had to stab him, I might have slammed the stage knife into De Vicenzo perhaps a little hard, and the words “Questo è il bacio di Tosca!” (This is Tosca’s kiss!) had probably never been sung with greater conviction. De Vicenzo, unlike the way he usually went about dying, fell like a stone. A few people in the audience actually applauded.

  With the stage finally mine alone, I sang my heart out, at one with what my character was feeling — and believe me that wasn’t hard.

  The “bravas” as the curtain came down were absolutely deafening. De Vicenzo’s expression was worth a couple of photos as he got to his feet.

  With De Vicenzo out of the picture for the third act, I could relax and I felt, as I took my curtain calls at the very end, that I had never sung Tosca better. I got six solo curtain calls from the enthusiastic house and Ramírez planted himself firmly between me and De Vicenzo for each curtain call of the three principals, something for which I was quite grateful. How I’d get through the final performance was anyone’s guess.

  I met Dan at the stage door. So far, no one had questioned his presence, not that I’d advertised it, but I’d done my best to head off any gossip by telling people our cover story about him being a ghost writer for my book which was due out “shortly.” I didn’t want people to see us together and wonder what was going on. Backstage gossip can kill you, and Rome is full of paparazzi. He always walked a few paces behind me when we were out on the street.

  It was chilly that night, so I had the security guard at the stage door get a cab and Dan just hopped in when everyone’s back was turned.

  I was ravenous, but also exhausted after the events of the evening, so I invited Dan back to the apartment where we made up a plate of cheese, sausage, bread, and some really decent apples. He supplied a bottle of red wine he’d picked up that morning.

  Dan had been completely unaware of the personal drama onstage, but that was probably due to him seeing his first opera. I filled him in at length. Tony called and I also told him. He sounded as if he was going to hop on the first plane to come over and personally punch De Vicenzo in his big fat nose. After we talked, he asked me to pass him over to Dan. They had a short conversation before the phone was passed back to me again so Tony and I could say our good nights.

  Dan left quickly after and I enjoyed a second glass of wine as I continued decompressing from the evening’s festivities.

  Something would have to be done about Arturo De Vicenzo before the next performance in two nights’ time or we would come to blows. It just wasn’t right to cheat the public by trying to mess up a performance. Tonight, though, I’d been as guilty as he. Perhaps I could speak to the company’s general manager and we could sort out this whole mess in the quiet of his office. I felt certain we could make De Vicenzo see reason. He was only harming himself, after all.

  I was woken up at the ungodly hour of six the next morning by the overly cheery sounds of the overture to Carmen coming from my cell phone. Cracking open one eye, I noted the time and cursed as I groped for the source of the racket.

  “Hello?”

  “Marta? It’s Javier. H
ave you heard the horrible news?” That woke me up. “A friend just called. It’s all over the television and Internet. De Vicenzo apparently fell down some stairs last night and broke his neck. He’s dead!”

  I just about dropped the phone. I have no idea what I said to Javier after that, but the call ended shortly after. What was there to say? I immediately thought of pushing the panic button, but decided to knock on Dan’s door to wake him up more gently.

  Slipping my robe over my shoulders, I padded across the living room and opened the apartment door. There on the mat lay a perfect blood red, long-stemmed rose.

  I pushed the panic button as I fell to my knees.

  Chapter Eleven

  I have this illusion of myself as a strong person, able to handle whatever life throws at me, bounce back, and be even better than ever. It’s all a fabrication.

  It’s certainly not intentional. It’s not a matter of trying to exert mind over matter, talking myself into things that aren’t true so the force of believing in something so much will make it true. People who are really ill try this sort of thing — and apparently it can work if they just believe strongly enough. That’s not what I’m talking about.

  When I was a kid, I decided I wanted to be the best goddamn rock and roll drummer ever. I took lessons, and practised my ass off, and you know what happened? This black kid moved into our school, and he had nowhere near the chops I did. I could play rudiment rings around him any day of the week.

  But then he sat down behind the kit with his limited chops and just blew me out of the water. There was a feel in the way he played I instinctively knew I would never have — even if I tried for the rest of my life. He was loose, he was funky, and I found my traitorous foot tapping even as I was choking back bitter tears.

  So I switched gears and decided to make myself a percussionist. If you think that’s just an extension of being a drummer, you’re very mistaken. It’s worlds different, and there were times I felt like I was right back at square one. Again I worked my ass off and I became good, really good. I was a shoe-in for the Ottawa Youth Orchestra and all-city band every year. People were calling me up to play in their pit orchestras. I was seventeen and I was making money playing. Because I was the best high school percussionist in the city, I thought I had the world by the tail.

  But I was sorely mistaken.

  I was over the moon when McGill gave little ole me a scholarship to study there. I felt as if I had it made. Then I heard the other students who were my direct competition. Even as I kept going with my studies, still trying my hardest, I saw myself falling farther and farther behind them. Where it was easy for them, it was hard for me. Each battle won was a battle hard fought, too hard fought.

  I didn’t know it then, but my subconscious was already looking for a way out. I knew I wanted nothing else than to be a musician — but doing what? It was too late to start again on another instrument. There’s a common belief that if you haven’t become really good on an instrument by the time you’re eighteen, the boat has sailed without you and there’s almost always no catching up.

  All except for one instrument: the human voice. In many ways it’s a good thing not to get too serious about singing until you’re well beyond puberty. Your vocal chords just aren’t tough enough. I’d sung in choirs all my life, but only as a fun thing. I’d never looked at it as a potential career, even though everyone told me I had a nice voice.

  In the spring of my third year at McGill, luck in the form of a flu epidemic changed the course of my life. The head of the faculty’s opera department was watching the chorus of his fast-approaching production dwindling to a handful of croaking, half-dead zombies.

  My audition for this abrupt change of direction to my life consisted of a meeting in a hallway of the school as I hurried to an ear-training class.

  “Do you sing?” this man whom I’d seen around the school asked me. He didn’t look particularly friendly.

  “Do I what?”

  He pursed his lips and looked as if he thought I was a moron. “I need voices for the chorus of our production of Der Freischütz. We’re performing it in two weeks. Do you sing?”

  For some reason that defies any explanation by me to this day, I answered, “Well, yes, a little. I sang in choirs when I was younger.”

  Then he smiled. “Room 204, five o’clock today. Tryouts. Be there.”

  Seven of us showed up and all were taken. I only remember one thing from my first rehearsal the following Saturday morning. “Tall girl in the back row… Yes, you! You are singing too loudly! Try to blend in, if you please.”

  I’ve had trouble blending in ever since.

  That extreme left turn because of a chance hallway meeting, paid big dividends. Things began happening, good things. Heaven knows I wasn’t an overnight sensation. It was a long, hard slog and continues to be. Long ago I faced the fact that I’m not a person for whom music comes easily and naturally. I still have to work hard every day, wrestling every little thing to the ground. I’ve thrived because I’m bloody-minded and won’t give up. I do have ability, but it’s not easily accessible. It’s as if God put it all there — only forty feet below ground where I had to dig to access it.

  But I’ve become successful now. The school of hard knocks paid off. I guess you might say I’m an overnight sensation at the age of forty. I’ve survived the death of a husband, then the discovery that not only wasn’t he dead, but he wasn’t anything close to the person I thought he was. I was naive. I was stupid. I never asked questions. That naïveté almost got me killed.

  Going through all that, however, made me str-onger. I had conquered bad things when I could have easily crumbled.

  Or so I thought.

  Now, a flower on the doorstep of an apartment in Rome had brought my house of cards crashing down, shocking me into complete immobility. Staring at the TV or screen on my laptop, waiting for the latest update about De Vicenzo, my inner dialogue continued like a broken record: I was weak. I was weak. I was weak.

  Dan made coffee for me that morning. Not being used to the coffee press, it was too weak, but I drank it gratefully. All I could think about was the fact that my problem with this interloper in my life had caused the death of another. Yes, I’d really detested De Vicenzo and hoped I would never have to even set eyes on him again, let alone sing with him, once we finished our production — but he didn’t deserve to die.

  Dan, of course, tried hard to talk me out of feeling that way. “We don’t even know if this wasn’t anything more than an accident. This probably has nothing to do with your problem.”

  “What about the rose on my doorstep? Explain that away, please.”

  “It could mean anything. He could just be telling you he’s around, that despite our being on to his cameras and recordings, he can still get as close to you as he wants.”

  “I want to go to the police. Tell them what’s going on.”

  “For the love of Christ, Marta, don’t do that. Not yet, at least. Wait. Be patient.”

  “But somebody died!”

  “Wait,” he said, almost pleading, “please. You’ll look like a fool if De Vicenzo’s death has nothing to do with you and you’re blabbing about some joker who’s stalking you. Believe me, you don’t want to go down that road.”

  Pleading was so out of character for him. It got my attention.

  “Okay … for the moment.”

  While waiting until one o’clock, when I could decently call Tony who’d had his first rehearsal the previous night, I finally got my lazy butt in gear and did some vocalizing. I fully expected to be singing the next evening. It always all boils down to dollars and cents and it was a sell-out.

  To say my heart wasn’t in singing that day was not entirely accurate. I knew some warming up needed to be done, even if I didn’t want to do it. As the hands on my watch slowly dragged around to the time I could call home, I occupied myself in doing a vocal exercise, checking the news, doing another, wandering around the apartment. Stir and rep
eat until frantic.

  Dan had moved to the kitchen where I could hear him talking softly on his cell phone or tapping away on his laptop. I supposed he was trying to get information, communicating with his boss, maybe calling in some favours. But it mustn’t have been going very well, judging by his frequent loud sighs. I knew the situation was bugging him. That’s why he’d signed on to be my escort on this trip. Now this — and right under our noses, too. I tried to put that all out of my head and concentrate on the business of keeping my voice in prime shape for performing. It didn’t work and I did my vocalizing basically by rote — not a good thing. Singing must always be done with one’s brain actively engaged. That day my brain and body were in two different places and never met. Thank the Lord Lili wasn’t there to hear.

  At one o’clock on the nose, I picked up my mobile and dialed home. I was going to be cool. I was going to be together. I was going to tell it like it was.

  Tony answered groggily on the third ring.

  And I began to cry.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tony returned the phone’s handset to its cradle and lay back on the bed, looking at the ceiling. Would this never end? Something needed to be done, but what? So far they’d had no luck with anything. Chasing this Will o’ the Wisp was the most infuriating thing he’d ever experienced. The man was a bloody ghost.

  And now this.

  Glancing at the clock he saw it was only seven twenty, too early to call either Lili or Shannon O’Brien.

  By eight, Tony felt slightly more human. He’d taken a shower, shaved, and downed a double espresso. After fifteen minutes spent drumming his fingers on the kitchen table as his mind raced uselessly, he felt he could decently call Lili. She would certainly be up since her first coaching of the day began at nine. Christ! Who could sing at that ungodly hour?