1 - Interrupted Aria

by Beverle Graves Myers

  When I was done, she leaned over me and placed the fingers of her right hand over mine. She had supple hands with long, tapering fingers.

  “Sing it again,” she breathed near my ear. “Let me play it with you.”

  I repeated a verse. Her hair brushed my cheek. Her warm hand lay on mine, following its every move. As I pressed a key, her finger pressed mine. We were so close, I could feel the vibration in her throat while she hummed along with my song.

  Again I felt her lips against my ear. “Tito, you do what no other can. You make me feel the music from the inside.” This time, she didn’t protest when I led her toward the bedroom.

  Chapter 23

  Torani waved his arm in a wide arc across the back of the bare stage and addressed the assembled singers. “Here the set designer will build a mountain promontory, very craggy, probably covered with brush. No, pine trees, I think.” The little director stepped back for a thoughtful moment, then paced to the other side of the stage, rubbing his chin and muttering under his breath.

  I stifled an irritated yawn as he described the proposed sets for Eurydice in Erebus, the opera Orlando had written for the next production. The libretto recounted the myth of Orpheus, the incomparable musician who tried, but ultimately failed, to bring his beloved Eurydice back from the underworld.

  Now promoted to primo uomo, I would play the juicy role of Orpheus. Ordinarily, I would have been walking on air, but with my lack of progress in freeing Felice, a depression as gray as the smoke hovering over a charcoal burner’s kiln had settled on me. I should have been home, waiting for Brother Mark. My frustration at going through the motions of learning a new part must have been obvious. Caterina threw me a sympathetic glance every time our eyes met.

  Torani had changed his mind about getting rid of the young soprano; Caterina would be singing Eurydice. Perhaps the kindlier, more cooperative attitude she had exhibited of late had influenced our director. More likely, however, was the excitement that the news of her true parentage was generating. Caterina had made it public knowledge that she was Adelina Belluna’s daughter. Torani knew how favorably the swell of gossip about such a delicate matter could influence ticket sales. Marguerite, our other female soprano, had not been left out. She would sing Proserpina, the queen of Erebus. The role of her consort, Pluto, and the other, smaller roles had not yet been cast.

  At deep stage right, Torani sketched a large triangular shape with his hands. “We’ll put the entrance to the underworld right here. Tito, this will be the scene of your most dramatic aria. You see, the opening in the rock will be shut, or perhaps open just a crack. As the grief-stricken Orpheus begs the mountain to allow him to follow his beloved into the land of the shades, the earth, seemingly moved by his sad refrain, will actually split in a huge crevice. The whole mountain will shake and boulders will rain down from everywhere. It will make a splendid finale for Act One. The audience will go mad for it.”

  He called toward the orchestra pit, “Orlando, play a bit of that aria.” The composer complied, and we were treated to a lovely passage, melodic but full of pathos.

  “You hear it, Tito?” the director continued. “Orlando has created a masterpiece. You’ll be singing that aria for years to come.”

  I nodded vaguely, longing to wipe the composer’s insufferably self-satisfied smirk off his face.

  Torani ignored my lack of enthusiasm and continued in an expansive vein. “Once inside the great cavern, Orpheus must confront Charon, the ferryman who conducts the shades of the newly departed across the River Styx. That’s where Crivelli comes in. Where is he anyway? He was supposed to be here at nine o’clock.” Torani paused in his perambulations to lift a handkerchief to his perspiring forehead.

  “I’m here, Maestro, just a bit late getting going this morning.” We turned to see Crivelli coming across the pit in a fur-trimmed cloak, raising his silver-headed walking stick in greeting.

  Orlando launched into a sprightly march tune while the old castrato made his way to the stage. I was heartily pleased that Torani had also reversed his decision about getting rid of Crivelli. The role of Charon, the hoary boatman, was perfect for my friend. While we had gathered for rehearsal, Orlando had played a few bits from the opera, including Charon’s lament. The haunting solo could have been written especially for Crivelli, so closely did its range and style follow the old man’s remaining talents. Surprising, and uncharacteristically charitable, of Orlando to write a role that would induce the management to keep a singer who had been marked for forced retirement.

  Crivelli came onstage spewing good-natured, witty banter. Even the haughty Marguerite unbent sufficiently to smile and laugh at his quips. Torani seemed to forget that the elderly singer had been late and got busy handing out sheets of music. Except for my private woes, it seemed nothing could dampen the spirits of the company that morning.

  Torani had us begin with a pivotal scene. He ordered Caterina and me to the far right of the stage, the place traditionally given to the most important singers. Marguerite was placed at the less respected downstage left. In song, I was to beg the underworld majesties for permission to take my bride back to the world of the living. Crivelli was in the wings, waiting to enter as Charon the boatman.

  I have to admit that I enjoyed singing my recitative and aria. Orlando had abandoned his stock musical gestures and composed in a fresh, totally modern style. Marguerite did not fare as well. Perhaps she was peeved at being relegated to the left side of the stage or perhaps she was just being Marguerite. She halted her aria a dozen times with questions or complaints. Each time she asked for clarification on a passage, Orlando rummaged for something at his feet and spent more precious minutes in deep study.

  While Orlando sparred with Marguerite, I gathered Caterina and Crivelli to the back of the stage, recounted the latest developments concerning Felice, and begged their assistance in bringing this rehearsal to a speedy close so I could meet Brother Mark in good time. Fate seemed to oppose us. Marguerite’s aria lurched along by fits and starts, straining tempers and dissolving the genial mood of the earlier morning. Everyone gave a sigh of relief when Torani gave us a break and went down to the harpsichord to have a word with Orlando.

  “Well, I never saw anything like that,” said Marguerite, as we settled ourselves around the table in the lounge downstairs.

  Crivelli reached toward the window ledge for the ever-present bottle of wine and poured some for each of us. “What do you mean, Marguerite?”

  “The man seems like he barely knows his own music. My score was copied so hastily and had so many blots that I could barely follow it. When I asked Orlando what he meant by this or that passage, he got all flustered.”

  I nodded. My copy had been rather messy as well.

  “Orlando has always been a hothead,” Caterina put in. “Don’t let him rattle you.”

  Marguerite drew herself up, and the slack tissue under her jaw quavered. “It wasn’t I who was rattled. But I must say, I expected better from this theater. Whoever heard of a composer who knows his music so poorly that he has to consult his original score every time there’s a blotch on the copy?”

  “Is that what he was doing?” asked Crivelli thoughtfully.

  “Oh, yes,” answered the huffy soprano. “He keeps the original composition in that satchel he’s been guarding like a mother lion with her cub. Each time he wrestled that big, red book out of his bag and started thumbing through the pages, I knew he would take forever. Meanwhile, Torani is pacing back and forth and breathing down my neck like it’s all my.…”

  Caterina’s hand shot out. She laced her fingers around Marguerite’s wrist, causing the older woman to halt her tirade and draw back in alarm. Caterina spoke very evenly, “What did you just say?”

  “What are you doing? Has everyone in this company lost their senses?” Marguerite jerked her arm away from Caterina.

  “The book Orlando was consulting, what did it look like? I must know.” Caterina’
s eyes blazed.

  Marguerite smoothed her hair, regarded the cracked ceiling, and sighed heavily.

  “Please, Marguerite. The book?” I begged.

  “Well, I don’t see that it matters. But, all right…it was large, folio-sized, bound in red leather.…”

  The other three of us traded portentous looks.

  I couldn’t get to the stairs fast enough. Caterina was close on my heels with Crivelli clumsily bringing up the rear.

  We crossed the stage on a dead run. Torani and Orlando looked up in surprise as our shoes clattered down the short flight of stairs into the orchestra pit. The director’s frizzed curls seemed to stand on end. “What’s the meaning of this? Is something wrong?”

  “We think something is very wrong.” Caterina’s sharp chin jabbed the air. “There, in Orlando’s satchel.”

  The composer made a lumbering dive for the leather bag, but Caterina beat him to it. Her fingers fumbled to unbuckle the straps.

  Orlando erupted with an unintelligible bellow and threw himself at the soprano. Caterina ended up on the floor in a jumble of skirts but managed to keep her prize clutched tightly to her chest. When Orlando actually started raining blows on the slight, but determined woman, Torani added physical intervention to his verbal protests.

  While I fought to restrain the composer’s flailing arms, Torani helped Caterina to her feet. The unpleasant bout ended with Torani in firm possession of the satchel. He stood between Orlando and Caterina, both of them breathing heavily and eyeing each other like back-alley cur dogs about to fight over a meaty shinbone. Marguerite watched with unbridled curiosity, and an open mouth, from the stage above.

  “Will one of you please tell me what is going on?” asked a bewildered Torani.

  Caterina and Orlando were still locked in a combat of gazes, so I answered, “The red book that Orlando has been consulting, we need to examine it.”

  The composer broke his hostile stare and made another grab for his bag. “That’s my property and I’ll thank you to return it.” Torani retreated a few steps and questioned me with his eyes.

  “A folio bound in red leather was stolen from Adelina’s apartment after she died. We’ve been looking everywhere for it. Now it seems to be concealed in Orlando’s satchel.”

  “That’s preposterous. I’ve had that book forever. It’s just pages of blank musical staffs bound together. Very convenient for composing. You can buy one like it at a score of different shops around the city.”

  Crivelli’s reedy tones sounded out. “Then you won’t mind if we take a look at it.”

  While Orlando sputtered protests, Torani opened the satchel and removed the large folio. His eyes slowly scanned the first leaf, then quickly devoured the next few pages. The little director tightened his jaw. “Do you have any explanation for this, Martello?”

  The composer’s face turned an angry red, and he silently opened and closed his mouth like a freshly caught fish flopping on a riverbank.

  Caterina held out her hand, and Torani gave her the volume with a gentle smile. “Yes, my dear, this rightfully belongs to you.”

  Crivelli and I crowded behind the young soprano and read over her shoulder. The title page ran:

  Eurydice in Erebus

  An Opera in Three Acts

  By Adelina Belluna

  With Libretto by Riccardo Guardi

  Caterina slowly turned the pages. Musical notes written in Adelina’s small, firm hand danced across line after line. I stopped Caterina when she reached the aria I had just rehearsed. In the margin, near a run of rapid roulades followed by a lung-busting trill that had taxed my skill to its limits, the true composer of the opera had written: How do you like this, my dear Tito?

  Drops of water hit the page and blurred the ink. The tears fell from Caterina’s eyes, but they could just as easily have been mine. With this wonderful creation, Adelina was reaching out to us from the realm of the dead as surely as the heroine of her masterpiece had called to her lover from the mythological land of Erebus.

  Crivelli had clapped a hand on my shoulder when he saw Adelina’s message. Now he tightened his grip. “We can’t let Orlando just walk out of here like nothing has happened.”

  The composer had retrieved his leather satchel and was stuffing it with loose papers. He snatched his heavy greatcoat off the railing and pushed his way through a flock of orchestra chairs, scattering them this way and that. He was on the point of leaving. Quickly, I jumped on the stairs to block his way.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Orlando?”

  “Away from these so-called musicians who don’t appreciate a genius when he’s right under their noses.”

  “How dare you call yourself a genius when you’ve pirated someone else’s work?”

  The composer twisted his sensual lips into an ugly sneer. “You don’t understand, none of you do. Adelina’s opera was just a stopgap. I need something to earn my living while I finish my own masterwork. You can’t imagine what it is to be hemmed in by the demands of people who don’t understand what it takes to create an opera. I mean a real opera, not the fluff and spectacle you Venetians love.” He shifted his gaze among us, never making full eye contact. “They expect me to turn them out every month or two. I must have scope, latitude. I need time to nurture my music to greatness.”

  “But you stole Adelina’s creation. How can you defend that?”

  “I did the woman no harm. Adelina is sleeping with the worms on San Michele. She’s beyond such worldly matters.” He tossed his dark head. “Actually, she should be grateful to me. If I hadn’t retrieved the book, Eurydice might have moldered in a drawer until it crumbled to dust. At least I made sure the opera would be heard.”

  Crivelli spoke up. “How did you know Eurydice existed?”

  “Adelina had never done any major composing before. Oh, she had written a few vocal serenades, but putting an opera together is a much more complex business. She wanted to keep the piece a secret until she felt more sure of herself, but she asked me enough questions to let me guess what she was doing. It amused me to help her. I thought we might become a team.” Surprisingly, he had the grace to hang his head at the memory.

  “You wanted her to go to England with you, but she refused,” I said, still blocking the stairs.

  “You’re remembering the scene you and your mousy sister spied on after Viviani’s reception.”

  “We weren’t spying, but we did overhear. Were you planning to live on Adelina’s earnings while you polished your masterpiece?”

  He raised his chin provocatively. “And what of it? Adelina should have been happy to help me. I would have written wonderful parts for her. Together, we would have taken London by storm. She was a fool.”

  “Take care, Orlando, you’re talking about my mother,” Caterina said, still simmering with anger.

  The composer whirled on the soprano. “Not exactly a model of maternal devotion was she? Too busy being Viviani’s whore I suppose. I’ll never understand why she refused my offer of marriage to stay in this dying city and be used by that vain, self-important aristocrat.”

  He saw me shake my head, and his voice rose in intensity. “Yes, you preening capon, your precious Venice is dying. Have you been over to the shipyard lately? Half the men are idle and their tools are rusty. The trade is to the west now, to the New World. England’s star is rising and Venice’s will soon sink below the horizon. It’s the same with our profession. The center of opera is moving north, to London, and I’m going with it.”

  Orlando tried to brush past me and climb the stairs, but several hands reached out to grab him. Crivelli spoke the words Caterina and I were both thinking. “Please, Orlando, spare us a few more minutes before your flight to greatness. We are all aching to hear about your secondary plan.”

  Surrounded by disdainful colleagues, Orlando threw himself into the nearest chair and regarded us all sullenly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What plan
?”

  Crivelli continued in a smooth voice. “I can see it all before me as if it were a play being produced right here on this stage. Adelina wouldn’t even consider leaving Venice, and she flatly refused your offer of marriage. I would suppose her refusal came as something of a shock. You had thought you were irresistible to the fairer sex, even to charming, worldly wise beauties like Adelina. Licking your wounds, you decided that if you couldn’t have Adelina, you could at least have her opera. You’d already been paid for Juno, so you would lose nothing by killing the poor woman, purloining the score she had been laboring over, and presenting Eurydice as your own work.”

  Orlando’s eyes flashed, but he kept his temper. “You value Adelina more highly than I did, old man. Her refusal meant nothing to me. For all her celebrity, Adelina was just another woman quick to sacrifice her virtue to obtain comfortable rewards. Venice is full of her kind. London will be too, I imagine.” He leaned forward with an elbow on one knee. “Unlike you capons, when I want a woman, I always manage to find one. Besides, I was nowhere near Adelina on the night she died. I was out here at the harpsichord the entire evening.”

  “Your memory is faulty, Orlando,” I said. “You came backstage after the first act. You were so excited about Juno’s success that you were practically babbling. Or perhaps it was the brandy you were carrying around that had gone to your head.”

  “What of it?” Orlando asked with a frosty smile. “That doesn’t mean I killed Adelina.”

  “You could have run upstairs and offered her a nip of your brandy, after you had added a vial of poison, of course.”