The Devil's Song

by Silvana G Sánchez

  “Syneca, please—!”

  “You cannot fool me, wretched old man…” Syneca mutters. “You want someone younger, a singer who will fill the booths for her physical appeal… You care nothing for the voice!” she finishes with a dramatic hand gesture, flicking her hand in the air.

  “Duke Contarini cannot afford to cancel a single performance. He has made himself abundantly clear… It is decided.” Giovanni straightens his silk cravat and clears his throat. “I will hear her sing. And if I like her, she will stay.”

  Can this be real? Is this conversation actually revolving around me as its main subject?

  All eyes turn to me.

  Pursing her lips and with flaring nostrils, Syneca folds her arms over her chest. “Well, then?” she presses, looking at me. “Sing, ragazza!”

  Giovanni’s soft hand lands on my arm. “This way, my dear…” He leads me to the ancient altar. “Pay no attention to our prima donna,” he whispers in my ear before stepping down.

  Unworthiness overwhelms me as I stand on the same stage where Syneca has just sung. It does not seem real that I—an absolute nobody—should sing before such an imposing group. How was I ushered into this position? Is this God’s work?

  The man holding the violin gets on his feet. He approaches me. “The name of the song, signorina?”

  “You may sing a frottola if that is all you know…” Syneca turns to Giovanni and utters a mirthless laugh.

  Syneca misjudges me. She believes I am not acquainted with the works of our Italian master composers. But she is gravely mistaken, for growing up under my mother’s wing, I studied closely Signor Rossi and Monteverdi’s compositions.

  “Si dolce è’l tormento,” I whisper. Warmth rises to my cheeks.

  The lute’s first notes give me pause to ease my racing breath. Following Syneca’s example, I close my eyes. In the darkness that ensues, I allow myself to be wrapped in the melody. The harpsichord’s lingering basso continuo and the wailing violin hold me in a trance.

  The time has come. I sing the words:

  So sweet is the torment that lies in my heart,

  That I live happily from its cruel beauty...

  So long as the melody plays, I sing Signor Monteverdi’s words. In this precious moment of detachment from the world, I am ushered by the song away from this room. Il Diavolo’s promise rings in my ears, and I see myself singing this very melody, center stage of the most exclusive theaters in Europe. A silent crowd sits before me with expectant stares full of hope and dozens of red roses in their hands.

  Fortune and fame. A life devoted to the Arts is one that appeals to me—a life of financial independence appeals to me even more. My hunger for success drives away from my being any trace of anxiety and makes my song truer than I ever thought it could be.

  The melody reaches the final notes. I open my eyes.

  Before me stands a tearful Giovanni. He clasps his hands over his chest and his thin lips purse, suppressing a smile. He gently nods. Giovanni’s hands unclasp and join once more at the beginning of an ovation.

  “Brava!” he says. “Brava! Bravissima!”

  Other voices join his celebration. A sudden round of applause echoes in the vaulted room. At the end of the old chapel, in the central aisle, a gathering of a dozen men and women stand. The cheers come from them.

  Giovanni smiles. He ushers me down the small stage. “Rehearsals begin tomorrow evening,” he says.

  “Am I…?” Words elude me. I can hardly breathe.

  “Signorina Leone,” he adds with a grin. “Welcome to La Scuola Veneziana dell’Opera.”

  I think I might die of happiness. “Thank you, signore!” I say, shaking his hand. “Thank you!”

  Is this a dream? I’m convinced it’s not only because my mind’s devices could never have concocted such a wondrous fantasy.

  On my way out, I stop at the church’s central nave. I take one good look at the vaulted ceiling—angels smile down upon me. I have sung and people enjoyed my voice, and Signor Giovanni had been moved to tears by it.

  This is real.

  “Giovanni is a fool…” a bitter voice says. Syneca. She stands at the doorway.

  “You have no training, ragazza.” She sneers, opening the door. “You will never be a true soprano.”

  My heart breaks in silence. Those terrible words wound me, spoken by the very woman who had once inspired my passion for music.

  You are wrong, I want to say. Nothing in the world will deter me from this opportunity. Even you, the Scuola’s prima donna, once had a beginning too… I want to say many things, yet I remain silent.

  A cool gust of wind filters through the door’s opening. Syneca opens the door wider. I step outside, to the damp streets where it no longer rains.

  The door slams shut behind me. My life has given a quick turn, I should be happy, but such bliss is tarnished by Syneca’s unpleasantries towards me.

  Darkness stirs in the depths of my heart. I wish she had not been here to cast a shadow over my good fortune. And in the company of such bothersome thoughts, I move. Muddied callis lead the way back home.

  Not a sound lingers in the dismal emptiness of our street. I stop at the entrance to wipe the mud off my boots. The flickering amber gleam of candlelight draws my eyes up to Fabrizio’s window.

  The clock has yet to strike the hour, but darkness spreads early in the winter season. I have certainly gained my brother’s disapproval tonight. It is not safe for a woman to wander the streets alone at night, he usually says—and with just reason.

  The wretched door betrays my intent of entering the house undetected. A sudden warm wave envelops me the minute I step inside. The hearth’s logs have all but charred, embers rise from the dying flames. The comforting warmth embraces me and soothes the heartache of knowing myself slighted by the great Syneca Fiori. And almost as quickly, happier news come to my mind like a balsam that heals my pain.

  “Letizia, is that you?” Fabrizio calls from his room. His voice is dimmed by chronic fatigue. My brother’s heavy footsteps echo in the hallway as he reaches the stairs.

  “Fabrizio!” I say, running to meet him. “Dearest Fabrizio, I have the best news!” My hands reach his and press them with fondness.

  “Hmmm…” He raises one eyebrow. “Will this have anything to do with your whereabouts at such inappropriate hours?”

  I nod.

  “Please tell me this has nothing to do with Mattia Moretti!” he adds.

  “It has nothing and everything to do with him,” I muse. Indeed, my plans concerning Mattia Moretti are in dire need of being revised.

  “Letizia, you are not making sense.” Fabrizio shakes his head, wrinkling his nose. “What is this news?”

  “Dear brother… Tonight, I have been accepted in La Scuola Veneziana dell’Opera. I am their newest soprano.”

  “What are you saying?” stepping back. “How can that be? One does not simply step into la Scuola and ask to be hired.”

  “I know, it was all thanks to my patron—I am certain of it.” I bite my lower lip. This was that man’s work, wasn’t it—Il Diavolo?

  “A patron?” Fabrizio furrows his brow. He does his best to contain from yawning but it finally happens. “Since when do you have a patron?”

  “Since yesterday,” I plainly say.

  “La Scuola, a patron…” He dips his fingers in his mane of ashen hair and gives it a good shake. “Letizia, why did you not say something about this earlier?”

  “Please understand, Fabrizio. I was unsure whether the man’s words were true… But they were. I will sing for La Scuola Veneziana!

  “Then I am happy for you, dearest sister.” He wraps me in his arms. “Your voice is a God-given gift,” he adds, parting from our embrace. “I always knew you would be discovered sooner or later. It was bound to happen.”

  “Had I your confidence, Fabrizio…” I smile. “Here.” Slipping my hand over the table, I take both pieces of parchment in my hand. “I want you to have thi
s,” I say, offering them to him.

  “The tickets to Syneca’s performance?” he asks, confused.

  “Take Carina to the concert. She will be happy you asked.” I untie my cloak quickly and gather it over my arm. Weariness takes hold of me as the evening’s excitement diminishes.

  “But, are you sure?” he asks. “Syneca Fiori—”

  “I have met her…” I hesitate to say.

  Fabrizio’s brown eyes widen with astonishment. “Have you? Well, I can only imagine how much that encounter added to your happiness.” He follows me upstairs. “So, was she as wonderful as you expected?”

  “Not at all…” I muse. The shadow of her hateful remarks returns to haunt me. But a quick shake of my head and a pleasing smile dismiss those thoughts instantly. “It does not signify. Besides, I can hear her sing during rehearsals from now on.” I grin. “Please.”

  Fabrizio takes the tickets and half-smiles. “La Scuola Veneziana… it seems too good to be true,” he muses. His hopeful stare locks in mine. “You will be handsomely paid, dear sister—”

  “You have worked hard for our sakes…” I say, smoothing my hand on his jawline. “It is my turn now.”

  Fabrizio furrows his brow. “Letizia, you do not have to—”

  “We will get this house back, Fabrizio. We will get our lives back… This, I promise you.” I pause. “Time for bed.”

  His delicate lips stretch in a smile. “I do not think I will be able to sleep!”

  A snigger escapes through my lips. “Go to bed, dear brother… Dream of Carina, and dream of the beginning of our new life.”

  The sun has barely struck the first rays in the clouded sky. I tie the dark green velvet hood under my chin and close the door behind me.

  Against the freezing breeze, I strut with determination. It is a cool morning. The first strokes of winter cast a pale blue shade upon every bridge and calle. Vendors sail through the canal carrying fruits and vegetables on their way to the market.

  Within minutes, I have reached the Grand Canal. A few feet ahead lies an imposing palazzo with spiked crenellations that pierce the heavens. Golden foil on the facade’s several arches reflects the sun’s faint rays.

  I take a second as I stand midway through the bridge, my eyes lock on the majestic palazzo. The words are not yet clear in my mind, but I know what I intend to say.

  “Dear God, enlighten me…” I whisper, closing my cloak tight.

  My hands grow numb as I move down the narrow calle. Tall stone walls engulf me with their tiny windows and small doors—the servants’ humble entrances to the majestic buildings.

  I do not care to arrive at the front water gate as an aristocrat would. With a tight fist, I knock on the wooden door three times.

  No answer.

  I knock once more, and before I am able to knock again, the door opens. A robust woman stands before me. She fixes her laced cap over her curly red hair with haste. Her crooked smile almost makes me regret ever coming here, but I do not run away.

  “What do you want?” she asks. Delightful woman.

  “I am here to see Signore Mattia Moretti,” I say.

  The woman’s squinting eyes fly open. She inspects my attire with a quick gaze. The quality of my clothes impresses her enough. She seems satisfied that I am no beggar seeking food or asylum.

  “Who is it, Maria?” a man’s croaky voice asks inside.

  “Mind your business will you, Thomas?” she shouts across the room. Her eyes fill with disdain as they land on me once more. “So you’re here to see the master, are you?” through clenched teeth. “I assume you have no name, nobildonna… Highborn ladies never have names at these hours…” opening the door wider. “Come on, go ahead. The master takes his breakfast in the dining room… Through there.”

  Her thick arm raises in midair and a crooked finger points me to a hallway. At the end of this hallway, I catch a glimpse of a narrow stairway.

  The woman is quick to disregard my presence. She turns away, back into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the corridor.

  In the darkness, I move through the passage and climb the old wooden staircase.

  Standing before the imposing mahogany door, I take a deep breath. What on earth possessed me to come here? I hardly know it. But the moment is now, and I cannot doubt myself.

  The heavy sound echoes when I knock on the door.

  “Come in…” I recognize the voice. He’s inside. My heart races and my breath escapes me—I cannot wait for it to be over.

  “Uno, due…” I whisper, closing my eyes. My hand closes around the doorknob. “Tre.”

  Behind the door, my eyes meet a familiar sight: a vast room with tall stuccoed ceilings, ornamented with colorful frescoes. Golden drapes frame an outstanding view of the Grand Canal, and before the quadrifora, a large dining table is dressed with exquisite linens. The setting’s silverware gleams by the pale morning light filtering through the windows… And there, he sits.

  “Yes, Thomas… What is it?” It takes him a while to raise his eyes.

  “Mattia,” I say with a low voice. “It’s me.”

  “Dear Lord, Letizia!” Mattia rises from the seat, astonished. His gaze sweeps me from hem to hood. “I did not expect you to call,” he says, wiping the corner of his lips with the napkin. “And certainly not at this hour…”

  “I could wait for this no longer…” I say, catching my breath.

  Startled and amused, a quick smile blooms on his lips. He walks around the table and moves to meet me at the door.

  “Well, well…” he muses. “Hasty, indeed… Understandable, I suppose… considering my great consequence and the nature of my proposal.”

  I purse my lips, saving a most contemptuous reply that would shock his ears.

  “Care to sit down?” he says, his hand offers me the chair behind him.

  Shaking my head, I purse my lips again. “No… Please, what I have to say will take little of your time.”

  Mattia hints a smile, but uncertainty looms in his eyes.

  “I have come to give an answer to your proposal,” I say.

  “Ah…” raising his brow. “It is most unconventional. But now that you are here, I want you to know that every aspect concerning our matrimony I will leave in your delicate hands… I know nothing of these matters. Whatever you decide shall be done.” He leans against the table, folding his arms over his chest.

  “You assume too much, Mattia…” I say, tilting my head.

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “I have come here to refuse your proposal…” I add. “I have given great thought to the matter, and the truth is I cannot marry you.”

  Some people may call me foolish, but I cannot cheat my heart from its true desire… And although I do not know yet for whom it beats, there’s enough clarity in my mind to cast him away.

  Mattia utters a mirthless laugh. “Dearest Letizia,” he says with a smug expression. “You cannot be serious… Is this your way of increasing my affections? Do you seek to feed my anxiety with this refusal? Because if that is your intention—”

  “I assure you, I would never tease a respectable man.” My hands land on my lap. I clasp them tight so as to avoid smacking his ruddy cheeks.

  “Then, quite frankly, I do not understand.” He frowns. “My… rank, my fortune… Surely, you realize the superiority of my condition, dearest Letizia.”

  “I am aware of it, Mattia…”

  “Most people would consider our marriage a most disadvantageous match on my regard,” he mutters, clenching his fist. “However this would mean nothing if you were to accept me.”

  “The disadvantages which you have stated and that so clearly divide us are surely enough reason for you to take back your proposal…” I say without moving an inch.

  “I will do no such thing.” Mattia throws the napkin over the table.

  “Mattia, I—”

  “You have acted with haste, dear Letizia… A flaw I am willing to overlook on this occasion.” H
e stops at the door. “Take all the time you need. I am sure you will see things clearly when you get home.”

  “I have acted rashly, indeed. But trust me to know my better judgment, Mattia! I cannot and surely will not marry you.”

  “Are you mocking me?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “I can see no reason for your refusal other than…” He bites his lower lip. “There is someone else.”

  “Of course not!”

  “Who is it?” His hand seizes my wrist. “Tell me. I must know!”

  “Mattia, you are hurting me!” Tears loom in my eyes. I struggle to break free from his powerful grip, twisting my hand again and again.

  His face flares and his eyes are fixed with fury.

  “You will not make a fool out of me, Letizia!” he roars, pulling me closer.

  With panting breath, I push my hand against his chest. I bend my knee, raise my foot high enough, and then I slam the heel of my boot against his foot.

  He growls, releasing me at last.

  I take a step back. The blood chills in my veins as I see the monster loom beneath his gilded frame.

  “This is not over, Letizia! You will regret this!”

  “It is over, Mattia! Finito!” I hear myself scream. My hand reaches the door’s jamb and I take the impulse to run through the corridor, down the crooked staircase, and out of the palazzo into the narrow calle.

  My racing heartbeat pounds in my ears. The winter wind lashes against my face, but I do not feel cold.

  “He’s mad!” I say, gripping my cloak against my chest. “Mad!”

  I run across the bridge, past many streets where bustling crowds now gather as the morning sets in. My mind is burdened by Mattia’s last words, but my heart is free, free and light as a feather.

  The heavy locks of my blonde hair fall gracefully over my shoulder. The woman standing behind me takes a step back. Her complacent gaze lands on my reflection in the mirror.

  “This is beautiful, Evangelina…” I say in complete awe at the high chignon with ribbon loops. A ringlet falls over each one of my shoulders. “I have not seen this hairstyle before—what do you call it?”