The Devil's Song

by Silvana G Sánchez

  “It’s the Hurluberlu, signorina. It’s the latest style in France.” Evangelina finishes the last touches. She reaches a bag and takes out a small metallic box. “A touch of rouge…” she says, moving towards me with the box in her hand. She applies the color on my lips, enough that it gives them a natural blush.

  “Your work is magnificent.” I reach over my shoulder for Evangelina’s hand and press it with care. Tears loom in my eyes as memories of my old parlormaid’s attentions stir within my soul.

  “Twenty years deep in this company…” Evangelina says, heaving a sigh. “Costumes, hair, makeup… This is my domain.” Satisfied, she slips her hands into her apron’s pockets and winks at me.

  “Now, don’t be nervous when you step out there,” she says, patting my shoulder. “I was here when they all began their careers. Don’t let them scare you.”

  Her words give me comfort, though they do little to appease the restlessness in my heart. “Grazie, Evangelina.”

  “Evangelina!” Syneca’s voice echoes in the corridor outside my small dressing room—I call it so, although it served as a storage room but a few days ago. “Wretched woman… Where are you? I need you!”

  “All right then…” Evangelina takes a deep breath. “I must tend to our prima donna.” With a wry smile, she steps out to the corridor and closes my dressing room’s door.

  Once more, I turn to the looking glass. Is that truly me? Is it wrong that I like what I see? I sin with vanity, my gaze cannot help but linger upon my reflection.

  “I thought she would never leave…” Someone speaks behind me. I recognize that voice.

  Through the mirror, I see him. He emerges from the shadows in the corner of the room—Il Diavolo. Impeccable in his black three-piece suit embroidered in silver thread and his black hair gathered in a low coil. A few more steps, and he stands before me.

  There’s something terribly alluring in this man. The subtle sparkle of his green eyes holds me in his thrall. Il Diavolo is at his leisure, a man so comfortable in his own skin that confidence exudes from him.

  Now he leans back against the dresser. My lips part but I cannot think of a single word to say. I notice the softness of his full lips. My eyes follow the curve of his strong jawline and they inevitably find their way back to his eyes.

  His gaze locks in mine. The corner of his lips curls, hinting a tantalizing smile… Can he read my mind? Does he know how much his presence disrupts the peace within my heart?

  His hand lands on the dresser’s table. After taking a deep breath, he glides over the table and perilously leans towards my cleavage.

  What are his intentions?

  “I hear La Scuola Veneziana has found a new voice,” he adds with a sultry tone. His fingers stretch towards me, and when his hand draws closer, it immediately passes beside me and dips into the wicker basket next to me. He takes a red apple and rubs it clean against his jacket.

  The fragrance of cedarwood and moss emanating from him numbs my senses. His perfume reminds me of a dark forest, remote and unreachable, but more tempting than any other of nature’s designs… For a second, I dream about stepping into that forbidden forest, barefoot and willing to lose myself inside it.

  “I am sure I have you to thank for it,” I whisper. My cheeks burn. I could blame it on the room’s warm temperature, but I refuse to fool myself.

  “Hmmm…” He stares at the apple in his hand. With a quick twist of his wrist, he examines the fruit sideways, searching the best spot to sink his teeth.

  He takes the bite, and a tantalizing smirk follows.

  “Thank no one but your voice,” he says. And although the compliment is intended for me, the delight behind his feigned modesty is more than transparent. “I also hear our precious Syneca Fiori has not taken well the good news…”

  “It appears not,” I muse, slumping in the chair.

  “Syneca will only be a hindrance from now on…” Il Diavolo sets the apple on the table. He pulls a dagger from his belt. It’s no ordinary weapon—cast in pure silver with an exquisite pierced filigree hilt studded with four large emeralds and a hundred smaller diamonds. The pearl embedded in the pommel shimmers by the flickering candlelight. “There is only one way to deal with a hindrance.” He stabs the apple through its core, pinning it to the table.

  Clearly shocked, I rise from the chair. My eyes fly open. My mouth, agape.

  My reaction to his provocation amuses him.

  “Letizia… You truly are the most delightful creature,” he whispers, drawing near enough that his breath lands on my cheek. “Your heart is so pure… Almost as pure as your voice.” He pauses. “I covet such things, you know?”

  I avoid his stare. My heart is far from being immaculate, tainted by guilt as it is now, for at this moment, it contemplates how perfect life would be without Syneca’s shadow cast over my singing voice.

  “I should leave,” I say, gathering my hands over my skirt. “Rehearsals begin soon, and I—”

  “Then I shall detain you no further.” He takes the dagger and wipes it clean with his handkerchief. “You will not hear from me for a while, Letizia. I have some business to attend to out of town,” slipping the dagger into its sheath.

  A sudden ache pierces me as he steps away from the dresser. I purse my lips.

  “Worry not, tesoro mio.” My treasure, he whispers with a hint of intimacy. “I have eyes and ears all over the city… I promise you shan’t miss me—impossible as it seems.” A smug smile. I cannot help but smile back.

  Il Diavolo bows. As he leaves the room, anxiety and relief collide in my spirit. When will I see him again? Why do I care to know?

  In secret, I wish his absence might prolong for days without end because his sole presence reminds me of the evil that lurks in my heart.

  The escalating melody of a flute and violins filters through the long corridor and leads me to the stage. The gleam of a dozen candles mounted on a pair of floor candelabra fills the proscenium. The light is sufficient for the musicians to read the score, and enough for me to question whether this is a dream.

  My fingers glide over the red velvet draperies. Their smoothness proves me this is real.

  “Francesco! Francesco, the light!” Syneca stands center stage, fidgeting her fingers in the air with impatience. “I shan’t sing in this pitiful darkness!”

  “Syneca, please!” Giovanni claps. He drags a crooked chair through the stage and stops at the proscenium. “There’s enough light! I will not waste any more candles on a mere rehearsal.” He pauses. “Dov'è Carlo?” Where’s Carlo?

  “Carlo Ricci?” I muse. Is he here? My arms tingle with excitement as I imagine the pairing of Syneca and Carlo’s voices—it can be nothing but a celestial match… But where is he?

  Quite unexpectedly, the house’s central doors burst open. In walks a tall and well-built man. Disheveled vest, shirt stained with blotches of red wine, tattered lace hangs from his cuffs and neck… The man is a disaster. He makes the walk down the house’s central aisle barely without stumbling.

  “Carlo!” Giovanni rises from the chair. He rushes offstage to join the famous castrato.

  This is Carlo Ricci? This is the legendary voice—a man who can hardly distinguish himself from a beggar? Meeting these stars has proven nothing but disappointment.

  “You cannot go on like this, Carlo…” Giovanni says in a hoarse whisper that echoes in the theatre. “Think of your voice—think of your career!”

  Carlo turns to Giovanni. He acknowledges his well-intended advice with a simple nod. Now he walks to the proscenium. The piercing stare of his brown eyes lands sharply over Syneca. A few minutes pass before he climbs on the stage.

  However dreadful, Carlo’s appearance makes him no less desirable. His almond-shaped eyes and chiseled lips are indeed pleasing.

  “I promised I would do this,” Carlo says, stepping closer to Syneca. “So here I am.” Spite comes unfiltered through his voice.

  Syneca’s discomfort is but too obviou
s. She folds her arms over her chest. “You are… not yourself,” she mutters, moving away from him.

  “I believe the word you’re searching for is drunk.” Carlo fixes the tattered lace of his cuffs with a flick of his fingers. A few loose strands of hair fall on his face and he combs them back with a quick sweep of his hand.

  “Whatever it is, you look unwell.” Syneca sneers.

  “Do I, dearest?” Carlo says with a frown. “Oh, well… I guess you would know. After all, this is entirely your doing.” A dramatic wave of his hand follows.

  “My doing?” she stammers, hands pressed against her chest. “May I remind you, I never forced you to gamble your life away in women and liquor!”

  On the opposite side of the stage, a pair of creatures giggle, exchanging mischievous glances—Camilla and Simonetta. Though they play ethereal nymphs in L’Orfeo, such impersonations suit them poorly in real life. The vicious duo reminds me of the snakes I have often seen in the market, sinister and venomous.

  “Enough!” Giovanni claps, walking towards the stage. “Can we begin this rehearsal—possibly today?”

  With a lowered gaze, Carlo Ricci moves to the proscenium. He takes a deep breath. Pursing his lips, he turns to face the Scuola’s prima donna. The evirato’s eyes glisten with withheld tears.

  Carlo’s deplorable condition breaks my heart.

  “Go on, then.” He addresses the musicians. “I am ready.”

  The musical aria begins. Carlo’s posture stiffens—shoulders back, chest forward, hands on his waist. He raises his chin and parts his lips, and when he sings, his song becomes a desperate praise to lost love.

  Leave hell,

  Oh pain, and follow me,

  The beloved one who was taken from me stays below…

  His immaculate voice thrills every nerve in my body. In that moment, Carlo sheds from his mortal coil and becomes Orfeo incarnate. Loss resonates deeply in his song, enriched only by the pain and despair of his own.

  In the voice of Carlo Ricci, Lasciate Averno echoes profound strokes of dark beauty as no melody I have heard ever before.

  As the song reaches the end, warm tears roll down my cheeks. A delicate hand lands on my shoulder and presses it with care. I turn to face her.

  “Evangelina…” I stutter.

  She responds with a knowing look, the kind of stare I often received from my mother when I was a child.

  “His voice is a glimpse of heaven,” I add, turning towards him once more.

  “As is yours,” Evangelina says with a slow nod. “You might not remember it, but I was there the night you sang for Giovanni.” She gives me a gentle smile.

  “I cannot compare myself to them,” I whisper, staring at the divine pair. Orfeo and Eurydice—one descended from the Heavens, the other, risen from the Underworld. “Their souls bleed into the song through their voices.”

  “Letizia,” she says with maternal determination. “You are as talented as them. Never doubt that.”

  “Bene, Carlo… Bene. Take a few minutes.” Giovanni claps. “Syneca, we’re ready for you.”

  Carlo glides his hand over his short stubble beard. He lowers his shoulders, relaxing his posture… The magic is gone. The light that radiated from him minutes ago slowly fades, and he is mortal again.

  “I need a drink…” he mutters, moving towards me.

  Distraught by his inner turmoil, Carlo’s arm hits my shoulder as he walks off stage. “Forgive me,” he says, turning back. His scrutinizing stare sweeps every inch of my face. “I’ve not seen you before around here…”

  “Lei è il sostituto di Syneca,” Evangelina says. “Her name is Letizia Leone.”

  Evangelina’s words cast an irresistible chime to his ears. Carlo does nothing to conceal his amusement. The gloom flees from his countenance as he leans close to me.

  “Il sostituto di Syneca…” he muses. “Oh, she must absolutely hate you—which makes you my favorite person in the world.” Carlo’s hand smooths over mine, stealthy as a thief. He draws it close to his lips and kisses it.

  “I look forward to seeing more of you in the future.” His voice is sensual and tinged with mischief. Carlo makes a quick bow and he retires to his dressing room.

  This brief encounter is enough to make my heart race with excitement. “Carlo Ricci,” I muse, carelessly revealing my sudden infatuation with the Scuola’s primo uomo.

  “Pay no attention to him, dear.” Evangelina holds my hand. “Carlo and Syneca are at odds at the moment, but he will go back to her… He always does.” She finishes with a deep sigh of regret.

  “Are they a couple?” I ask, compelled by my innate curiosity. Oh, that I were able to contain it!

  “Mm…” Evangelina nods. “You could say that, child.”

  “Letizia!” Giovanni calls from the proscenium. “Will you please pay attention, ragazza! You are here to learn Eurydice’s role, not to catch the latest gossip!”

  “Forgive me, Signor Giovanni.” My cheeks burn. “It will not happen again.”

  “It is useless, Giovanni,” Syneca intervenes. “The girl has less than four weeks to learn the part… It is quite simply impossible—”

  “I will decide what is and what isn’t possible.” Giovanni folds his arms over his chest. He slips into the crooked chair once more. “Allora, we may continue.”

  The prima donna is determined to see me fail. An image sparks before my mind’s eye: Il Diavolo, stabbing the red apple straight through its core. Syneca will only be a hindrance from now on.

  I cannot deny it, Il Diavolo’s words cast dark ripples in my soul.

  The month of February has arrived, and with it, the Carnival. Travelers from distant lands have come to witness Syneca Fiori and Carlo Ricci’s magical transformation into Eurydice and Orfeo.

  I sit by the garret’s window. The room is terribly cold, but being the tallest part of the theater it offers a priceless view.

  As evening falls flaming torches guide the way into the theater. The quiet surroundings are soon disrupted by the tumult of an incoming horde. Tonight, the Scuola’s theater becomes the heart of La Serenissima.

  I feast my eyes with the exuberance of nobles making the walk into the theater. Somehow, I have become part of this. Somehow, I have taken the plunge into a world of gallant castrati and whimsical prima donnas… I cannot help but giggle.

  My amusement lasts little. Soon I realize I’m not alone in this long forgotten room. The fidgety shadow of a moth moves across the garret. The creature flies towards me. It lands on my hand.

  I raise my candle. “You are no moth,” I whisper. Bathed in the small pool of amber light, the butterfly’s velvety blue wings flap slowly. “How on earth did you find me? Have you seen my brother tonight? He comes with Carina.”

  The creature’s dark eyes fix at me directly. And then, the oddest thing occurs. It stops moving.

  The door bursts open behind me. “Letizia!”

  Startled, I get on my feet. The butterfly flees into the garret’s shadows.

  “Letizia, you must come.” She marches into the room and grabs my hand, pressing it tightly.

  “Evangelina… What is it?”

  Side by side, we descend the narrow stairway. Although she instigates me with urgency, Evangelina’s shortness of breath hinders the speed of her pace.

  “Signor Giovanni needs you,” she says, taking a moment to recover. “Quickly now!” Her hand glides on my back as she ushers me to move where she no longer is able to lead the way.

  I move through the damp corridor, dodging the heavy transit of dancers and singers. One look back leads me to a weary Evangelina who fans her ruddy face with her hand as she leans against the wall. Noticing my stare, she bats her hand in the air, urging me to move forward.

  Inside Syneca’s dressing room there’s too much agitation. In costume, Camilla and Simonetta step out of the room, arms locked. The murmurs exchanged between them remain a mystery to me, but concern and even a faint sense of alarm filters through th
eir voices.

  “What is the matter?” I ask the gossiping pair. A dismissive side glance is all I get as response. And as if no question had ever been spoken, they pick up their light golden gowns and hurry along the corridor.

  Wretched creatures.

  “What mystery is this?” I step closer to the doorway, ready to look inside when a vase crashes against the door’s jamb, splintering into myriad porcelain shards.

  Taking both hands to my chest, I move aside quickly.

  “That was close, carissima!” a gentle voice says. He meets me at the doorway. His black leather shoes and blue velvet suit are immaculate. Oddly enough, his shirt is disheveled, and the locks of his wavy hair, entangled.

  “Carlo?” I muse with a frown.

  “In bocca al lupo…” Into the wolf’s mouth, he says, the common manner of wishing good luck to a performer. Carlo leans against the jamb, raising his brow.

  “Crepi il lupo.” May the wolf die, I reply. Why has he chosen those words? Before I am able to ask the question, he pats my shoulder and slips beside me. His long stride takes him halfway through the corridor within seconds.

  “Letizia…” Signor Giovanni waits inside, standing in the middle of the room. “Come in.”

  Suspicion brews in my mind and I hesitate to follow Signor Giovanni’s instruction. A hand lands on my back and pushes me inside. When I turn, I catch I glimpse of Evangelina’s light grey eyes as she shuts the door.

  Signor Giovanni clasps his hands behinds his back. “This is grave,” he muses. “Very grave indeed,” he adds, pacing in the room.

  “I did not know it was forbidden,” I begin, not knowing what prompts my speech. “I only wanted to see, signore…”

  Signor Giovanni stops and turns to me. “What on earth are you saying?”

  “The garret, signore.” I purse my lips. “Had I known, I would never—”

  “This has nothing to do with the garret, Letizia,” he says.

  “Then I do not understand. I was brought here with such rashness that I thought—”