Communion Blood (18 page)

“I am not worried now,” she interrupted. “This will be exciting. A new work, and one you have given me.” She beamed at him as if he were already her audience. “You are too good to me, Conte.”

He made her a very gallant leg. “Impossible, carina.”

She blushed prettily and achieved an adorable confusion. “I am left with nothing to say.” This disarming admission over, she went on pragmatically, “I should warm up. Where is the clavichord?”

“In the antechamber. My servants will bring it in here shortly,” said Niklos, nearly bowing to the statuesque young woman.

“I must practice my scales and intervals,” Giorgianna said, and in a burst of grandeur sallied forth in search of the clavichord.

“She is ... um ... delightful,” said Niklos. Then his expression sharpened. “Do you intend to remain with her for long?”

“My dear Niklos,” said Ragoczy in the currently fashionable languorous drawl, “I would think that is for la Ferrugia to decide, not I.”

Niklos shook his head. “You know what I mean. Do not bother with the pose.” His tone was as near to acerbic as respect would permit.

In the antechamber there was a sound of an A-major chord, fol-

lowed by an arpeggio up, scale down, played, then sung. Giorgianna’s voice had not yet achieved the large, warm sound for which she was famous; that would require a quarter of an hour of exercise.

“How much you learned from Olivia,” said Ragoczy.

“And what is your response?” Nildos pursued.

“Va bene. She is already searching for someone of higher rank and greater wealth than I possess,” said Ragoczy calmly, with no trace of affectation. “This was understood between us from the beginning. In the meantime, I suit her purposes well enough, for I add to her consequence and her wealth, but she will soon accomplish her aspirations, I have no doubt.”

“And no regret, either,” said Niklos, his features shrewd as his thoughts.

“No. No regret.”

The exercise was repeated a full step higher.

A commotion at the main door of the villa stopped their conversation, as Alfredo Cervetti appeared in the door, announcing that Maestro Scarlatti and his musicians had arrived.

“Good,” said Niklos. “Show them in.” He turned back to Ragoczy. “We will continue our talk later.”

“Assuredly,” Ragoczy said in the exaggerated manner of a dandy.

Giorgianna was now vocalizing the C-major scale, a little of her renowned vibrancy coming into her voice.

“All you lack is a lace handkerchief and a tall cane.” Niklos flung up his hands in capitulation. “Tend to your music, then.”

“As you wish,” Ragoczy imperturbably; he made a leg and went back to the trestle table to examine the score again.

Alfredo Cervetti returned with Alessandro Scarlatti close behind him. “Maestro Scar—” he began, only to have the composer interrupt him.

‘We are expected, man. Be good enough to stand aside.” He indicated the fourteen men with him, including Maurizio Reietto, who looked about with open curiosity. All the musicians carried their stands as well as their instruments. “We are ready.” He motioned to his consort to set up their stands in the center of the room. “Face the south. We will have better sound from that direction, I think.”

He turned to Ragoczy. “It took four carriages to bring us all here. They have been sent to the stables. May we arrange for food for the coachmen and water for the horses?”

Niklos spoke up. “It will be my pleasure.”

Ragoczy bowed to Niklos in perfect form. “Signore Aulirios, may I present Maestro Alessandro Scarlatti? Signore Aulirios is your host here, not I; in this villa, I am as much a guest as you, Maestro.” Scarlatti blinked, then recovered himself sufficiently to make a leg and say, “I am honored to meet you, Signore Aulirios, and I am grateful to you for allowing us to practice here.”

“The pleasure is mine,” said Niklos, as custom demanded. “I will order my servants to attend to your coachmen and see they have food and drink. I have ordered a buffet for your musicians to be served in two hours.”

Giorgianna’s vocal exercises had now reached F-major.

This magnanimous demonstration astonished Scarlatti, who took a long breath before he said, “Very good of you, Signore Aulirios. I know the consort will be grateful.” He glanced at Ragoczy. “There are two more coming: Andrea Puntello and Tancredi Guisa will be here shortly.”

The mention of these two famous singers made Niklos smile. “I will alert my staff. They will want to hear such splendid voices.” Scarlatti bowed to show an audience was fine with him. “This is only a first rehearsal; nothing polished about it.”

“I will make sure they understand.” Niklos used this as an excuse to leave his guests to their practice, only saying on the way out, “Alfredo, bring chairs for the musicians and have the clavichord brought into this room.”

“At once,” Alfredo Cervetti said, and hastened away to summon help.

“So, Maestro,” said Ragoczy as he handed the score to Scarlatti, “what do you think? Will this place do?”

“Very well indeed,” said Scarlatti with a short, approving nod. Anything Ragoczy might have said was cut short by Giorgianna, who came sailing out of the antechamber, her lovely eyes brilliant with excitement. “Maestro! Isn’t this wonderful?”

The musicians in her path moved aside for her, the viola da gamba player doing so with ill-grace. Maurizio shook his head in youthful incredulity that such excesses should be tolerated: women were troublesome, and no one knew this better than he.

“It is very fortunate that il Conte da San-Germain has such friends as Signore Aulirios,” Scarlatti said, using Ragoczy’s title for effect.

“Yes. Yes, it is,” enthused Giorgianna. She was decked out in a grand jonquil taffeta battantes, with the outer skirt pulled back to reveal the deep flounces of her embroidered ivory petticoat; her loose, elbow-length sleeves revealed three tiers of lace-trimmed en- gageantes that reached her wrists. She wore a topaz lavalier and four gold rings with precious stones. The ensemble was more suited to a public performance than a first rehearsal, but no one mentioned it to Giorgianna. “I am beside myself, I am so happy.”

“May you say the same in three hours,” said Scarlatti. He motioned the servants bearing chairs to put them down where he wanted them. “We will begin shortly,” he told Giorgianna. ‘When the clavichord is here, you may continue to practice.”

Giorgianna nodded. “Who is to play the clavichord, Maestro? You?”

“No,” said Ragoczy. “I will.” He had arranged this with Scarlatti a few days before.

Maurizio, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping, exclaimed, “You?”

Ragoczy bowed to him. “Do not despair. I will strive to be a credit to the rest of you.”

At this urbane response, Maurizio brisded. “I did not mean to insult you.” He was about to say more, then thought better of it, seized a chair, and put it down at his music stand.

Scarlatti frowned at his musicians, some of whom were chuckling at this exchange. ‘We have other matters demanding our attention,” he told them. “I will need a—” he began, addressing Alfredo Cerv- etti.

“You need a podium for your music. Yes. We have one that will do.” He hurried off and returned quickly with another of the servants: they carried between them an old lectern, one ornamented with carved eagles and the scales of justice.

“That is a very ancient piece,” Scarlatti observed as it was set down in front of him.

Ragoczy recalled the last time he had seen it, on a day when German soldiers were rioting through the city, behaving more like pillaging conquerors than the saviors they claimed to be. That was more than a thousand years ago. “Rare work.” He went into the next room to get a chair for the clavichord, and missed Scarlatti handing out the parts to his musicians. By the time he sat down at the keyboard, Scarlatti had opened his master score and was explaining about the opening bars.

“I want them largo, but not ponderous and not dragging,” he said. “You strings, I do not want any scraping—just a clear attack, as if you were stops on an organ.”

The five violinists exchanged uneasy glances. “Do you mean we are to begin—” Maurizio demonstrated a down-bow.

“Yes,” Scarlatti approved. “Just like that. All of you.” He next addressed the oboe da caccia. “When you begin the”—he sang out the melody, tapping the time on the lectern with his finger—“I want the same clean start.”

The second viola da gamba player looked uneasily at his score. “How are we to be heard without the scraping?”

“Think of yourself as a chorus, blended voices,” said Scarlatti. “Now, when we reach the andante, see that you play the pizzicato like whispers. It will let the flute warble like a nightingale. If you are too loud or too marcato, the effect will be ruined.”

The second violinist held up his bow for attention. “For the repeat as well?”

“Yes,” Scarlatti told them, an instruction that made the musicians glance among one another at this radical departure from style. “Think of yourselves as the wind in the trees; it will follow the sentiments of the text to come.”

Maurizio’s expression was eloquent of doubt, but he managed to say nothing; he flipped his part ahead and saw a twelve-measure stretch of double-bowing, the attack on the up-bow. He shook his head: more innovation.

Scarlatti continued to prepare the musicians for nearly a quarter of an hour by which time they were becoming restive. “All right. The Overture and the opening Cabaletta. Signora Ferrugia, if you please?” He indicated a place near the clavichord. “We will read it straight through without stopping; then we will discuss what you have done. We have no chorus, but that doesn’t matter right now.” He picked up his tall cane, lifted it and tapped it down four times to set the pace, then nodded to the consort to begin.

Ragoczy followed the parts provided for him, playing in strict accord with the down-beat Scarlatti sounded. The declamatory opening bars were startling, as Scarlatti intended them to be; the score read,
like the sounding of a lyre.
He was close enough to Giorgianna to see her readying herself to sing, concentrating with a dedication he knew was reserved only for music. The next passage began, the traverso flute plaintive above the plucked strings. Ragoczy provided an emphasis in bass, as the score intended. Then the Vestal Virgin began.

I, my soul given to Roma, fear for her Such things have I seen!

Such things have I seen!

Great and mighty Giove, spare Roma From the horror of my dream!

From the horror of my dream!

The plaint went on for another six lines of long legato suspensions followed by coloratura plunges. Then the pace picked up, and Giorgianna began to display the vocal ability which had gained her her glowing reputation. Ragoczy filled in the chorus notes on the clavichord as the Vestal Virgin described the fire that would bring fire and destruction upon them all.

“Very good,” Scarlatti approved as he stopped the music. “For a first reading, I am very pleased.” He turned the score back to the beginning. “Now, the pick-up in the third measure need not be so sharp. A bit more lento, if you will.” He went on, measure by measure, discussing the manner in which he wanted the music played. He was nearly finished when Alfredo Cervetti came to announce the arrival of the last carriage.

“That would be Guisa and Puntello,” said Scarlatti. “In buon punto. Bring them in.”

The musicians made a pointed effort to show their annoyance at having to accommodate singers, but it was as much a ritual as any demonstration of real rivalry, for the tenor Guisa and the bass Puntello were both well-thought-of.

Niklos Aulirios himself escorted the two men to the reception hall, making a show of welcoming them to Senza Pari. “I am grateful to you for doing this villa the honor of hearing you sing.”

Andrea Puntello, an ample-bodied man of about thirty-five dressed in the height of fashion including a magnificent wig of cascading russet curls, made a leg to his host. “On the contrary, Signore, it is you who honor us.”

Although somewhat younger, leaner, and less extravagantly dressed, Tancredi Guisa had the same flamboyance of manner. Not to be outdone by his colleague, he also made a leg. “To permit us to practice this new work is a kindness indeed.”

Scarlatti stopped this effusive flow with a calm observation: “Signori, it is not yet time for curtain-calls.”

Guisa laughed and, after an instant, so did Puntello. “As you say, Maestro,” Guisa responded for them both. “We must earn our keep.” With that, he hastened over to Giorgianna, seized her hand and kissed it. “La Ferrugia!”

“Che bellezza!” Puntello exclaimed, and claimed her hand from Guisa. “What good fortune for us, to sing a new work with you.” Ragoczy watched this enthusiastic exchange with amusement; he had heard Giorgianna speak of these two colleagues in roundly condemning terms as well as affectionate ones, and that she was not impressed with their ebullient displays.

“Signori,” said Scarlatti with exaggerated patience, “if it would not disturb you too much, may we resume?”

“Of a certainty,” said Puntello, all magnanimity. “We will take out our parts and be prepared to sing.”

“Tante grazie,” said Scarlatti with mild sarcasm. He spoke to his consort next. “We will do it again, to the same point. And you, Puntello,” he added, “you will sing next as the voice of Giove. Follow the music to learn your cues.”

Puntello bowed in gracious acquiescence. “As you command, Maestro.”

Again Scarlatti gave the four downbeats and the signal to begin. The playing was less tentative this time, and as Ragoczy filled in for the chorus, he earned a look of surprise from Tancredi Guisa.

When they had been working for just over two hours, Scarlatti called a break and sent his musicians off to the buffet Niklos had ordered laid out for them. He did not join them at once, preferring to have a word with Ragoczy before eating.

“The Overture is not long enough,” he said to the foreigner. “It needs another sixteen measures at least.”

“At least,” Ragoczy agreed, “but in a less declamatory style.” “That would be wise,” Scarlatti nodded. “Perhaps an arpeggio obligato in the bass would soften it, if I added a variation on the opening chords.”