Mozart’s Blood (23 page)

As she rose from the table, Ugo said, “I'll send you money for the clothes when I get home.”

She waved a hand. “No need for that. I was going to give them away anyway. They were my son's, and he doesn't need them now.”

She was gone several minutes. When she returned, she had a pair of worn sneakers in one hand and a dilapidated jacket in the other. “These should get you through.”

“Thank you. I really mean it. Thanks.”

Laurette laid the shoes on the floor beside Ugo's chair.

The soup was delicious, and once Ugo tasted it, he couldn't stop until his bowl was empty. “More?” Laurette asked.

Ugo said, “I've imposed enough, I think.”

“True,” his host said. “But my son was always hungry, and it's only soup.”

Ugo accepted another bowl and ate three slices of fresh bread. He tried not to think about what his last meal might have been. “Did you make this? You're a wonderful cook.”

Laurette didn't answer. She began clearing the table, glancing out the window from time to time. Ugo bent to pull the sneakers on. Like all the other clothes, they were too big, but they would do. The thick socks helped, and the space in the toes was welcome. His toes were particularly sensitive. He tied the laces loosely.

He stood and pulled the jacket over the shirt. “Thanks again, madame,” he said. “You've been really nice.”

“What do you intend to do? Walk down to town?”

“I think so.”

Laurette set the soup bowls in the sink and turned, leaning her hip against the counter. “Look, young man,” she said. “With that innocent face of yours, I can't tell what you're up to. But whatever it is, you can't wander around with no money and no identification. No passport! How are you even going to call your family?”

Ugo thrust his hands into the pockets of the comfortable old jacket. “I'll work it out,” he said. “I'll find a way.”

“Steal something, you mean.”

“No, no. I can hitch a ride back to Pontalie. Get my things.”

“I'm sure your mother would never forgive me if I didn't see you were taken care of. I've called my son. He'll run you to the train station.” She opened a drawer under the counter and pulled out a fold of bills. She took out several euros and put the rest back. “I'm not exactly sure what the fare is, but this should do it.”

Ugo stared at the money. The back of his neck tingled, and he looked up to meet Laurette's blue gaze. “Write your address for me,” he said. “So my parents can pay you back.”

“I'll do that.” Laurette pointed out the window. “My son is here.”

Ugo turned to look out past the lace curtains. A white Peugeot with red and blue markings had pulled up in front of the chalet. A man in the uniform of the Police Nationale climbed out and approached the front of the house with deliberate steps. “Really,” Ugo said, looking up at Laurette and striving for a look of wounded innocence. “I'd much rather walk. I appreciate the money, though, and my parents will—”

She said, with the authority of someone used to being obeyed, “No need to walk in this cold. Hubert will drive you.”

Ugo turned, thinking he would dash out the back door, but Laurette moved, just slightly, to block his way. Ugo spun the other direction and found that the policeman had let himself in and already stood in the opposite door of the kitchen.

Ugo made himself relax. He said, in very American English, “Gee. That was quick.”

Laurette answered, “Yes, wasn't it?” and gave a hearty laugh.

Not until Ugo found himself locked in the backseat of the Peugeot did he realize she had spoken in English.

 

The holding cell was spotlessly clean, with a neatly made cot and shining toilet fixtures against the wall. It didn't get much use, Ugo suspected. Aspin-en-Lavedan probably had no need for a proper jail.

From its small barred window Ugo could see the Pic du Jer, which Hubert kindly pointed out to him when he led him in and locked the door behind him. “Wait till it gets dark,” the policeman said. “You'll see the cross then, when it lights up at night. It will give you something to think about.”

“What am I being arrested for?” Ugo asked.

“You're not being arrested. You're being held for your own protection.”

“Thank you, but I don't need protection, monsieur.”

Hubert raised his brows. “My mother tells me you're covered in bloody scars. Someone did a thorough job of beating you up.”

“But they're—they're far away now. They brought me here, somehow, and dumped me.”

“Well. You're safe in this place.”

“But why keep me here all night? Don't you need a—a warrant, or something?”

“I have my mother's word that you shouldn't be allowed to run off.”

“That's reason enough?”

Hubert laughed. “Oh, yes. In this
commune,
that's enough. Laurette has a nose for trouble, and with the tourists we get every year, it's most useful.”

“Could I have a phone to call—to call my parents?”

“Tomorrow. You can call them from Pontalie. Which, by the way, I'm not able to find on a map.” Hubert gave Ugo a narrow-eyed look. His eyes were the same pale blue as Laurette's, and like her, he was tall and rangy. His thick hair was a neutral brown, and one day it would no doubt be as white as his mother's. It felt odd to Ugo to be wearing this man's cast-off clothes.

Hubert said, “You know,
mon ami,
you don't look so young to me.”

“I'm eighteen,” Ugo said.

“So you told my mother. But with no proof, and no papers—”

“I told her what happened!”

“She says you told her a tale. She's not sure she believes it.”

“But she—she must have. She gave me some of her own money.” Ugo shook his head in frustration. He should have known the kindness didn't feel right.

“Yes, for the train. I'll keep it safe for you till morning, and then I'll put you on the train to Rennes.” Hubert turned smartly about, a satisfied look on his face, and moved toward the door. As he opened it, he smiled back at Ugo. “Oh, and I'll go along with you. Just to make sure you arrive safely.” His grin widened. “
Bonne nuit,
my young friend. Sleep well.” The lock snicked shut behind him, and Ugo sagged against the nearest wall.

He had caught a look at a calendar over the desk when Hubert brought him in. It had been ten days since he left Octavia to see the
strega.
That meant twelve since her infusion in New York. And nine since he had taken the
strega
's herb.

That explained awakening in this odd place. The wolf had been seeking its usual destination, no doubt, but had been distracted by something—the hunt, or someone with a gun—and the transformation had taken it by surprise.

Ugo stared blindly at the brilliant mountain beyond the window. She must have fed by now, somehow. She must. She had said she couldn't resort to the tooth anymore, but her thirst would drive her to it.

Please, Octavia,
he thought.
No latter-day attacks of honor. Or distaste. Just do what you need to do.

And he would do the same, if providence would send him a moon.

He went to the barred window and stood on tiptoe to look out. It was still broad daylight, with afternoon traffic buzzing along the road to Lourdes. He slapped the wall with his palm in frustration. The opening of
Don Giovanni
was getting close.

He threw himself on the cot and put his arm over his eyes. There was nothing to do but wait for darkness and hope that the lunar cycle was high.
Octavia,
he thought.
Hang on, Octavia. I'm coming, somehow. I'll be there as soon as I can.

Opening night was a week away. Rehearsals moved from the ellipse to the wide stage, with its vast banks of machinery and its web of ropes and lifts for moving set pieces. Octavia usually loved this part of the preparations. The first walk-through of the set, with the empty theater echoing beyond the stage, filled her with anticipation. The moment was approaching when the red velvet seats would be filled with patrons beneath the sparkle of the Bohemian crystal chandeliers. The seat screens would come to life, offering the libretto in multiple languages. La Scala would be transformed into a place of magic.

But this particular morning Octavia struggled to keep the smile on her face, to chat cheerfully with her colleagues, to follow Giorgio as he led the members of both casts across the stage, pointing out the entrances and exits, the obstacles in Donna Anna's garden, the levels of the windows and the walkways. The five-degree rake of the stage required a few small changes in blocking. There was still painting to be done, but Giorgio was pleased with the set, and Octavia agreed. It was a bit darker than some
Giovanni
sets, but Giorgio meant to stress the tragic side of the opera rather than the comedic.

Octavia tried her first entrance through the door of Donna Anna's house. “It's a little narrow, Giorgio,” she said. “I can't remember how wide the skirt of the first-act costume is.”

Giorgio nodded. “I'll check that.” An assistant, trailing at his side, scribbled a note.

Nick Barrett-Jones lounged against the proscenium, watching everyone as they roamed the set. Giorgio called to him, “Nick! Don't you want to try the rake?”

“No. It's fine,” the baritone said, so abruptly several heads turned to look at him.

His haggard look startled Octavia out of her own preoccupation. Perhaps it was the flu he had suffered from that made him look thinner, his eyes more hollow. It was more than a case of flu, though. He had managed to learn his blocking at last, but the vigorous ego he had displayed at the beginning of the rehearsal period had been replaced by something grimmer. He was less jocular, less confident, but somehow the change made him seem even more self-absorbed. He had missed only one day of rehearsals, but he refused all invitations to socialize and spent his free time alone in his dressing room.

Octavia turned away from him. She had no energy to worry about Nick Barrett-Jones's problems. Her own weighed on her enough.

She had counted the days that morning before coming to the theater, and there was no doubt she had good reason to feel as she did, restive and anxious. She had lain awake most of the night before, racking her brain for something to do. There was only one answer she could think of.

She wandered backstage through the maze of equipment and found her way to her dressing room. She sat down on the little settee and then jumped up again to pace before the double mirror, to touch the keyboard of the little piano, to riffle through the finished costumes already hanging ready for the opening. She poured a glass of water from the bottle of Pellegrino the theater had ready for her, and drank it. It barely soothed her parched throat.

She rubbed her forehead, trying to think. The theater would be dark the night before the opening. She would have one day in which she could slip away, fly to the elders' compound, plead with Zdenka Milosch for help.

If she could last that long.

This was the moment she had dreaded. The idea of returning to the tooth filled her with loathing, and with a deep and terrible sadness. She meant not to give in. But the demands of her body had their own urgency. Her body cared nothing for her mind's reluctance.

Somehow, she maintained her composure through the long day of rehearsal. She sang
mezza voce,
remembered all of her staging, tried, bit by bit, to coax some subtlety from Nick in their scenes together. When they reached the last scene, she stood in the wings to watch as the Commendatore pulled Don Giovanni down below the stage in his fiery descent into hell. Only then, in his defiance, his refusal to admit wrongdoing, did Nick show some understanding of what the libretto meant.

Giorgio took pity on all of them after the exhausting day and announced they would receive their notes in the morning. With relief, Octavia turned toward her dressing room for her coat and scarf.

When she emerged, she found Massimo Luca's lean form lounging in the corridor. He wore a pair of beautifully made jeans that exaggerated the length of his legs, and his white shirt was open at the collar. The bruise on his jaw, which he had never explained, had healed. He straightened when he saw her and pushed back the perennially floppy lock of hair. “My second chance?” he said with a grin.

Octavia paused in the act of closing the door. An automatic refusal rose to her lips, but the dark porcelain texture of his neck beneath the white shirt, the steady beat of his pulse in the hollow of his throat, distracted her. She stumbled over her words. “Massimo, I—really, I can't. I'm—” She blinked and forced a little laugh. “I'm just so tired. All I want is a long bath and an early night.”

“Come now, Octavia,” he said. His voice rumbled in the narrow hallway. “You have to eat.”

“In my hotel room,” she said.

“No, no, not in your room. That's not restful!” He took her elbow in his muscular grip. “I promised you I would behave, and I will. But let me give you a good dinner. When you've eaten, I'll drive you to your hotel myself, and then you'll have your rest.”

She wanted to say no, to pull away from him. But Brenda and Marie emerged from their own dressing rooms at that moment, pulling on their coats, turning away together. Brenda said over her shoulder, “Octavia, we're going to have dinner at a little place I know near the Galleria. Why not come with us?”

Massimo spoke before Octavia could gather her thoughts. “I'm afraid I've made arrangements for Octavia's evening. One of my family friends begged to meet her. You'll forgive us, won't you?”

Brenda waved a beringed hand. “Oh, of course, of course. You two have a nice time.”

Marie Charles threw Octavia a look of manifest envy. Octavia said, “Marie—have a good dinner.”

Brenda said, “Oh, we will. Iris makes a wonderful
antipasto,
” as she steered Marie down the hallway away from them. Marie cast a glance over her shoulder at Massimo, disappointment in every line of her face.

When they were gone, Octavia blurted, “You should ask Marie to dinner.”

Massimo's caramel eyes darkened. “Why should I do that?” he demanded.

Octavia's cheeks warmed at her own clumsiness. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's just—she's more…” Her voice trailed off. It had been a stupid thing to say, and she wished she could take it back. She wished her throat didn't burn so. Massimo's nearness made her body tingle with awareness, and that frightened her.

“I told Brenda the truth,” he said, guiding her down the hall. “My father's cousin has a wonderful old house near Sant'Ambrogio. She makes the best
ossobuco
in Milano, and she does, in fact, want to meet you. She wants to know when you're going to make a studio recording of
Rusalka.
”

Octavia found her refusals fading away as she walked beside him toward the artists' entrance. He was so deliciously tall, and so assured. His hand was firm under her arm and then on her back as he guided her through the door. And he smelled tantalizing, a clean, almost lemony fragrance. Octavia felt her resolve weakening like candle wax softening beneath a flame. When they reached Via Filodrammatici, she tried again, gently pulling her arm free of his hand, busying herself tying her scarf around her throat. Headlights pierced the early darkness, sweeping across them, bringing a gleam from Massimo's eyes. The lights from Piazza della Scala shone upward on the big statue of Leonardo da Vinci, scowling down on passersby from beneath the gathered brim of his cap.

Octavia tried one more time. “Massimo, really—I'm not very hungry. And you know, this just isn't a good idea.”

He stood in front of her, blocking her path, and looked down at her with his languid smile. “That's what a person says when they're tempted,” he said. “Admit it. We had a great time the other night.”

Chattering choristers flowed out of the artists' entrance in a busy stream, parting around Octavia and Massimo. Several nodded and bade them good night, and Octavia answered absently, all the while trying to articulate a reasonable objection to Massimo's invitation. She wasn't hungry, it was true. As always, when she began to thirst, food had little appeal. But she was very, very thirsty. And she dreaded being alone.

She lost the last of her composure when Massimo said, “What happened to your assistant? He never did come back, did he?”

Fatigue and confusion sent blinding tears to Octavia's eyes. She tried to step away from Massimo, but she stumbled, catching her heel on the uneven edge of a cobblestone. Massimo put out his hand to steady her and saw the glisten in her eyes. “Octavia, what is it? Are you worried about him?”

She didn't dare speak through the ache in her throat. Massimo gave an exasperated click of his tongue. In a gesture that brooked no refusal, he put his arm around her, startling her with the authority of it. She suspected he was not accustomed to being refused—anything. He led her down the street to where he had parked the Mercedes, and almost before she knew what was happening, she was belted into the passenger seat, her handbag on the floor at her feet, and the big old car was purring swiftly westward, toward the outer edge of the city center. She gave up. It had been settled for her.

She laid her head back against the cool leather and closed her eyes. Massimo clicked off the radio, and her lips curved a little in appreciation. After a long day of rehearsal, the last thing she wanted was to listen to music. Or to listen to anything, for that matter. Part of her would have liked to drive for hours with nothing but the hum of the fine old engine in her ears and the company of this intense young man beside her.

When the car stopped, all too soon, she opened her eyes. Massimo had parked behind a squat, unremarkable building. A faint glow showed through its curtained windows. Massimo opened her door and escorted her to a short set of cement steps that led down below the street level.

The bustle of traffic in the city center receded to a distant drone. Octavia paused before descending the stairs and gazed up at the towers of the Basilica di Sant'Ambrogio, their rectangular shapes outlined by twinkling stars. She knew Sant'Ambrogio. She had heard Mass there when she first came to Milan, and she remembered, with a rush of nostalgia, coming through the great portico with Vincenzo and crossing the atrium. Vincenzo had climbed the stairs to the women's gallery, and she had followed. From that vantage point he had sung his part in a motet for two choirs. The other voices answered his across the great nave. She had crouched at his feet, so as not to be seen by anyone looking up, and had closed her eyes to listen to the men's and boys' voices blending with those of the
castrati,
saturating the arched interior of the church with glorious sound.

The narrow lanes of the neighborhood were dark and quiet now. As they went down the steps, a bell tolled from the
campanile,
and she shivered a little at the beauty of it. “It's peaceful here.”

“Yes. Have you been inside the Basilica?”

Octavia shook her head, unable to explain.

The last time she had been in the church had been at the end of Teresa's career. She was trying to decide what to do, where to go. She had not dared go into the lovely old sanctuary, where the blessed water threatened to scald her and the very images of the saints rebuked her. She had wandered down into the crypt, instead, to sit on a cold marble bench and stare through the grille at the coffin of St. Ambrose, trying to imagine what it must be like to die. She thought of her mother, gone almost ninety years. She thought with pain and guilt of her father, who had died at a great age, but alone in Limone sul Garda. How had it been for them to face the darkness, the chasm from which no one returned? Had they been afraid, or joyous? Anxious, or relieved? She had seen the face of death so many times, but there was nothing in those still faces to tell her what the journey was like. All she read in the wide, sightless eyes of the dead was surprise.

Teresa had sat in St. Ambrose's crypt for a long time, until the bells above her head told her Mass was beginning. She had been one hundred six years old, and no longer dared show her face in Milan.

But Octavia could not share this memory with Massimo Luca. She couldn't share it with anyone except Ugo.

Massimo reached for the doorknob and turned it. When he opened the door, brilliant light poured over them, and the muted clink of china and glasses met their ears. Octavia sniffed in appreciation, and Massimo grinned. “As I told you,” he said with satisfaction. “The best
ossubuco
in the city.”

Massimo's cousin was an elegant elderly woman, and her home was both rich and comfortable. There were only two other guests. No one made a great fuss over Octavia, but they made her welcome with good conversation and a minimum of curious questions.

And Massimo was right about the food. Though Octavia's stomach rebelled at the sight of the generous
antipasto
and the
insalata Toscana,
the aperitif was a clear, sparkling
prosecco,
and it soothed her a bit. The
ossobuco
was a dish Teresa Saporiti would have recognized, prepared
in bianco,
as tomatoes had not been introduced in Milan until the nineteenth century. Despite her queasiness, Octavia managed to eat a good bit of it. A nice big Barolo helped. Its flavors of chocolate and tobacco and plum calmed the burning of her throat and placated her reluctant stomach. Massimo had poured her a third glass before she realized it. The hostess had prepared everything herself, so Octavia was grateful to find a way to do justice to the dinner.