Mozart’s Blood (42 page)

Teresa Saporiti traveled to Munich in 1805, to sing with Vincenzo dal Prato in his farewell performance. The production was a Mozart opera,
Idomeneo.
She had learned the rôle of Ilia for the first time. Vincenzo had created the rôle of Idamante.

He met her coach and walked with her to her hotel. He carried her valise in one hand and kept the other draped around her shoulders, chatting cheerfully. “
Gran Dio,
Teresa,” he said in his fluting voice. “You don't look a day older than the day I found you at the bottom of the stairs in San Satiro.”

She gave him the close-lipped smile she had cultivated, and let her cheek brush his arm. “Flatterer,” she said.

“It's true, my dear,” he said in avuncular fashion. He squeezed her shoulders with his long arm. “You're still the
piatto saporito!
Everyone marvels at it.”

“It's because I come from Limone,” she said. “Everyone lives so long there.”

“Lucky,” he said. He gave a great sigh. “And here I am, at the end of my career already. It seems I made my début only yesterday.”

“Yesterday!” she laughed. “You were sixteen years old, Vincenzo.”

“Yes. Sixteen. And now I'm nearly fifty.”

“But that's wonderful, Vincenzo. You're still singing.” They reached the hotel, and a doorman in livery held the door for them to pass inside.

As they crossed the lobby to the desk, Vincenzo said, with a deep sadness that made his voice tremble, “My voice is going, Teresa. I'm not the singer I was.”

She cast him a worried glance, but there was no time to press him. The clerk was handing her a key, asking for a signature, ringing for a bellman. Vincenzo kissed her cheek and told her he would return to take her to dinner.

As he left, people watched his gangly figure curiously and murmured to each other. Teresa watched him, too, making the bellman wait for her. Vincenzo stood out among ordinary people. His great height, his odd proportions, his lined, beardless face gave evidence to what he was, a
castrato,
a
musico.
He had no wife, no children. Music was all his life. What would be left to him, when he could no longer sing?

As they began the
Idomeneo
rehearsals, she realized Vincenzo was right. His voice had grown thin at the top, and his
coloratura
was forced. His sustained tones had a tendency to waver, and his
cadenzas
were less elaborate than they had been. She stood in the wings, listening to him go through Idamante's first aria, and her heart ached.

Vincenzo's day was reaching its end, and she, too, would have to retire soon. It would be necessary. Soon even Vincenzo, her dear friend, her mentor, would not be allowed to see her. She would be in hiding until all those who remembered her were gone.

She watched him strike a pose as he brought his aria to its close. He stepped stiffly to the lip of the stage to listen to some word from the conductor. His hair was graying, and his belly drooped. Vincenzo was getting old.

A thought struck her like a bolt of lightning, a thought that made her cheeks burn and her heart pound. She had to turn away from the stage, to go to her dressing room where she could be alone to consider it.

She sat before the dressing table with its jars of powder and rouge, and stared at herself in the cloudy glass. What would he say, if she offered? What would he think?

She rested her head in her hands, trying to think. Sorrow and affection for Vincenzo battled with her instinct to protect her secret. What if he was revolted and denounced her to the world? What if he said yes, but then couldn't handle the memories? She couldn't bear to see someone else she loved crumble under the burden, as Mozart had done.

Outside her dressing room, cast and crew came and went. The noise of set pieces being dragged about came down the narrow hallway. Still Teresa sat, agonizing over her choice. If only, she thought, she could pray. But she had lost her right to that grace.

Vincenzo, released from the orchestra rehearsal, came to knock on her dressing room door. He took her by the hand and drew her out to meet the singers he had worked with in Munich for more than two decades. They complimented Teresa, assuring her they had heard of her work, had looked forward to singing with her. The men eyed her with admiration, the women with barely disguised envy. The conductor of the production said bluntly, “You're much younger than I expected. You've been singing twenty years, have you not?”

Vincenzo laughed. “It's her village, Maestro. They all live forever in that place!”

Idomeneo
went forward. When the opera opened, Teresa's notices overflowed with effusive praise and helped to hide the fact that Vincenzo's were at best tepid, at worst cruel. Before the run was over the opera director offered Teresa a contract for the following season. She told him she would think about it.

And still, through it all, she pondered.

It was the last performance that settled the question.

Vincenzo struggled with his arias that night. His legendary long breath was no longer dependable, and his trills were ragged. Teresa, listening from the wings, made her decision.

The tooth would not help Vincenzo. He might die of it. He might come to loathe her, as Mozart had done. But even if he welcomed the bite and its consequences, it was too late. His voice was already gone. He would retire, and perhaps he would teach. He could no longer sing.

He seemed at peace with the end of his career. Teresa thought she would have grieved, resisted, tried anything to restore her voice, but Vincenzo, it seemed, was tired.

He came to see her off on the coach to Milano. He embraced her, kissed her cheek. He teased her a little about this and that, and she knew he was postponing their final good-bye. Perhaps he sensed that they would not see each other again.

As he handed her into the coach, he pressed a velvet-wrapped gift into her hands. She said, “Oh! Vincenzo, what is it?”

“Nothing much. A bauble. To remember me by.”

She reached through the door of the coach to embrace him one more time. “As if I could ever forget! Vincenzo, thank you. Thank you for—for everything.”

He kissed her again and closed the door of the coach. He gave a jaunty wave, then turned to walk away down the street, a tall, ungainly figure with an overly long torso and short bandy legs.

Another passenger in the coach said, with disdain, “Capon.”

Teresa turned on him, fury in her eyes, a warning throb in her upper lip. “Don't say that again, signore,” she said. “Don't you dare say that again, or—”

The passenger laughed. “Or what, little lady? What can you do to me?”

Teresa subsided onto the seat, holding Vincenzo's gift in her lap. She put a hand over her mouth to soothe the swelling of her lip. From behind her fingers she said, “You would be surprised, sir, to know what I can do. But you are fortunate today. I'm not in the mood.”

He laughed again, scornfully, and turned to speak to his companion.

Teresa unrolled the bit of velvet encasing her gift and took out a lovely brooch, garnets set in gold. She touched it with her fingers, then held it as she gazed out the window to watch the plain brick buildings of Munich spin by. She passed all of that first long day of travel reliving her first meeting with Vincenzo and trying to say good-bye to him in her heart.

The flight to Heathrow and then on to Houston was an evening departure. Ugo rose early, packed his things, and let himself out of the suite as quietly as he could. It would do Octavia good to have a long lie-in. She hadn't returned to Il Principe until the small hours, and then so distressed he doubted she had slept at all.

Ugo stood in the mirrored elevator as it carried him down to the lobby, thinking about Domenico. About Nick Barrett-Jones, who had won his prize after all.

He had looked like utter death when Ugo retrieved him from the attic to transfer him to the hotel. It had been no easy feat to get him to his room without alerting the hotel management, who had been tormented by the theater people, by Giorgio, by the press. He managed it by depositing an outrageous number of euros in the eager palm of a maid, who let them onto the service elevator. She eyed Nick's alarming pallor with curiosity, but the euros in her pocket forestalled curious questions. They rode up in the plain metal elevator, Nick leaning limply against the wall. When the doors opened, Ugo surveyed the corridor before they stepped out.

Nick's wound was already closing, the bite invigorating his immune system even though it had caused such grievous damage. His legs trembled, and Ugo had to support him with a shoulder under his armpit lest he fall flat on his face in the hallway. He had said nothing so far. He made no sound other than the whistle of his breath as he struggled to walk.

Ugo, however, chattered at him in cheerful fashion as they made their slow progress. “We meet under much more pleasant circumstances now, don't you think, Domenico? Certainly I feel much better, though you look a little the worse for wear. I suspect your two companions in that nasty basement room have abandoned you. Benson, wasn't it? And Marks, I believe. Yes, I suppose they've left your service. Permanently, no doubt. I did warn them, of course, but men like that never listen.”

Nick didn't answer. Ugo tutted. “I've seen it so many times,” he said. “And you will, too, I suppose.” They reached Nick's room, and Ugo fished out the key he had persuaded the maid to find for him. He unlocked the door, and they went in.

“My,” he said lightly. “Bit untidy, aren't you.”

The room had been cleaned, and the bed made, but stacks of the
Times
lay on most surfaces, and clothes were tossed here and there. It seemed the maid had tried to straighten things, but had given up halfway through. A suitcase lay open on one of the big beds, and a few things had been dropped into it, unfolded, as if Nick had been unsure whether to pack or not.

“Where do you go from Milan?” Ugo asked conversationally as he helped Nick to lie down on the other bed.

Nick said, his voice no more than a thread, “London.”

Ugo tutted again. “I don't think you feel well enough to fly,
mio amico.
You're looking very poorly. Very poorly indeed.”

Nick lay back on the pillows with a groan. He clutched his head with shaking hands and pawed his eyes and cheeks with nerveless fingers.

Ugo bent over him. “Are you in pain? Would you like some aspirin? A drink?”

Nick dropped his hands and stared at Ugo. “Are you going to kill me now?”

Ugo straightened and smiled down at him. “Why, no. As it happens, I have other plans for you.”

Nick seemed not to hear this. His eyes glazed again, and he rolled his head against his pillow. He pushed his fingers through his tangled hair and tugged on the ends so hard it made Ugo wince in sympathy. “God, my head,” he moaned. “I can't…the bloody voices…”

“Hmm,” Ugo said. “Hearing voices, Domenico? That can't be good.”

Nick groaned again, and his eyes closed tight, as if the light hurt them. “So many,” he muttered. “Everyone she ever knew…the people she killed…”

“Oh, come now,” Ugo said. “She didn't kill all that many, you know. She let most of them live. As she did you, my friend. She has always been very delicate with the tooth.”

“Mozart…”

“Yes, Mozart. You have his memories now. Do you like them?”

Nick twisted against the pillows. “Bloody hell! My head…”

“She has a technique,” Ugo said conversationally, “that helps her with all of those memories. I don't know if I can explain it to you, but I could try. If you like.”

Nick opened his eyes again with obvious effort. “Wh—what technique?”

Ugo gave an elaborate shrug. “I'm not her kind, as you know,” he said. “But I believe she creates a sort of wall—a partition, if you will. A room where she closes off the memories she doesn't want.”

“How?”

Ugo shrugged again. “Not a clue,” he said.

Nick was quiet for several minutes. He lay still, though his eyes rolled once or twice, as if he were seasick. “I thought,” he croaked, after a time, “that this would be easy.”

“Oh, did you? I'm quite certain I mentioned…”

“Didn't believe you.”

“No,” Ugo said easily. He pulled a chair close to the bed, its high back facing the bed. He straddled it and rested his chin on his folded arms. “No, you didn't believe me. But now you know. It's a rare man—person—who can bear the weight of all those memories.”

“She must—” Nick's voice faltered, and he drew a ragged breath. His eyes closed again. “Octavia must be tough.”

“You have no idea,” Ugo said. And then again, fervently, “You have no fucking idea, Domenico. She's as tough as they come.”

 

With only hours to go before their flight, he took himself back to the
strega
's shop. It was open this time, and he let himself into its shadowed, cramped space.

The old woman came out at the sound of the door and gazed darkly at him across the counter. There was no welcome in her seamed face, but he had expected none. She said, “You've run out already?”

“No,” he said. He shrugged, and spread his empty hands. “It was stolen, signora.”

“All?”

He nodded. “All. Do you have more?”

“Sì.”
She turned toward the back room, and he followed her bent back, loosening the belt on his Burberry trench coat as he walked. The
strega
closed the curtain once they were inside. She hobbled across the little room and bent to pull a twist of newspaper from a low cupboard. She laid it on a counter littered with the dust and leaves of other plants, then folded back the newspaper to reveal a dozen stems of
aconitum lycoctonum.

Ugo touched it with two fingers. The stem and flowers bent under the pressure, and sprang back into shape when he let go. “This is very fresh.”

“I cut it this morning,” she said, peering at him from beneath her wrinkled lids.

Ugo's eyes widened, and he inclined his head respectfully. “I didn't know, signora, that you grew it yourself.”

She pursed her lips and began to rewrap the herb. “I thought you might be back. I planted some.” She tied the package with a length of string and pushed it toward him. “Not easy to get the seeds.”

He pulled out his wallet and counted out a generous stack of euros. “How did you know?”

She folded her arms and lifted her whiskered chin as she stared at him. “Is it safe to tell you what I know…Signor Ugo?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You call me by name now.”

She folded the euros in half, and although he barely noticed her hands move, the money disappeared somewhere in the folds of her shapeless black dress. “They come to me sometimes,” she said. “They tell me things. They are fools, but they pay me well for potions and simples, things they think will help them find La Società.” Her voice dropped a little as she spoke the name, and Ugo saw the little shiver that ran through her.

“Signora,” he said quietly. “It's dangerous to know that name.”

Her black eyes flashed, once, and then she dropped them. “I know. But I am a
strega,
and what I know, I know.”

“Tell me,” he said softly.

She folded her hands on the counter. The knuckles were swollen, the nails grimy. “I will tell you,” she said. “And then you will go away, and not come here again. If they see you, they will never leave me in peace.”

“The one who saw me,” he said evenly, “will not bother you again.”

Her eyes lifted to his again, and he saw the wisdom in them, and the fear. “The one who cheated you.”

“Esatto.”

“Is he dead?”

“No.” And at her little intake of breath, he smiled. “No, signora, but he will not be returning to Milano.”

She nodded, and her face relaxed a little. She breathed out, sending a little gust of garlic and coffee to blend with the aroma of drying herbs and grasses. “They say that the leader of La Società is dead. And they say that the new leader…”

Ugo's back stiffened, and his lips compressed. The
strega,
seeing the change in him, stopped speaking. She lifted her hands and stepped back from the counter.

Ugo picked up his package and tucked it into the inner pocket of his Burberry. He belted it again and put his hands in the pockets. Very gently, as if in sympathy, he said, “It would be best for you to forget my name, signora.”

“
Sì,
signore,” she muttered. She wrapped her arms around herself. “It is forgotten.”

“And if you see them again, these fools—tell them they, too, had best forget.”

“Sì, sì.”
She stared at the floor, as if not seeing him could make him disappear. She said,
“Addio.”

“Addio,”
he answered. He had always thought it an ironic word to use with someone such as himself. But it was what they had. “I will see myself out.”

She didn't look up. He pushed through the curtain and left the shop, shutting the door carefully behind him. He heard the lock turn before he had reached the corner. He strode away toward Il Principe, glad of the chance to walk off his fury. He would find them, silence them, if he could. But there was no time, and there was no space in his little refrigerated case for what he would take from them. Other fools had already filled it, happily making their offerings on the altar of hope.

 

Octavia frowned over his account of his meeting with Nick. “What should we do?” she asked. “Do you think he's going to recover?”

“Yes,” Ugo said. “But it's taken care of, Octavia.”

She played with the ends of her scarf, pacing the room. “Ugo, you don't know what he's like. He's so utterly self-centered. He'll talk, if he thinks it will save him.”

“He will have no chance for that, Octavia. Trust me.” He picked up his case and opened the door of the suite. “Let's go. The limo's waiting.”

She gave him a searching glance as she walked past him into the corridor. He gave her a sweet white smile. “Hurry,
bella,
” he said lightly. “We don't want to miss the flight. They won't hold a 777, not even for Octavia Voss.”

 

As the plane rose from Malpensa and banked to the east, Octavia gazed down at the lights of Milan beneath her. The flight pattern took them directly over the city. She picked out the lights of the Duomo, sparkling up at her through the darkness. She wouldn't be able to find La Scala. The theater was dark now, beginning preparations for the next production.

Octavia always felt a wrench when she left Italy, a feeling that her heart and her mind flew in different directions. It was sharper this time. She closed her eyes, surprised at the poignant feeling of regret that trembled in her solar plexus. He was down there, somewhere.

His next engagement was in Bologna, not a long drive. She saw his clear profile in her mind, his fine hands on the wheel of the old Mercedes as he sped down the
autostrada.
He might already be thinking of his next rôle, perhaps humming the melodies as he drove.

She wished she could hear his Méphistophélès. It was a long and demanding rôle. His height and the lyric strength of his voice should fit the part, but the sinister quality of Gounod's devil was so different from the artless innocence of the peasant Masetto. It required a different vocal approach. She wondered if he had the experience to make the transition.

And if he could bring himself to feed, so that he would be strong enough.

“Octavia?” It was Ugo's voice.

She opened her eyes to find the flight attendant in the aisle, a tray of champagne in her hands. Ugo already had one. Octavia shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“Do you feel all right?” Ugo asked as the flight attendant moved on to the next row in the first class cabin. “Do you want something else to drink?”

“I'm fine,” Octavia said. “I'll have something with dinner.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, nothing, really, Ugo. Just daydreaming.”

She couldn't tell Ugo she was yearning for Massimo Luca. They had not spoken his name since the closing of the opera, but she knew what Ugo would say: “Forget him. Whatever he decides to do, however he manages, is not your business. He's either strong enough, or he's not.”

But Ugo hadn't experienced Massimo's embrace. He had no idea of his charm, or the sweetness of his company. She sighed, remembering. She felt lonely, even with Ugo beside her. She felt forlorn, like a lost child.

Ugo lifted his glass to her. “Here's to
Figaro,
” he said.

She drew a little breath, knowing she was being foolish. She smiled at him. “
Figaro,
yes. But I know you hate Houston.”

He wriggled his eyebrows, and grinned at her. “Houston will be all right, with the charming Russell there.”

“Oh, Ugo! You leave Russell alone.”

He laughed. “I'm not going to hurt him,
carissima.
Just play with him a bit.”

She touched the button to make her seat recline and stretched her legs as far as they would go. “Poor Russell,” she said. “I don't ever want to see him so upset again.”