The Bells (24 page)

“And who sits here?” I asked, pointing at the rows of seats below me on the floor.

“Loudmouths,” the little man replied. He clung to a ladder twice my height above the stage. “Show-offs. We call it the Ox Pen. Talk louder in those seats than the actors on the stage.”

“What about those benches way up near the ceiling? Can you see anything from there?” I pointed up at the distant galleries.

“Not half the stage,” Tasso said. “
Le Paradis
, they call it, perhaps because it’s nearer to the sky than to the stage.”

“But why do they shut people up in these little rooms?” I said. “So they don’t talk?”

He snorted. “
Loges,
” he corrected. “And the doors aren’t for keeping the rich ones in; they’re for keeping the poor ones out. Ready?”

“Ready for what?” I asked, and turned about as the light faded from gold to red.

I found myself in burning hell. Hell was a cave. Frozen tongues of fire. Pillars of gnarled stone. A tunnel that led to some bright opening, as distant as a star.

Tasso’s head appeared through one of the traps, a marmot peeking from its burrow. I looked up at the red lamps. “Tinted glass,” he explained. “Ready for the next?” he asked. His head was gone before I could nod assent.

I heard the patter of his steps and the groan of the axle below my feet. All at once—fast enough to miss if I had blinked—we left the dismal cave for idyllic fields. Trees bent over a spring. A field of soft grass invited me to sleep. Just as when Guadagni sang, hope filled my heart. In such a place Amalia and I would one day be together.

Tasso’s head poked through another hole. “See?” was all he said.

“You did all that?” I asked, and pointed at the canvas backdrop.

“Ba!” he said. “Takes an army to do all that. Quaglio takes the credit. No one mentions Tasso. He just pulls the ropes.”

“What is it like,” I asked him, “to see an opera?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “I can’t see anything from down here.”

“You’ve never seen one?”

He shook his head. “Don’t care to.”

“Don’t care to!” I said. “Someday I will sing for you of love. Then you will change your mind.”

He blinked again. “Love?” he said.

“Yes,” I said, as proudly as I could. “Love.”

He grunted. “I’ve got better ways to spend my time.” He disappeared into his hole.

VI.

A
t nine, three sullen stagehands arrived. After that, Tasso never left his cave. His head poked through a trap and he shouted, “Grease every groove as though the empress were coming. Durazzo will be here in three hours with the maestro! The slightest squeak and he’ll want your heads!” The three men slunk about en masse, as if shackles bound them together by their ankles. At eleven, the German theater company appeared. They rehearsed for an hour, and for the first twenty minutes I was allowed to sit in the Ox Pen and watch, but the scenes caused in me such fits of teary laughter that the sullen director snapped, “Get out! And don’t come back until you can contain your noise.”

At twelve the French company strode into the theater, interrupting the rehearsal with their loud voices. Their acting seemed a dull affair to me, and I expect I would have found it so even if I had understood the French. At one, the stage was taken by Angiolini’s ballet, which was wonderful in glimpses, and I would have watched forever if only Angiolini had not stopped his dancers every second step to swear at them in his delightful Italian.

No sign of Tasso, but when they yelled, “Lights!” the footlight elevator rose like the sun upon the actors. “Curtain!”—and the curtain closed as if by magic. I did not see my new friend’s face again until the great men of Vienna’s theater arrived at three and Tasso’s head peered through a trap to nod at his masters, whom I recognized from the previous evening. Then Tasso was gone, and I heard only the softest shushing of lines below the stage as Durazzo, Gluck, and Calzabigi nodded and rubbed their chins when Quaglio yelled, “All right, now give us Greece.” “The Caves. The Caves!” “The Fields! Hurry, man. These are important men you’re keeping waiting!” The scenes changed smoothly, squeaklessly. These important men considered each setting with frowns; their thumbs pressing white dents into their chins. Each man found a token item that displeased him. Quaglio promised changes.

Finally, at four, Guadagni arrived. I jumped up to greet him, but he strode past me and the other men; he had eyes only for the stage.

“Yes,” he murmured, when Tasso had raised the red lights on the Caves. “Hmm. Yes.” Then he closed his eyes and we all watched as he swayed back and forth in the aisle, as if in his mind he summoned a vision of the future of this opera. He opened his eyes and nodded, and the other men nodded back at him. Then he climbed onto the stage and paced several circles. He waved his hand to a tune in his head, and the four older men hummed in satisfaction. “Now give me the Fields,” Guadagni ordered to the air. I heard Tasso scurrying as fast as he could below the stage. The backdrop fell, the new wing frames slid into place, the fiery glow became evening sun. Guadagni turned slowly around, and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “No.”

“What is wrong?” Quaglio asked, a meek servant to a prince.

“
It
is wrong,” said Guadagni. He waved his hand and turned away from the fine paintings, as if he could not bear to look at them.

“Wrong how?” Quaglio begged, walking toward the stage, but Guadagni swiftly descended and passed Quaglio in the central aisle. The scene painter called after the singer, “How is it wrong?”

Guadagni stopped, but did not turn. He shook his head. “I sing,” he said quietly. He looked over his shoulder in the general direction of Quaglio. “You paint.”

Guadagni strode toward the exit. Gluck called after him, “But don’t you want to see the others—Greece, the Temple?”

Guadagni continued on. “Not today,” he called flatly. “Not today.”

“But when?” Gluck’s voice grew desperate. “Time for changes is running short!”

But Guadagni did not seem to hear the question. He made for the foyer. I came out of the shadows and stepped into his path. “Will you not sing?” I asked. Still, he did not stop, and so I had to stumble backward to avoid a collision. I bounced off seats and then bumped into the door. For one heart-wrenching moment, I worried his offer the night before had only been a cruel jest.

Guadagni peered at my face, annoyed at the interruption. “Ah!” he finally said, and his sudden smile warmed my fears. “Our Swiss musico!” He took my arm and pulled me gently away from the door so he could open it. “Sing? Today?” He sniffed. “No, not today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Late September, perhaps. Perhaps only in October.” He pointed slyly back at the men still gaping in his direction. “My first lesson to you: Never give them all they want or they will gobble you up like their
Knödel
. Never let them think that they have tamed you,
mio fratello
. Never.” He pulled me gently into the small foyer and then pinched my arm. “The brave hunting dog, as soon as he is cut, lies quietly in the corner.
Purtroppo
, that is what so many of us become: Titillate a princess before dinner with our song so we may drink her wine; titillate her after dinner with our fingers so we may share her feather bed.”

Guadagni shook his head and held a finger before my face. “I am different. When a duchess asks me to sing for her, I tell her I have no time. When a prince asks, I am ill. It is part of the hunt. And for whom there is no kill, the hunt is all. Come.”

He led me to the exit. Through thick doors I could detect the sounds of a hungry mob: fingers scraped the wood, women snarled at each other, voices called, “
Gaetano, mio Gaetano!
” Four imperial soldiers stood ready to protect us from the throng.

“Let them touch you,” Guadagni instructed. “But never let them hold on to you.” He nodded, and the doors opened.

The women and men who waited outside were not the peasants with whom I had shared my bed upon the quay. The women wore magnificent dresses. Gold and the finest jewels flashed on their necks. Behind the throng stood a line of carriages from which ladies of the highest class peeked through lace curtains.

Guadagni stepped into their midst. The soldiers encircled us and held back the crowd just far enough so straining hands could graze the great musico. Guadagni seemed to see every hand—even those behind him—and he brushed every one. Some fingers he took in his for an instant. But no hand that tried to grab him—to possess him—none of these found their hold. Clenched fists thrust forward scraps of paper, love verses scrawled on every one.

Fingers pinched me.

They plucked out my hair.

They tore my clothes so that they might press the shreds of Boris’s coat against their lips, merely because I walked beside the great castrato. Hungry mouths seemed to gag on lolling tongues as they reached for us like peasants lunging for bread amid a famine. Most faces were women’s, but the occasional man struggled amid the crowd; some of these wore carnival masks to hide their faces. One masked man proffered a ruby ring. Guadagni kissed the gem and placed it in his pocket. Ladies screeched as others pushed them back. One greedy madam pulled another’s hair. Carriage axles creaked as packs of sisters strained out the doors.

Guadagni selected one carriage from the fray. Inside the doorway, a woman signaled to him with none of the urgency of the others, as if merely calling to a waiter. Guadagni bowed and kissed her hand. She did not even seem to feel his touch, but looked past his bowed head at all those worshippers who envied her advantage. She was beautiful—her gown was of fine green silk, jewels glittered at her neck, no feature on her face betrayed a single imperfection—but her white skin gave me the impression of being cold, and I was sure that a single finger of hers placed upon my neck would have made me shudder with chills. She was not young, but her smooth, expressionless face and brow rendered her ageless.

“You will come to hear me sing the new
Orpheus?
” Guadagni asked.

“Of course,” the woman said. “Our loge is always full when Guadagni sings.”

He bowed.

“And who is this?” she asked and looked at me. The guards held back the crowd, but still some hungry girl plucked at my untucked shirt.

“This, countess,” Guadagni said, as if unveiling a treasure, “this is my new pupil.”

Was that a wink from my teacher to this woman? I did not like her grin. Guadagni turned to me. “May I present Countess Riecher, the most charming woman in Vienna.”

I had begun to bow, but my head shot up when I heard the name. I studied her face. Her cold green eyes seemed to clench my gaze in theirs.

“I hope he sings better than your last,” she said with a grin.

I listened into the darkness of her carriage. Was there a breath?

Guadagni gave her an earnest look and shrugged. “
Non parla italiano.
”

The countess shook her head and gave Guadagni a disapproving look.

“So,” she said to me in German, “how is it to have such an eminent teacher?”

Did her son have eyes like these? And these hands she clasped before her—had they touched my love today?

“Does he speak any language at all?” she asked Guadagni.

“He appears to be enchanted by your beauty, Countess.”

She shook her head and gave me an amused smile. Then she turned back to Guadagni. “I must have you sing,” she said. “I am having a little party.”

“I am terribly busy, Madame.”

“In three weeks,” she said. She handed Guadagni a slip of paper. He unfolded it, and I saw that only a number was written on it. I thought I glimpsed surprise flash across the singer’s face.

“Most people write me love poems,” he said, “to gain my favor.”

She shrugged. “Let this be a testimony of my affection, then, which runs so very deep.” She spoke without emotion.

“I will consider it,” Guadagni said. He placed the slip of paper in his pocket. She held out her hand for Guadagni to kiss again. He kept his eyes on hers as he bent forward.

She smiled at me once again; a tongue flashed along her thin lips. “Of course, if you do come, bring your charming student.” Then she sat back and vanished into her carriage, and as it pulled away, the throng again consumed us. This time, I was too stunned to fend off the hands. My shirt was torn from beneath my coat as I listened to every Riecher sound: the click of the closing carriage door, her curt instructions to her driver, the snap of the whip, the clack of the wheels on each cobblestone.

Guadagni watched her go. “She is grotesque,” he said quietly, brushing off the hands all around us. “But she is so very, very rich. I suppose I must bless her party with my voice.”

Guadagni’s immediate concern upon leaving the Burgtheater was that I should be properly attired as a student of the great castrato. His Italian tailor cut me several of the fine, long brocaded coats that are the castrato’s uniform. In the mirror, I studied myself as the tailor worked with gold thread—I soon had monkeys dancing across my chest.

“Perfect,” Guadagni said when I was properly adorned with gold and velvet, and with pointed shoes. “Exquisite.”

That very first evening, as we drove in his carriage back to his lavish home, which was also to be my home in Vienna, I asked him when he would begin to teach me Italian so I could sing his opera. He suppressed a smile and averted his gaze out the window of his coach. “Be patient,” he said. “Be patient. You have so much to learn. Singing will come later. You see, before they will ever let you on their stages, before they will even listen to you sing, they must believe in
you.
” He examined me closely, up and down, and with this final word, his large nostrils flared. “You must be a musico before you can sing like one.”

We drew up to his house.

“But I am,” I muttered shyly, “I am a musico.”

“No,” he chastised. He tisked his tongue. “You are a castrate.” His stare dared me to dispute this claim. Boris opened the door to the carriage. “I am a musico.”

“If you would teach me Italian I cou—”

He raised a finger to cut me off. “I will teach you what you must know,” he said, and then he let me follow him into his house.

…

I was his shadow. Just as he never went anywhere without his fine clothes, his noble carriage, and the amused smirk always on his face, he never went anywhere now without me trailing behind him, like those fluffy
chiens
French ladies haul behind them on a leash.

For two weeks he did not perform, and his only lesson to me was that he was the greatest creature on this earth. I slept at his house, dined with him, followed him about Vienna when it was, for him, convenient; he sent me away when his hunt required intimacy. I carried his coat when it was warm, and opened doors when no porter was available. I entered soirées at his elbow, until the admiring crowds drove us apart.

At our first soirée, after I had been swept away to an empty corner, he suddenly appeared holding the arms of two sisters—some dumb daughters of a duke. Their twin stubby noses seemed to droop as he passed them over to me, but when he was gone again into the crowd, they turned to me with matching smiles that said,
Make us yours
.

Comment t’appelles-tu?
said the one who was only slightly less homely than her sister.

I squinted at her, willing my ears to dissect this simple question that might be the secret to my escape. But it was no use.

“Ah,” I offered. “Hmm.” The two sisters giggled and rubbed more warmly against my chest. I tried retreating, but soon they had me pinned up against the wall. I caught the sight of my master in the crowd. He winked at me.

I closed my eyes and pretended I was a bell hanging silently in the corner. When I opened my eyes again, the soirée was half-empty and the two sisters had found some more willing prey.

Not for one second had I lost sight of my goal. Through my new teacher I would gain entry to my Amalia’s prison, but three weeks seemed an eternity to wait, so I did not give up the idea of succeeding by other means. In the morning, when Guadagni slept, or when he sent me away, I loitered up the street from the Riecher Palace, hoping I would glimpse her in one of the carriages leaving the gate. I fantasized running alongside it singing a secret message. “Stop the carriage!” she would yell, then descend and we would embrace there in the street, as every other poor wretch in Vienna applauded our reunion.