A Cadenza for Caruso (18 page)

“Not yet,” Ugo whispered back. “But do not worry, Rico, I will find her.”

“What are these horses doing here?” a horrified voice cried. Gatti-Casazza elbowed his way through the crowd. “They are not supposed to be here now! Which of you is in charge?”

One of the animal handlers stepped forward. “This here's the Metropolitan Opera, ain't it? I got an order to deliver eight horses—”

“Yes, yes, but not
now
—they are not needed until the third act! Oh dear!” Gatti-Casazza stared at a steaming pile on the floor. “We can't have these animals backstage during the entire performance! Take them outside—right now, please.”

“Cold out there,” the handler grumbled. “Not good for the horses, either.”

“But surely you have vans? What did you bring them in?”

“They're open vans, not much protection.”

“Then please see to it that Saturday night you have the proper kind of van, the kind that does offer protection. As for now, you'll simply have to improvise something. We can't have all these animals here while we're trying to put on an opera!”

“Well, I s'pose we could double-blanket 'em.”

“You do that. And somebody clean up that mess!” The handler and his assistants started moving the horses out. “Oh dear, we should have started by now!” Gatti-Casazza exclaimed, combing his beard nervously with his fingers. “Will you take your places, please? Everyone off the stage who does not belong on the stage!”

Caruso turned to his accompanist. “Barthélemy, take Mario out front and watch from there. And Mario, try to smile once in a while. Martino—why not join them? I do not think—”

“I stay here,” Martino said firmly. “You may need me.”

Caruso knew better than to argue. He drew Ugo aside and said, low, “I change my mind about one thing. Do not deliver Pasquale's letter until the rehearsal is finished—I do not wish to throw his performance off. But Sigrid's letter can be delivered any time you find her alone. If she is here.”

Ugo answered by digging an elbow into Caruso's ribs and gesturing theatrically with his head. The tenor followed his look—and there was Sigrid, arguing with Emmy, as always. That was all right, then.

“I am starting this rehearsal in exactly thirty seconds,” a voice from the orchestra pit announced. “The rest of you may join me or not, as you please.” Toscanini smiled in satisfaction at the mad rush his words caused. The stage lights went down; the only thing visible was the glowing end of a burning cigar. The first hair-raising chords sounded from the orchestra. The stage lights slowly went up to reveal Amato and one of the miners in the saloon. Dress rehearsal was under way.

Caruso put Sigrid and the letters at the back of his mind and anxiously watched the stage action. The fight went smoothly; no one got hurt. The Bible opened the way it was supposed to. Caruso made his entrance; and when Amato knocked his drink off the bar, no one got splashed. The singing was true, the orchestra was authoritative, the music was beautiful.

The first act of
La Fanciulla del West
was the longest, running about an hour. When Caruso left the stage, he had sweat off all his make-up and hurried upstairs to apply more. Martino handed him a towel and then knelt down to oil Caruso's spurs. “Mr. Belasco's orders,” he said apologetically.

“Where is Ugo?” Caruso asked.

“Here.” Ugo stood in the doorway, shaking his head
no
. He hadn't been able to deliver the letter yet. Ugo stepped back from the door and Puccini rushed in, followed by Lieutenant O'Halloran.

“Caruso,” the composer cried, “if you keep singing like that I will have to rename the opera
The Lad of the Golden West
! Divine!”

“Emmy won't like that,” the tenor laughed. “You are satisfied, then?”

“I am
enchanted!
I have never seen a dress rehearsal go so smoothly—especially the final rehearsal of a
new
opera. Ah, if only all rehearsals were like this one! I must speak to Amato and Madame Destinn.” He hurried out, not even looking at Lieutenant O'Halloran as he passed; Puccini had decided to deal with the policeman by ignoring him.

“Why don't you leave him alone?” Caruso hissed. O'Halloran only smiled and followed Puccini out. Caruso finished putting on his make-up and hurried downstairs.

The stage set of the girl's cabin was in place for Act II. Except for the brief appearance of a few of the minor characters, this middle section of
Fanciulla
was carried entirely by the three principals. And of those three, only Emmy Destinn was onstage during the entire act, a total of forty-five minutes. A good time for Ugo to deliver the letter to Sigrid.

Only one small mishap marred the act: The cabin door stuck. Toscanini halted the rehearsal while the stagehands got the door open, and then the act proceeded smoothly to its conclusion. Caruso rushed off, needing to apply make-up for the third time that day.

At the bottom of the stairs to the dressing rooms stood Ugo, smiling broadly and nodding. Sigrid had the letter.

Up the stairs, into the dressing room. Gatti-Casazza visited him briefly, full of effusive compliments. Even David Belasco stopped by with a kind word, no longer miffed by Caruso's invasion of his private rooms. Like most people, Belasco quickly forgot past offenses when he heard Caruso sing.

The last act was the shortest of the three, less than half an hour. Caruso considered the entire opera to be a much more sensible length than those ten-hour marathons Richard Wagner used to churn out, not that any good Italian ever listened to them anyway. Act III of
Fanciulla
opened on a somber picture of dawn breaking over a mountainous forest; and not too long after that, the lynch-minded mob picked out a tree and threw a rope over one limb.

Something was wrong. It wasn't the chorus; they were behaving themselves nicely. The horses weren't doing anything they weren't supposed to be doing. No, the problem was Pasquale Amato. He was angry; he was acting angry and he was
singing
angry. What was the matter? Caruso finished
Ch' ella mi creda
, and Amato marched over to deliver the make-believe slap they'd rehearsed so carefully. Only Amato didn't make believe. He belted Caruso a good one.

The tenor stood there in a state of absolute shock. His nonviolent friend had struck him!

Just in time, Emmy came riding to the rescue, fighting her cranky black mare all the way. The lynch mob went back to being just a bunch of miners again and set Caruso free; and a little fancy footwork on the part of the tenor enabled him to keep Emmy between himself and Amato. Then hero and heroine went off together arm-in-arm, singing
“Addio, mia California!”
all the way.

It was over.

Caruso hugged Emmy in relief; she was laughing, pleased with her performance. Ugo was there, eyes shining in excitement. David Belasco was offering congratulations all around.

But their moment of triumph was shattered by a woman's voice, screaming abuse—at Caruso! Sigrid came charging toward him, waving a piece of paper over her head. Quickly he hid behind Emmy. Sigrid was shaking his note at him—how had she found out he'd written it? Ugo was looking as startled as Caruso felt. The tenor couldn't understand what Sigrid was saying, but he was pretty sure he was hearing some choice Swedish swearing.

Then a new stream of abuse started from behind him—and this time it was in Italian and Caruso
could
understand it. He turned to see Pasquale Amato advancing toward him, and
he
was waving a piece of paper over
his
head!
Per dio!
What had gone wrong?

“I told you to hold Pasquale's until
after
the rehearsal!” Caruso yelled at Ugo.

“I was afraid I would miss him!” Ugo yelled back.

Caruso was trying to use Emmy to fend off both Sigrid and Amato, but the soprano had had enough and broke away. “What
is
all this?” she demanded. Suddenly Barthélemy and Martino and Mario were there, and Toscanini and Gatti-Casazza, and Puccini and Lieutenant O'Halloran. Caruso felt himself being backed out onto the stage.

“This time you go too far, Rico!” Amato shouted angrily. “What a vulgar, stupid joke!” He read from the note: “‘Luigi Davila made copies of all his important papers and left them with me for safekeeping …'”

“What's this? What's this?” Lieutenant O'Halloran pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

“That's the same thing mine says!” Sigrid exclaimed. She and Amato compared letters.

They were all out on the stage, including the chorus and the rest of the cast, who had come back to see what was going on. Caruso couldn't stand it any longer. “How did you know?” he wailed. “How did both of you know I wrote those letters?”

“Don't be foolish,” Amato growled. “I'd know that scrawl of yours anywhere—it's unmistakable. Nobody else writes quite like that. I could tell just from reading my name on the envelope that the note was from you.”

“Chicken scratches,” Sigrid snorted.

Caruso shot a quick glance at Ugo's startled face looking over David Belasco's shoulder. They'd neither of them thought of that! Caruso's talent for subterfuge did not extend to disguising his handwriting.

“Let me see those letters,” Lieutenant O'Halloran commanded. Sigrid and Amato handed them over. Toscanini edged up to the policeman and read them with him. He threw a reproving look at Caruso and made a clucking sound with his tongue.

“Will someone please explain to me what is happening here?” Gatti-Casazza cried plaintively.

O'Halloran scratched his neck uneasily. “Well, on the face of it, it would appear that your star tenor is trying to blackmail your star baritone and this lady here.” The police detective was clearly puzzled. “Now why would you do a thing like that, Mr. Caruso?”

“There is some mistake!” Gatti-Casazza gasped. “Someone else wrote those letters!”

Caruso smiled sadly. “No, Mr. Gatti, there is no mistake. I wrote the letters—both of them.”

Amato was shaking his finger under Caruso's nose. “What a
tasteless
thing to do, Rico! Using a dead man to pay me back for one little trick I play on you! You should be whipped!”

“Do not speak to Rico like that!” the loyal Martino called out. Mario looked as if he wanted to cry.

“What are you talking about, a trick?” Sigrid asked Amato. “I play no tricks on anyone!”

“I am sorry, Pasquale,” Caruso said, honestly contrite. “It was wrong of me to do what I did. I beg your forgiveness.”

He looked so miserable that Amato didn't have the heart to stay mad at him. “Eh, well, no harm done, I suppose. But never do a thing like that again!”

“Never,” Caruso promised solemnly.

“You see what comes of playing tricks?” Toscanini announced to the world at large. “Nothing but trouble!”

“Tricks, tricks, tricks!” Sigrid cried in exasperation. “What have tricks to do with
me?
”

“Mr. Caruso,” Lieutenant O'Halloran said, “don't you think it's time you explained?”

Almost eighty faces were staring at him, waiting for a little speech that would magically make everything clear. Caruso swallowed hard and plunged in. “I investigate the murder of Luigi Davila. The police seem content to think our friend Puccini is the guilty party—but I am not content, no! I know Puccini has killed no one. I know he did not put that knife in Davila's side. So I decide I will find out who did!”

“Oh, Caruso!” Puccini said so softly that only Barthélemy heard him.

“Just exactly how did you go about your investigating?” O'Halloran asked, half-irritated, half-amused.

“I listen, I ask questions, I read things.” Caruso shrugged. “I …
investigate
.”

“That is why you were going through the papers in my desk,” Belasco said suddenly.

“And that is why you were hiding in my wardrobe cabinet!” Emmy exclaimed.

“Is that why you followed me everywhere?” Gatti-Casazza wanted to know. “To find out if I was a murderer?”

Caruso started to sweat. “Well, uh, a detective must be impartial …”

“Rico!” Emmy cried. “Do you really think I could be a murderer?”

“No, Emmy, no!” he hastened to assure her. “I investigate you to prove you are
not
a murderer! I eliminate suspects, one by one!” Emmy didn't really believe that, but she decided to let him get away with it. For the time being.

“So you eliminated everybody until you got down to Mr. Amato and the lady—Sigrid, is it?” O'Halloran said. “Then you wrote letters to these two. Mr. Caruso, exactly what did you expect these letters to accomplish?”

How to word it without implicating Puccini before all these nosy people? “You know Luigi Davila was a blackmailer,” Caruso said carefully. “He could have had many victims the police do not know about—and it is likely that one of them killed him, yes? I think if I pretend to take over where Davila left off, the killer will reveal herself … or himself.”

“I see.” O'Halloran studied Caruso. “Now suppose you tell me why you think these two people here were Luigi Davila's blackmail victims?”

Amato was staring at the tenor in horror. “You think that Davila was blackmailing
me?
You think
I
am the one who killed him?”

“No, no, Pasquale! I never think that! Not even for one little moment!” He had determined never to give his friend away; this was the test. “It is only that I see a chance to get even with you—for the Bible trick. That is all, I assure you!”

Belasco gaped at Amato. “The Bible trick?
You
glued the pages of the Bible together?”

“What are you talking about?” O'Halloran wanted to know.

Toscanini looked hurt. “Not you too, Amato! Always tricks!”