A Cadenza for Caruso (5 page)

“Maestro!” the tenor called. “Do you see Puccini and another man just now? Do you know where they go?”

Toscanini started guiltily and thrust whatever he was holding into his pocket. “Ah … Caruso! Ah, what did you say? Puccini … I do not know, they, ah …” Abruptly his manner changed; he became stern and professorial. “No partying tonight, Caruso! You need your rest. Leave the ladies alone. Do you understand?” He whirled on his heel and was gone.

Caruso stared after him in astonishment. Now what in the name of heaven was
that
all about?

3

My dear Puccini
,

It is with great reluctance that I must insist you call upon me today in my apartment at the Hotel Knickerbocker. If you do not come today, I refuse to attend the Fanciulla rehearsal. More than that, I will never sing the role if you do not come
.

I am certain you realize what a great personal sacrifice such a position costs me, but you leave me no choice. You will not talk to me on the telephone and you do not answer my letters. The last time I called on you, you shut the door in my face. So you see, only the deepest desperation could drive me to issue such an ultimatum. I refuse to sing if you do not come
.

I expect to see you immediately without fail. I accept no excuses
.

Your loving friend
,

E. Caruso

Caruso read the letter over in distaste; such a
bullying
thing to write! He'd written it in what Pasquale Amato said was his “angry” handwriting—large, irregularly shaped letters with heavy dots and dashes. His “polite” handwriting, as Amato called it, was uniform in size and tastefully ornamented with numerous little curlicues. But by heaven he
was
angry, and this was no time to be polite.

“What do you think?” Caruso asked Martino, who was reading over his shoulder.

“A very strong, persuasive letter,” the valet said approvingly. “Perhaps if you underlined the word ‘never'…?”

Caruso dipped his pen in the inkwell and drew a heavy black line under “never.”

“Yes, that is better,” Martino nodded. “That should get him here.”

Caruso blotted the letter and folded it carefully into an envelope. “Ugo, I want you to take this to Puccini. Do not leave it with the hotel clerk—hand it to Puccini personally.”

“I will take it, Rico,” Martino said. “I must go out anyway, to buy supplies.”

Ugo said, “Be sure you bring back the receipts.”

“You say that every time I go out,” Martino answered with a touch of exasperation. “Have I ever forgotten to bring back the receipts?”

“No. But that does not mean you will never forget.” Ugo was the bookkeeper in Caruso's traveling household, a job that by rights should have been Martino's. But with all his various abilities, the one thing Martino could not do was add and subtract. Not with any reasonable degree of reliability, unfortunately.

When Martino had left, Caruso told Ugo to prepare some wine and sat down to wait.

Forty minutes later, Puccini was there—breathing fire. “What do you mean, you
refuse
to sing? You signed a contract! Caruso, how dare you threaten me! You—”

“Let me explain, let me explain!” Caruso felt terrible; he was beginning to wish he hadn't started this. “There is a reason—”

“Do I not have enough trouble without your threats? Elvira pours out her anger in long, long letters and Toscanini will never have
Fanciulla
ready in time and my new valet has run away! And now you tell me—”

“
Fanciulla
will be ready in plenty of time,” Caruso soothed. “And your new valet is probably just lost again.”

“No, no, he took all his clothes—and even some of mine! He has run away!” Puccini sank down into a chair. “Obviously he applied for the job only to get passage to America. He never had any intention of staying with me.”

Caruso tsk-tsked and made other appropriate noises until he finally got the composer calmed down enough to listen. “Puccini, I know something else is wrong—something is terribly wrong. I want you to tell me about it. Perhaps I can help!”

“What are you talking about?” Puccini snapped. “Nothing else is wrong! Isn't that enough?”

Caruso swallowed and stuck out his chin. “I do not believe you.”

“Will you mind your own business? How dare you pry into my life! I tell you nothing is wrong.”

“If nothing is wrong, then why are you not enjoying yourself?” Irrefutable logic, from Caruso's point of view. “Just think, Puccini. This should be a joyous time for you, seeing all the parts of your new opera come together. But you are listless, distracted—you seem indifferent to what is happening. How can you not care what happens to
Fanciulla?
Something is terribly wrong. Everyone can see it.”

The composer said nothing.

“Puccini,” Caruso said with a certain amount of unrehearsed bravado, “I am not going to let you go until you tell me what is bothering you. You and I, we will spend the rest of our lives right here together in this room—unless you tell me. I do not joke. You
will
tell me.”

Puccini stared at him a long time without speaking. His face began to change; he seemed to be aging even as Caruso watched. Then the composer gave a shudder and dropped his face into his hands.

Alarmed, Caruso jumped to his feet. “What is it? What distresses you so?”

Slowly the composer lifted a grief-stricken face from his hands; Caruso had never seen such a tortured look offstage in his life. Puccini had to swallow twice before he could speak. “Do you know a man named Luigi Davila?”

Davila, Davila … ah,
Davila!
Yes, yes—Davila was the pink-faced impresario whose name Caruso had managed to forget. The man with whom Puccini had left the Metropolitan Opera House. Luigi Davila. “I do know him, alas—I wish I did not! The man is a pest.”

“He is more than a pest,” Puccini said. “He's a blackmailer. I am being blackmailed, Caruso. Luigi Davila is blackmailing me.”

“Oh, my dear friend!” Caruso's heart melted in sympathy. “What a terrible, terrible thing!” Blackmail! The tenor wandered around the room, waving his arms in frustration. “My dear Puccini—I ache for you!” Because he couldn't think what else to do, he yelled to Ugo to bring the wine.

Puccini was trembling all over. “It never stops. One misfortune after another.”

Ugo came in with the wine, took one look at Puccini, and asked if he should go for a doctor.

“No, no,” Caruso said, “just give him some wine. Quickly.”

Ugo poured them each a glass of wine, but the composer's hand was so shaky the valet had to help him lift the glass to his mouth. “Is there something I can get you?” he asked solicitously. Puccini shook his head.

Caruso tossed off his wine and held the glass out for more. He seated himself opposite Puccini and took a deep breath. “Now then. Tell me the whole thing.”

“This, this
Davila
”—Puccini made the name sound obscene—“this Davila says he has evidence that will send Elvira to prison for the rest of her life.”

Elvira again! “What has she done now?”

“Nothing! It is that same tragic affair in Torre del Lago!”

“The servant girl Doria?”

Puccini nodded. “Davila says she didn't poison herself. He says she was murdered, and it was Elvira who murdered her!” Both Caruso and Ugo were staring at him open-mouthed. “Neither Elvira nor I was in Torre del Lago when Doria swallowed the poison,” Puccini went on.

“But if you were not there …?”

Puccini didn't seem to hear. “Caruso, do you know it took her five days to die?
Five days
. All that agony … the suffering she must have gone through! And the poor girl never did harm to anyone.”

Ugo filled the composer's wineglass and patted him sympathetically on the shoulder.

Caruso tried again. “How could Elvira murder the girl if she was not there?”

“Davila says she did not administer the poison herself—she is supposed to have hired someone to do it for her. Davila says he has letters she wrote arranging the whole thing.”

“You have seen these letters?”

“He showed me one. Elvira did not write that letter, Caruso, no question of it. But it looks just enough
like
her handwriting that it might succeed in deceiving people who are not so familiar with her writing as I am. But it is
not
her writing. Besides, Elvira is not stupid—she would never put something like that down on paper. And then sign her full name? Preposterous. The letters are forged, and Davila knows I know they are forged. But they could still convict Elvira! He has me. I cannot risk even the accusation. They convicted her once before, in Torre del Lago.”

“But that was for defamation, not murder!”

“It makes no difference. You know how I got Elvira out of it—by paying off Doria's family? The good people of Torre del Lago feel cheated. They would love nothing more than a second chance at my wife.”

Caruso jumped up again and started pacing the floor. He had trouble believing what was happening. And all because of that Luigi Davila! What kind of worm would take advantage of such a terrible tragedy to extort money from a man? How low, how vile! What to do, what to do? “Do you trust him to keep quiet if you pay him off?” he asked Puccini.

“He does not want to be paid
off
. He wants to be paid, and paid, and paid. He made it quite clear I am to see he lives in comfort for the rest of his days. Luigi Davila is a vampire—he will suck me dry.”

Wide-eyed, Ugo poured himself a glass of wine and drank it down fast.

“This you cannot agree to,” Caruso said in dismay. “Spend the rest of your life supporting that … that
leech
. Impossible.”

“But what else can I do?” Puccini groaned. “I cannot let Elvira go to prison for a crime she didn't commit—she might even be hanged!”

“Does she know anything about this?”

“No, and you are not to tell her, Caruso.”

“Of course not, of course not. But we must think of what to do!”

“I've thought and I've thought, but there is nothing.”

They mulled it over for a while, getting nowhere, not able to think of any possible line of action.

“Once again you have gotten me to talk, Caruso,” Puccini smiled sadly. “And I must tell you, I am grateful. I did want to tell somebody—it is a terrible burden to bear alone. But Caruso, you must mention this to no one else—no one at all.”

“I say nothing, I give you my word.” Then they both remembered the third man in the room.

Ugo held up his hands, palms outward. “I do not repeat one word of what I hear. I promise. I tell no one.”

“Not even Martino and Mario,” Caruso ordered.

“Especially not Martino and Mario,” Ugo agreed. “Martino talks too much, and Mario does not talk enough.”

Caruso didn't quite follow that, but decided this wasn't the time to pursue it. A little later Puccini left, after promising to keep Caruso informed. The tenor continued his pacing, thinking.

“Ugo—you know this Luigi Davila, don't you?”

“I am not sure.”

“You were there once or twice when he wanted me to sign a contract—oh, you know, he is the one who tried to bribe Martino! Do you remember him?”

Ugo squinted his eyes. “Pink and fat?”

“That's the one! Ugo, I want you to find out where he lives. Or where his office is—if he has an office.”

“How do I do that?”

Caruso glared at him; he hadn't thought that far ahead. “Eh, you can try asking at the opera house—Mr. Gatti knows everyone. Or—I know!—booking offices! Some of the other agents must surely know him.”

Ugo's face lit up. “That is a good idea, Rico! I will go right now.” He hurried off to get his hat and coat.

Caruso continued his pacing and heard Ugo leave. Poor Puccini! How could any man bear it? He did not deserve this.

The tenor was jittery, edgy. He still had a rehearsal to get through today, and he was in no condition to concentrate on singing. He needed something to relax him. “Mario!”

He had to call only once; the youngest of his three valets was there, waiting quietly to hear what his employer wanted.

“I will have my massage now, Mario. Immediately!”

The young man didn't so much as blink at this outrageous change in routine. Mario always gave Caruso a rubdown after rehearsals, when the tenor was tense and wound up. He must have wondered why Caruso wanted a massage now,
before
going to the opera house. When Caruso was ready, Mario started slapping scented oil on his back.

“Mario, what does one do with a blackmailer?” Caruso asked.

“One goes to the police, signore.”

“Hm. But what if going to the police causes harm? Harm to innocent people?”

“One goes anyway. Better the risk of harm than putting one's life into the hands of a blackmailer.”

Caruso shook his head and dropped the subject. He'd forgotten the absoluteness of youth—this is right, that is wrong. “Mario, that suit you are wearing is starting to look frayed. You have been wearing it how long?”

Mario thought back. “Only two and three-fourths years.”

Caruso took a moment to figure out that three-fourths of a year was nine months. “Go get yourself a new one—have the bill sent to me.”

“Grazie, signore, grazie!
” Mario beat a happy tattoo on the tenor's back.

Caruso grunted and dismissed Mario's sartorial problem from his mind. There had to be something he could do to help Puccini. There
had
to be.

New York barbershops were, to Enrico Caruso's way of thinking, one of the seven wonders of the modern world. They were not just for haircuts and shaves—oh no! There one could also be perfumed, powdered, manicured, pedicured, steamed, and massaged. One could buy toilet articles there, or ease sore muscles by lying under a heat lamp. Or one could clear congested nasal passages by breathing a specially prepared sulpha vapor. And every barbershop in Manhattan boasted its own particular cure for hangover.