Mozart’s Blood (8 page)

“It might be all right for you,” Mauro said then. “But for me—” He turned to stare down the hill at the city of Rome sprawling at their feet. “I can't hear the scales, and my voice is sour. No one will hire me. They will put me to work in the brothels,” he said bitterly. “A eunuch.”

“No!” Ughetto said. “No! You don't have to do that! I will take you with me, wherever that is. You can be my serv—I mean, you will be my assistant!”

Mauro turned his back. “I will be no one's slave,” he said, and he stalked away, his shoulders stiff. Ughetto wanted to run after him, but Brescha called his name, and he had to go and take his lesson. The next time he saw his friend, they spoke only of casual things. Mauro never mentioned the brothels again.

It was only a few weeks later that Mauro disappeared from the
scuola.
Ughetto rose one morning as usual and found his friend's cot empty, its blankets stripped. Mauro's small possessions had vanished from the dressing table they shared.

Ughetto went to breakfast, hoping to find Mauro at the table, but he wasn't there. He asked Brescha what had become of him, but Brescha wouldn't tell him. He begged the other masters to tell him where Mauro had gone, but no one would speak of it. Their faces closed, and they turned their backs. They reminded him of Nonna at the
villa,
turning her back before the oxcart was even out of her sight.

When he was free from his lessons, Ughetto wandered to the courtyard to stare down the road toward the city. He had lost his home, his mamma, and his sisters. Now his only friend had left without a word. Or had been sent away.

He imagined Mauro would have said he had his music, that he should be content. But Ughetto felt freshly bereft. He wondered what else there could be for life to take from him.

Octavia showered, and vocalized, and ate the breakfast brought up for her, though it might have been straw for all that she could taste it. She dressed casually because today would be the first staging rehearsal. She wore a black cashmere sweater with a scarlet silk scarf around her neck. She pulled on a pair of lined wool slacks that gave her room to move, and she chose her most comfortable shoes. The rain still pattered against the windows. As she reached into her closet for her Burberry, she caught sight of herself in the mirrored door. She heard Ugo's voice in her mind. “Oh,
bella,
not that scarf!” She grimaced and went to the bureau to take out one in a neutral silver-gray.

Ugo had become the arbiter of her taste a very long time ago. She supposed she had come to rely on him more than was good for either of them. But after such a long time alone, she had welcomed someone who cared about what she did and what she wore.

As she ran her scales, he often would say, “Not so high this early!” She wished he were here to remonstrate with her now. She moderated her vocalize as he would have wanted, saving the top notes for when they mattered.

She would mark the rehearsal, of course. It was silly—amateurish—to use full voice for staging rehearsals. When someone boasted that Callas never marked rehearsals, Octavia had to restrain herself from snapping, “Oh, yes? And how long did her voice last?” The sophistry irritated her. And it was a terrible example to extol to young singers.

She felt a faint stirring of thirst as she went down the stairs to the lobby, and a thrill of unease made goose bumps rise on her arms. She thrust the feeling aside, telling herself it was only anxiety over Ugo. She should be all right for days yet. Surely, sometime today, he would show up at the theater, grinning ruefully, telling some tale of getting lost, or meeting someone, or having forgotten to warn her he might be away.

Octavia leaned back in the limousine seat and watched the rain-drenched buildings of Milan spin by. Ugo had every right to disappear if he wanted to. Theirs was a relationship forged by unique bonds, and it was utterly voluntary.

But she had come to depend on him. She had abandoned the old ways and settled, with grateful relief, into the way of life Ugo made possible. She had begun to feel protected, in a way she had not done since her father's death, which was a very long time ago indeed.

Teresa had had no choice in the way she led her life. Zdenka Milosch, Countess of Bohemia, had seen to that.

Octavia closed her eyes, remembering the sharp features of her seductress. She had seen Zdenka Milosch only a few times since those early days in Prague. Except for Ugo, the Countess was the only person who knew Octavia's secret. Teresa's secret.

 

After that evening with Mozart, the night of the premiere, Teresa Saporiti had avoided Countess Milosch when she could, but it wasn't easy. At Signor Bondini's invitation, the Countess attended rehearsals and performances whenever she wished. The theater company depended upon her seemingly limitless funds and endless lists of highborn acquaintances. And Countess Zdenka Milosch liked keeping a close eye on her investment.

The Countess had an armchair set for her in the wings, from which she watched the entire second performance of
Giovanni.
As Teresa made her exit after the first scene, she rose from her seat and seized the young singer's arm. “Lovely, my dear,” she murmured into her ear. “Passionate.”

Teresa, still trembling from the drama of berating Don Giovanni and kneeling at the Commendatore's side after Giovanni ran him through, averted her eyes. She tugged her arm free with a muttered excuse and hurried to the cramped, dark dressing room she shared with Caterina Bondini. She had to walk sideways to fit her panniered skirts through the doorway. She pushed past the rack of costumes that filled most of the space, and sat down on the stool before her dressing mirror to stare at herself in dismay. Her face flamed with embarrassment, and her hair was falling out of its arrangement. She patted fresh powder onto her scarlet cheeks and repinned her hair. As she rose to return to the stage for her scene with Ottavio and Donna Elvira, she swore to herself that what had happened the night before would never be repeated.

As she stood in the wings, awaiting her cue, she looked past the proscenium and saw Herr Mozart beside the harpsichord. He played the chords for Masetto's recitative, smiling up at the singer. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright as buttons in the flicker of the oil lamps. Teresa's heart fluttered, watching him, listening to the magic his small hands brought from the keys.

Teresa had not yet felt the thirst. That would come later. What she felt now was only hunger. She hungered for Mozart.

 

The limousine slowed, and Octavia Voss blinked, bringing herself back to the present. Even after all these years, these rushes of memory, detailed and vivid, undimmed by the passage of years, had the power to unnerve her. It was both the curse and the gift of Zdenka Milosch's bite. The sword of genius cut two ways.

The car turned into Via Filodrammatici and pulled up near the artists' entrance. Octavia stepped out of the limousine, remembering to smile at the driver and thank him. She glanced over her shoulder at the looming statue of Leonardo scowling at her across the Piazza della Scala. She frowned in return, drew a deep breath, tightened the belt on her coat. She must put aside her anxiety—and her memories—and concentrate. When the rehearsal was over, at the end of the day, both would still be there.

She nodded a salute to Leonardo, whose expression did not relent. She smiled and shrugged, and turned to go in through the glass door.

 

They spent the entire morning on the first scene, giving Octavia cause to be glad she had worn comfortable shoes. Nick Barrett-Jones could not, it seemed, learn his blocking. Again and again Octavia lightly sang her lines as she chased him out of Donna Anna's house into the imagined garden. She sang them at least half a dozen times before he could remember where he was supposed to go, which way to turn, when to stop and face her.

The rehearsal space was enormous, to match the stage, and it echoed with their voices and footsteps. There were as yet no real sets to work with, only a wood framework against one wall to simulate the noble house of Seville. Strips of masking tape marked the floor where the shrubs and columns and garden gate would be. It was to be a completely new production, from the costumes to the lighting to the set design. If only their Giovanni could manage to learn his staging.

Nick sang everything full voice, as well, which made Octavia's nerves flare. After the fifth run-through of the opening of their scene, she seized his arm and pushed him into position.

“There's your mark, Nick, dear,” she hissed into his ear. “Stand still, for pity's sake, and let's get past this.”

He grinned at her as if she had made an excuse to get close to him, and bellowed the first phrase of the trio. Octavia put a hand over her left ear to block out his volume and sang her own part
sotto voce.
Russell colored and winked at her from his perch on a tall stool beside the Steinway. No one else sang out. Even Richard Strickland, the Leporello, marked his aria, but this seemed to make no impression on Nick Barrett-Jones.

He should have been a tenor,
Octavia thought wearily.
He has the ego for it.
Whereas Peter, her Don Ottavio, was as mild and unselfish as she could possibly wish, one of the nicest tenors she had ever worked with.

Only in the duel between the Commendatore and Don Giovanni did Nick Barrett-Jones show flair for the rôle. He was surprisingly good with the épée, wielding the sword with the ease of long practice. The staging of the duel went swiftly, and soon Richard lay on the floor, the Don standing over him.

“A fencer,” Peter said. He and Octavia were standing to one side, watching.

Octavia nodded. “Too bad that scene goes by so quickly.”

She could not escape to her dressing room at the break this time. One of the patrons of La Scala had arranged a luncheon for the principals, to be served in the airy foyer behind the
loggione,
the upper gallery. Russell took her arm as they all trooped out to the elevator and wound through the carpeted corridors.

“It's going to be beautiful, Octavia,” he said.

“Thank you, Russell,” she said. She felt the trembling of his fingers under her elbow. He was so highly strung, like a piano wire stressed to the breaking point. “I do hope so.”

“I was sure your voice would be perfect for the rôle. Your high notes are glorious, of course, but your low voice is so clear. None of this muddy, choking stuff some sopranos have.”

“I've been lucky,” she said modestly. “I had a great teacher.”

“Who was it? Did you study in New York?”

“Oh, no, I grew up in a tiny place no one ever heard of. You wouldn't recognize my teacher's name, I'm afraid.”

“It's hard to believe this is your first Donna Anna,” he said.

“Oh, well,” she said lightly. “So many times in the studio, you know, and then I must have sung the arias dozens of times in auditions.”

“It's not really the same, though, is it? I mean, with the staging, and the ensembles…”

“I was terribly nervous, of course, Russell. I still am, really. This is Milan, after all.” She laughed a little. “Thank goodness they don't still throw things at the stage!”

“Only flowers,” he said. He released her elbow and patted her arm with still-unsteady fingers. “For you it will be flowers.”

They reached the door of the foyer, and Russell stood back to let her go ahead of him. The patron, a Signor Ammadio, hurried past the faux marble columns to bow to Octavia, lavish her with compliments on her Rusalka, which he had heard in Paris. She smiled, nodded, shook his hand and that of his wife and two of his friends. Nick came behind her, and the admirers shifted their attention to him, and then to Peter and Marie, Richard and Brenda. The alternate cast had also been invited, and the room was crowded. Octavia found Russell waiting for her at the buffet table, an empty plate in his hand.

The table was set with dishes of
antipasto,
the traditional
salsicce
and olives, freshly made
bruschetta,
a salad of tomatoes and
mozzarella
and basil drizzled generously with a vividly green olive oil. At the far end, a caterer in a white apron was dishing out
risotto alla Milanese.
“Signor Ammadio has been generous,” Octavia murmured. Something in her stomach turned, and she bit her lip, wishing the nausea away. It was another sign of the coming thirst.

“Please, go ahead,” Russell said, ushering her ahead of him.

Octavia picked up a pair of silver tongs and transferred two olives, a slice of cheese, and the smallest piece of
bruschetta
she could find to her plate. She took a little salad and allowed the chef to give her a small spoonful of
risotto,
hoping the rice might settle her stomach.

There were mirrors at the end of the room, and bouquets of flowers in standing vases. A spinet piano was tucked into a sitting area. Octavia found a chair at one of the tables scattered around the room, set with flatware and white linen. A bottle of sparkling water was open in the table's center, and Octavia filled her glass and drank it down immediately. Russell joined her, and to her dismay, Nick Barrett-Jones, his plate heaped with salami and cheese and tomatoes.

Octavia let the men talk while she refilled her glass and sipped it more slowly this time. The bubbles felt good in her throat and in her stomach. Nick took a huge bite of bread and salami. “The food in London is never this good!” he chortled through a full mouth. “I love singing in Italy.”

Russell ate more slowly, but with obvious pleasure. Octavia took a forkful of tomato and
mozzarella,
and put it in her mouth. The nausea didn't return. She managed several mouthfuls of salad, and some
risotto,
before her throat closed and she laid down her fork.

The chef was at her side in a moment. In Italian, he said, “Signorina, do you not like the
risotto?
Would you like me to bring you something else?”

She took a deep breath, putting one hand on her breast.
“No, no, grazie mille,”
she said, in the same language.
“Il risotto è perfetto.
It's just that I haven't been feeling very well.”

He murmured another offer, and at her refusal, whisked away her plate, frowning over his uneaten creation.

Nick waved a piece of
bruschetta
in Octavia's direction. “You speak beautiful Italian.”

She shrugged. “My first teacher was Italian,” she said. “He insisted.”

Russell nodded. “It's why your inflection is so good in the recitatives,” he said. “And probably why it doesn't seem like your first Donna Anna.”

“I coached the rôle thoroughly in New York, of course. I didn't want to disappoint you.”

His thin cheeks colored again, and the tip of his nose reddened. “You would never do that,” he murmured.

Nick got up to replenish his plate, and Octavia drank more sparkling water. She looked around her at the roomful of singers and admirers. Marie sat with Massimo, her head close to his as she chattered in French, gesturing with a salad fork. Brenda's table companions were Lukas and Peter, and Peter's partner David. They were speaking German. When Nick came back from the buffet, he grinned down at Octavia. “Good thing you speak English,” he said. He laid down his full plate and pulled out his chair to sit down. “I sing them all, but I speak only one.”

“That's brave of you,” Octavia said mildly. “You've sung in Paris and Vienna and Rome, as I recall. Don't you speak a little French or German, at least?”

He made a dismissive gesture. “No. That's why theaters have managers!”