The Bells (30 page)

The Furies danced about Orpheus, trying to frighten him away.

He stood calmly, though—a still tree in a gale of whipping branches. His love knew no fear, and his lone voice was stronger than the chorus. It thickened the air in the theater when it rang, and the audience knew these demons had no chance against his powers. Their voices grew meek. Their dance grew calm. They let him pass, and watched in awe as he disappeared in the shadows.

Guadagni left the stage, and I was there to receive him.

The curtains closed only for a moment. Tasso spun his winch and set loose the backdrop. The dark red wing frames vanished, and blue, blue sky took their place. The red-tinted glass fell away. When the curtain parted again, Tasso had brought heaven to the empire.

Angiolini’s ballet warmed the audience’s eyes. Guadagni stood beside me in the wing, his head bowed as if he were asleep. His broad shoulders rose and fell. The ballet ended, and the chorus gathered to watch the hero enter.

When the oboe’s first notes filled the theater like a ray of sunshine, Gaetano Guadagni glided back onto the stage. Orpheus stopped at the exact spot on the stage where he had begun this opera in his misery. Now, with each breath, he inflated. The audience knew something was gathering inside him. They sat forward, eager to share this joy.

The aria poured from his precious throat, and my body tingled with its warmth. I grew, both up and out, as expectation filled me, but I was careful not to make a sound as I climbed down into Tasso’s cave. The three men were lying beside each other on the floor, gazing at the ceiling as if through the dark wood they might see the golden swirls of Guadagni’s voice spreading across the stage. Truly, my master’s voice—too weak for explosive passion—was made for the serenity of this aria.

I crawled beneath the web of ropes to the peephole. Gluck’s face shone with sweat as he beamed at his creation. Behind him, in the Ox Pen, they stared up at Orpheus without blinking, faces slack. The royal family sat so still I could have been looking at a portrait. There was no breath of movement from
Le Paradis
, just the glint of wet eyes.

Amalia! She gripped the railing in front of her and sat upright, tense. The music hurt her, and she bit her lip, for surely a thousand faces would turn if Countess Riecher’s daughter-in-law lost her composure. She wiped a tear with a white-gloved hand, then pressed a knuckle against her trembling chin.

Anton placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. She stiffened. She took several breaths. She took his fingers in hers—but just long enough to lift his hand off her shoulder and release it. Anton withdrew his arm and returned his attention to the stage.

Countess Riecher cast a disapproving look, but Amalia did not seem to see it. She looked blankly at the loges across the theater, breathing shallowly and steadily until Guadagni had finished his song.

Soon you will love music again
, I whispered, and I crawled away from the peephole.

Guadagni took his bows and walked to his dressing room. It was time to deliver the note, but the singer had left the door ajar behind him. With great reluctance I followed him.

“Signora Clavarau sings like a cow,” he said. There was no truth in this statement; she had sung beautifully. But I nodded. He took a sip of wine.

Gluck barged in. The composer smiled at me and looked as though he would embrace me, then realized I was not the one he sought. He pushed past me to Guadagni.

“What a success!” Gluck shouted.

Guadagni nodded.

“Wait until they hear the third act! Orpheus shall live again!” Gluck eyed Guadagni’s glass. “May I?” he asked, and before waiting for an answer, he gulped down the rest of Guadagni’s wine. I prayed I would not be sent for more. “I am off to the count’s box,” the composer said.

“Send her majesty my respects,” Guadagni replied.

Gluck disappeared to speak with Count Durazzo, whose loge was adjacent to the empress’s. I slid toward the door. “I will be outside,” I said. “If you need me.”

“No,” he said. “Stay. Shut the door.”

I did, wishing I were on the other side, and then returned to stand behind my master. He studied me in the mirror.

Suddenly he reached up a hand and held it over his shoulder. I realized he meant me to place my hand in his. He pressed my hand to his shoulder.

“It is good we found each other,” he said. “This world is not a friendly place, least of all for us.”

Us?
I thought.
But we are not the same
.

“
Mio fratello,
” he continued. “I am sorry if I wounded you the other night. It was rash. In your ignorance, you thought that you could help. I am sure you will never make the mistake again. I see that now, and so I regret my words. You see, I have had many students in the past. In the end, they left me, or I sent them away. I never found a single one I could trust completely. Until I found you. You are different.”

My hand was sweating.
Let me leave!

“Sooner or later, they all became wolves. They wanted what I had. You are different. You want nothing except to hear me sing. Is that right? Is there anything else you desire? Simply tell me and I will give it to you.”

“Nothing,” I said.
After tonight I will never see you again
.

He smiled and squeezed my hand tightly. “I thought so. Know that you can trust me, too. I will never abandon you. When I leave Vienna, you will accompany me. We shall stay teacher and student forever.”

I mumbled my thanks, and he smiled graciously. “Now leave me,” he said. “I must return to Orpheus. Before this final act is through, Vienna will know that Orpheus lives again.”

I backed away quietly, like a nurse from a sleeping child she fears to wake, but when I had shut his door, I darted to the nearest trap. “The note!” I cried into the darkness. “The note!”

Nicolai had insisted on holding it, saying he wished his heart to be warmed once more by such ardent love as ours. When I called into the substage, Remus retrieved the piece of paper and passed it up. It was less royal-looking now, creased along one corner, and Nicolai’s sweaty grip seemed to have smudged the waxen seal, which Remus had applied hours earlier. But that was no matter. I flew into the corridor and did not give my doubts a second thought.

It seemed half of Vienna was milling about in the passages. At least four dukes and a prince cursed me for elbowing them in their ample guts even before I made it to the stairs. I heard the slurping of wine as if tongues were lolling in my ear. Finally, I made it to the Riecher loge. The door stood open, several men fighting to poke their heads inside, trying to gain an audience with one of Vienna’s greatest families.

“Pardon me,” I said, pushing one man aside whose head was down near my elbow. The next man resisted, even when I trod on his foot. I tugged his coattail. When he turned to confront me, I slipped by.

“A message for Amalia”—I choked back her former name—“Riecher.”

There was an awkward silence, and I realized I had yelled this rather loudly. I blushed. Heads turned not only in the loge, but across the theater. The cold moon of Countess Riecher’s face was upon me. Amalia turned as well, and my heart raced. She stared at me—for this voice had reminded her of one she knew.

“From Gaetano Guadagni,” I said, as quietly as I could. Amalia’s eyes rested a moment more on me, but then her imploring stare grew dark; her ears had fooled her. She turned away as a hand wiped away a tear.

Countess Riecher frowned, even as everyone else within hearing grinned.

“Give it to me,” the matriarch said. She reached out three white fingers, tensed like a bird’s claws.

“I am to lay it only in the lady’s hand,” I recited, just as Remus had instructed.

Someone muttered about the castrate’s gall.

“Let her have it,” said the dignified Count Riecher, without looking at me. “It is harmless admiration. After all, the man is a soldier without his sword.”

This brought general laughter to the loge. Even Countess Riecher smiled cautiously. They all looked at Amalia, whose hands remained in her lap. Her back was still toward me, her head only half-turned.

“My dear,” Anton whispered in her ear, “you cannot refuse it. Do take it as an honor. He has admired you from the stage.”

She shook her head. “I do not want it,” she said.

Before I could object, Anton grabbed the note. He fumbled with the seal, broke it, and started to unfold the paper.

“No,” I said uselessly from the door. A brief vision: I leap upon him and tear—

But Amalia turned and snatched the note. “It is not for you to read,” she said. This brought another snigger from Count Riecher, followed carefully by those around him.

Amalia opened the letter and began to read silently. I had read it a dozen times that day and knew every word:

Dear Amalia
,

It is of greatest importance that you show no surprise at what you are about to read. I am alive—your Moses. I love you still, and have come to take you away, if you will still have me. When Orpheus looks into Eurydice’s eyes, make some excuse and slip out. I will be waiting outside the theater
.

Tell them you find this letter most appalling. Return it
.

Moses

I watched her eyes examine the paper. Her performance was most extraordinary. That canvas that had always poorly hid the turbulent emotions below showed only confusion, then a flash of repulsion. Then annoyance. She looked angrily at me.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. I was not as accomplished an actor as she, but I managed a shrug.

Then, to my horror, she turned the letter around and showed it to everyone in the loge.

The paper was blank. Anton took the letter from her hands and examined both sides. There was nothing hidden on its creamy surface.

“Explain this,” Count Riecher ordered.

“Look at his face,” Anton said. “White as a sheet. Guadagni’s eunuch is as shocked as we.”

I glimpsed angry embarrassment on Amalia’s face before she turned away. Her husband petted her shoulder.

“Get out,” Countess Riecher ordered. And I was conveyed away by eager hands, as lifeless as a paper doll.

XIV.

I
sank into the substage just as Gluck took his place for act three. Remus awaited my report, but when he saw my ashen face, he knew something had gone wrong.

“It was blank,” I said. “The words had washed away.”

“What?” Remus cried, slamming his forehead with his fist. I told him exactly what had happened, the miracle of the empty paper.

“But that is impossible,” Remus whispered, as the orchestra began.

“You must have used magic ink,” Nicolai berated.

“I used the same ink I always use,” said Remus. “How could this have happened?”

“Lie down,” Nicolai told me. He took my hand. “We will think of another plan. We still have time. If nothing else, at the close of the opera, we will send Remus to deliver another message.”

Remus’s eyes grew wide in horror.

“Lie still,” Nicolai said to us. “The music will tell us what to do.”

In act three, the lovers were alone in the Stygian Caves. Her hand was in his; his eyes were averted from the danger of her face. There were no Furies, no chorus, no dancers. Vines grappled for the lovers. Rocks were strewn about the ground. The dim and flickering footlights threw grotesque shadows on the backdrop. The audience listened and prayed that Orpheus would find strength to escape his destiny.

I, too, prayed for my destiny. Could it really be only loss and failure? She had slipped away again, and if I could not find some way to show myself, tomorrow she would leave. Would I follow her? Of course I would. I would follow her even if it meant chasing her forever, like a pilgrim chasing the horizon.

The lovers stood upon the stage above us. Cracks between the floorboards shone golden gashes, and Orpheus sang that Eurydice must hurry. She asked him why he would not embrace her. What had become of her bewitching beauty? What had happened to his love?

But Orpheus could not answer, even though the audience knew he would have penetrated a thousand hells to save her.

Tasso sat on his stool like a statue, contemplating the lamp’s tiny flame. The rigging was like a spider’s web about his head. Only when Orpheus and Eurydice passed above him did he look up, like a man hearing a mouse in his ceiling.

I closed my eyes. The violins’ bodies rang with Eurydice’s voice, which was clear and strong, even though she lacked the will to lift her feet. In the audience, many bodies were tuned to Guadagni’s voice, and so, though he sang his part alone, the impression was of many people humming with him. If Gluck had ears to hear this, he would have hung his audience like bells from the ceiling, so the beauty of his music would have overwhelmed their every fiber.

On the stage, Eurydice was begging Orpheus to look at her, if only for a moment. Her singing was high and piercing; I felt it in the soft skin behind my ears, like the tickle of a feather. To Orpheus, these cries were sharp daggers in his back. His will was breaking. I had seen this rehearsed many times, so I knew Eurydice stood just behind him. He faced the audience, eyes closed.

As the two lovers sang—her pleas to him, his cries to the gods—Guadagni’s voice began to lose its perfection. He could not push more hurt into these notes. He tried to sing louder, but he could not, and so I heard that his voice had begun to lose its fluid ebb and swell. Now it was all just forceful swell. I heard a thump near the front of the stage. Eurydice had dropped to her knees. She could not take another step. If he does not love her, he should leave her in this awful cave.

He could not stand to refuse her. How could the gods have demanded anything so cruel? He would look into her eyes.

I turned to Nicolai, expecting to see him crying at the music, but to my surprise, there was no grief on his face. He had propped himself on one elbow and was staring intently through the substage. I thought I saw a smile flash across his face. His eyes were clouded, but he was absorbed by the music, as if he were struggling to understand every word the lovers sang.

Orpheus called to his beloved wife so he might embrace her, and just as his will was finally broken—

Nicolai sat up. He groaned with the effort, and Remus turned, concerned. But Nicolai was not in pain. He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded paper. It was nearly identical to the note he had given me before. He handed it to me. “Moses,” he said. “I am sorry. I have deceived you.”

This note was tidily creased, its blue seal perfectly round—just as Remus had made it. I broke it open. Here was the letter I had been meant to deliver. I looked up into Nicolai’s foggy eyes. Why had my friend betrayed me? There was an odd smile on his face.

“Moses,” he whispered. “Don’t you see? Love like yours is not meant for paper. Not with the beauty of your voice.”

I trembled. I had no idea what he meant. He smiled. Above us the floorboards creaked as Eurydice stood to embrace her lover. Orpheus began to turn his head. The two lovers stepped toward each other.

Nicolai began to crawl through the cave.

“Nicolai!” Remus whispered. But Nicolai did not seem to hear him.

Orpheus and Eurydice embraced. She saw in his eyes that he loved her. They were blissful for a single moment, then she died in his arms.

The theater was silent. Orpheus had killed his Eurydice. No one breathed. No one moved. There was nothing more to hope for.

But here in the substage, in the soft glow of the lamp, Nicolai was crawling through Tasso’s cave, grunting with each movement. Remus followed him, tried to grasp his foot, tried to stop Hope before it ruined this evening, before it angered the empress, before it got them cast out of this city just as Fury had gotten them cast out of St. Gall. Tasso, too, realized that something was amiss. His paws shook before his chest. He scuttered to the giant’s side and hissed, “Be still!”

I could not move. I was bewildered. What destiny had Nicolai dreamed for me?

Orpheus laid his dead wife on the stage and stood above her. The orchestra did not play. They waited for the master to sing.

Nicolai peered upward at the stage—looking, listening. A creaking. Guadagni was stepping backward, away from this corpse of his dead bride. Nicolai crawled with him, his face inches below Guadagni’s steps. Nicolai sniffed. Remus held Nicolai’s foot with both hands and Tasso pushed on Nicolai’s shoulders. But Nicolai, his face raised to the creaking steps above, was stronger than them both.

Guadagni stopped his retreat, pausing at the center of the stage to begin the greatest aria of this opera—

And Nicolai pounced. He dragged Remus and Tasso with him as if they were mere scarves tied about his neck. His hand stretched for a line. His fingers grasped the rope. He pulled.

The trap below Orpheus’s feet opened.

Gaetano Guadagni fell heavily into the substage, and Nicolai was on top of him before the singer could scream. He pinned Guadagni to the floor, held a huge hand over his mouth. Then Nicolai turned to me. He jerked his head up—toward that square hole in the sky above him, through which the dusty theater light was pouring.

He squinted, for the light hurt his ruined eyes, and he said, “Please, Moses. Please. Deliver your message.”