3 - Cruel Music (11 page)

Fabiani no longer seemed to be in a hurry. While Rossobelli dithered, the cardinal stepped closer to me. He stopped only when his face was inches from mine. Like a scholar examining an ancient parchment, he studied my features with narrowed eyes, parted lips, and quivering alley cat nose. Somehow I sensed that silence was the only proper response.

After an uncomfortable moment, rapid steps clattered over the terrazzo and Benito appeared at my elbow.

The cardinal broke his gaze. “I’m sorry, Tito. As you know, my mother can be quite…unpredictable.” With that, he turned abruptly, his scarlet cloak billowing in his wake. The bronze doors parted. Over his shoulder, he flung a glittering smile. “Come, Signori. An evening of music and magic awaits.”

“Did you find it?” I whispered out of the side of my mouth.

Benito slapped a folded square of fabric in my hand. Glancing down, I was puzzled to see the silk handkerchief that he had removed from my drawer earlier in the evening.

Rossobelli sidled close. “If your ensemble is complete, Signor Amato, His Eminence is waiting.”

I followed Rossobelli, but watched Benito over my shoulder.

My manservant shook his head and silently mouthed: Not there.

***

We entered the cardinal’s box at the Argentina just as perfunctory applause rose to greet the composer taking his place at the harpsichord. Fabiani settled himself in the best seat and gestured for me to sit at his left hand. We overlooked the stage so closely I could see the cast as they waited in the wings gargling spring water and adjusting costumes. The stage was set with a scene from ancient Rome. The buildings of the Forum rose against a backdrop of impossibly blue sky, cotton wool clouds billowed from the rafters, and an avenue of triumphal obelisks seemed to stretch to infinity. When two singers joined hands and entered stage right, I leaned forward with avid curiosity.

The
recitativo
that set up the opera’s story line went well enough and the first solo was rewarded with loyal cheers, but it was the following duet that let me know I was in for a treat. The castrato who sang Ricimero, a barbarian king who hastened the fall of the Roman Empire, was a sound musician and even better actor. He commanded attention with every noble gesture, and the immense chest beneath his costume armor swelled with a voice of compelling resonance. More than a few ladies swooned when he directed his powerful soprano toward their boxes. The castrato who filled the prima donna role was even more interesting.

The playbill listed his name as Albertini, an obvious nod to an influential patron. He must have been almost straight from the conservatory—more boy than man—certainly not a day over eighteen. His youthful beauty made him a natural to play a female. The corseted waist, padded bodice, and porcelain face paint only gilded the lily that he already was. But it was his voice that had me hugging the box railing.

Any intelligent person can learn the language of music. It’s a sort of code. Blobs of ink on the staff signify certain sounds that the human throat has the capability of creating. Learn what each blob means and you can sing. The result can be dull, plodding, competent, or inspired. Every singer imbues the process with his own style and personality. Albertini’s contribution to Jomelli’s score was playful delight. The boy sang with melodious abandon, his face shining with the joy of producing such marvelous sounds. His agile soprano ran up and down trills with astonishing ease and filled the auditorium like a peal of perfectly tuned church bells. Albertini’s only sin was excess. With undisciplined enthusiasm, he improvised embellishments that overshadowed Jomelli’s melodic line. I found myself adjusting and correcting his performance in my head—how I would love to take on a pupil of his caliber. I had become so engrossed that I failed to notice two latecomers entering the box.

When Rossobelli hissed and gave me a sharp poke in the ribs, I whirled around to shush him and instead found myself staring into the amused brown eyes of Prince Aurelio Pompetti.

“Amazing, isn’t he?” The prince nodded toward Albertini. The duet had concluded with a stirring cadenza, and the singers were basking in wild applause and collecting the flowers that admirers tossed on the stage.

I nodded, still half-entranced by the music. “The best I’ve heard in many months.”

Another poke from Rossobelli reminded me that I was addressing one of Rome’s elite aristocracy. I quickly scrambled from my seat and gave the prince the bow that was his due. He responded with an abbreviation of the usual courtesies and presented me to his female companion.

Like most of the English, Lady Mary Sysonby was blond, rosy, and well-washed. She also possessed strong features and a vigorous frame which would have told well on a prima donna but struck me as overbearing in the small confines of the box.

“I’ve seen you before, Signor Amato, on the stage in London,” she said in precisely enunciated Italian.

I bowed my acknowledgment.

“My father took me to Covent Garden to celebrate the birthday that occasioned the opening of my third decade of life. Though never inclined to novelties, Father thought I should see the Italian Opera before the fever for eunuchs abated.”

“I hope we provided a fitting accompaniment for your special day.”

She tossed her head in an equine gesture. “I admit to finding your songs extremely skilled. Some touching, even. But still, I must condemn your mutilation. Nature undoubtedly intended you to have a fine, deep voice. Why not leave it at that? This fad for frivolous trilling has robbed you of your generative organs and deprived you of posterity.”

I clenched my teeth to keep my jaw from dropping. Few Italian women would have expressed themselves so boldly, but Prince Pompetti didn’t seem troubled. Indeed, he inclined his handsome head in a series of nods, as if encouraging a star pupil in a recitation. As Albertini favored the audience with an encore, Lady Mary amplified her assertion with a detailed history of what she called “illegitimate eunuchism.”

It was Cardinal Fabiani who insisted on the last word. Finally tearing his eyes away from the stage, he spoke regretfully. “My dear Lady Mary, if your ears were as keen as your intellect, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Chapter Eleven

I confess I swelled with pride at Fabiani’s comment. The cardinal might be up to his neck in secrets and schemes, but it warmed my heart to know that he appreciated splendid music and the pleasure it could bestow. I sent him a grateful look which he returned with an amicable smile. Perhaps I was working my way into his good graces at last.

Down below, a double row of dancers whirled in to replace the singers. Given that Rome had banished women players from the stage, there was a twisted logic in casting castrati in the prima donna roles, but an all-male ballet troupe held little charm. Throughout the scarlet and gold auditorium, the audience turned from the box railings to other pursuits. Cards, romance, gossip, suppers: all proceeded apace in these miniature drawing rooms.

I excused myself with every indication of needing to find the water closet. In reality, I meant to search for the ungainly figure I’d spotted standing at the back of the pit where Rome’s poorer sort watched the show. I was going to have a word with Gaetano Tucci, whether he liked it or not.

I found the singer in the first-tier corridor, gazing mournfully at one of the framed playbills that decorated its walls. He started when I spoke his name, and his deep-set brown eyes displayed the look of a frightened animal.

“I must talk with you, Signore,” I said.

He threw up his hands as if to shield his face. “I don’t need your gloating, I’m low enough already.”

“I’m not here to gloat,” I answered, surprised. “Why would you think that?”

“His Eminence told me all about you. Your insolence, your vanity, your cruelty towards your fellow singers. He warned me to be on my guard.”

“Fabiani told you that? When?”

“Before he dismissed me. The cardinal said he regretted letting me go, but he couldn’t resist engaging such a celebrated singer—even if he did call you ‘the most jealous of all the virtuosi.’”

“He maligns me, Signore. I’ve never been less than fair with my colleagues, even the ones who behave as you just described.”

Tucci straightened his sloping shoulders. His nostrils flared. “You challenged Caffarelli to a duel because he corrected your tempo, then left him standing in the morning mist, catching a ruinous cold when you cowardly failed to show.”

“What? I never.”

“Well, you can’t deny that you’ve lately performed in Dresden.”

“That’s true.”

He fixed me with an accusing stare. “Where you had Signora Campanini fired when she dared insert your famous
bomba
into one of her arias.”

“I had nothing to do with that. Prince Frederick dismissed her because she is too lazy to invent embellishments of her own. She stole musical feats from all of us. I’ll write to Dresden if you don’t believe me. Many there know the truth and won’t mind telling it.”

Tucci shuffled his feet and fumbled with the libretto he had rolled up in his hands. “Is it possible that His Eminence misled me?”

I nodded gravely. “It would seem so.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“Perhaps he didn’t want you talking to me.”

“But why?”

I shrugged, feigning ignorance, but I thought I knew. If Fabiani had declared his support for Di Noce within Tucci’s hearing, the cardinal might well wish to prevent me from conferring with his former singer.

“See here, Signore,” I said. “I bear you no ill will. In fact, I wish to gain your friendship.”

The singer frowned.

“Hear me out. I understand that your stock is low in Rome at present. But you are still in your prime. You must engage yourself elsewhere, conquer the stages of distant cities, then march back to Rome in glory. That’s how careers are managed these days.
”

He shook his head so hard that the queue on his wig wagged like the tail of an excited dog. “I haven’t sung anywhere else for years. I know no one of any influence outside Rome.”

“I do. I’ll furnish you with a letter of introduction to the director of the Teatro San Marco in Venice. I’ve sung under Rinaldo Torani off and on for almost ten years. If I give my recommendation, you can be sure of receiving an offer.”

“You would do that for me? I doubt that you’ve ever heard me utter a note.”

“I haven’t, but I don’t need to. Cardinal Fabiani is a musical connoisseur, and he chose you as his personal songster.”

“Then showed me the door six months later. I did my best to please him, but still he tired of me…” Tucci trailed off in a quavering tone, then whispered, “He has obviously grown fond of you in just a few days—sitting in the cardinal’s private box is a singular honor. I wondered what sort of man you would be, and if he would find your company more pleasant than mine.”

“Is that why you were trailing me through the city?”

“Yes. My friend Giovanni, the harpsichord player, told me you’d arrived. I tried to stay away, but couldn’t help myself. I hid on the grounds, hoping for a glimpse of you. When I saw two men who were obviously castrati come out of the villa and stroll down the path to the Lungara, I knew one of them must be you, so I followed.”

“Looking for what? Were you hoping that I would beat my servant or show myself a monster in some other way?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I was just trying to distract myself from the truth.”

“The truth? What are you talking about?”

Tucci screwed up his face as if he were about to cry. “The truth is that His Eminence must have let me go because my voice is not what it used to be.”

“Don’t think that.” I shook my head firmly. “It is not your voice that caused your dismissal. Politics are to blame.”

“Politics?” His mournful features grew puzzled.

“Fabiani didn’t hire me,” I responded. “I was thrust upon him. In return for some information from you, I will try to explain.”

The opera’s first act must have come to a close; elegant ladies on the arms of their dashing escorts poured into the corridor. Recognizing the theater’s former star or perhaps simply curious about two castrati having an intimate conversation, people stared, whispered behind fans or cupped hands, or sidled close with eager ears. Tucci and I were immediately of one mind.

“This way,” he said and led me toward the back of the theater. We passed through an out-of-the-way door to halt on a drab stairway landing. Footmen in varied livery hurried by, quietly ignoring us, but a platform caged by rough wooden supports rattled up and down the open stairwell, making a fearful racket.

“What on earth?” I asked.

“It’s a new innovation,” he replied. “Instead of carrying food and drink from the street to the upper tiers, the servants place the boxed-up dinners on this. Someone hauls it up and down with ropes from the top.”

“Ingenious,” I murmured as the platform clattered past, “but noisy.”

“They only use it during intermission. Its racket will cover anything we might say.”

“Ah, yes…before I tell you what really brought me to Rome, let me satisfy my curiosity about a trifling matter. Were you by chance concealing yourself in the garden pavilion on the night I arrived?”

“No. In fact, I didn’t even know you were at the villa until Giovanni stopped by my rooms early the next morning. Why do you ask?”

“I was on my balcony quite late and noticed a light in the pavilion. At the time, I thought it must be a reflection from the villa, perhaps a lantern carried by the night footman as he checked the doors. But later, when I had the opportunity to stroll around the garden, I saw that the pavilion’s windows were covered with lattice, not glass.”

“Wasn’t me. Most likely a couple from the staff having a tumble.” He shrugged. “Now, please…you promised to explain how politics led to my undoing.”

Tucci showed little surprise as I recounted my tale of being pressed into service as a Montorio spy. He clucked his tongue over Alessandro’s rough treatment and nodded his head sympathetically.

“I well remember the Montorio brothers,” he said. “They hovered around His Eminence like flies on a goat. Quite a scheming pair, I thought, especially the senator.”

“You met Antonio Montorio as well as his brother the Cardinal Ambassador?”

“Antonio visited Rome several months ago. Cardinal Fabiani honored the entire Venetian entourage with a magnificent ball and spent many hours closeted in his library with both brothers. Antonio made lavish promises, but His Eminence holds him and his word in little esteem.”

“How did you learn of this? Did Fabiani request entertainment during these discussions?”

“No.” Tucci smiled coyly. “But His Eminence told me about them. In the long nights, when he despaired of sleep, the cardinal would send everyone else away. Then he’d have me sing his three favorite songs, over and over. In between, he would talk, drifting from topic to topic, almost as if he had forgotten I was there.”

“You learned much,” I prodded.

He drew himself up proudly. “I probably know as much about the government as any state minister. Certainly as much as that self-important paper pusher Rossobelli.”

“Then you must hold the answer to my most pressing question. When the Sacred College goes into conclave, which cardinal will have Fabiani’s support? Montorio or Di Noce?”

Tucci rubbed his long jaw, keeping me in suspense. Then he answered, “It’s not so easy to say. His Eminence speculated on a host of different scenarios, not all involving the two cardinals that everyone seems to be talking about.” He chuckled. “Some men count sheep to fall asleep. Cardinal Fabiani tallies votes.”

He saw my look of disappointment and quickly added, “But I can assure you that there is one question that drives Cardinal Fabiani’s thinking as surely as water turns a mill wheel—which pope could he control? He was searching for a lever—a tool he could use to retain power and continue to live as well as he likes.” Tucci shook his head, but a smile at the corner of his lips betrayed his admiration for Fabiani’s tactics. He continued, “His Eminence said that the bonds of loyalty are easily broken, but fear can bind a man to you forever. He also said that the Montorios know no fear. They are too accustomed to power.”

I nodded. The sound of a trumpet voluntary came through the wall. The opera was recommencing, and I needed to get back to the cardinal’s box. I’d been away too long as it was.

Tucci was also anxious to leave, but I put a light hand on his sleeve and asked quickly, “When you were at the villa, did you become acquainted with a maid named Gemma Farussi?”

“Of course, I was often called to serenade the cardinal as he visited with the marchesa. Gemma was always in attendance.”

“Did the cardinal show her particular favor?”

“He relied on her to keep the marchesa from harm.”

“I’m speaking of something more personal.” Strings joined the trumpets in an overture to Act Two. “In short, did Gemma share Fabiani’s bed?”

Tucci shook his head. “His Eminence has honed his taste for many fine things. He demands beautiful rooms, good food, and fine wine, but music is his overriding passion. Human entanglements don’t seem to interest him.” Tucci smiled ruefully. “He welcomes neither woman nor man to his bed.”

Interesting, I thought as I took leave of the singer with a promise to send his letter of introduction to Number 38, Piazza di Spagna. If Tucci knew what he was talking about, Fabiani was one of a rare breed: a high-ranking churchman who actually kept to his vow of celibacy.

***

With the good manners typical of his breeding, the cardinal greeted my delayed return with barely a lift of his eyebrow. Prince Pompetti and Lady Mary ignored me entirely. Rossobelli might have had something to say, but his attention was consumed with supervising the villa servants who had brought a light meal of hothouse asparagus and roasted duck. Though there were only five of us at the small table in the narrow box, the cardinal’s cook had provided enough food to feed ten. I wondered if the duck had ridden up on the efficient hoist I’d just seen.

Roberto, the chilly old fellow who had awakened me on my first morning at the villa, offered a platter to Fabiani. The cardinal took a liberal helping and addressed his guests. “I miss the good company of my brother cardinal. Di Noce always brings a genial air to any occasion. Does his absence indicate that he shares Lady Mary’s dread of musical eunuchs?”

“Not at all, Your Eminence,” Pompetti replied smoothly. “My carriage stopped at the hospital of Santa Maria della Consolazione to fetch him, but he sent a nursing sister out to offer his regrets. A small boy had been run down by a coach, his legs crushed by the horses’ hooves and his abdomen by the wheels. The pain must be horrific. Cardinal Di Noce is determined to stay at his bedside until the end.”

Fabiani gave a solemn nod. “Di Noce is a true pastor, always at his duties among the people.”

“An inspiring leader for the worldwide Church, wouldn’t you say?” Pompetti put one elbow on the table and leaned over his untouched plate.

“His Eminence the Cardinal Di Noce does set a wonderful example of providing charity for the poor and comfort for the sick,” Rossobelli added with surprising vehemence.

“Not only comfort,” said Lady Mary.

We all eyed her questioningly.

“They say his hands have the gift of healing, especially where young children are concerned. Mothers line up before his residence with croupy babies and listless infants. Even hopeless cases often find relief.”

“The man is a saint,” intoned Rossobelli. Then he squirmed and added, “If I may be so forward as to say so.”

“I tend to agree with you.” Fabiani filled his mouth with duck. Melted fat oozed from between his lips to course down the cleft in his chin. Swabbing with a napkin, he said, “Unfortunately, a saint is of little use in collecting taxes, recruiting an army, or conducting any of the other business required to run a state. Can a saint cudgel the Finance Minister into preparing a workable budget? Argue the annual Peter’s Pence out of the Archbishop of Paris? And what of your pet project, Rossobelli?”

“You are speaking of the port at Ancona?”