Between the Thames and the Tiber (20 page)

“I must enter,” said Holmes.

“Very well,” said Gabriele, “we shall stand guard as you break the law.”

Holmes climbed through the window. I watched as he searched the room. He later told me that the articles stored there were the pathetic possessions of someone close to abject poverty: a few tattered shawls, a bonnet, a soft muff, some worn-out shoes, and a thin blanket. There were no clothes that fit the description of those of the night before. As to the rest, there was no bed, only a dirt floor. There was only one piece of furniture, an old chair on top of which was a note, recently written, that read in its entirety:

Amore, arrivo oggi a Roma. Sono solo, senza P. Incontriamoci al più presto possibile. Sarò all’incrocio di Via Margutta e Via Babuino verso le dodici domani. R.

“The note is dated yesterday, Watson, and it is now eleven thirty. If we hurry, we shall watch as our young lady meets her
padrone
.”

We walked quickly down Via Condotti to Piazza di Spagna. The sun was hot and the snow was transformed into sparkling-clear rivulets that met at the central fountain. The Roman air was as clear as it had ever been. We sat at the Café Margutta, each of us with a large
granità di mandorle
in front of us.

“No one so far,” said Holmes as he glanced down Via Margutta.

“Here she comes, Holmes, dressed in her rags. And there from Via Babuino, her
padrone
, no doubt.”

He was a tall, thin gentleman, dressed in a long, light blue coat with velvet trim. His hair was blond, and he wore a long moustache and a goatee which gave his face the form of an almost perfect triangle. A look of recognition passed over Holmes’s face, but he said nothing.

The couple embraced after running towards each other. The man wrapped her in a shawl and hailed a cab. Holmes and I followed them briefly at a safe distance. Their driver went down the Corso, through Piazza Venezia, to the gate of the Villa Orsini, where they left their cab and continued on foot into the villa.

“We won’t follow them for now,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson. The musical aspects of the case now thrust themselves on us. Let us return to Monsieur Murger and our quarters.”

Murger was still asleep on the couch when we arrived. Holmes moved quietly to his bookshelves where he kept his collection of musical scores.

“You will see now, Watson, the value of my collection of opera scores, at least for a first assault on the problem of the two
Bohème
s.” I helped him carry the most recently acquired scores from the bottom of an old almirah where he kept them in a large pile.

“Here we have, Watson, all of the major operas of the last decade or so, in both orchestral and piano scores. And here are the two delivered to Puccini and Leoncavallo. We remove as well their own operas from the pile, leaving us with the composers whose work is well known to the public and among whom we may find the culprit. The composers are Boito, Catalani, Cilea, Mascagni, Zandonai, and Giordano. We have twenty scores here, all of which I intend to read through rapidly to find the author of the two fraudulent ones.”

“Holmes, I flatter myself even if I say that I am musically illiterate, but I have no idea what you are looking for. What indeed
are
you looking for? These are only so many names, none of which is known outside Italy,” said I, with the full intention of annoying him.

“Very simple, my dear fellow. You are letting your concern over your admittedly tin ear detract from your reason, and reason always wins in the end. In the realm of art and music, it is reason that rules, and the rules that operate are those of observation and deduction, as they do everywhere Let us see if I can cast some light on the present problem. You agree, initially at least, that the culprit—what shall we call him, this ingenious rogue who can mimic, forge even, the art of Italy’s greatest composers? Let us call him Cagliostro, after the great charlatan—must be a composer in his own right, one of great talent at least, schooled in all the musical disciplines: harmony, counterpoint, and orchestration. In this case, he must also have the ability to compose his own libretti, or he must have one who is complicit in his misdeeds, shall we say.”

I decided to flaunt my knowledge, meager as it was, and use some of the oddments about music that I had collected by questioning him. “But only one composer has written his own libretti and that was the German Richard Wagner.”

“Indeed, old boy, but you noticed quickly that I have omitted all composers who are not Italian.”

“And why is that? Surely they would be competent.”

“Competent is an excellent term to describe what might be the work of someone foreign to Italy who attempted to forge an Italian opera. The attempt would fail miserably. The scaffolding would be there but not the individual creative impulse. It would be the equivalent of a Rembrandt trying to be a Michelangelo. It would be immediately discovered. Despite their abilities, composers such as Massenet, Bizet, Charpentier, even Wagner, could not pull it off. Their individual ‘sound’ would give any one of them away. Also, there would be little motive, whereas among the Italians one could predict without exaggeration a certain rivalry, shall we say?”

“But Holmes, what about the similarity of some of Dvořák’s
Rusalka
to Puccini’s
La Rondine
? Isn’t there an aria—Doretta’s, I believe—that comes close to being a copy by Puccini of Dvořák’s melody?”

“You astonish me, old boy, you have been listening and learning. You raise a valid point, however. The answer is simple: It is the use of the piano as an orchestral instrument that marks this similarity, nothing more.”

Holmes was silent for a moment, and I thought that he might wish to be alone when he said, “I thank you, old fellow, for your questions. Please note once more that I have excluded Verdi from the list, though musically he is as qualified as the others. But he is old and unconcerned with other people’s work. Leave me now, for I have precious little time to consider this problem before we go to meet its creator.”

Holmes was soon lost in his scrutiny of the scores piled in front of him. Every so often he would stand up from his work and pace through our sitting room, but he said nothing. It was only after about five hours of intense effort that he said, “I am getting close, Watson, and I am pretty sure that I have identified the culprit. And I know his motive. Let me work a little longer and I will test my solution on you.”

I watched him as he took a last few notes. “Come, Watson, and listen to my solution to this musical puzzle. My method has been simplicity itself: to find in the
Bohème
forgeries and in the forger’s own published opera music, as well as in the compositions of the other leading composers, similar musical usages of such rare occurrence that the forger himself unwittingly might have allowed them to appear in the stolen music. In some instances he may have baited his hook consciously in order to tease and mislead, thereby throwing the investigator off the track. Now, as I expected, that no such rarities occur in the works of Catalani, Cilea, Mascagni, or Zandonai is no surprise, since the caliber of their work is far below that of Puccini and Leoncavallo. I must say that I am surprised that Mascagni is out on the first round. While his music is pleasant, it shows no élan, and beyond
Cavalleri
a there is only
Iris
, of which there is little to be said.”

“Who then are left? I must say that I can barely keep their names straight.”

“Don’t bother, Watson. Follow my reasoning, not the names of the composers. What I want, dear fellow, is your critique of the argument. Shall I go on?”

“Please do, Holmes.”

“If I am correct, the remaining composers are still under consideration: Boito, Ponchielli, and Giordano. In my judgement, these three are the equal of Puccini and Leoncavallo. Their output is small, but the quality is high. In the coming years, the works of the first group will disappear from the stage, their main arias being the only portion to be widely remembered. Boito, Ponchielli, and Giordano, however, will be performed increasingly.”

“I say, Holmes, I am still troubled by the absence of the greatest of all operatic composers, to wit, Giuseppe Verdi. Surely, he deserves a place in your reasoning.”

“Thank you, dear Watson. No doubt, he deserves a place on historical grounds, but the old man is now an eighty-year-old Orpheus hard at work on
Falstaff
, his greatest masterpiece. His transition to a late style has evoked much talk, particularly his use of orchestral textures reminiscent of the
verismo
school. More to the point, he has never had any interest in the rivalries of composers. Quite the contrary not even Wagner troubled him in the least.”

I detected a pinch of pomposity in Holmes’s tone and said no more. “Sorry, old boy,” he said. “I am sure my enthusiasm is a bit difficult to take, but hear me out.”

“I am listening with the greatest interest.”

“Good. We may dispose of Boito immediately. He is now working as a librettist for Verdi. He has no time for the machinations of other composers. That leaves two finalists: Ponchielli and Giordano. Despite the greatness of some of his music, Amilcare Ponchielli is uneven as a composer, and his chief work,
La Gioconda
, is marred by deep dramatic faults, the notorious “Dance of the Hours” being the most reprehensible. That leaves Umberto Giordano, a native of the city of Foggia and perhaps Italy’s greatest operatic composer of the present generation. A brilliant melodist, orchestrator, and dramatist, his opera
Andrea Chenier
is the high point of all the scores I have examined.”

“I must say, Holmes, that my ignorance is profound in his respect: I have never heard his name before.”

“You will hear it more and more. Lombroso knows him well and so it should be easy to find him. I think there is someone at the door. Probably a courier with a message from Lombroso with Giordano’s address.”

I took the message from the courier and handed it to Holmes.

Via Orlando di Lasso 45, interno 12. È a casa proprio addesso. Lombroso

“Come, Watson, let us go and meet Umberto Giordano. Let us see if my reasoning proves correct.”

I perused a map of Rome that Holmes had tacked to the back of our front door. “It is nearby,” I said, “just off Via Palestrina. It is no more than a ten-minute walk.”

The walk was indeed a short one, for Via Orlando di Lasso crossed Via Palestrina only two streets north of our residence. Interno 12 was on the first floor. The door opened as soon as Holmes rang the bell.

“Signor Giordano?” asked Holmes.

“
Son’ io
,” replied Giordano with a grin.

“
Ma io non son la mamma morta
,” replied Holmes with a broad smile.

“Certamente no. Infatti, io aspettavo il famoso nemico del male umano, il Signor Sherlock Holmes. Credo, se non mi sbaglio, sia lui chi sta in fronte a me. E Lei, dovrebbe essere il famoso dottore Watson. Dunque avanti, signori, entrate senza lasciar indietro la speranza.”

I beg the reader’s indulgence here, for he can quickly see from the above that the converstion between Giordano and Holmes went far over my head with its witticisms, its references to Dante and other poets, and its plays on words. I sat silently with a bemused expression on my face, waiting for Holmes to come to the point. It was Giordano who first spoke with reference to the reason for our visit.

“I calculated that you would arrive precisely when you did. Shall we speak now in all candor, Mr. Holmes, with reference to the two
Bohème
s?”

“Indeed we must, and as quickly as possible.”

“I assume you compared the works of Puccini and Leoncavallo to mine?”

“Indeed, I did. And I found what I was looking for: in Act III of
Andrea Chenier
, just before the aria “Nemico della Patria,” there are two modulations to the key of A minor preceded by two mournful notes played by the bassoon that only Puccini and Leoncavallo would be capable writing aside from you. And furthermore, dear Giordano, in your version of Puccini’s
La Bohème
, the same rare chord appears. Perhaps we should give it a name—say, the Chenier inversion. And it has led me directly to you.”

“Indeed,” said Giordano with a broad smile. “Please tell my friends, Leoncavallo and Puccini, that I have made my point. They may have Murger’s
La Bohème
, but impress upon them that I have been angered by
Pagliacci and Tosca
, both of which have large elements of my work embedded in them.”

“I assume, then,” said Holmes, “that you are the gentleman who was to meet Murger.”

“I am, and I told Murger that I was no longer interested in
La Bohème
. My next opera will be
Fedora
.”

“Ah,” said Holmes, “the novel of Sardou.”

“Indeed,” said Giordano, “I hope you will come to the opening.”

“
Ma certo
,” said Holmes, and we left.

“Well,” said I as we walked toward Piazza Venezia, “what now? You have made peace in the world of Italian opera, an opera buffa in itself. A remarkable achievement.”

“Thank you, dear fellow.”

Holmes maintained his silence as we walked home. As we approached Piazza Venezia, he stopped suddenly and sat down.

“Have you a pen on you, Watson?”

I pulled out my notebook and pen and gave them to him. He scribbled out a short note, and we resumed our walk home. As we approached the gate of the Villa Orsini, Holmes stopped and handed the note to the guard.

“Watson, it is high time to think about a glass of frascati and a light lunch.”

“Indeed,” said I.

We took a cab to Campo dei Fior, where we lunched sumptuously. We arrived at our quarters at three. Both of us were overcome by the meal. Holmes relaxed with a cigar and I rolled myself a cigarette. I was about to doze when there was a knock at the door and Holmes rushed to open it. It was a courier with a note in answer to his delivered to the Villa Orsini.

“Watson,” said Holmes, “forgive me, but I neglected to tell you that we shall have guests tonight. My note delivered to the guard at the Villa Orsini has received a prompt and positive response. It is Friday, is it not? This note from Raffaele says that he would bring Lucia and her
padrone
here for a light supper. So enamoured is the
padrone
of our flower girl that he is ready to cast her in a minor role in his new music drama. This will at least hide her for a time from his wife, who I gather is terribly jealous.”