Mozart’s Blood (11 page)

He found it a relief to leave Benson with his victim in the basement room. He had no problem with violence, of course. It was the indignity of having to stoop to such tactics that offended him. It was distasteful. And messy. He hated getting his hands dirty.

In a perfect world, it would all be done for him, out of respect.

Ugo was right, of course, about Benson and Marks. They were cretins. Idiots. They were unsuitable in every way. They would never be allowed into the society.

But he—surely he, when the elders understood what it was he really wanted—he would win their acceptance. His special gifts should be considered an asset. And when he had found the one—the one who had shared the tooth with Mozart—his gifts would be prodigious.

He disdained riding in the Fiat again. He walked a couple of blocks on the narrow, uneven sidewalk until he reached one of the boulevards, where traffic moved no matter what the hour. He flagged a taxi and gave the address of his hotel, then sat back, watching the early morning lights of Milan flicker on as the taxi rocketed up the Corso Venezia, swung left, and ground to a stop in front of the Westin Palace Hotel. The night doorman hurried out, yawning, to open the door for him.
“Buona sera, signore.”

“Indeed,” he answered. He stripped off his jacket as he walked through the lobby, thinking he might just throw it away. It seemed to have soaked up the smell of that basement room, and he didn't want to think about what was happening there right now.

In his room, he stripped and stepped into the shower to stand under a stinging stream of hot water for several minutes. He needed to sleep, of course. There were still a few hours left for him to rest. But the book called him, even now.

He wrapped himself in the thick white hotel bathrobe and went to the desk drawer where he had hidden it. He made sure his hands were completely dry before he pulled it out and began to fold back the moleskin wrappings.

The old witch had written it in Latin, and he had retained no more than a few words of that language from his public school classes, despite the relentless drilling by his Latin master. But it hadn't been hard to find people who could not only read Latin, but decipher her spidery handwriting.

He congratulated himself on the care he had taken in asking for translations. He had photocopied the fragile old pages and presented them in unrelated segments to his scholarly contacts, so that none of them could put the greater picture together. When they asked about the context, about the source material, he had had vague answers ready, mentions of research, of a possible book deal, even of a long-forgotten family connection.

But the book itself, even though it was illegible to him, had mystical power. It represented his deepest desire. It had ignited a longing in him that overwhelmed all his conditioning. He had learned of the society inadvertently, a secret whispered in underground circles where deviants gathered to intoxicate themselves, to medicate themselves with drugs and sex. He had followed the rumors, found the group of hopefuls, men of the likes of Benson and Marks, who thought they could win immortality. The book itself had been a surprise, a serendipitous discovery.

The ancient was furious, of course. One of his contacts, a limp little man with thinning hair and round, anxious eyes, had died of her rage. But it had been too late. He had the book in his possession, and he would have died himself rather than give it up.

He let it fall open, taking care with its brittle parchment. He had pored over the translations until he had committed them to memory. It was a journal of sorts. A diary of atrocities. And when Mozart appeared in its pages, he knew what he had to do.

He forced himself to close the book, stroking its cover with fingers reluctant to leave it. He wrapped it again in the moleskin and bound it with ribbon. He put it back in the drawer, hiding it under a stack of shirts. He shrugged out of the bathrobe and made sure the drapes were closed against the rising sun and the alarm set before he lay down. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and closed his eyes.

Sleep didn't come at once, but as he had for years now, he recited the words of the book silently to himself. He resolutely refused to think of the basement room, of the hapless Ugo in the hands of that brainless Benson. Thinking about it only inflamed him with impatience.

Instead, he repeated the mantra of the Countess's journal until, at length, he slept.

Ughetto mourned for Mauro, but he carried on with his daily lessons with Brescha, with the harpsichord master, with the dancing master and the language tutor. Praise was hard to come by at the
scuola,
but Ughetto knew, by the knowing nods his teachers gave each other, that he was doing well. They began to allow him to go with them and the older boys into the city for private concerts in the
villas
and
palazzi
of Roman noblemen. Ughetto heard the music of Jacopo Peri, and of Monteverdi. He marveled at the daring new form,
dramma per musica.
A performance of
L'Orfeo
brought him to tears, and left him speechless with admiration when he was presented to the composer after the concert.

Ughetto excelled in his diction classes. His turns in the galliard pleased the dancing master. The scales and harmonizations on the harpsichord came easily to him. And he sang with increasing joy, this boy who had known no music but Sicilian folk songs. He waited through three solid years of vocalizes before Brescha allowed him real music. Then, with the other students, he sang madrigals and motets, and before long he was given three short
da capo
arias to sing by himself.

The experience was a revelation. The thrill of hearing his own voice carrying the melody, imparting the emotion of the text through his own artistry, finding the affect and the phrasing and the intent of the music with his own skill, was like nothing he had ever experienced.

When the
scuola
held a private recital for a few invited guests at the end of the summer, he was allowed to sing one of his arias, “Se tu m'ami,” with Brescha accompanying him on the harpsichord. He had arranged a little surprise for his teacher, a cadenza at the end which he had worked out all on his own. Brescha's heavy cheeks reddened with pleasure when he heard it, and Ughetto felt a surge of pride.

He found himself wishing his
mamma
and his
nonna
could hear him, but he repressed the thought the moment he recognized it. Every boy at the
scuola
had been similarly sacrificed. They were the lucky ones, because they could sing. Poor Mauro had lost everything.

The day of Ughetto's twelfth birthday arrived and passed un-remarked. He didn't mention it to anyone, but he was fairly certain he knew the day. Between lessons he wandered out behind the
villa
and scrambled up the slope beyond it, ducking under the low-hanging branches of the pine trees that grew there. A medieval ruin of tumbled stone and brick crowned the hill. Ughetto climbed to the highest point, a bit of broken wall that had no doubt once been a tower, with a commanding view of the city below and the harbor to the west.

Ughetto sniffed, trying to detect the salt air of the sea beneath the pungent scent of pine forest but having no success. Closing his eyes, he attempted to recall the smells that had colored his childhood: the seaweed-strewn beaches; the sour wine smell of the tavern when he and his sisters went to clean it in the mornings; the rich scent of his
mamma
's fava bean soup, thick with wild fennel and spiced with red pepper. For one moment only he had the memory, and held it. When it dissipated he sighed and opened his eyes.

For a long time the pain of Mauro's absence had been sharp, nearly unbearable. After a year or so the pain had begun to dull, though it left a bruise on Ughetto's youthful soul. The ache of missing his home and his family was almost gone, buried under layers of experience, of music, of new acquaintances, new knowledge about clothes and comportment and the intricacies of society.

And now, he was twelve. His loneliness was a hard, constant knot, deep in his belly, that never loosened. Music was his consolation. It was ubiquitous, a constant element in his daily life. Harmonies filled the modest courtyard of the
villa,
runs and roulades twined through the drooping grapevines, and the old olive tree in the courtyard seemed as redolent with melodies as it was with the firm black olives that dropped into the boys' hands at harvest time.

On a September day, when the Mediterranean sun blazed on the white stucco of the
scuola,
making the courtyard too hot to sit in, Brescha called for Ughetto to come into the little
salotto
where he taught his voice lessons.

Brescha drew himself up, stroking his great belly with a veined hand, posing beside the harpsichord. “Ughetto,” he said. “I have had a letter from the Capella.” He paused, letting his eyes stray to the window and the distant silhouette of the dome of St. Peter's.

Ughetto suppressed a groan. Brescha had a weakness for dramatic pauses.

He waited, giving Brescha his moment, before he prompted, “Yes, Maestro?”

Still staring down at the symbol of his lost career, the old
castrato
said, “How old are you now, Ughetto? Twelve, I believe.”

“Yes.”

Brescha turned slowly to face him, looking down the slope of his great nose as if he were Pope Gregory himself peering from his ambo. “You're a very lucky boy,” Brescha said.

Ughetto blinked. “Am I, Maestro?”

Brescha breathed through his nose, swelling his chest and his belly. “You are,” he said. “My old friend, who is now the choir-master at St. Peter's, came to our little recital last week. And now, you—you, Ughetto, at only twelve—have been invited to sing with the Capella Sistina. A piece by a new composer named Allegri. A great honor.”

Ughetto tipped his head to one side and peered up at the singing master. “A solo?”

Brescha tossed his head. He put his hands on his hips and snapped, “Already such ego, and you have not even sung in public! Does it matter whether you sing a solo or simply as part of the
coro?
”

Ughetto let his long black lashes drop modestly to his cheeks. “Of course it matters, Maestro. I am
your
student. I take your reputation with me wherever I go. Should a student of the great Brescha sing in the chorus?”

Brescha snorted and turned again to look down the hill at the dome of St. Peter's, linking his hands behind him. “You're a scamp, Ughetto,” he said. “But as it happens, you are correct. It's a
Miserere,
written for nine voices, one group of five and one of four. You will sing the high part in the smaller group, because you have the notes. The piece isn't finished yet, but it's to be ready for All Souls in the autumn. You'll have enough time to learn it. I will coach you in every note.”

“Of course, Maestro,” Ughetto said. His heart fluttered with pride and pleasure. He walked up to stand beside his teacher and follow his gaze down toward the city. “Every note.”

 

Ughetto was slower to grow into his height than any of his classmates. The boys near his age were already tall, sprouting the spidery limbs that were typical for
castrati.
They stumbled as they walked through the
salotto,
tripping over furniture that had stood in the same place for years. It was as if they had not yet learned what to do with their overlarge feet, how to manage their arms. They compared heights and measured their chests to see whose was the deepest, the longest. They towered over Ughetto, whose arms and legs and feet remained stubbornly proportioned to his height. They called him
topolino,
little mouse, and
nano,
dwarf. They cooed baby talk at him and ruffled his hair when he passed.

He had begun to grow embarrassing hair under his arms, and between his legs. He hid his body beneath the long-tailed shirts they all wore, and dressed in private, where no one could see him.

He was ashamed of his thin, bare chest. When a few black whiskers appeared on his chin, he plucked them with his fingernails. The men of Trapani sported proud black beards, brushing them till they gleamed, trimming them weekly to keep them thick and full. But none of the other boys at the
scuola
had facial hair. Every day Ughetto checked the mirror anxiously to be certain no more whiskers had appeared. He didn't need anything else to draw his schoolmates' attention to him.

Their teasing turned to abuse when Brescha made it known to everyone that his prize pupil had been engaged to sing with the Capella Sistina. Envy sharpened their jibes and put muscle in the blows they aimed at him when the masters weren't looking. It didn't help that Anselmo, the
direttore,
hired a dressmaker to fit him for a new gown and breeches. When one of the other masters objected to the cost, Anselmo said scornfully, “A student of our
scuola
does not make his debut in rags!”

Anselmo, also a
castrato,
had had a short and not very successful career singing choral parts in Venezia and Firenze. As he often proclaimed, with rigid pride, he had found his true calling in running the
scuola.

“Ughetto needs to do something about that mop of curls, too,” he snapped. “He looks like a poodle.” He arranged for a
parrucchiere
to come up from the city to style Ughetto's hair. The other students stared at Ughetto as he sat in the courtyard under the scissors and combs and oils of this worthy. They snickered at him afterward, flipping their own unwashed locks to mock him.

Had Mauro still been there, Ughetto could have downplayed the fuss and laughed at it. But he had no one to buffer his sudden rise to prominence. He slept alone, as he had always done, though other boys shared beds, snuggling together like overgrown puppies, sometimes grunting with passion in the darkness. He had no money, so when the others went down to the market to shop for trinkets or sweets, he stayed at the
scuola,
practicing, studying, reading from its collection of books. He let them believe he was too conceited to join in their recreation. He concentrated on learning the roulades and the
glissandi
that would be required of the
Miserere,
and tried hard not to care that his colleagues hoped he would fail.

Each week a few more manuscript sheets would arrive at the
scuola,
and Brescha would seize them to study himself. When he was satisfied he knew them thoroughly, he would call Ughetto to come and begin work. And though Ughetto's skill on the keyboard was growing, Brescha insisted on teaching him every line by rote, asserting that there could be no mistakes. “You will be singing under the composer's own direction, Ughetto. This can lead to a great career, following in my footsteps at St. Peter's, or perhaps at San Marco, or Santa Maria dei Fiori!”

“What about my name, Maestro?” Ughetto asked after one long voice lesson. He and Brescha were both exhausted. The summer was fading, and the breeze in the waning afternoon was cool and refreshing. They sat in the courtyard under the olive tree, and Brescha allowed Ughetto to share in his snack of watered wine, olives in brine, and slices of
pecorino romano
on fresh bread.

“Your name?” Brescha said absently.

“Yes,” Ughetto said. He ran his hand through his hair, cut in the fashion so that it just brushed his shoulders. “Ughetto is a little boy's name. Shouldn't we change it?”

Brescha considered this, pulling at his lower lip. “You were christened Ugo, I suppose.”

“I don't know my baptismal name. My sisters and my mother always called me Ughetto.”

Brescha put down his cup and regarded Ughetto. “You had sisters? You never mentioned them.”

Ughetto nodded. “Six sisters,” he said. “All older.”

Brescha raised his eyebrows, and it seemed to Ugo that he paled a little. “Six! And you're the seventh child?”

“Yes.” Ughetto was surprised to see Brescha cross himself. “What is it?”

But the old
castrato
only pressed his lips together, shaking his head. Ughetto opened his mouth to ask him again, but Brescha threw up his thick hand. “Never mind, never mind. You're right about the name. You need a name worthy of your voice, something dramatic. Memorable, but simple.”

“Ugo is simple.”

“Too simple, too ordinary. It should be something beautiful, like—like Floria, because you're a young flower of a singer. Or Angelino, Brescha's little angel!”

Ughetto was about to protest the excess of this suggestion, but a burst of hoots erupted from the other side of the olive tree, forestalling him. Brescha cursed and shook his fist at the lanky forms in the shadows, who raced away amid shrieks of laughter.

Ughetto's cheeks flamed, and he slumped in his chair in an agony of embarrassment.

Brescha had risen, as if to go after the other boys, but then he sighed and sat down heavily, arranging his great belly over his thighs. He shrugged and picked up his cup again, patting Ughetto's shoulder with his free hand. “Don't worry,” he said. “They're jealous of your early success. It was the same for me in my day.” He sipped delicately at the wine. “They hated me because I never had to audition. Everyone came to me, you see, begging me to sing in their churches.” He reached for the olive dish and pulled it closer. “We'll come up with a name you like. I know how it is to have to live with a name for a long time. I knew my career would be a long one, and so I chose my name with care. We'll do exactly the same for you.”

 

The amber warmth of September melted into the cool, gilded days of October. The hazelnut leaves turned and fell, and the beekeepers collected their harvest and pressed it into clay bottles. The breezes carried the sweet tang of honey into the courtyard of the
scuola.

By the time the last of the manuscript pages arrived from Signore Allegri, Ughetto had sung the part so many times that it ran incessantly round and round in his head, even in his sleep. When he woke, the text was on his lips. When he laid his head on his pillow, the notes danced before his eyes. One day he protested to Brescha that he couldn't sing it anymore, that he was sick to death of every page of it.