Mozart’s Blood (38 page)

Octavia ignored them all. She moved only when her legs cramped. She stroked the wolf's fur, tracing the lines of its magnificent body with her fingertips, feeling the swell of its muscles, the fineness of its bones, the arch of its skull, and the fullness of its chest. As dawn began to glimmer around the edges of the heavy drapes, she realized she had been humming for some time, old songs she had learned in her childhood. In that tentative morning light, she saw that the wolf's ears followed her voice, swiveling this way and that as the melodies rose and fell. Its breathing had steadied and deepened. Its paws lay still now against the bloodstained carpet.

Octavia lay down on the floor, one hand on the wolf's chest, the other pillowing her head. She closed her eyes, lulled by the rhythmic movement of the wolf's breathing. At length, as daylight grew beyond the elders' compound, she slept.

 

Ugo woke slowly, aware of pain in his right thigh and in his chest. There was a hard, scratchy surface under his left cheek. He opened his eyes, not willing to move until he knew where he was.

In his line of sight, illumined by filtered daylight, were chair legs, the bottom edge of a brown velvet sofa, and a glimpse of a closed door. Gradually, as he assessed his condition, he realized there was a hand on his bare ribs. Someone was sleeping behind him, the hand lax against his skin.

He was naked, of course. Cautiously, he wriggled out from beneath the hand, wincing as a fresh lance of pain shot up from his thigh into his belly. He turned, crouching, to see to whom the hand belonged.

Her eyes opened just as he looked down at her. She lifted her head. Her cheek was creased where her fist had supported it.

“Octavia,” he said softly. “Damn.”

She sat up, stiffly, and put a hand to her neck as if it had grown stiff. “You're naked,” she said first, and then, “And you're hurt, Ugo. We need to bandage that.”

“What are we doing on the floor?” he asked. He peered around at the dim parlor. No one else was in the room, but the old, dry carpet was splotched with blood. Too much, he knew, for all of it to be his.

“Don't you remember?”

“I never remember,” he said, hearing the dull resignation in his voice. “I remember Domenico, and his knife.” He touched his chest. “It feels like he speared me.”

“He's good with a knife,” she said and started to get to her feet.

“The wolf should have killed him.”

“He got away, I'm afraid.” She came to her knees and put out her hand to him. “Come on. Surely Kirska has something we can treat you with. Alcohol. Mercurochrome. Something.”

She helped him up. He tried not to gasp, but he found that it was not only the wound in his chest that hurt. His upper thigh felt like it was on fire. “He got lucky. He should be dead.”

Her eyes flashed at him, but she said nothing.

They hobbled slowly toward the door. It opened before they reached it, and Kirska came in. Her eyes and lips were swollen, distorting her dark face. She had been waiting, Ugo thought. The Countess must have—

Then he remembered. Zdenka Milosch was dead.

Ugo whistled through his teeth. “He tortured me,” he said. “In Milan.”

“Who? You mean Nick?”

“He wanted to know where to find the elders.”

Her hands were gentle as she helped him up the stairs behind Kirska, but her voice and her eyes were like flint. “He knows about me.”

“He's hardly going to talk about you to anyone. Who would believe him?”

“We'll have to deal with him sooner or later.”

“It will have to be later, I'm afraid.” Ugo grunted as they reached the top of the stairs and turned in at the door Kirska held open for them. As he lay down, with a sigh of relief at taking the pressure off his leg, he said, “Finish the run,
bella.
We'll think what to do afterward.”

When she left him alone, he closed his eyes, expecting to fall directly into sleep. But something strange had happened, and as it surfaced, swimming to the top of his drowsy mind, he was suddenly awake again, pondering this great difference.

After all these years of oblivion as the wolf, he remembered something.

It was music. The tunes were as old as he, half buried in genetic memory, with childish words and simple melodies. But they had been in her voice. And they had calmed the wolf as surely as her gentle hands had calmed him only a short time before. She could have been in terrible danger, but the wolf had not fought her. The wolf recognized her voice.

Which meant that the wolf and Ugo were, in truth, one.

The closing performance of La Scala's
Don Giovanni
was a gala, with a patrons' reception in the gallery before the opera. When Octavia reached the theater, elaborately gowned women were being handed out of limousines and taxicabs in Via Manzoni by men in tuxedos and white opera scarves. Her driver circled the block and stopped in Via Filodrammatici, where the other members of the cast were arriving. She got out of the car, fixing a smile on her face to hide the dread that made her nerves jump.

At the artists' entrance, she met Russell, who exclaimed at seeing her and embraced her gratefully. “Oh, my dear, I was so worried you wouldn't be here.”

“Russell, surely not! You couldn't have thought I wouldn't be back in time.”

He laughed, but he was pale and hollow-eyed, and the hand holding hers trembled with nerves. An uneven flush stained his thin cheeks.

“I told everyone,” she said. She squeezed his hand between both of hers. “I told Giorgio I had business out of town, and that I would be back in two days.”

He said, “It's just—you know, this awful thing with Massimo, and then Nick disappearing.”

Octavia raised her eyebrows, feigning surprise. “Nick disappeared? What happened?”

Russell still clung to her hand. “It's so strange, Octavia. He hasn't said a word.”

She caught a breath. “He—you mean—he's here now?”

“Yes, thank God. He showed up half an hour ago.”

It was Octavia's turn to tremble. She had hoped Nick would cancel, let his understudy go on. She had hoped to postpone this confrontation.

Russell looked at her strangely. “Octavia? What's wrong?”

She pulled her hand back, and put it in the pocket of her trench coat. Avoiding his eyes, she said, “Nothing, Russell, really. Nothing. It's cold out here. And I was hurrying.”

“Well,” he said with a tremulous smile. “I'm so glad you made it.”

It had been a close thing. She and Ugo had had difficulty finding a car to take them to the airport. As soon as the car services heard the address of the mansion, it seemed all their cars were suddenly engaged. Kirska was no help, Tomas even less so. The ancients had vanished into the depths of the house, and they would have been useless in any case. Octavia finally succeeded in securing a cab by giving an address two houses away from the elders' compound. Ugo, in clothes borrowed from a musty closet, stood with Octavia on the side of the road, waiting for the taxi. When the cabbie arrived, he peered doubtfully at Ugo, and Octavia feared he would turn them down after all. Ugo's clothes were a mishmash of periods, a shirt from the turn of the previous century, a pair of fifty-year-old dungarees rolled up at least twelve inches, and loafers that looked as if they had belonged to a woman with big feet. There had been no socks to be found in the dressers and bureaus they had ransacked.

Octavia shrugged, as if to imply she had no control over what her companion wore. The cabbie pursed his lips, but let them climb in.

Octavia had found nothing suitable to change into and had settled for turning her bloodstained sweater inside out. It chafed her as they wound their way through the airport. It was a great relief to settle into their seats for the short flight. Ugo adopted a vacant stare, as if he were slow. This seemed to help with the flight attendants and the security people. Octavia towed him along after her as she might a recalcitrant child. They didn't speak of anything that had happened, or anything that was to come. That would have to wait until they were alone.

In Milan, all difficulties disappeared. Il Principe sent a limousine, and the driver pretended not to notice the strangeness of Ugo's clothes. Octavia kept an arm around him, as if he were ill. The doorman called the elevator for them, asked in a quiet voice if Octavia needed any assistance, then wished her a very good day. In the suite, they ordered dinner, and both bathed while they were waiting for it.

The waiter who brought the dinner trolley wanted to serve them, but Octavia assured him she could manage. They sat down together to the first good meal either had had in two days. Octavia knew there were challenges still ahead, but at least her anxiety over Ugo was relieved, and she was ravenous. They devoured a platter of
bucatini amatriciana
and a great bowl of
insalata mista,
along with a bottle of
Chianti riserva
and two big bottles of Pellegrino.

As they pushed the trolley out into the corridor, Octavia said, “Ugo. What will happen to Anastasia and the others, with the Countess gone?”

He closed the door and turned the lock. “You don't have to worry about that. Someone from La Società will succeed her.”

“But who would be capable of—”

“Let it go, Octavia.” He gave an enormous yawn as he turned toward his bedroom. “Let's just stay away from Prague for a good long time while they sort themselves out.”

“I plan to stay away forever.” And as she opened her bedroom door, she said, “I can't quite believe she's gone. I didn't like her, but it doesn't seem possible she's no longer there.”

He paused in his doorway. “You all think you're indestructible. I've seen that before. And now you know it's not true.” He lifted one finger, and gave her a tired smile. “Let that be a lesson to you, Octavia. Be careful.”

“I will. But I'll be thirsty again just the same.”

He gave her a mock scowl. “You should have taken more while you had the chance.”

She knew he was teasing her, but it made her think of Massimo, and how weak he had been when last she saw him. Her face burned with shame and regret.

And now, as she turned to the
sala trucco
for makeup, she had to worry about meeting Nick, and worse, working with him. She tried to calm her breathing as the artist applied pancake and rouge and eyelashes. She went back into her dressing room and vocalized beside the Schulze Pollmann until the dresser arrived. She wasn't surprised at all to find that the costume had gotten loose. She had to stand still for several minutes as the dresser pinned the bodice and tightened the stomacher's laces to fit.

Octavia submitted next to the pinch of the wig as it was settled into place. She still needed to sing a bit more, to work through her
passaggio.
She told herself she must concentrate on the opera. She could think later about the elders, the Countess's death…and about the wolf.

In time, she would talk to Ugo about the wolf. She wanted to tell him how beautiful the creature was, how strong and fierce. She wanted to tell him it had responded to her voice.

She would also have to try to speak to Massimo. She had to explain, to teach him what he needed to learn. She would be a kinder teacher than Zdenka Milosch, but he might not want to listen. It was possible he would refuse ever to see her again, and she wouldn't blame him. He might feel about her just as she had felt about the Countess.

But all of that would come later. After the performance.

At the call for places, the cast gathered onstage, awaiting the beginning of the overture. They heard Giorgio announce that Massimo Luca would not appear in tonight's performance. He named Massimo's replacement, and there was a spatter of polite applause as he stepped back behind the curtain and came around the proscenium to give them all an encouraging, if somewhat anxious, nod.

When Nick appeared in the Don's costume, he fixed Octavia with a gaze at once predatory and triumphant.

The orchestra played the first bars of the overture, and she turned her back on him. Any nervousness always fell away when she heard the familiar D minor chords. The singers faced the curtain, waiting and ready. Octavia took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, then put on Donna Anna as completely as she had put on her costume. The complications and distractions of the outside world fell away, and she became her rôle.

It was not so difficult, after all, to sing with Nick Barrett-Jones.

The circumstances gave her energy. It felt right and natural to rage at Don Giovanni for violating Donna Anna. She shook her fist in his face as she sang
Non sperar, se non m'uccidi!
Give up hope, if you don't murder me!

His hands were hard on her arms as he thrust her away, and his voice thundered in her ears.
Taci, e trema al mio furore!
Quiet, and tremble before my fury!

Nick's rage was real, too. Octavia feared for Lukas when the Commendatore and the Don locked their blades. Giorgio wanted cold disdain from the Don, but Nick blazed with anger. From the shelter of Donna Anna's house, Octavia held her breath as Nick struck at Lukas, and poor Lukas tottered away from him, blinking in surprise. With his next blow, Nick's épée struck Lukas's sword so hard it flew from his hand. Only the bell guard, catching on one of the stage shrubs, stopped it from sliding into the orchestra pit.

Moments later, the Commendatore lay safely dead at the Don's feet. From her vantage point, Octavia was relieved to see Lukas's chest rise and fall with his breath, though he lay perfectly still, his silver hair spread upon the boards of the stage, his hands flung wide.

The rest of the act went forward without incident. Nick seemed to settle down a bit and sang well enough, though his blocking was unpredictable as always. The other singers compensated as best they could. Massimo's replacement hadn't Massimo's richness of tone, nor the same insouciant charm as the young
paesan,
but the duet was fine. Octavia was glad, for Marie's sake. The finale, with its buoyant dancing, layered ensembles, and ultimate confrontation, went well. The great chestnut vault of the ceiling filled to bursting with sound, and the audience sprang to its feet the moment the final C major chord sounded.

Octavia slipped through a giddy knot of choristers. Marie and her new Masetto were congratulating each other, and David stood waiting for Peter with a towel slung over his shoulder. Octavia went on to her dressing room, where Ugo had a cup of pineapple juice ready for her, and a sliced apple on a little plate. She settled onto the chaise with her feet up, careful not to crease the costume or disturb her wig.

She sipped the juice. “I thought Nick really might kill Lukas.”

Ugo sat down in the straight chair and leaned back with his elbows on the vanity. “Giorgio was waiting for Nick when he came offstage. He looked like murder!”

“You saw the sword?”

“
Carissima.
Everyone in the theater saw the sword. The second violins nearly stampeded, and Russell turned so pale I thought he'd fall off the podium.”

“Ugo,” Octavia said, laughing in spite of herself. “It wasn't that bad, surely.”

“Giorgio's just lucky Nick didn't run him through, as well.”

“I'm glad this production is almost over,” she said, and sighed. “
Figaro
has to be easier.”

“It will be easier with no Nick Barrett-Jones,” Ugo said. “But we'll have to deal with him. I don't like this situation.”

She made no response. She didn't want to think about it now, with the second act still to come. When the knock sounded on her door, calling her to places, she rose, pulled Donna Anna's hooded mourning cloak over her costume, and made her way to the wings for her second-act entrance.

She startled at a sharp grip on her elbow. She pulled her hood back enough to see Nick glowering down at her. “Don't leave after the curtain calls,” Nick hissed in her ear. “I warn you.”

She jerked her arm away from him. “Don't touch me again,” she snapped. “And forget this nonsense about warning me. It's I who warn
you,
you pompous fool! You should realize you're lucky to be alive!”

She had to stop speaking then. The other singers pressed past them, finding their places. Giorgio stood behind the stage manager's console at stage right, and she felt his worried glance at her and Nick.

She rubbed her palms together to calm herself and stepped aside to allow Brenda to get by, to take her place at the window of the inn. Nick and Richard went out onto the stage, taking their places in the street below Donna Elvira's window. Octavia watched from behind the proscenium, and Giorgio came to stand beside her, his eyes narrowed and his lips compressed. Tension emanated from him like body heat.

The G major chords sounded from the pit. Don Giovanni and Leporello set about deceiving Donna Elvira. Richard sounded marvelous, his bright bass deliciously flexible for such a big voice. Nick's voice, to Octavia's ear, seemed rough edged, and no wonder. Fuming at your colleagues was no way to prepare. She gave a small, private hiss of disdain at his shout of
“Pazzo!”
that veered off pitch.

She had forgotten Giorgio was close beside her. He glanced at her. “What's wrong with him?” he whispered.

She shook her head and widened her eyes as if she had no idea. She could hardly tell Giorgio that Nick's fury at his thwarted ambition was ruining his performance.

Everything settled down as Brenda, her plain, plump face transformed by pancake and rouge into that of a beautiful woman made tragic by sorrow, began her “Ah, taci, ingiusto core.” Octavia couldn't see Russell from where she stood, but she sensed his relief. Brenda's dark soprano rolled out into the house, her tempo secure, her pitch as precise as Nick's was erratic.

The act proceeded smoothly after that, through the deception of Donna Elvira and the other characters, on to the cemetery where the Commendatore's statue came alive, spoke to Giovanni, and demanded an invitation to dinner.

Octavia's long “Non mi dir,” sung to Peter in the fourth scene, drove everything else from her mind. She had the sense that she floated above the stage, above the orchestra, above the audience. She felt the spin of her voice beneath the vault as she sang
Forse un giorno, il cielo ancora sentirà pietà di me.
Perhaps one day heaven will once more take pity on me. Only in that moment, when all parts of her worked together to create art and magic, did such mercy seem possible.