The Black Opera (22 page)

He also looked intimidating, Conrad recognised irritably. That came from his broad long body, and his square-on stance. No slim model of fashion, certainly, but his body spoke of utter assurance.

Ferdinand stepped across the line of sight between Conrad and the Count, and Conrad felt the interruption as if it were a physical snap.

“The Count is a recognised composer of one-act pieces.” Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily signalled for drinks, ignoring the deft palace servants as if they weren't there. “And I know that he won't mind me saying that, while his family is noble, he handles a great deal of banking business. Gentlemen, shall we sit down?”

Conrad took a glass from the tray offered by a servant, and seated himself on a solidly-comfortable sofa.

I can read the undertones as well as the next man—the King's smart to pick a man financially powerful enough that even the Prince's Men will hesitate to challenge him.

Compelled to further social conversation, Conrad added, “I didn't know you composed music, Count.”

“No reason you should.”

In another man's voice, it might have suggested modesty. In the Conte di Argente's tone, faintly emphasising the pronoun, it invited Conrad to consider himself so far beneath the social circle of the Count's drawing-room operas that even the echoes wouldn't reach down to him.

Torn between annoyance and amusement, Conrad thought,
Oh hell, how do I rescue this?

King Ferdinand turned back from dismissing the servants from the chamber. “I'm sure you'll work well together, gentlemen.”

More of an order than an observation, Conrad reflected.

The Count swirled his brandy and inhaled. “Give me the libretto and I'll see what I can do.”

“There is no libretto as yet, Count.” Conrad was proud of his level tone.

“Very well: the first Act, then—”

“Oh, can you handle more than one Act?”

The words emerged before Conrad could censor them. He avoided Ferdinand's gaze.

I may be many things, but I'm not a football—to be kicked whenever it's convenient
.

Roberto Capiraso shifted his ground. “I trust the libretto will be of some quality when it
is
done? I'm used to a sophisticated audience. Who appreciate art, and don't demonstrate their displeasure with fish.”

I suspect I'm going to be sorry I ever mentioned that…

“It isn't the sophisticated audiences who make opera,” Conrad found himself saying. “Not the nobles who own boxes, and close the curtains so they won't have their conversations interrupted by singing. Not the Mayors and police chiefs and local civil servants who hire boxes by the season. We need to hook the citizens of Naples, Signore Count. The ones that come in to sit on the lower benches, or stand in the pit, and pay night by night for their place.
They
know opera—and they recognise every bit of orchestral fudge, and every note transposed for a weak singer. They come in every night of a run for three weeks, as enthusiastic and intimidating on the last night as on the first. Or they break an opera before its third performance.”

Capiraso raised a dark brow, and spoke with toneless false sympathy. “I understand many of your works, regrettably, haven't survived the
first
performance. Without even an electrical storm to blame for it…”

Conrad caught sight of Ferdinand's face.

The King's given him
Les Enfants du Calcutta
to read… Wonderful.

Conrad managed a careless shrug and returned the shot. “You'll need to visit the San Carlo, Conte. Check its size. I know your productions will have been held in the drawing-rooms of aristocrats…”

Conrad gazed up at the extravagant plaster wreathes on the ceiling, apparently innocently.

“…You could hold a one-act opera in the Teatro San Carlo—and a circus too; likely both at the same time.”

Roberto Capiraso blinked, his heavy lids giving his eyes a lizard quality. “Up until now, signore, I have never participated in a circus.”

“Gentlemen!”

Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily rose to his feet, signalling impatiently that they should keep their seats. He paced the room agitatedly for some moments.

He turned on them, his back to the bright windows. “Let me explain, gentlemen—”

“I apologise, sir,” Conrad said, before Ferdinand could continue. He offered a conciliatory nod to the Conte di Argente, who appeared to have some cutting remark just aching to leave his tongue. “This opera is vital, sire, and no idiot should stand in the way of it. Certainly not the ones who are supposed to be assisting you.”

Roberto Capiraso returned the nod of acknowledgement, his remark left unspoken. “I—believe I understand what's at stake. I shall be pleased to have an associate who understands the mysteries of a libretto.”

The bearded man's concession warmed Conrad.
Both of us behaving like schoolboys—it must come from having five weeks now to produce an entire opera…

Ferdinand leaned forward on his satin-backed chair. He said crisply, “We're not here to debate the merits of drawing-room operas versus the cut and thrust of commercial life. Corrado, be aware I've read the Count's scores; you have no reason to fear any lack of talent or commitment on his part. Roberto, you've studied Signore Scalese's libretto for
Il Terrore di Parigi
; I think I need not say more. Can I assume you'll work together? You both know what is at stake.”

Conrad's
yes
came a scant fraction after Capiraso's.

Ferdinand smiled his brilliant, entirely open, smile. “Good. I understand from Conrad that we have some of the primary singers?”

“Three, sire.” Conrad added reassuringly, “We have four sets of church choirs who are used to singing in the chorus; we have the San Carlo's notoriously good orchestra; and Michele Angelotti's crew have signed on to do scenery and stage machinery.”

The King nodded, pleased. “And a first violin willing to take on the business of conducting the orchestra, as I understand it. I assume, Count, you'll want the time to compose, rather than to conduct your own rehearsals? In that case I see nothing more except setting the pair of you to work to produce a libretto and a score.”

It was unwise, and very likely because Roberto Capiraso was frowning and looking likely to protest, but Conrad couldn't resist repeating airily, “Of course, Highness—people put on operas in
five
weeks every day…”

“I dare say they do, in the commercial sphere.” Roberto Capiraso very evidently had no idea there could be any objection to his remark. “My last work took me the better part of two years to compose.”

“Don't worry,” Conrad advised amiably, “I'm sure you'll learn to compose faster now.”

Capiraso gave him a suspicious look.

Just as the man turned back to the King, however, Conrad saw a small quirk of the lip that might have been a restrained smile—as if, having crossed swords and found his attack returned, the Conte di Argente was both challenged and satisfied to have found his opponent not a walkover.

Perhaps this won't be so impossible after all…

“Good!” Ferdinand clapped his hands and stood—barely giving his subjects time to scramble to their feet as well. “I'll show you where you'll work.”

Another trek through endless baroque rooms succeeded.

With a view to being amiable—and, it occurred to him, saving considerably in work and time—Conrad asked, “Is it absolutely necessary we have a full four act opera?”

Roberto Capiraso's dark brow went up again. “I know Signore Donizetti has put on some singular one act operas for court performances at the San Carlo.”

Conrad nodded thoughtfully. “Luigi—Captain Esposito—recommended me to see his
Elvida
if it was ever revived.”

Although that, Conrad remembered, had been more to do with the striking girl who played the villainous King's sympathetic son, in tight-fitting white breeches.

Ferdinand beamed back at them amiably. “Court performances can be remarkably stuffy. Don't think I don't know! Nobody allowed to clap until the King applauds… Pah!—And no composer wants to use his best music, because there'll only be the one performance. Signore Donizetti is a notable exception.
All the same, I think to build up the emotional power, we're liable to need a performance open to the public, and a full four acts.” He frowned. “Given what my astronomers say, it may have to be an afternoon rather than an evening performance, keeping in mind what time the partial eclipse begins. We can't be caught beginning too late… but I would sooner have had an evening audience.”

Ferdinand took out a pair of keys from his pocket, and himself let them through one door into an obscure anteroom, and through the next door into what had plainly been one of the Palace's libraries.

This room had windows that opened on the Bay, but was smaller, and the walls were lined with locked cupboards and locked chests. A number of statues occupied crowded shelves, and two huge green-topped desks took up all the centre of the room.

An upright piano stood by the window, incongruously pushed into too small a space.

“I was thinking, since yesterday, how to solve the problem of how confidential your work must be, both of you… This will be your place of work, gentlemen,” Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily announced.

Conrad's gaze focused.

He realised that he was staring at one of the marble statues set out on the shelves. The stone still had the dry remnants of dirt in the crevices, looking as if it had not been cleaned since excavation from some Roman archaeological site. It stood twelve inches tall, and was the figure of a satyr. Conrad at first thought the shaggy figure, half-goat and half man, was holding a tree-trunk.

What projected up past its wicked grinning face was its phallus. Its cock was almost as large as the creature itself, and the carved satyr needed to support it with both hands.

Conrad mouthed an “oh,” which he meant to say aloud, but found himself lost for a voice.

“This is Naples' secret museum,” Ferdinand continued, blasé as any collector of Classical artefacts. “Some years ago the Church made representations to me that having the more—unrestrained—Roman and Greek statues on public display was an incitement to sin. I had them collected and placed in here. These galleries are always kept securely locked, and guarded, in case of theft. It takes two letters from recognised Classical scholars for any man to be admitted—and the curator has been given orders to defer any such requests. I had the piano put in here this morning… Is this acceptable, gentlemen?”

Roberto Capiraso was not blushing—he had the look of a man who had not blushed since the age of twelve—but he did look a little startled. “Ideal, sire.”

Conrad collected himself enough to agree. “Yes, sir.”

Ferdinand gazed at them both with a deliberately cheerful expression.

“I'll see that you both have keys. They are not to be given into the care of any other person, no matter how much you trust them.”

Conrad dumbly nodded.

Ferdinand dusted off his gloved hands, and looked fondly around at the erotica. “No one will be surprised to find this room locked. Which it will be, gentlemen, when neither of you is here. Please take great care with any of your working documents. I assume you've spent time considering ideas for the libretto and the music we need, and that you're ready to begin? Remember, Roberto, Conrad: we have just under five weeks to our first night.”

The door closed behind the King of the Two Sicilies.

Roberto Scalese looked around at the numerous man-beasts engaged in acts of fornication—and visibly eradicated them from his notice. He said absently, “Was it ‘Corrado,' signore?”

I wonder if I shall be free to call “il Conte” Roberto?

Amused despite himself, Conrad said, “Corrado or Corradino—or Conrad—depending on how Italian you'd like me to be.”

“You're not native to Italy?”

Conrad would not have noted it under other circumstances, but alert as he was, he noted that Il Superbo seemed to relax slightly at that. He put it aside for later thought.