The Black Opera (53 page)

Below ground, the cast was at the stage of hair-pulling hysterics.

Isaura elbowed into the scrimmage, and bellowed with surprising penetration
at Giambattista Velluti. “How many times must I tell you? You sing
plain
on the syllables people need to hear to make sense of this! You make ornaments on the
extraneous
syllables, or you
wait until the repeat verse which is what it's fucking for!
”

Conrad tiptoed past the scrum, to where Roberto Capiraso stood at the entrance to his cell-like library, watching with anxiety.

“This is normal.” Conrad couldn't tell if he reassured himself or Roberto.

Hardly listening, the dark man stroked his cropped beard. “We're telling them today.”

Velluti shied his shoe at Isaura. Conrad winced, even though the throw deliberately missed. It battered the forte-piano still further.

“We can't put it off,” Conrad agreed. “But let's at least let them eat first.”

Tuesday's midday brought a scent of dust and horse-dung and the early-flowering camellias, sifting down through the tunnels and aqueducts. The singers and musicians sat together on chairs or Angelotti's makeshift wooden stage, regardless of rank (except for Velluti, who preferred to be surrounded by his acolytes), and ate bread and olives, and drank watered wine.

Conrad's stomach clenched up sufficiently that he couldn't eat.

Roberto's voice, behind him, said quietly, “There's no way of warning them about the eruptions to come, unless they know about the men behind this.”

“I know…” Conrad made sure by eye that he had singers and chorus together in the echoing smooth-walled chamber. The second violin led in the few missing musicians, with a nod to Isaura-Paolo. Conrad had been careful to make sure every key role had a man who could step into it. Michele Angelotti and his crew and apprentices noisily joined them. Conrad waited while they ambled up in a group, and sat down on spare chairs and benches.

“Wish we had
these
acoustics in the San Carlo,” Armando Annicchiarico muttered. More than one voice agreed with the second castrato.

Conrad snorted. “I've considered staging the whole opera under Naples, don't think I haven't! If it wasn't for needing an audience, I'd do it!”

“Safer down here,” the diminutive tenor Lorenzo Bonfigli observed. He looked up at Conrad with eyes bright in the eternal lamp light. “Corrado, why
do
we need an audience, again?”

There was general laughter at that. Conrad caught Roberto's eye, where il Superbo leaned against the wall. The man shrugged.

So you have no better idea of how to handle this than I do!

“We may not in fact require an audience—”
As the Prince's Men apparently didn't at Tambora
. “—but I think we're stronger for one. They give adulation; we give them everything we have; the stronger
they
are, the more they give us, and so on, back and forth. Certainly everyone's seen it work the other way, when the
Pit aren't interested in anything but gambling, and you can't hear the singing for the conversation from the Boxes.”

There were audible winces.

Conrad waited until the singers and crew grew quiet again.

“I need to speak to all of you,” Conrad said, letting his voice and the atmosphere of seriousness project through the mine.

He immediately held his hands up to stem the tide of questions.

“Well?” Sandrine looked at him expectantly.

Conrad leaned back against the ancient forte-piano. “To begin with the key point. We're going to face more than ordinary sabotage while we rehearse and stage
L'Altezza azteca
, particularly up in the San Carlo. As you all know from what happened to Tullio Rossi, this could be personally dangerous to you.”

The clear acoustics of the mine shaft bounced each proclaiming voice back from the
tufa
rock. Conrad didn't attempt to disentangle the cacophony.

They fell silent out of necessity.

“It's time to tell you why,” Conrad said. “I won't be naming names, yet. That's so that if any of you want or need to leave, you can do it in relative safety.”

Conrad paused, thinking carefully what he could and could not say.

“You know the Local Racketeers and the Men of Honour don't want this opera put on. In fact, they're now taking a
particular
interest in us—with all that that means. We face more than usual sabotage. It could be hazardous, perhaps fatal.”

“Why?” Lorenzo Bonfigli demanded.

“I'll be telling you all the details—but not before I've had an oath of silence from you. It's difficult, I know, but you have to choose now whether you'll quit or stay.”

Some dissatisfaction showed on Bonfigli's face, and on others.

Conrad straightened up. “You already know that this
is
dangerous. If you didn't think before about what that can mean, think about it now. It's
also
true that we have powerful royal protection. You need to weigh it up for yourselves—and make the choice.”

“You're admitting that they'll deliberately target more of us?” Armando Annicchiarico demanded. The second castrato's chubby features took on a shrewd look. “That they attacked your servant to send us a deliberate message?”

Conrad silently nodded.

“And the mountain?” Armando glanced around. “I'm not local to this city; when it looks like Mount Vesuvius will erupt and take the Burning Fields with it—!” He made a cutting gesture with the side of his hand. “I'm out. I have a family to think of.”

Sandrine cut in, with audible amazement,
“You
have a family?”

“My brother's widow and his daughters. I'm not staying in Napoli if there's a chance of an eruption. They have no one to support them except me.”

Conrad wrenched his mind away from his mother, Agnese, in the house in Catania; snow-capped Ætna looming over the city. “You don't have to make excuses, Armando. Anyone can leave. Especially if you have responsibilities. There will be no recriminations.”

“No one would leave unless they were a coward!” Sandrine snapped. “People who were willing to face the Honoured Men only when they were just a name. And now that someone's been hurt…”

“It's not a sin to be scared.” The newcomer, Brigida Lorenzani, lifted her head out of her score. She was a round woman who dressed flamboyantly to illustrate it—today in a gold velvet gown and green turban—and having arrived late for her San-Carlo-contract-assured part, she lost herself in studying it. Now she observed, “Only a fool or a brave man crosses the Honoured Men. It's not foolish to decide that one's family take priority.”

Conrad kept his annoyance off his face.
Merda per merda! I really don't want to write Thalestris out; she and Estella have voices that
work
together.

“And you, donna?” Conrad asked politely.

“My husband and children are—quite coincidentally—visiting our other relatives in Cape Town.” Brigida adjusted the feather on her turban, and caught Conrad's gaze with eyes that were searingly ambitious. “I don't scare particularly easily.”

More voices sounded. Some of them were crew; others from the chorus. Conrad sat back to let them talk. Estella nudged JohnJack, and Conrad saw her draw his attention to the situation with a look. If it were not so serious, it would have been amusing to note how spines stiffened among the main singers, and jaws set.

Conrad let the wave of argument break and become repeating surf. He occupied the time with working out how Annicchiarico's roles could be taken over by other singers or dropped completely. Since he had emergency plans for most singers, it took less time than it might. The composer agreed to drop a small scene that couldn't be worked around. Conrad stood with his face away from the centre of the chamber, and wished his eyes were in the back of his head.

Roberto, with an air of incredulity, murmured, “You're more agitated than they are!”

“That's an exaggeration… I want this opera to succeed.”

It was true, Conrad found, and for more reasons than self-preservation.

A quarter-hour by his pocket watch and he asked, “Well? Decide now.”

Half a dozen of the chorus singers signed off the books, and one man from Angelotti's crew. To Conrad's surprise, there were no more.

He nodded to Luigi. The police chief, by the openings of the tunnels, signalled to his men. They escorted those who were leaving away, and faded into the gloom. Others would assure privacy here.

Conrad drew a deep breath, looking out over the faces turned towards him. He clasped his fingers behind his back, hoping it looked authoritative, and not that he was stopping his hands from shaking. “You've been told that you face the Local Racketeers, or the Men of Honour. That would be bad enough. In fact, we used their names to hide a similar but worse thing.”

Sandrine looked sceptical.

The effervescent Estella Belucci shrank into herself, clearly afraid.

Conrad allowed himself a look at JohnJack, hoping the bass wouldn't regard him with betrayal.

Spinelli smiled and shrugged. “Well, if not who, at least tell us
what
we're up against.”

Buoyed up with relief that he still had one friend—
for the moment
—Conrad asked, “Who here has ever seen a miracle at a Sung Mass?”

More than a dozen hands went up.

Before they could begin exchanging stories, Conrad went on. “Who here has seen anything at an opera performance that you would class the same way—as a miracle?”

He counted nine hands, only two overlapping with the prior group.

This is going to be easier than I thought
.

Somewhere between two-thirds and three-quarters of our people won't need to have opera miracles explained to them.

JohnJack said wryly, “Count yourself in there, Corrado—you're the one that hit the Teatro Nuovo with lightning!”

“Well, at least you blame
me
now, and not God!” Conrad muttered.

Roberto Conte di Argente moved forward, his eyes hooded. Conrad saw wary hope in his expression. The bearded man sketched the situation in a few words. Conrad was not surprised when none of the singers or musicians, even those without personal experience, queried the possible power of an opera miracle.

No wonder, really, I suppose
. They eat and drink notes and music more than they do the Host and wine at the Mass. They
make
opera happen. They know.

He watched Sandrine sit back down, decorously smoothing the ruffles of her afternoon gown. That action—and the curious but unafraid look with which she invited Conrad to continue—did a lot to restore confidence. JohnJack drew out one of the chairs for Estella to be seated; Paolo-Isaura sprawled on her piano-stool, chin on her hand; Giambattista Velluti clasped his hands behind his back, graciously conferring his attention.

Conrad caught Roberto's gaze. The Count gave a small nod back, clearly indicating
You continue
. Conrad withheld the snort of amusement he might have given.
Trust me to get stuck with doing this…

Conrad reached for one of the wooden chairs and turned it about, sitting with his arms resting on the back of it. “This afternoon, we're going up to the San Carlo for the first of the dress rehearsals up there. Before we do that…”

He felt his smile slip, but he managed to look determined.

“Before that, let me tell you what we know about a political and revolutionary secret society who call themselves ‘the Prince's Men.'”

Brigida Lorenzani raised a plucked, painted eyebrow. “Another secret society?”

“It's more than just a change of name.” Conrad steepled his fingers. “The Camorra and the Mafia are crooks. Widespread or not, what they want is to be rich and feared. The Prince's Men have far more ambitious aims—they'll overturn the government of the Two Sicilies if they have to, or any other state. We know that.”

Conrad gave a nod towards Roberto Capiraso, letting the others know that the Conte di Argente was in the King's confidence.

“The Prince's Men are deeply rooted in the Council of the North, and the governments of other countries. They have spies everywhere, and they'll kill to get what they want. They have members from every part of society—the woman who sells you fish could be a Prince's Man; so could a Count or Prince; so could your landlady, your local police officer, your brother…”

Lorenzo tilted his head quizzically.
“That's
not so different from the Men of Honour. Why is opera so important to these Prince's Men?”

Estella Belucci chimed in after him. “What miracle is it that we're trying to achieve? And why are they against it? What will
L'Altezza
do?”

Conrad nodded as if he had wanted to be asked just those questions.

“King Ferdinand put it best, when he recruited me. We're not trying to bring about an opera miracle—we're trying to stop one.”