Communion Blood (51 page)

Then Scarlatti tapped the floor with his cane and the heavy curtains billowed open to reveal Giorgianna Ferrugia in a grand modem gown with a swath of silk draped over her shoulder to suggest the garments of ancient Roma. She held up her arms in supplication and began:

I, my soul given to Roma, fear for her Such things I have seen!

Such things I have seen!

Great and mighty Giove, spare Roma From the horrors of my dream!

From the horrors of my dream!

The innovative orchestration caught the interest of the audience at once; a whispered obbligato of commentary provided a counterpoint to the unusual composition; this was not going to be an ordinary premiere, and everyone now understood that, a comprehension that leant its own excitement to the evening. The audience grew quiet as Giorgianna launched into her first aria, a long petition to Giove to guard Roma from the tragedies she had seen in visions. She was in particularly good voice tonight, her famed warmth of sound augmented by thrilling flexibility that made for bravura singing. At the end of her first aria there were cries for an encore, so she sang the last verse and refrain with more lavish fioriture than before, and gained excited applause; she stood for a short while acknowledging the ovation with small, gracious bows of her head. The adulation of the audience filled her with a gratification almost as intense as anything Ragoczy had experienced with her; he recognized this with a sad, wry smile to himself as he played the next measures.

O Vestal, O Virgin, I hear your plea

Andrea Puntello’s deep bass was not fully warmed up, so his sound was a bit muffled, but that was not a disadvantage for the declamation he was about to deliver. The opera was properly under way at last. By the end of the first act, which concluded with a duet between the contralto Sapienza and the castrato mezzo-soprano Follia, the success of the opera was assured, if only for all the controversy it was bound to create.

Scarlatti removed his justaucorps as soon as he got backstage; the waistcoat and camisa revealed were both shining with sweat. He took off his neat, white wig and rubbed a cotton cloth over his head. He glanced around as Ragoczy stepped into his line of vision. “I always sweat like a pig, but look at you: not even so much as a damp upper lip. How do you do it?”

“Those of my blood rarely sweat,” said Ragoczy, and did not add that they did not weep, either.

“How fortunate. I am going to have to change clothes, I fear, or drown myself in scent.” He chuckled at his own recommendation. “If you will excuse me?” Without waiting for any response, he began to undress.

“I should have brought Rugerius with me; he would be useful. Yet I may be able to make myself useful.” Ragoczy went to the small chest standing open and pulled out a camisa and waistcoat not unlike the ones Scarlatti had been wearing. “Here, Maestro. I will be valet for you.”

Scarlatti was so shocked at this offer that he went quite still, his face set in hard fines. “No. No, Eccellenza. It isn’t fitting.” He took a step back.

“Do not be silly, Maestro,” said Ragoczy. “We are not at Court, where such forms matter, and I certainly will not tell anyone that you permitted me to help you. We are backstage, where everything is pretense anyway; and I am a foreigner—who knows what strange things I might do?” He held out the camisa. “Give me the one you are wearing. I may not perform this duty well, but I have seen Rug- erius manage enough times that I hope I can do him credit.”

Baffled, Scarlatti accepted the camisa and dropped his soggy one on the floor. “You are too good, Conte.”

Ragoczy shrugged. “When you have been a soldier in the field, as I have,” he said levelly, “you become pragmatic about such things.”

“Pragmatic,” Scarlatti repeated as he took the waistcoat and shrugged into it. “Very well, in the spirit of pragmatism, I thank you for your courtesy.” He began fastening buttons and adjusting neckbands.

“Just by way of curiosity, why is your valet not with you tonight?” Ragoczy asked as if he had no interest in the answer beyond the dictates of polite form. He bent to pick up the discarded camisa so that his face was hidden as Scarlatti answered.

“He sent word that he was unwell and feared that he might pass his infection to all those performing. He fears it may be the mal aria, although it is early in the year for it.” Scarlatti peered into the small mirror that hung from a nail on the wall. “It will all be rumpled in the next hour and half, in any case,” he said to his reflection.

“How unfortunate,” said Ragoczy, who could not help but wonder if the valet had been entirely truthful. It was not a matter he wanted to bring up, so he strolled away to the makeshift dressing room where Giorgianna Ferrugia was adding rouge to her cheeks and mascara to her lashes. She was radiant, her face almost glowing beneath her heavy makeup. “You are divinity itself tonight, dolcina,” he said softly.

She glanced at him and went back to her maquillage. “I always end up with runnels down my face.” She took her powder puff and tried to blot up the tracks through her pale makeup. “I shouldn’t be talking, not to you or anyone.”

“Yes,” said Ragoczy, knowing she was right. “Save your voice. There is a long way to go yet, especially if the audience continues to demand encores.”

She nodded with an exaggerated sigh. “But it is flattering,” she said sotto voce. “Ilirio is in the center box, as proud as any man could be, for tonight all his friends envy him.”

“And deservedly so.” He went to the rear of the backstage area, behind the backdrop with its fanciful depiction of Corinthian capitals and long colonnades that were meant to represent the Roman skyline at the time of Nero; this was much at odds with the city as he remembered it, sixteen hundred years ago, before Olivia came to his life, when he had been Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus.

There was a flurry of activity as half a dozen members of the chorus hurried by to get into their costumes for the scene in the second act where Roma bums and Nerone serenades the flames with an heroic account of the Trojan War; Patrizio Gentile trotted along beside them, shepherding them so that none would stray.

“I wish Maurizio were still with us,” said Scarlatti, coming up to Ragoczy; he was buttoning the top buttons of his justaucorps and fussing with his neck-bands. “I could use him tonight. Aroldo is all very well in his way, but he lacks Maurizio’s verve.”

“True enough, but at least he plays what is on the page,” said Ragoczy, referring to Maurizio’s gift for improvisation.

“Yes, that he does,” said Scarlatti. He drew his watch from his pocket. “Ten minutes more at least. I hate this waiting. Why should we give them so much time? All that happens is that half the orchestra and all the audience drinks too much wine.” He replaced his watch. “It is going well, I think.”

“So do I, although I am not in a good position to tell.” Ragoczy allowed himself to give a bit of a smile; he recognized the nervousness underlying Scarlatti’s complaints.

“They’ve stayed fairly quiet and they have demanded encores. That’s encouraging.” The composer fingered his tall cane. “If they remain excited for the second half, we may be sure of success.” “Then Santa Cecilia guard and aid us,” said Ragoczy, crossing himself at this pious wish.

“She has done well by us, thus far,” said Scarlatti, also crossing himself. “And on such a subject, too.”

Ragoczy said nothing, then changed the subject. “When this is over, do you return to Napoli?”

“For a time, yes. I am summoned to the north, into Toscana, and

I will have to go there soon or lose any chance of acquiring a position there. I would like to have my situation more settled than it has been.” His eyes were distant. “This has been too long an absence. I miss my family.”

“Then why did you not bring them with you?” Ragoc
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y inquired. “When you realized you would be here for some time.”

“I told you some time ago, Conte. There are too many dangers in Roma, so close to the Pope. I would prefer my wife and children not be exposed to what goes on here.” He looked about as if wary of eavesdroppers; his manner became slightly furtive. “In that regard, I have been asked by the Holy Office to answer some questions about you. I must do it, little though I want to.”

“Of course you must,” said Ragoczy with a sinking heart but an unaffected tone. “Refusing to accommodate the good Fathers would benefit neither of us.” He managed to preserve his self-possession but it was more of an effort than he had anticipated. “Did they tell you what they want to know?”

“No. Only that it concerns you.” Scarlatti hitched up his shoulders. “I hope I can put to rest any misapprehensions they may have about you.”

“So do I,” said Ragoczy, his tone light but his dark eyes unreadable.

“It’s just that the Cardinal’s sister is missing, and because you sheltered her before, they suspect you may know where she is.” He flexed his hands. “I can tell them that you provided her a kind of sanctuary, which should be sufficient. I am not worried that they might decide to demand more of me than what I know.”

Aware that they might be overheard, Ragoczy said, “The Holy Office would not suborn any witness; that would contravene all their sacred duties and trust.”

“Amen, and benedicamus Domino.” Scarlatti pulled out his watch again. “Four more minutes.”

“You will have a triumph tonight, Maestro,” said Ragoczy, returning to safer matters.

“It is more La Ferrugia’s triumph than mine, but, yes; this will be remembered for some time to come,” said Scarlatti, beginning to look satisfied; he went on magnanimously, “The story you tell in the libretto has gained some of the approval that accounts for the favorable reception.”

“Roma has always been ambivalent about Nerone,” said Ragoczy as if that accounted for his verses. “Little as the Church may approve him, he has captured the imagination of the people of Roma: they are all fascinated by him.” It had been true when the young Emperor was alive: handsome, charismatic, and spoiled, he had been loved by the citizens, mistrusted by the Legions, and loathed by the Senators; Ragoczy had been cautious with Nero, knowing how capricious he could be.

“Do you think the Church will approve your depiction in the libretto?” Scarlatti asked.

“The censors approved it,” Ragoczy said, as if he had no concern about it. “Surely that is sufficient.”

Scarlatti did not answer. He took hold of his cane and said, “It is time we resumed the opera. Come, Conte.”

Ragoczy went with Scarlatti, motioning the other musicians to join them as they reached the small door that led to the foot of the stage. “May this act be as well-received as the first,” he said to the composer as they prepared to step into public view once again.

“Yes. That would please me,” said Scarlatti, some of his edginess returning.

The audience was not yet back in its seats; the promenade of fashion and fashionables was continuing even as the musicians took their places. The few servants who were still bringing wine to those who wished it, pointed out that the Maestro was ready. For several minutes no one paid any attention. Then, gradually, they all sat down again, not quite as attentive as before but willing to give the performance some attention.

Tancredi Guisa held center stage as the curtains parted. He wore a laurel wreath over his russet-colored wig, and carried a prop lyre which he pretended to pluck as he sang of his devotion to art and poetry. When he was finished he acknowledged the applause in good form before the chorus surged onto the stage to tell him of the Vestal’s prophesy.

From his place at the clavichord, Ragoczy kept a covert watch on the audience, particularly the two Cardinals; he gauged their approval by their enthusiasm and was relieved that the Princes of the Church were enjoying themselves, for he knew their good report would be added to what the Holy Office was recording about him. As he played the continuo with the violas da gamba he made a mental note to be sure to speak to one of the Cardinals at the next Papal banquet, scheduled for San Onorato di Amiens’ Day, in order to show that he was not avoiding high-ranking Churchmen.

The highlight of the second act was the burning of Roma and Nerone’s long declamatory serenade to the fire. Tancredi Guisa poured his voice into the demanding aria, and followed up in the cabaletta with a series of spectacular variations that served as a challenge for Giorgianna Ferrugia when she came to perform the long thredony that ended the opera; she embellished the second and third variations far beyond anything they had rehearsed in a display of artistry that was thrilling to hear. When she was finished, the audience went wild, applauding her and begging for more.

By the time the evening was over, she had sung three encores of the thredony, and was panting from the effort her virtuosity had demanded of her. She stood in front of the curtain, curtsying deeply in appreciation for all the praise being showered upon her, her jewels glinting in the light of the candles in the chandeliers. Because she was married no one offered her flowers, for that would have insulted her and her husband, but the cries of approval that rang as loudly as any of the music served as bouquets better than posies might have done.

When the musicians were finally released to leave their seats, the crowd in the hall was thinning and some of the candles were guttering; wax splashed down from overhead, but no one paid any attention to it. Lackeys opened the tall windows overlooking the street, and those who remained in the hall suddenly realized how warm they had been.

“You did well tonight, Conte,” said Scarlatti as he came up to Ragoczy backstage. “I did not know if the audience would confuse you.”

Ragoczy gave a slight bow. “I have had some experience performing in public,” he said, thinking back to his time as troubador and his years of playing instruments in Spain, a thousand years ago.

“That served you well,” Scarlatti approved. “I will not worry when we perform three nights hence.” He was grinning. “Half of Roma will try to hear this work, I think.”

“Which should please you,” said Ragoczy.