IGMS Issue 50

The barber whispers "ad Dei gloriam" as he gelds me, his tongs a red-hot star blazing the firmament of my opium dream. Siface swore the opium would dull my pain, but when the falling star reaches my flesh I still taste the cut and burn.

My scream is a beautiful, painful song. Or it becomes one in my opium dream.

Siface holds my hand and joins my song as flesh leaves flesh, his mezzo-soprano voice the purest of angels delighting in what he hopes I'll one day accomplish.

"You are now like me," he says in his high-loving voice. "I will teach you. I will mold you."

Ad Dei gloriam.
To the glory of God.

Five years later God forsakes us on a dark road between Bologna and Ferrara. Instead of screaming, Siface sighs a perfect note as he dies on the packed dirt and stones. His sigh sounds like a new song he created far too late for anyone in this world to enjoy.

As the vampire finishes drinking Siface's blood, the monster eyes me, no doubt wondering why I didn't flee.

"I've no need to kill you, little boy," she says. "You didn't play games with my master's mistress. Or did you?"

I shake my head and stare in fascination at Siface's dead body, which looks nothing like the endlessly ritualized killings my master enacted in opera houses across Italy. I still remember the first time I saw him perform as King Siface, singing his love for Sofonisba and how he'd save both of them from the Romans. After that I--and most of his admirers--had been unable to call him anything other than Siface.

"Speak up, boy," the vampire tells me flatly, without emotion. "Was this Giovanni Francesco Grossi? I haven't killed the wrong man, have I?"

"No," I whisper, hoping this monster will let me touch Siface's bloody throat before she kills me. I want to feel the severed vocal cords. I want to know that Siface's performance is truly over.

"No?" the vampire says, mimicking my high-pitched voice. She wipes her mouth clean of a redness which glows faintly in the moonlight. "Ah, you are castrato, like this one. I have long appreciated the musical voices of your kind."

I ignore the vampire, trying to keep my fear in check as I step to Siface's body. In the distance a rooster crows. Down the road a candle shivers in a farmhouse window. Tiny bubbles dance and pop from Siface's ripped throat as the blood the vampire didn't swallow dribbles across the road's stones and packed dirt.

I reach into Siface's throat and touch his vocal cords. They are still warm. I push my fingers against them, wondering if I can make them again sing the voice which entranced all of Italy.

The vampire squats beside me, puzzled by my behavior.

"Who made you?" I ask.

"My master. Or more accurately, one of my master's predecessors. Who made you?"

I point at what remains of Siface's voice. I remember Siface giving me the opium and taking me in a daze to the barber. I remember the blazing star of the red-hot tongs before they cut my flesh.

"Ad Dei gloriam," I mutter.

"I see," the vampire says. "Well, little boy, you present me with a problem. Siface played at an affair with my master's mistress and I was sent to kill him. But I received no instructions on what to do with you. And here you are."

"Here I am."

The vampire grins. But the grin feels forced, as if in mimicry of a real person's smile. "My name is Ferri," she says.

"Nicolo Tenducci. But Siface called me Uccellino."

"Well, after witnessing your master's death you can hardly still be called a baby bird. Care if I call you Uccello?"

I do not care, and when the vampire Ferri walks back to her master's palace, I follow.

I am a
capon
. I am a rooster crowing about nothing.

Siface said that in our suite of rooms the night before he died. We were in Bologna for a new opera dedicated to Giovanni Battista, the city's cardinal legato and de facto ruler. The cardinal told us of his excitement at having the famous singer perform in his city. Siface behaved graciously to the Cardinal's face while secretly telling me--in the perfect arrogance of his high-pitched voice--how he'd play the noble fool for all he was worth. I'd already seen the cardinal's mistress hanging around Siface, and I hoped my master's arrogance wouldn't lead him to risk both our lives on a role he lacked any desire to consummate.

But that night--the day before Siface's final performance, before we fled the cardinal's palace, before the vampire killed Siface--Siface was anything but arrogant. I found him sitting in the dark on his bed, staring out the window at the town below.

"Ah, Uccellino," he said in his high voice. "Come here, little bird, and tell me what Cardinal Battista says of my performance."

"According to the servants, Cardinal Battista invited all of his friends in the nobility and clergy, and even a few of his enemies, to witness your opera."

"That's not the performance I meant," Siface said, smiling mischievously. "I suppose the cardinal has not learned of my true performance in his house." He laughed and fell backward in dramatic fashion across the bed. The other opera house singers and apprentices often laughed at Siface's bad acting, with one singer comparing Siface's performances to a dog in heat yelping for a mate. And they were correct--Siface was a poor actor. But people didn't come for his acting. They came for his singing.

But as Siface laughed at his little joke, I was horrified. "What have you done?" I asked, knowing that if Siface had done something to make the cardinal angry I'd also be at risk. "Do we need to flee tonight?"

"No. We'll flee after tomorrow's performance. I won't disappoint my public."

As Siface lay there, he looked at my anxious face and laughed. "Don't worry, Uccellino" he said. "Even the cardinal wouldn't harm a young boy like yourself."