Mozart’s Blood (30 page)

“That would be a shame.”

“Not to me.”

The Countess opened her eyes, and this time a faint, impatient light shone from them. Her hands twitched in her lap. “Don't be stupid, Ughetto. If you killed the wolf, you would die, too. There's a reason for its existence.”

He shot to his feet, crumpling the herb in his hand. “A reason?” he cried. “A reason it should ruin my life, keep me running and hiding, make it impossible to have friends, to have work…to have my music?”

The Countess's hands relaxed. “I'm sorry about your music,” she said. “You're right, of course. The wolf prevented your castration.” She sighed. “But it will also protect you from other harm. And”—a careless flick of the fingers of one hand—“it will prevent you dying at some ridiculously young age.”

“What are you telling me?” Ughetto's voice rose, shrill with fury. When she didn't answer immediately, he leaned forward, his slender body shaking, and shouted at her. “Tell me, you—you
anziana!
You bring me here, promising me some sort of bargain, and then you call out the wolf! What do you want from me? Are you telling me I have to suffer like this for eternity?”

Zdenka Milosch looked up at him with narrowed eyes. Her upper lip lifted, exposing the dull gleam of her long teeth, and she hissed, a sound so light he was not sure he heard it. The look on her face was that of something vicious, something utterly without empathy.

Ughetto froze, his complaint dying on his lips.

“Eternity?” she said, drawling the word, mocking him. “Hardly eternity, young fool.”

Ughetto swallowed. More quietly, he said, “How long, then? How long will the wolf prevent me from dying?”

The Countess lowered her upper lip, and looked into the candle flames. “So long, Ughetto,” she said, “that you will no longer object to death.”

Ughetto sank back into his chair, his knees suddenly gone to water.
“O Dio,”
he breathed. He looked away from the Countess, staring blindly into the dimness of the cavernous room. “
Madre di Dio.
What am I to do?”

“Use the herb to hold back the wolf. Do a few tasks for me and my brethren, some small, some great. I will supply you with
aconitum lycoctonum,
or see that you know where to obtain it.”

“Do you expect me to live here?” Ughetto made no effort to keep the distaste from his voice.

“No,” she said. “I expect you to go out into the world and manage our interests. We have…needs.”

Ughetto stared at her. With a dry mouth, he croaked, “You want me to bring your victims to you?”

Again her lip curled. “No, no, Ughetto. We have people to do that, Kirska and Tomas and others. What we want you to do is to offer hope to the foolish ones. You will look over those who want to become one of us. You will judge their worthiness. You will discipline some who violate their promises…or who talk too much.”

“Why should I do these things? Surely I can find this—this herb—” He held out his palm with the crumpled leaves and flowers in it. “I can find this on my own.”

“I assure you, Ughetto,” Zdenka said, “that in time you will accept our ways. They are perfectly natural.”

He spat, “Natural!”

“They are the ways of nature, the way of the world. Predator and prey, rulers and the ruled. You eat meat, don't you? In time, it will mean nothing to you to kill, as the wolf kills. You will find that everything, and everyone, is meat in the end.”

“I don't believe it.”

“No,” she said, closing her eyes again and settling back against the sofa as if she meant to stay there all day. “No. But you will. You will.”

Octavia moved through the days following Zdenka Milosch's appearance in a haze of misery. On alternate cast nights she obediently attended the opera, ready to rise from her seat and go to work should her colleague be indisposed. On her own performance nights she left her dressing room only to go onstage. When the theater was dark she paced her suite, longing for Ugo, loathing Zdenka Milosch, and remembering. Always remembering.

The specter of the street girl's shocked face—“What did you do? What
was
that?”—haunted her. At night, tossing in the wide bed at Il Principe, a parade of such faces marched through her mind, hundreds of them, escaped from her mental cubbyhole and refusing to go back inside. All of these, according to the Countess, dead. Convicted by the edict of La Società. Driven to their deaths by Teresa, by Hélène before Ugo came, and now, all unwilling, by Octavia.

After curtain calls one night, Peter took her arm. “Halfway through,” he said.

Octavia looked at him in surprise. “Are we?”

“Yes,” he said. “Didn't you know that?”

She shook her head. “I've lost track of the days.”

“You need your assistant, Octavia. It's difficult to do this alone.”

“I do, Peter. You're right. And tonight was…a little hard.”

It had indeed been a difficult evening. Russell's beat had occasionally been erratic, but worse, her voice felt stiff, a little heavy, as if she hadn't slept. Her ovations had not been satisfying, and she knew the performance had not been her best. It had been hard to concentrate, and she had nearly missed two cues, something that had never happened in rehearsal. It hadn't helped that Nick got in a muddle with his blocking in the second act.

David came up on Peter's other side and leaned around him to say, “Octavia, when the run is through, Peter and I are going on a nice holiday in Tuscany. Wouldn't you like to join us? There's room in the
villa
—six bedrooms. You can bring your delightful Ugo!”

Octavia smiled, touched by the kindness. “Why, thank you, both of you. But I'm going directly to Houston from Milan.”

“Oh, I don't think you told us. That's your first time with Houston, isn't it? What are you singing?” Peter asked.

Together, the three of them threaded their way through the maze of set pieces backstage. Octavia was aware of Massimo walking behind them. Massimo's performance tonight had been as strong as hers had been shaky. He and Marie had been charming in their duets, and Massimo's character had grown convincingly through the opera, from the gawkiness of a country boy to the dignity of an enraged husband. His voice grew richer and more confident with each performance. He was on the verge of great success, Octavia felt certain. A sudden longing seized her, and she wished she could turn to him, run to him, hide her face against his strong shoulder. It was a preposterous thought, of course. How Ugo would laugh at such weakness! And how shocked Massimo would be to know the truth about her.

These thoughts made her answer Peter a beat too late. “Oh, Houston. It's
Figaro
.”

“The Countess,” David said, a hand to his heart. “You must be divine in that rôle.”

Octavia laughed. “Flatterer. I love singing the Countess, though.”

“Why didn't Ugo come to Milan with you?” David asked. “Peter always envies you your wonderful assistant.” He chuckled and put his arm across Peter's plump shoulders. “He has only me, and I forget things constantly!”

Peter smiled and patted his partner's hand as they watched Octavia, awaiting her answer.

“Ugo had…had business,” Octavia said. “Out of the country. He's supposed to meet me at the end of the run.”

“That's good,” David said. “Maybe he'll be here for the last party.”

“I hope so,” Octavia said. She turned in at her dressing room. “Good night. Good show tonight, Peter. I'll see you both Thursday.” She slipped inside and tried to shut the door, but found a strong brown hand between the door and the jamb.

Massimo pushed the door open gently and put his head inside the room. “Octavia. You've been avoiding me.”

There was an edge to his voice. She looked up at him. The dark pancake makeup made his eyes vivid as candle flames. He needed no wig, and the usual lock of hair hung over his forehead. He looked delectable in Masetto's peasant coat and breeches. The knee pants and traditional white tights accentuated the long muscles of his calves.

Octavia sighed. “Massimo, I'm sorry. I hate theater gossip.”

“That doesn't mean we can't speak to each other.” He came in, bringing the rich scents of sweat and soap and melting makeup with him. He closed the door behind him. “They'll be saying we've had a falling-out.”

The dresser called from the corridor, “Signorina?”

Octavia called,
“Momento, per favore.”
To Massimo, she said, “I have to shower.”

“So do I,” he said. His usual smile was absent, and there was an air of tension about him. “Have a drink with me afterward.”

The mention of a drink reminded her she needed water. She turned away from him to pour from the bottle of Pellegrino on her dressing table. She took a deep draught of it, and then another. She had turned off the lights around the mirror, and her eyes looked shadowed, her cheeks colorless. She turned her back on her image. “Massimo, I don't think…”

“We'll go somewhere private. My hotel. Or yours.” When she hesitated, he said in a low tone, “I won't leave until you say yes.” He smiled then, but there was something in it, some emotion she couldn't quite identify. He seemed older somehow. Harder.

She set her glass down. Her thoughts were sluggish, slowed by the fog in her mind. She gave her head a little shake, as if that might clear it. Massimo gave her a quizzical look, and she shrugged. “Go now,” she said, striving for a light tone. “The dresser's waiting.”

He bent and kissed her cheek. She closed her eyes at the sensation of his smooth lips against her skin. Remembered passion quickened her breath.

He whispered against her ear, “I'm waiting, too,” and a thrill ran through her belly. “Meet me outside.”

The words to refuse him simply would not rise to her lips, though she despaired at her weakness. He opened the door. The dresser sidled past him to come to Octavia and begin undoing the fastenings of her costume. As Octavia unpinned her wig and settled it on its stand, she tried to remonstrate with herself, but it seemed she had lost the argument before it began.

She peeled off her false eyelashes and laid them in their case, then stepped into the little shower. As she scrubbed pancake and powder from her face and neck, she promised herself she would have a drink with Massimo, nothing more. She would tell him something, anything, to put him off.

She made herself take her time about dressing, applying street makeup, brushing out her hair and tying it back, winding her long scarf around her neck. When she emerged from her dressing room, the corridor was empty. Massimo's door, with his name scripted beneath the little star, was closed. There was no sound behind it.

He was waiting for her at the artists' entrance, lounging in the glass-doored lobby, chatting with the guard behind the desk. He wore his usual jeans and white shirt and leather jacket. His hair was still damp from the shower. She joined him, feeling a twinge of compunction at the sweetness of simply walking at his side, going out into the cool bite of the breeze, strolling with him down the street to the waiting Mercedes.

Massimo held the car door for her, and she slid onto the leather seat with a dangerous sense of belonging. Octavia knew better than to form attachments to such things. But Massimo's profile against the city lights, the smell of his shaving lotion, the scent of old leather lulled her. It all seemed so normal. Other people had drinks together, went out to dinner, had love affairs. Ugo would have prevented this, by his very presence. But Ugo was not here.

And Massimo was.

He drove her to Il Principe in silence and let the doorman call for someone to park his car. They walked together into the bar. Without consulting her, Massimo ordered a sparkling
prosecco
and a plate of
antipasto,
which came in the form of black olives, tender baby artichokes, paper-thin slices of
prosciutto.
When he tipped his head back to gaze up at the Tiffany-style ceiling, his jaw muscles flexed as if he were controlling himself. When their order arrived, he nodded his thanks at the waiter and poured her a glass of wine.

Octavia said, frowning, “Massimo. Are you angry with me?”

He shook his head and drained half his glass in a single swallow.

“You're angry about something.”

For a moment he was silent, as if he were gritting his teeth. Then, pushing the
antipasto
plate aside, he leaned forward. “I'm sorry, Octavia. I thought if we—I thought I could distract myself.”

She put her head on one side, regarding him, waiting.

He made a rueful face. “I told you about my brother.”

“Yes—your family's black sheep.”

“He's in trouble.”

Octavia's eyebrows rose. She picked up the bottle and poured more
prosecco
into his glass, and waited.

“You might remember the bruise I had. Made Russell ill.”

“I remember,” Octavia said carefully. She remembered how she had wanted to lick the blood from his cheek.

“The night before that rehearsal, I had to go and roust my brother out of a card game. It wasn't easy.” He gave a sour chuckle. “He's bigger than I am. He socked me.”

Octavia winced at the thought. “He was gambling?”

“Again.” He sighed. “And it didn't do any good. He's gotten sideways with some pretty bad people, and my family expects me to do something about it.”

“What can you do?”

He shrugged. “Nothing at all that I can see. But my mother—” His face tightened, and he averted his eyes. “He's her baby. It's hard being the oldest.”

She put her hand over his. “Massimo, you must let it go.”

“I know,” he said. “I just wanted to enjoy this run. This chance.”

“Is he jealous of you?”

Massimo said bitterly, “Of course. But what can I do about that?”

“I don't know, Massimo.”

He brought her hand to his lips, and his eyes softened a bit. “I'm sorry. Didn't mean to talk about it, really.” He reached for a slice of
prosciutto.
“Let's forget it. I'm sorry I told you.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Don't be sorry. I'm glad to know.”

He smiled at her, a little sadly. “It's nice to be able to talk to someone.” He chewed the
prosciutto
with a slice of bread and poured the last of the
prosecco
into her glass. “I envy
you,
Octavia. You don't have to answer to anyone, do you?”

It was her turn to shrug and avert her eyes. “Ugo, sometimes. But that's not always good, Massimo. It can be lonely.”

He took her hand again and caressed the fingers with his thumb. In an intimate tone he said, “Not lonely tonight, though.”

She smiled. “No. Not tonight.”

He grinned, looking more like himself. “And now let's talk about something else—anything else! Nick forgot his blocking again tonight, didn't he?”

She laughed. “That was a mess! Nothing I could do because he was halfway across the stage from me.”

He grinned. “Poor Richard! How did he manage?”

She began to tell him, pleased to hear the edge vanish from his voice, to see his eyes brighten. Other people in the bar looked at them from the corners of their eyes, as if trying to guess who they were. It felt to Octavia as if she and Massimo sat in a bubble of light. They were golden people at that moment, young, successful, fortunate. She was sorry when the barman began putting things away, getting ready to close. With reluctance, she said, “We should go.”

“Wait,” Massimo said. He went up to the bar and came back a moment later grinning, flourishing a bottle of uncorked Barbaresco in one hand, two wineglasses in the other. He nodded toward the bank of elevators.

Octavia hesitated only a moment before she followed Massimo into the elevator. She told herself that she would be gone soon in any case. This affair, if that's what it was, would be over. It was perfectly likely she might never see Massimo again.

She leaned against the elevator's parquet wall and looked at their reflections in the gold-flecked mirror opposite. Her eyes sparkled now, and her cheeks were pink with wine and laughter. Massimo looked tall and dark and delicious.

The Barbaresco was magnificent, a spicy, strong red. It was not until Massimo poured her second glass and began to slowly unwrap her long scarf from her throat that she felt the first intimations of real thirst come over her. She tried to pull back then, but his lips were already on her cheek, on her neck. His strong arm pulled her against him, inviting her, tempting her.

With his free hand, he touched her glass with his. “To you,” he murmured. “My favorite soprano.
La divina.
” Octavia drained half of her glass at a gulp, hoping to quell the sensation rising in her throat. She was burning now, not only with desire, but with the sudden, devastating onset of thirst. There was no time to wonder how she had not seen this coming, had not known.

He kissed her mouth, then set his glass down and took hers to set beside it. He drew her into the dark bedroom, one hand on her waist, the other wound gently in her hair. He coaxed her to lie down, then stretched his length beside her.

He pressed his mouth to hers, and her lips parted, not with volition, but helplessly, eagerly. Encouraged, Massimo kissed her more deeply, stroking her face, her breast, her back with his fingertips. His mouth tasted of wine, and her head spun with it.