The Bells (10 page)

XVII.

W
hen he came for me, the cloister was quiet. He held me in his arms, and for a moment I thought he was there just to hold me. I did not like his touch, so I feigned sleep. I only heard his light breath (even with my ear pressed to his shoulder, I could not hear his heart). I felt his gaze upon me. Then something warm and wet fell onto my face. I heard a sob.

With sudden resolve, he swung me into the air. He carried me out of my room and down the stairs, which were lit on each floor by the faint light of the moon through the large windows to the cloister. I lay in his arms as if asleep, and heard the snores that meant we were passing Nicolai’s cell. On the first landing, he paused, and this hesitation was so unlike him that I opened my eyes and looked at his face. In the dim moonlight, his pale face appeared bloodless. His eyes shone with tears.

“Ulrich,” I said. “Let me go.”

“I cannot,” he whispered.

I squirmed in his embrace. “Let me go,” I repeated, but he shook his head.

“Your voice,” he whispered. “We need to preserve your voice.”

Preservation was what Duft did to lizards and the heads of bears. Did he mean to cut out my voice and display it in a jar? Or mount it on a wall? I struggled to get free, but he held me tight.

“I am sorry,” he whispered. “I am sorry.”

His haunted face came so close to mine I thought he might kiss me.

I screamed.

But his hand was reaching as soon as my mouth opened, and he covered my mouth and clenched my nose. I could no more breathe than scream as he moved quickly down the stairs and along the empty hallways, past one drunken monk sprawled upon the floor.

Just when I began to lose consciousness, Ulrich removed his hand. I heaved for air. He whispered, “Keep quiet now. There is no one in this part of the abbey to hear you. You will need your strength.” I squirmed and fought to get away, but he clasped me tighter, like a baby he would sooner smother than have stolen.

He brought me to the practice room, brightly lit at this late hour by lamps and candles arranged throughout the room. The harpsichord stood alone in the center, like an altar. It was covered with white linen. Doctor Rapucci, his face marked by that chilling smile, stood beside the harpsichord. He poured wine into a glass goblet and held it before him, like a chalice.

Rapucci took two steps toward us as I fought once again to escape Ulrich’s desperate embrace. I tried kicking, but my feet only swung through empty air.

“Have no fear,” the doctor said. He spoke with an Italian accent. “I am not going to hurt you.”

He came closer, but when I squirmed again he stopped. He shook his head and smiled, as if I were a fool for distrusting him. His thin eyebrows rose, imitating kindness. “Do you know where Stuttgart is, Moses?”

On the back of his white hands, a mass of veins matched the color of the wine.

“It is not far from here—only several days to travel. I hope you will come there someday to visit me. It is beautiful here in the abbey, but nothing like Stuttgart. Have you ever met a duke? Duke Karl Eugen is my employer. If I tell him of your voice, he will let you sleep in the palace. Would you like to sleep in a palace?”

I would not, but I did not speak.

“The duke cares more for beautiful music than anyone in Europe, Moses. More even than your abbot. That is why he brought me to Stuttgart, all the way from Italy. I am a doctor, a doctor for music.”

Now he did step forward. I wriggled, but Ulrich’s grasp was iron.

“You have a very beautiful voice, Moses. One of the finest I have ever heard. Ulrich has taught you very well. But I can make you even better. Would you like to sing better, Moses?”

My voice is mine!
I would have shouted if I had not been so afraid.
Mine!
He was only a step away now. I feared Ulrich would hand me over to him.

But Ulrich did not let me go. He just held me more tightly. Rapucci raised the goblet. With his other hand he pinched my chin.

“Open your mouth, Moses. Drink some wine.”

His fingers were so cold. I shook my head, and he let me go.

He swore.

Ulrich whispered that I should drink, that it would make me want to sleep. I writhed with all the strength I had.

“Then lay him on the floor,” Rapucci said. I kicked and fought until Ulrich sat astride me and pinned my arms to the ground. Doctor Rapucci knelt beside us. “Open your mouth,” he instructed sharply.

When I again refused, shaking my head from side to side, clenching my jaw closed, he swore again. He pried at my jaw with his veined fingers until a gap appeared, into which he poured the wine. I choked. It overflowed and ran down my neck. He clamped my mouth and pinched my throat until I swallowed.

“That should be sufficient,” he said to Ulrich. The men released me. I coughed and spat.

Yet Rapucci had calculated wrongly. Most of the laudanum-laced wine had escaped my mouth and lay in a puddle on the floor. Though my mind soon began to cloud, and I lost the will to resist them, I did not sleep. I can recall every touch and sound of what followed as if it were a play I have acted a thousand times.

They strip my clothes, and for a moment I feel the cold of the stone floor against my nakedness. I am mesmerized by the ceiling. My fear is soothed; there is something blissful in the pattern of the beams. I should cover myself, but my clothes are gone and I am too weary to seek them.

I am lifted and placed in a basin filled with warm water. I lie there, bathed to the navel. I close my eyes and enjoy the warmth. It seems as if the basin is as huge as a warm ocean. The hard, wooden edge is a soft pillow holding up my head.

Voices speak of minutes.

Knives.

Needles.

I think I will sleep.

I am lifted like a baby, gently dried, and placed facedown upon the harpsichord. My head is toward the keys. When these men speak, the strings resonate with their voices. I want to sing as well, but it is impossible. It seems like such an effort now. I cannot imagine how I ever managed to open my mouth and utter a noise in my life.

Each time I almost fall asleep on the soft sheet, the touch of a cold hand awakens me. It occurs to me that these men, even though one of them is Ulrich, should not touch me. Not in this way. This is not the touch I have come to know so well—Ulrich’s hands urging on my voice.

I think,
Call for Nicolai
. I think,
Nicolai will tell them to keep their hands away
. But he is not here. The cold hands lift me and place towels beneath my hips so my naked backside juts into the air. They spread my legs until I think I might split apart. They are hurting me, but I cannot form the words. I moan. They tie my ankles so I cannot close my legs. I feel them touch me where even Ulrich has never dared touch me before.

My hands are still free, and I make them into fists. I begin to weep.

I will be sick.

There is a smell in the air, like something very … Cold? Sour? I cannot place it. Something cold and wet strokes my thighs, between my legs. It kneads my testicles and makes me sick. I do not want to be touched there! The harpsichord’s strings ring beneath me, but there is no logic in their sound.
I need my voice
, I wish to say.
Do not take it. It is the only thing that makes me pure
. But all that escapes is, “No, no-ooo,” as if I am mourning.

A hand pats my head. Ulrich’s voice in my ear, “It is all right, Moses. Go back to sleep.”

Sleep! Yes, I want to sleep, but the hand is touching me again!
Ulrich!
I try to scream.
Don’t take my voice!
But I only manage to say his name; the rest is moans.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says. “I am here.”

I feel sick and so heavy. I cannot move, but I must, or my voice will be gone.

“Hold him!” Rapucci yells. “Put your weight on top of him!”

I cannot get up. There is someone leaning onto me. My chest is crushed. I cannot breathe.

“Hold him tight! He must be perfectly still.”

I feel a jolt of pain between my legs. I moan and squirm and cry, and the harpsichord cries with me.

“You have got to hold him!”

I scream.

“For the love of God, Rapucci, what are—”

“Hold him!”

Something is inside me. A hand. Prodding, and searching for my voice! I cough up wine and bits of lamb. Ulrich’s fingers stroke my cheek. He is crushing me. Though I struggle, I cannot move.

“Now he must be still or it will kill him!” Rapucci yells, and the low strings of the harpsichord hum.

There is a tug inside me and a jab of pain so sharp I feel it in my toes.

There is no air to breathe anymore. “I had no choice,” Ulrich whispers, so softly I am sure not even Rapucci can hear. “Your voice,” he murmurs. “Your voice.” There is a stinging poke, a tearing between my legs, but suddenly it all seems so far away. I am so tired. I am falling asleep, and my last thought, as Rapucci grunts and Ulrich quietly sobs, is that what these awful men have taken, one day I shall steal it back again.

ACT II

I.

I
woke up in my bed. The exhausted abbey was quiet. The fountain babbled in the cloister.

Had it been a dream?

I turned beneath the sheets and felt a tearing between my legs, like hooks fastened tightly to my bowels. My vision fogged with tears. I lay quiet until the pain receded, and then I drew back the coverlet. I was still naked. My child’s penis pointed upward. It was purple, and behind it, my testicles were scarlet and seemed twice their normal size. Daggers of red and blue stretched across my inner thighs. But I could see nothing missing. Nothing taken.

Carefully, I reached out a finger and touched my right testicle. The skin was tender, but the rest was numb.

“
We need to preserve your voice,
” Ulrich had said. I pictured myself inside one of Duft’s glass jars, singing so no one could hear.

There was a knock at my door. I covered my naked body.

Nicolai did not wait for an answer. He took up half the space of my attic room.

“We should build a new church every week,” he said. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked five years older. “God bless Stuckduck and his inaugurations.” He grinned, but his smile slowly faded. He studied me. “What’s this? Are you sick?”

I nodded.

“No surprise. You need a holiday. I’ll tell Ulrich to leave you alone this morning.”

I nodded.

Nicolai stood over me. He frowned and stooped down to study my face. “Oh, Moses. You look worse than the Einsiedeln monk who slept in the fountain. Need some food?”

I shook my head.

“Is there something wrong?”

I shook my head. I wanted to tell Nicolai, but now today I am grateful that I could not find the words.

He stood up. “Fine. You should rest, and I will come back later,” he said. “And I will bring a juicy steak.”

When I did not smile back at him, he gave me a last, suspicious look and left the room. When the door was shut, I twisted so my feet could dangle over the edge of the bed. With each movement, the hooks in my groin tore deeper and I gasped. I stood up, hunched like an old man. Tears ran down my cheeks. I shuffled along the floor and locked the door, something I had never done before. I stood naked in front of my mirror.

I sang the first three notes of the soprano solo from the day before. It was weak and unsure, but it was my voice. It had not been taken from me. A choking sob cut off the song.

Somehow I crept back to my bed and slept.

I heard poundings, yells in my sleep. Someone was chasing me down the abbey’s hallways; all the doors were locked and so I could not hide. Then there was a splintering crash and I woke to see my door falling inward, split down the middle. Nicolai stumbled in. Behind him was Remus, with concerned, narrow eyes, and beyond him, Doctor Rapucci held a lamp up to his pallid, frowning face. The doctor pushed past my friends. I cringed as he laid a cold palm on my forehead and then pried open my eye with two fingers.

“He will be fine,” he said to Nicolai, who stood like he was ready to take me in his arms. Rapucci pushed him back. “You must leave him alone. He merely has a fever.”

My eyelids were so heavy I let them close.

“But he did not wake,” Nicolai implored, his voice shaking. “I thought that he was—”

“He is young and strong. Let him sleep,” Doctor Rapucci replied sternly. “I will watch him.”

“I will watch him,” Nicolai said.

“I am a doctor.”

I opened my eyes. The room seemed to sway. In the broken doorway, Remus stood silently, ignoring the book in his arms. He watched the men argue over me, suspicion on his face. I wanted to tell Nicolai—even Remus—not to leave me alone with this doctor, but in my haze I couldn’t form the words. I was too afraid, and I watched my protectors step over the splinters, their faces imploring me to call them back.

When we were alone, Doctor Rapucci leaned in close. He smiled when he saw I was awake. He put a finger over his thin lips. “You must tell no one what happened last night,” he said. “If you do, they will not let you stay here. They will make you leave the abbey, and you will be alone. Trust no one but your friend Ulrich.”

I did not wholly understand this warning, but even so, I knew instinctively that he was right.

“Do you understand what I have done, Moses?”

I did not react. In the dim light of the lamp I saw that the same purple veins of his hands interwove his pallid face.

“I have made you a musico.”

Me, a musico? That hand twisting and digging inside me had made me like Bugatti?
A musico is a man
, Nicolai had said,
who is not a man. He has been made into an angel
.

“Moses!” Doctor Rapucci was still talking to me. I tried to focus through the fever. “You will notice some changes in your body in the next few weeks,” he said. “Do not be alarmed.”

Rapucci straightened and blew out the lamp. Faint light filtered in from the hallway.

“One day,” Rapucci said from the darkness, “you will have one of the greatest voices in Europe. Do not forget me, Moses. Do not forget who made you what you are.”

I closed my eyes.

And I never did forget. Many years later, when my career finally brought me to Karl Eugen’s city, I hid a dagger in my cloak and told the impresario I would like to meet Rapucci, Stuttgart’s famous “doctor of music.” But the man just flushed and shook his head. “Please, sir,” he said, “we do not talk of him.” I finally plied an elderly stagehand with wine until he told me what had passed: Rapucci had indeed returned to Stuttgart after my castration, but after two more years in Karl Eugen’s court, castrating boys so the duke could have the only farm of musici north of the Alps, Rapucci was hanged for fondling a duchess.