The Bells (22 page)

But soon I realized that my haphazard methods were clearly not suited to such a task as finding one beautiful girl in a teeming metropolis. As evening came on, I began to ask passersby where I might find this Anton Riecher.

I probably should have found the chance to bathe before I began my directed search, though such careful planning would have disrupted much of what later came to pass that first miraculous night in Vienna. I still had the sludge stripes on my face, long, dirty nails, hair like the tentacles of a swamp plant. My trousers were torn from knee to ankle and one shoe’s sole flapped like a hound’s flopping tongue each time I stepped. So my inquiries were met only with disgusted stares. Finally, I selected a page who seemed in such a hurry that I had to block his path with my long arms. He swung his glove at me, but clearly feared to dirty it on my face.

“Please help me, and I will go away,” I begged. I told him what I sought. “It is a mission of love,” I added.

He looked me up and down. Then he named two streets and told me to seek where they crossed.

“And in what part of the city might I begin my search?” I asked.

He looked at me as if I were indeed a fool. “Go to the Stephansdom,” he said, pointing up at the black tower in the sky, “and consider whether you might not be better served within its walls. Should you still wish to find the Riecher Palace, you will not have to travel far.”

I should have known!
I had wandered the city for a day, when in fact she was just where I had begun. My mother and that bell had called me to her! If only I had eyes like my ears, I might have spied her from that tower. In a half hour, I had found the intersection the page had named, and then, looking up, I beheld the Riecher Palace, as grand and perfect as Staudach’s church.

III.

I
t had grown quite dark. The Riecher Palace was squeezed between two larger, but less pristine façades, so all I saw of the grand building was its face, with two lit windows in the second floor its glowing eyes, and its closed black gate its fearsome mouth.

The large gate, built to accommodate the empire’s largest carriages, had a tiny door cut into it for wretches like me. As I approached the gate, I did not consider what I was doing. I knocked.

There was no answer. Then I noticed a string dangling beside the gate, not unlike a pull rope for a bell. I pulled it. Somewhere deep inside I heard a chime. Fascinated as always by any ringing thing, I pulled it again, and tried to judge the size, shape, and metal of the bell; then I pulled it again, and guessed the chime’s proximity. I pulled it in quick succession, and played a simple rhythm.
Bing, bing, bing-bing. Bing, bing, bing-bing
.

This is not done
was the first lesson I learned when an ogre of a man peered out the tiny door. He did not have to explain in words; the glow in his eyes sufficed. I released the rope and smiled innocently. I stepped toward him. He did not smile back.

“Good evening, sir,” I said.

“Away with you,” he replied.

“You see,” I said, “I need to speak with Amalia Duft, er, Riecher. She lives inside.” I pointed up at the house.

“If you ever pull that rope again,” he said, evidently not comprehending my request, “I will twist it around your neck.” His head was awfully large. I spied the shadow of some massive shoulders, and no neck in between.

“Just for a few moments,” I said, “just to say—” I stopped, because in fact, I did not know what I would say to her. During those many months of travel, I had pictured it somewhat differently. I had pictured that it would be she greeting me at the door. “Let us fly,” I would have said, and we would have flown. Simple—no need for eloquence. But now, with an ogre blocking my way, what message could I send her? For example,
Tell her that the man she loves is not dead
would not suffice. I knew enough to know that illicit acts of love are best handled tête-à-tête.

But I could not give up so easily.

“Might I show you something?” I asked the ogre. I pointed up the street. “Something that will interest you.
Very much.
”

When he stepped through the door, he had to turn his shoulders to fit. When he stood on his hind legs, his head looked down at mine. I quickly gathered he had not come through to examine whatever tantalizing distraction I had promised. Rather, he wished to give me a message. He beckoned that I should lean closer. When I did so, he grabbed my hair and snarled in my ear, “I do not like your face. If I ever see it here again, I will change its proportions to better suit me.”

But my hair was so greasy, he could not get a firm grip. I twisted away and, like a graceful dancer, darted through the door. I was just about to close it and lock him out when he grabbed my ankle. He dragged me back out and held me up like a giant catfish he had caught in the river. Then he hurled me into the street and shut the door behind him.

I stood. The brute had skinned my elbow on the street. The front gate was now firmly locked. I could not ring the bell again or he would make me ugly, and even if I were lucky enough to get past this man, I knew I would then meet whoever guarded the next circle of this fine house: a butler, or perhaps some male Riecher who would wish to know my business. If I told them why I was there, at best they would throw me out; at worst, lock me up and spirit Amalia away to some distant place where I might never find her again.

No, I decided, I had acted rashly. I must get into the house some other way.

The ground-floor windows were sealed with ornate bars of iron; the higher ones were not, but they were certainly firmly locked, and in any case, I had no means of reaching them. I saw that the Riecher Palace was a prison, and my love was trapped inside.

I turned away, discouraged, but then I considered: What would brave Nicolai have done? This set my imagination loose. I wove fantasies: costuming myself as a chimney sweep, or stealing a sow from the market and delivering it to the kitchen before hiding in a closet, or shooting the ogre with a poison-tipped arrow that would make him sleep. But all these notions made me shake my head; they all contained the same fault. Namely, to do them, I lacked resources. I did not even have a clean pair of trousers, nor had I yet even discovered a place to steal them.

Little did I suspect then that within a day I would have the means of entering the Riecher Palace, and not through some subterfuge, but by invitation from the very mistress of the house.

Follow me that miraculous evening as I turn at the Schottentor back up the Schottengasse and into the heart of the inner city. I strolled blindly, listening to the clink of silver against Vienna’s finest teeth emanating from the elegant residences along the street, when a carriage overtook me, then stopped some twenty paces in front of me. I paid it no mind, even as a man descended, sent the carriage off, and remained in my path as I approached.

I was a few strides away when he began to laugh, at first snorting through his nose in a disbelieving way, then, when I came closer, with a full-bellied guffaw that rather frightened me. From his deep, easy breath, I knew he must be either a musician or a dancer—and he was too fat to be a dancer. In the darkness I could see that his round, red face was flushed either with goodwill or with wine.

“Orpheus,” the man said. “You have outdone yourself.”

IV.

T
he man looked earnestly at me, but could not hold the scowl, and broke once more into a guffaw as he came close. He leaned close and sniffed my collar; revulsion pulled him back. But then, much to my surprise, he buried his face in my shoulder and inhaled my stink as if I were a rose.

“Only a son of Garrick,” he said with a squeak, as if his lungs would never inhale another breath, “would dare to smell that bad. What have you done? Slept the day in a Spittelberg brothel? Let me see your hands.”

I held up my dirty hands and splayed my fingers for him to see the scum growing between them.

“Oh, God,” he said. “Those hands are worth as much as these ears.” He tugged at his own earlobes. Then he pinched my neck. “And this throat, which seems to have caught a rash from that shirt you found in the river, is worth ten times more. Durazzo will be furious. But as a statement, it is effective. Farewell, artifice!”

The man squinted at me in the dark, as if surprised that my nose was so large. Thank God I didn’t say a word. A single word, “Hello” or even “What?” would have cut off this interaction as abruptly as it had begun. But fortunately silence was still my natural state, and this man shook off his doubt and said, “Let us, then, enter your house not as master and friend, but as artists.” He put a hand on my filthy rags and pushed me toward a stately house made of stone, wedged between two palaces. He rang the bell. A very tall, broad servant—the kind only the Bohemian farms can raise—opened the door.

“Oh!” exclaimed the servant.

“Oh?” said my escort admonishingly. “Oh? Is that how you speak to genius?” The servant retreated several paces and bumped against a wall. He forced himself into a slight bow.

“Ch-Chevalier Gluck,” he mumbled. “They are waiting for … for you.”

“And we shall not disappoint them!” cried this Gluck, and poked an elbow in my ribs. The servant mastered himself and began to lead us deeper into the lavish house, whose scent of lavender could not conquer mine.

Gluck chuckled in my ear. “Your own Boris thinks you are a tramp,” he whispered.

I rather agreed with insightful Boris, but he did not even turn to stare as he led us up the wide carpeted stairs, where the sound of mirthful laughter rose occasionally above the low din of serious conversation. Boris ushered us through double doors, and I found myself in the midst of my first soirée.

There were some twenty men in the ballroom, and a smattering of women, too. Even the youngest men had flowing white hair, and every nose in the room seemed pointed, though I soon realized this had more to do with a general raising of the chins. These men and women chatted in dense circles, speaking in such sharp whispers that I was sure I had interrupted a diplomatic conference of utmost gravity. A group of four men standing near a harpsichord seemed to be some kind of commanding ministers, for when they made any exclamation, eyes around the room looked expectantly, almost hopefully, in their direction.

Our entry disturbed this equilibrium. As Gluck strode across to the group of four, from around the room came “ooh!” and “ahh!” as if a peacock had just opened its tail. Glasses were raised, each higher than the next.

And then every eye took me in as well. Glasses fell. The room was silent.

Finally, one of the four men stepped forward. “
Chevalier Gluck, qui est-il?
”

I still had no French, but it was clear to me that the entire room wished to know what this vagrant was doing in their midst. Gluck smiled slyly. He eyed his audience sternly, pausing first on each of the four important men, “Signor Calzabigi, Signor Angiolini, Signor Quaglio, Superintendent Durazzo, ladies and gentlemen.” He pointed a finger at me. “This is the future of our art.”

He let this statement settle, pacing slowly once around me, studying my tattered rags as if they were the most elegant clothes he had ever laid his eyes upon. “No peacock feathers, no diamond-studded vests, no paint upon his face. He does not look the clown. Take one look at him, and you understand his message.” He raised one finger at the ceiling. “Artifice is not art.”

Gluck nodded gravely and walked forward and then back to me as he stared down each guest like a father might his misbehaving children. “For this opera, we are not reviving the Orpheus that every audience has heard a hundred times. Not the Orpheus of Naples, nor of Venice. No. I turn away from that. With my music, with Signor Calzabigi’s stunning libretto, we call instead to that Orpheus who lived long ago, who did not wear feathers in his hair, who sang the most beautiful music that ever was, and most important, who felt passion that was real and true.” Gluck looked at the ceiling and spread his arms in supplication. “Orpheus!” he cried. “Come sing for us! We wish to know of love! Of greatest sadness and of greatest joy! With your music, fill our hearts!”

For several seconds Gluck let silence reign, and then the stern eye returned to the crowd. “In October, Orpheus will rise again as none of you has ever heard him. For not only do we have the libretto and the music to awaken his spirit, we have as well the singer to channel his voice. Tonight humility disguises him, but you all know him. Ladies and gentlemen, your host, our Orpheus, Europe’s greatest voice, Gaetano Guadagni.”

With a sweep of his hand he presented me to the crowd, and their shocked faces melted into delight as they made themselves recognize this famous Gaetano Guadagni, whoever he was, under the layers of grime on my face. They clapped their hands, and as they did, I understood with sudden dread that the room had been inflated with an expectation, like a bubble about to burst with a violent
pop!
I did not smile as they clapped, and they clapped more loudly in response, and so I resolved to run. I took two steps backward, but just then I heard my escape blocked by approaching footsteps. I turned to see a man enter. The sight of him explained everything—at least to me.

Gaetano Guadagni was fifteen years older than I, but we shared the same ageless face. He stood only to my ear, but we both had that angelic stature that made crowds think him six feet tall and think me seven. Like me, he had the castrato’s birdlike chest and the grace of a body not weighed down by manly muscle. Twins we were not, but brothers we could have been. That night my youth was distorted by grime, and in his long brocaded coat he appeared a king.

He seemed to float into the room. If everyone had hushed when they saw me, now that they saw Guadagni—and me next to him—they did not even breathe. The famous castrato showed no alarm at this vagrant in his house; for a moment he considered his audience with a generous, knowing smile. Then he looked at me carefully from head to foot.

“Chevalier,” he said in strongly accented German, “have you found me a replacement?”

Gluck’s ruddy face had turned scarlet. “You impostor!” he gasped at me. He shook one fist and held the other against his chest as if his heart might burst from embarrassment. I stepped backward again and would have crashed into the castrato had he not evaded me with his dancer’s agility. He held up a hand to soothe the composer’s rage.

“You mistook him for me?” Guadagni asked as he circled back, placing himself between Gluck and me. I began to inch toward the door.

“He was loitering outside your door. He deceived me.”

“A cunning disguise,” Guadagni said, and pursed his lips so his audience might know that they were permitted to laugh.

“I will throw him out myself,” said Gluck, and reached for me.

“
Non!
” Guadagni shouted. Gluck froze. Guadagni did not even turn to confirm that the composer had obeyed his command. The singer simply laid his palm against his chest, as if feeling for his pulse; the red arrowheads of his painted nails sparkled. “I never forsake a brother of the knife,” he said quietly.

He bowed his head and his hand remained upon his heart. Every eye in the room marveled at his compassion.

“Boris!” he called in his soft ringing voice. Boris appeared from where he had been lurking outside the open door.

“Give this man a bath, some clothes, and food. I think only your clothes will fit him.”

Boris betrayed nothing more than a horrified swallow. He did not glance at me as he led me out of the room and down a passage. “Wait here,” he ordered. For twenty minutes, I perched there like a statue, afraid that with any movement my grime would stain the white walls. Which way was the door? Finally, Boris returned with a pile of clothes over his arm.

“Follow me,” he said, his voice devoid of both respect and scorn. He led me down a narrow flight of wooden stairs to a servants’ washroom in the cellar. A wooden tub was half-filled with water, which Boris could certainly have heated more, but since it was the first warm water my skin had touched in months, I did not think to complain. I shut the door and barricaded it with a wooden chest before I stripped off my filthy rags and submerged myself.

Fair skin appeared beneath layers of grime. I massaged soap into my hands until the pads of my fingers were wrinkled pink ovals. My hair lost the weight of a year of oil and, when it dried, fluffed up into a downy halo as fine as a hatchling’s plume.

When I was sure I had scrubbed every inch of skin, I stepped out of the bath and stood in front of the mirror. I examined my entire naked body. No castrato is a muscular man, but after a year of trekking along the Alps, my hairless body had a nymphic litheness. I saw in my thighs a glimpse of those other naked legs against which I had pressed my ears that year in Ulrich’s attic. The jutting bones within my chest and pelvis were a man’s bones, but my skin’s milky, fleshy tone was similar to the one I had so often kissed.

I was hairless, yet now cleansed of grime, a golden down shone under my arms, above my lips, and in an arrow pointing downward from my navel. When I raised my arm, the movement rippled over my round chest, across my long stomach, and dissipated in my thighs. My year of walking had firmed up the stature that Ulrich had worked so hard to train. The castrato in the mirror did not look frail. His feet were anchored to the floor, and his shoulders seemed to hang from some unseen string tied in heaven. It was a noble body, with one single flaw at its center.

A brother of the knife
, Guadagni had called me—the recognition I had always feared. He did not even have to hear me sing. I had seen it in him, too. I had seen a shadow of that other musico, Antonio Bugatti. Their soft, angelic faces, their grace, their smooth voices—all were signs that marked my body, too.
Orpheus
. The name still echoed in my ears.
Orpheus
. And looking at this naked angel in the glass, I thought proudly that if Guadagni could be Orpheus for an empire, surely I could be Orpheus for a single woman.

Boris’s trousers were almost long enough, but I could not button the waistcoat over my chest. My wrists poked out of the jacket. I had to leave the painful shoes unlaced. I studied myself in the mirror. I had never looked so handsome.

In the passage, a platter awaited me with a plate of dry bread and scraps of meat—a meager meal for someone of my thieving ways. I skipped up the stairs. No longer the invasive tramp, I could find my own way out.

The house Guadagni occupied was laid with carpets on the wooden floors and gold-framed landscapes on the walls. It was quiet, as if every guest had left during my bath and the servants had been sent to bed. I found the front door, grasped the polished brass handle, and prepared to slip out unseen. But then I heard a sound that made me draw in my breath.

A harpsichord began to play. I heard at once that a master sat at the keyboard. I drifted on the sound, away from the door, up the flight of stairs, quickly, silently, anxious that any sound I made would stop this music.

As I neared the open door from which the music filtered—that same room as before, I realized—I found Boris and the other servants crouched around its frame, hidden from those inside the room. They did not react when I joined them, for their bodies strained to hear. Through the doorway, I heard creaking chairs and shuffling feet beneath the clear notes of the harpsichord.

I needed to know who was at the keyboard. I probably would have stumbled through the door and upset the evening—for a second time—had I not heard a sound that stunned me even more: Gaetano Guadagni began to sing.

Che puro ciel! Che chiaro sol! Che nuova serena luce è questa mai!

What warmth! I closed my eyes and exhaled every drop of air from the recesses of my lungs. I crowded with all the servants until we pressed against one another like a litter of piglets jostling toward a row of nipples. As one mass, we crept closer toward the doorway. I peered around to see Guadagni standing before the rapt crowd, Gluck behind him seated at the harpsichord.

Guadagni waved his hands as he sang, his long fingers describing ebbs and swells just as his voice did. In its delicate moments, he held me rigid as I strained to hear, and then, in its massive moments, I felt as if I might collapse under the force of his voice’s brilliance. Guadagni gazed toward a corner of the room, and I saw in his eyes that there was his Eurydice, soon to be his again.
Find her!
the music said to me.
Find her!
It swept away any fear that lingered in the shadows of my soul. Warm tears stained my now-clean face.

As Guadagni cut off the final exclamation—
Euridice dov’è!
—the tug of his voice was violent, and only Boris’s strength kept us from all falling into the ballroom. The guests began to applaud; the servants shook off their trance and scurried away. My reaction was not so trained: from the moment Guadagni ceased to sing, I felt that warmth recede. Fear crept back out of the shadows. With each moment, I grew less and less sure that I would win what I most desired. I needed to hear this music again, needed to learn to sing it myself, and here were two masters who could teach me.

I felt Boris’s hand on my arm trying to pull me away from the door, and I sensed he was whispering something in my ear, asking whether I was such an idiot as to interrupt the evening a second time. I was. I strained against his pull.