The Brahms Deception (39 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

BOOK: The Brahms Deception
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“No, Ugo. Never again.”
“Don't say that. If it got bad enough—”
“Ugo, let's not talk about it.”
He shrugged, more relaxed now. The lines in his face had disappeared, and his accent was his own.
“Va bene.”
He sat on the ottoman and laid his case beside him. He snapped it open and withdrew his tools as she rolled up the sleeve of her robe and propped her elbow on the arm of the chair.
“So,” he said. He wound the tourniquet around her upper arm, then flicked the syringe with his fingernail, popping the bubbles to the top. “Tell me. Did the duet with Germont
fils
go better tonight?”
“Yes, it did. It was fine. Beautiful, actually.”
“Good. The best part of the whole opera.”
“What, not my ‘Addio del passato'?”
Ugo only grinned. He slipped the superfine needle into the vein of her wrist, then loosened the tourniquet. As he depressed the plunger, the cold liquid trickled into her flesh, and the flow of sweet energy began to pour up her arm, across her chest, through her abdomen. She sighed, letting her muscles dissolve, relishing the burst of warmth in her body that felt like the rising of the sun. She sensed it creeping through her veins and capillaries, tingling in her temples and her toes. She felt its silken texture in her throat, tasted it in her mouth.
Not that she wanted to taste it, ever again. Ugo's way was infinitely better.
Ugo withdrew the needle, touched her wrist with a bit of cotton, then looked at it critically.
“Niente,”
he said with boyish pride. “I'm awfully good, don't you think?”
She laughed. She felt wonderful, energized, utterly alive. “I do think!” She watched as the little mark of the needle closed and vanished, then rose from her chair to scoop up Ugo's jacket and scarf. “I'll help you pack, Ugo.”
He rearranged the items in his case, checked the refrigeration sensor, and snapped the lid shut. He tucked the case under his arm and took his things away from her with his free hand. “I'll pack my own clothes, thanks. You get started on yours.”
She smiled at him and pirouetted toward her bedroom. “You spoil me, Ugo.”
“Don't I just.”
“I meant it, you know.” She stopped in the doorway, tightening the belt on her robe, looking back at him. “I could never go back.”
“I don't want to hear that.” He started toward his own bedroom, then made a detour to the foyer for her shoes. He carried them to her and pressed them into her hands. “Spoiling is one thing, Octavia. Ruining is another.”
She laughed, took the shoes, and went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
 
“You still have sources in Milan?” Octavia asked.
“Carissima,”
Ugo purred. He had been out of the apartment all day, only returning just before the car arrived to take them to the airport. “Do I have sources in Milano? I have sources everywhere.”
“It's been such a long time.”
“
Sì, sì.
A long time. It will be good to be in Italy again.”
He lay back on his pillow. Around them the first-class cabin of the British Airways jet was quiet. The flight attendant had drawn the window shades, blocking the moon that shone like a lamp above the cloud cover. Only one or two passengers were using their personal screens, but most drowsed in the reclined leather seats, accordion curtains drawn for privacy. Octavia, despite two glasses of excellent cabernet, felt wide awake.
“It will be dear in Milano, you know,” Ugo warned from his pillow.
Octavia glanced across at him. His eyes were closed, their long lashes curving against his cheeks. He looked deceptively like a sleeping child. She leaned across the curtain and whispered, “How much for your supplier, dear Ugo, and how much for you?”
He opened one eye. “Don't be bitchy,
bella.
It doesn't become you.”
She chuckled and poked him with a manicured finger. She pulled her oversize shoulder bag from beneath her seat and extracted her
Giovanni
score. She switched on her reading light and scanned the first pages. “Ugo, this is my favorite opera.”
He didn't open his eyes. “You say that about every opera.”
“I do not.”
“Yes,
cara,
you do. Whatever opera you're working on is always your favorite.”
“Can't sleep, Miss Voss?”
Octavia looked up to find the flight attendant, a slender man with a receding hairline, bending over her. His shirt collar was open, and she could see the pulse beating in his thin neck, just above his collarbone. She gave him her close-lipped smile. “No,” she said. “It's curtain time in New York.”
“I heard you at the Met last week,” he said. “You were marvelous.
Bravissima!
”
“How kind of you to say so.”
“Can I get you something, as long as you're awake? Tea, or sparkling water?”
“Tea would be lovely.”
“Very good,” he said, and walked away toward the galley.
Octavia opened her Bärenreiter score to the first ensemble. She ran her fingers over the staves, smiling to herself. She knew it perfectly, of course. This would be Octavia Voss's first performance of Donna Anna, but Teresa Saporiti had sung the opera's premiere in Prague, and many performances after that. Hélène Singher had sung the rôle in San Francisco and New York. The dark color of her voice had not been popular with audiences in those cities. Vivian Anderson had fared better. In Australia they had loved the richness of her timbre.
No, no one in the world could know the score of
Don Giovanni
better than Octavia did.
But performance practice was a fluid thing. Each new editor fancied that he knew more than the previous one, and she had learned long ago to bend with the winds of such changes. She had been tempted, more than once, to tell an arrogant conductor what Mozart had intended, but she had never done it. Restraint was another trait she had learned, over time, and with difficulty, but she had learned it.
The flight attendant returned with her tea and glanced down at the score. “Ah,” he said. “Will it be Donna Anna?”
“It will. My first,” she said, with just a hint of anxiety, a droop of the lashes.
“The perfect rôle for you! I wish I could hear it.”
Octavia took the teacup in her hands. “If you're in Milan,” she said, “send me a note at La Scala. I'll arrange a ticket.”
He put his hand to his breast. “That would be wonderful! I may just do that.”
“Please do,” she said with a smile, then pointedly turned her page. He took the hint, backing away, turning to another passenger. Octavia sipped the tea, turned the page back, and began to study.
Ugo's closed eyelids trembled with mirth. “You know, darling, you're wasting your time with that one.”
“I think he's sweet.”
“Very. But he doesn't play for your team.”
She chuckled. “You underestimate me.”
“Oh, God. Such a diva. I can hardly stand it.”
She blew him a tiny raspberry. He laughed and pulled his blanket up to his chin.
 
The moon was just setting when they landed at Malpensa. A limousine was waiting, with someone to speed them through customs and direct a porter with their bags. They were out of the airport within fifteen minutes, and riding through morning traffic toward Il Principe di Savoia. Ugo was quiet, his head resting against the seat as he watched their approach to the city. His complexion seemed a bit ashen to Octavia.
She touched his knee. “Are you all right? Didn't you sleep?”
“I did,” he said. “But I need my valise.”
“Just a little longer,” Octavia said. She leaned forward to open the glass partition, and said,
“Più veloce, per favore!”
“God, Octavia.” Ugo turned his head to roll his eyes at her. “Any faster and we'll be roadkill. This is Italy, remember?”
“But you don't look well.”
“I will look terrible smeared all over the highway,” he said. He closed his eyes. “Just make sure he drives between the lines,
d'accordo?
”
She patted him.
“D'accordo.”
Ugo swayed a little on his feet as they walked into the colonnaded entry of Il Principe. Octavia took his arm, and his body felt hot through the sleeve of his coat. The assistant from La Scala guided them through the marble lobby, expedited their registration, oversaw their luggage. In the elevator's gold-flecked mirrors, Octavia saw Ugo scratching at his jaw and wriggling inside his shirt as if it had grown too tight for him. His nostrils flared, scenting something beyond the range of her own senses.
In their suite, they had to wait politely as the bellman pointed out the amenities, the flowers and fruit sent by La Scala, the Pellegrino and chocolates provided by the management of the hotel. He assured them the hotel limousine was at their disposal at any time.
Ugo leaned against a blue velvet armchair throughout the bellman's recitation. The moment they were left alone, he disappeared into the connecting bedroom, where his bags had been left, and closed the door behind him.
Octavia wandered through the curtained doors into her own bedroom. She pulled off her shoes and lay down on the big bed, tucking a cushion under her neck.
It troubled her sometimes that she and Ugo were not of a kind. She could not do for him what he did for her. What he needed was quite different from that which sustained her, and he would not allow her to help him acquire it. Too dangerous, he always said. And unnecessary.
Octavia tossed aside the cushion and got up again. She padded to the window and pushed aside the heavy draperies to look past the hotel's circular drive into the Piazza della Repubblica. The morning rush hour was almost over, the flood of taxis and scooters settling down to a trickle. The Duomo's forest of spires shone in the distance, and beyond it, the Galleria with its airy dome. It was good to be back. And surely, here, where there were people who understood him, Ugo could find what he needed.
She rubbed her arms and glanced across the suite at his closed bedroom door, irritated, worried, wistful.
She stripped off her traveling suit and shrugged into one of Il Principe's thick robes. She undid the clasp of her hair and took up her hairbrush just as Ugo's door opened. He lounged through the suite into her bedroom and flopped down across her bed, giving her a wide white grin. “That's better,” he said, touching his temples. “Whole again.”
She laid her brush on the bureau. “Ugo. You must let me—”
“Don't speak of it.”
“But—with all you do for me—”
He lifted his brows. “Not for you,” he said. He lifted a mocking finger. “For the music.”
She made an exasperated sound. “Ugo, I know an herbalist—”
His face darkened, and he put up a narrow hand. “
Basta,
Octavia. I know Milano better than you do. I can handle it.”
Octavia sighed. “When you get stern, you sound just like an American, Ugo.”
“O Dio, no!”
His grin returned, and he pressed his palm to his chest. “Not an American!”
She chuckled and picked up her brush again, but the flicker of anxiety persisted. She hoped his sources in Milan were more reliable than those in New York. She hated to think of him roaming the alleys of the old city, searching. She knew all too well how dark and dangerous the backstreets could be, and had always been. The architecture of the city had changed, but its nature had not.
When she had brushed out her hair, she crossed to the desk, where she had left her bag with the Mozart score. “Dinner tonight with the
maestro,
” she reminded him. “Read-through tomorrow at ten, but you don't need to be there. Do please come to dinner, though, and help me talk to Russell.”
“Mm,” he said. “Delicious Russell.”
She faced him, the score in her hands. “And you will behave,” she said. “I want to sing Donna Anna without distractions.”
“
Carissima.
I wouldn't dream of distracting you.”
“Ha.” She laid the score ready beside her bed and began to untie her robe. “I always feel filthy after I fly. I'm going to take a bath.”
“Shall I wash your back?”
“Thank you, no.” As she passed him on her way to the bathroom, she trailed her fingers across his head and gave his curls a tug. “You're a brat,” she murmured.
He grinned up at her. “So true. So true.”

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