Vienna Nocturne (7 page)

Soon again they were performing their Salieri opera, but in this theater there was not the same machinery beneath the stage as had been at La Scala. At the end of the opera Anna and Benucci simply walked on from the side of the stage. They were never alone, and Anna’s yearning increased to a point almost of madness. She feared he might love another. Venice was filled with beautiful ladies, far more beautiful than she. If she could never be alone with him, and if he did not like letters, she did not see how there could be a chance for him to declare his true meaning.

Yet even in her confusion she had never been so happy. Benucci understood her as no one else, because they worked so closely together. She strove for his admiration. Though he was almost as old as her mother, he treated her as his match. They were always laughing. She called him Signor Lazy-Fox. They were cheerful, good people, at the top of their form, and they looked pleasing together. She trusted him like the earth beneath her feet, the sun on her cheek. She traced his name in the air with her finger.
Francesco
.

“Now, Lidia,” she said one night after the girl had been with her for a number of weeks. “You know I tell you everything, but I haven’t yet told you all.”

It was late; they had put out the candles and could see each other only by the light coming through the shutters. Anna had sung tonight and was too thrilled to sleep. Every performance was with Benucci, and every night they burned for each other more. Was it any wonder they were the sensation of Venice? One could feel it in the air, she was certain; one could tell by the way she walked.

The girls sat on the bed in their night shifts, their hair hanging over their shoulders, Lidia’s in a heavy braid and Anna’s in loose curls. Sometimes she put it in wrappers, but tonight she had no patience. They sat facing each other on the bed with their knees touching and their hands loosely playing and interlacing across their laps. The moon through the half-open shutters cast bars of bluish light on the folds of their shifts. They were both so tired that their heads nodded together like flowers in the rain and yet they did not lie down; they did not wish to sleep.

Lidia had long, knobby fingers. They tended to Anna and were a comfort to her. Anna had not realized until Lidia’s coming how lonely she had been for a girl her own age, a girl who would care for her and be her friend. It was not possible to be friends like that with the other sopranos. Anna had never had a sister. If she was the gold leaf, Lidia was the wooden stuff that backed her.

Anna’s shift had slid down over her shoulders; her dark curls slipped softly down as if to follow. Her face had been scrubbed clean of paint and powder and shone faintly with the fine oil Lidia had rubbed into it. She looked, in the dark, after this night’s performance when she had been painted so gaudy and bright, younger and more naked than she might ever have imagined herself. Her downcast eyes seemed to throw shadows on the tops of her cheeks; her lips were smiling for Benucci.

She hooked her index fingers around Lidia’s and pulled back until her grip threatened to break. “You know I’m in love with Signor Benucci,” she whispered. “It burns my heart, Lidia. Whenever I think of him, whenever I hear his name—his voice! You’ve heard him. Does it not shiver deep inside you?”

“He has the most beautiful bass I ever heard,” Lidia agreed. She let go of Anna’s fingers and relaxed her hands so that they dropped open just outside the ring of their legs.

Anna fell to one side, pulling Lidia down beside her. “I can’t bear it. I’ll go mad.” She took the other girl’s hand and drew it under her
chin. “You must help me,” she said, staring into Lidia’s eyes in the dark. “We must make up a rendezvous.”

“Does he love you, too?”

“With all his heart. To have gone as far as we have—I haven’t ever told you how far—it’s more than any girl could stand. You must help me, you must, you
must
.” And she took Lidia’s hand and kissed it repeatedly.

“Won’t he marry you?”

“Oh yes, but there’s no time for that now.”

“Are you crying?” Lidia exclaimed.

“Ah! Just because I’m so weary, my dear one, and so tired.” Anna rubbed her face into Lidia’s shoulder. “I sang myself to death tonight.”

“You were incomparable,” said Lidia. Her fingers twined carefully in Anna’s hair. “Do stop crying. You’ll soak my shift.”

“I’m a fool, I’ve gone crazy, everything is only Benucci. You must help me, you must.”

Lidia was silent a moment. She smoothed Anna’s hair back from her forehead. “I don’t think it’s right.”

Anna lifted herself on her elbow and laughed. “Anything is right if it hurts nobody and makes one happy. Poor, sober Lidia! They ruined you in that orphanage. We’ll have to find a gentleman for you, too.”

“None would have me,” Lidia murmured tiredly. Her hand rested flat on Anna’s back.

“You would be beautiful,” Anna said lightly, “if only you
believed
you were beautiful. That’s all that’s wrong with you, Lidia. You’re such an alto. You should be more like
me
.”

“Impossible,” said Lidia with a smile.

Anna gave her friend a loud kiss on the cheek. “Good night, my love. Tomorrow shall be the happiest day of my life.”

They slept on their sides,
en face
, very close, their arms and legs touching. But Lidia remained awake for some time. Anna’s breath
was upon her and her legs twitched once or twice in dreaming. Lidia laughed to think herself with such a bedfellow, such a sweet, needful mistress, and to have fallen in love with her already, so wholly and simply, so that in the end she feared some pain would come of it. But she’d had a strange enough life that she could almost laugh at that, too.

Two hours Lidia sat with her book of French verse and her dictionary, listening to Anna and her lover. Sometimes it would grow very quiet and that was least bearable of all, for then the littlest sound, the softest sigh, or creak, or groan, became gigantic in her mind. She would be almost frozen to the spot lest she, too, might make some noise and be heard.

Francesco Benucci’s flat in Venice was just what one would expect of a man like him: large, messy, filled with objects that were expensive but ill-placed; which had no sense or harmony. A pair of candles flickered at her elbow. She tried to read her book. “
Pour elle je cultive et j’enlace en festons …
”

She would never go to Paris. The chair she sat in could have paid a man’s room and board for two years. She took up some sewing but it was too dark and she could not move about to make more light. She was glad there were no other servants. She could not imagine what they would have conversed about.

She had seen Anna in all states of undress. She knew her body,
her moods, her motions. The love she felt was not shallow or passing, though it was new, though it was not returned. It was love like Paris. She knew that figure, that breast, that touch. She knew the dark eyes laughing so closely to her own. It was easy to imagine them, Anna and Benucci. She could have wept for the ease of it.

“
Pour elle je cultive et j’enlace en festons …
”

She felt stiff and tall in Benucci’s horrible chair. Her torso was like a bundle of sticks, bound and stuffed in a web of skin. Her neck was a slab of clay. Anna said Lidia would be beautiful if only she believed in it. But she did not.

After a long time she finally tapped on the door for fear they might have fallen asleep. Her legs were stiff and she was just about ready to cry. Out slipped Anna like the sunshine, all sleepy and giddy and covered in Benucci, who remained inside. She fell upon Lidia as though she had no strength, and she was dear and warm and one could not help wanting to forgive her even as one still wanted to cry. Her clothes piled to the floor. She was in nothing but her petticoat and barely even that. She spoke to Lidia but she was not there: she was still in the room with Benucci. Lidia had never hated any man more. He could have had any girl he wanted. That was how it was with men like him.

But Anna didn’t know. With mute tenderness Lidia restored her beloved mistress to a state of dress, fastened her in, undid the disunion. One could express one’s love like this, in lacing and securing, smoothing and molding.

“Your hands are so cold, Lidia. I left you too long. You poor puppy.”

“I’m sorry—let me warm them.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m so happy, the cold refreshes, only it shocks me just at first! But that’s good, good to shock me. Oh, whatever would my brother say?”

When Benucci woke, late the next morning, he did not at first think of Anna. He thought of his hunger and thirst. He hummed a few notes to check his throat and did some preliminary calisthenics. The weather was bright and good; he could open the window and taste a fine salty air. Vendors called in the street over the racket of wheels on stone. He sang a line from an aria, rinsed his mouth, stretched his arms, put on a pair of trousers. Tonight they were doing the Salieri again, rather a big sing. There would be a Count Durazzo in the audience, scouting them for the Emperor Joseph II of Vienna. The emperor wanted to create a new Italian company to sing in his Burgtheater. This Durazzo would be there tonight to hear the Salieri. Hell of a long sing, rather high. Too bad it wasn’t the Paisiello. Vienna was the biggest and richest city in the world, next to Paris and London. Maybe even superior to them. There was no better place to make music, Benucci had heard, than Vienna. And this Count Durazzo had come from there,
on the Emperor Joseph’s behalf, to form a new Italian company to sing there.

He screwed up his face and rubbed his chin, wondering if it had not been a mistake with Anna. But she was not the sort of girl one resisted easily—not by half. Still perhaps it would have been better not to have gone on like that. But she was a dear girl. She had been so ardent. He’d never met a soprano he liked better on stage or off. He did not want a lady in his life. His life was only singing, and he could not bear the threat of children—and yet he felt quite warm and relaxed, now, thinking of sweet Anna with her brown eyes and her perfect breasts, her studied devotion to her craft, her innocent infatuation with himself. It could not help but flatter and warm him, give him idle fancies of what could never be. Benucci had these goals in his life: to be prosperous, to reach the pinnacle of his fitness and ability as a singer, and to always remain a bachelor.

The housemaid brought in his breakfast on a tray, roast pork with apples from the inn next door. There were also two letters. He read them as he ate.

Her hand was large and careless, the paper littered with ink blots. In some places the words had been underlined thrice. There were spelling errors in the Italian, but the grammar was proper. It was the only letter Benucci had received from her, next to the note of yesterday. He did not like letters.

His face changed, as he read it, and his chewing slowed. Then he set the first note aside and opened the second.