The Black Opera Read online

  He forced away panic, striving for rationality.

  “A miracle, caused by a Mass—or by another opera? Porco miseria, this is different! Stop a miracle! But who—? Why?—Has that even been done before?”

  Ferdinand’s look was both sympathetic and reproving. “On rare occasions. A sufficiently intense outpouring of emotion has been known to overwhelm something lesser.”

  Just how magnificently written must an opera be, to produce a reaction “sufficiently intense”?

  “Sir… when I woke up today, I was expecting it to be the start of my successful opera career. Finally, finally! I’d written a libretto that made the opera shine—instead of the words and story being a silly adjunct to the music and singing. The audience cheered themselves speechless. Angelotti and the stage crew joked that the noise would shift the roof-beams.”

  Conrad rubbed the heel of his hand over his eyes, feeling the last sensitivity of hemicrania in the right socket. The migraine seemed centuries in the past.

  It must be… less than two hours.

  “And this morning—this morning, the opera house is a ruin. I’m arrested for blasphemy. And, apparently, I need to be an atheist to write a libretto for his Majesty of the Two Sicilies. To prevent a miracle.”

  The urge to drop down and sit with his head in his hands was very strong. Conrad straightened up.

  “Forgive me, sir, I think I must be still asleep and dreaming!”

  Ferdinand’s wry smile was joined by a crisp tone. “Then I suggest you wake up and seize your opportunity with both hands. This is an important decision for you.”

  He broke off, looking grave.

  “I apologise. There are only certain other things I can tell you, before you must come to that decision.”

  Conrad opened his mouth to object. He found himself conceding. “I do realise one thing, sir—if you were going to summon me, it ought to have come from your Master of Music by a letter to my lodgings; or by a servant if it was urgent. Not from Your Majesty yourself, privately, with Captain Esposito’s help. If this is a secret State matter, then—until and unless I agree to this, the less I know, the better.”

  Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily looked mildly impressed.

  The first time I’ve ever been grateful to my father for lecturing me on the ins and outs of courts.

  Conrad shoved his linen cravat under a painful edge of his steel collar to pad it. His business frame of mind came to him; the one in which he usually dealt with impresarios. It sat oddly out of place with the Bourbon King, but Conrad felt doggedly determined to show responsibility. The more so since his loss of control—however brief, he felt hot behind the ears recalling it.

  “The things I can know, before I need to commit myself to this, are these. You want me to stop an ‘opera miracle’—”

  He had no better word to describe it.

  “—By means of another opera. To do what I apparently helped to do at the Teatro Nuovo, but this time not to cause, but—” Conrad searched for an adequate term. “—To overcome—no, to counteract what another opera is doing. At the same time when this other opera attempts their miracle? I don’t see how else it could be done…”

  Ferdinand inclined his head. “Exactly so.—We should move on, in case of gossiping ears.”

  Isn’t this end of the terrace secure enough?

  Conrad swept up the remaining loops of chain and followed the King. They stopped where the area between palazzo and terrace wall was much wider. It overlooked the curtain walls and round towers of the Old Palace, grimly reflected in the Bay. No one can approach anywhere near, without being seen.

  Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily frowned. “You’re hardly the only means by which I intend to stop… the people responsible. If nothing else is successful, however, I’ll need an opera strong enough in every way to wipe their hope of a ‘miracle’ out of existence.”

  Conrad realised he must have looked at a loss.

  He said hastily, “And the subject?”

  “It hardly matters on what subject you choose to write, except that it should be fresh—not the same tired old mad heroines and jealous brothers. And yet it should be broad enough that most men and women will sympathise with it. I need strength of emotion; subject matter is irrelevant. Create a tragedy or the lieto fine, the happy ending; have your hero atone, or be dragged off to Hell—I give you complete freedom. Just give your audience no option but to feel.”

  If it were that easy to write a success—!

  Conrad imagined the reality of writing without censorship, and without an impresario’s interference. If no one else had been present, he thought, he might have disgraced himself with a triumphant yell, or a war-dance of joy.

  “Conrad, a warning before you do decide. I know organised crime has its fingers in the opera house business. The Local Racket, here. Some influence from the Honourable Men on the other island.”

  Conrad nodded, no more willing to say Camorra and Mafia overtly, and rubbed his thumb across his fingers.

  “Then you also know their methods.”

  Ferdinand’s words woke memories of being pushed behind his mother’s skirts, gazing up at sharply-dressed young ruffians as they demanded both his father’s presence and money—neither easily to be had. Holding his baby sister, who could not yet walk; so Conrad must have been only a handful of years old himself.

  “…Blackmail. Extortion. Violence. Murder. Those are the same dangers you’ll run, Conrad, if you involve yourself with this.”

  Conrad made an awkward, automatic bow. Questions scurried around his mind, but nothing would come into focus. He glanced across at Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily, who gazed down at the ever moving waves.

  Conrad frowned.

  “Sir… Are you trying to scare me off?”

  The King of the Two Sicilies looked at him cheerfully.

  “Why, yes, Conrad. If it’s possible that you can be scared off, I am. But what I’ve told you is true. Think seriously.”

  “And if I refuse, I would go—?”

  He couldn’t voice it. Back to the Dominicans and the Holy Office?

  “Into exile from the Two Sicilies, to a place of my choosing. With sufficient funds to establish yourself in your career. After you’d sworn a solemn oath to speak of none of this, ever, even on your death-bed.”

  “You’d send me away, rewarded with money, just for listening to you about this?”

  “Certainly.” Ferdinand momentarily sounded amused. “I’d thought of settling you in Istanbul.”

  “Istanbul!”

  “It seems an ideal city—you could be atheist to the Turks, Conrad, instead of to the Holy Father.”

  Conrad gaped.

  For the first time since the brick had smashed through his window, he laughed in pure delight.

  “Perhaps I could take over from Signore Donizetti’s brother, sir, as Instructor General of the Imperial Ottoman Music at the court of Sultan Mahmud…”

  But whether I’d be Master of the Sultan’s music or not, I’d be too far from the Italian opera houses. And the King will have agents there who’d make sure I didn’t try to come back.

  Conrad took a breath deep enough to bring him, under the smell of the sea, the scent of smoke from innumerable chimneys. A few hundred yards away is brawling, bubbling Naples, outside the walls of the Palazzo Reale. Even here, he could hear the calls of the sellers of pollanchelle—Indian corn attached to the stem and boiled—and the vendors of iced water and aniseed candy. And the shouts and insults of some quarrel that will not quieten down until long after both parties (and their families, and their friends) are back in their own houses.

  I’ve hardly been back long enough to consider it home.

  That’s not to say I’d welcome permanent exile.

  In the mountains of the north, Conrad found that men don’t, on the whole, fight for great causes. They fight for the man next to them. JohnJack Spinelli risked the Dominicans for no better reason than rescuing one Conrad Scalese’s skin. Tullio Rossi wil
l look askance at him if he turns down a challenge.

  But Tullio will kick my arse if I don’t find out all I can before I accept. I survived the war and 1816. If it comes to being frightened off, I can weigh a danger as well as anyone.

  Conrad found the King of the Two Sicilies surveying him with a bland gaze, that gave away nothing, for an uncomfortable period of time.

  “And now, Signore Conrad—we come to the difficulties with your oath.”

  Without pausing for any response, the King strode back down the terrace to one of the French doors. It was immediately flung open from the inside, and a well-dressed footman bowed. “Sire?”

  “Summon a blacksmith from the royal stables. Inform Major Mantenucci that I desire to speak with him at his earliest convenience in the map room.”

  “Immediately, sire.”

  The King began to pace, his gaze apparently on the flagstones. Conrad didn’t think he saw them.

  The blacksmith arrived.

  Ferdinand ordered, “Strike off those chains.”

  The smith—local, by his dialect—put down a kind of miniature anvil set into a wooden block, that smelled of oiled metal. He busied himself examining the chains, close enough that black smuts from his hands rubbed off on Conrad’s coat, along with cinder-dust from the forge, and orange rust. Conrad looked away as he picked up a hammer.

  The strikes made the anvil and chains ring, vibrating through the bones of Conrad’s arms.

  It was loud enough that he missed what additional orders the King gave to the footman. From the gestures, he suspected it was an order that the man in the leather apron should be paid off well.

  Cuffs released, hinges pivoting open. Ringing coils of chain fell down on the flagstones. A final blow knocked apart the hasp of the collar, jarring Conrad’s head and neck. The man opened the collar and removed it.

  Conrad stood, stepping back.

  His whole body felt light, not just his neck and shoulders. The sea-wind blew salt against him as he breathed in. He made fists and stretched his arms, muscles cracking.

  Write a libretto? Right now, I could fly!

  The terrace door closed behind the blacksmith.

  Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily turned away from looking, once more, at Vesuvius.

  “The oath, sir.” Conrad managed to sound reasonably respectful. “Let me guess. The same atheism that makes me suited for what you want, also presents a problem? I’m an atheist, and therefore automatically a moral monster. How can I be trusted to keep my word if I don’t have God standing behind me with a big stick?”

  A quirk tugged at the corner of Ferdinand’s lips.

  “You’re not a stupid man, Conrad. That’s good to know. I suppose you’ll say that men give their oaths on sacred relics every day of the week, and then break them?”

  Conrad flexed his neck, his spine welcoming the freedom from the iron. “If you want me to keep silent about what you tell me, I’ll give my word. You’ll have to judge my moral character for yourself, sir, and see if you think I’ll keep it.”

  Conrad didn’t say, Exactly as you have to do with any other man you want to trust, atheist or religious!

  He nevertheless saw recognition in Ferdinand’s gaze.

  “Conrad, it might be considered dangerous—it seems dangerous, to me—to have only a sense of personal honour to protect one against the very tempting proposals of evil?”

  Conrad said agreeably, “It would be nice if there was something else.”

  Ferdinand pushed his hand through his hair, ruffling it more comprehensively than the wind, and did not quite laugh. “I find it’s the pressures of society that keep most young men from more than the approved vices. Without them ever thinking of religion or ethics… You’re a philosopher, Conrad. I’m told, from other sources, that you live much less well than you might, given your earnings. And that this is because you insist on paying off the debts your father left when he died—although at that time you were not of age, and therefore the responsibility was not yours, and should have fallen to the family’s oldest male relative.”

  Conrad bit back terms one should not use in front of Majesty.

  Cazzo! Shite! I’m going to kill Luigi! Shameless gossip.

  “One of the temptations of royalty is to rely always on one’s own judgement. I try not to. In your case, it seemed reasonable to make enquires of the police chief where you live. Captain Esposito thinks highly of you. Apart from a despicable ability—I quote the good captain—to win at games of chess, he had no complaints to make about your time in his district.”

  Conrad managed to raise a barrier between his brain and his mouth, before he gave an opinion that Luigi wouldn’t object to Conrad’s chess or backgammon skills half so much, if he didn’t have a foolish conviction he should keep betting money on his own.

  I suppose it’s Luigi’s duty to tell, if King Ferdinand is shrewd enough to ask.

  Conrad muttered, “Uncle Dario—my late father’s brother—told me my father’s creditors could go hang. They’re all small tradesmen. It seemed an injustice.”

  “At another time, I should much enjoy debating the basis of natural or theological justice with you, Conrad… You’ve been warned, and told everything possible, I think.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is an urgent matter. How long will you need to decide?”

  “You mistake me.” Conrad couldn’t repress a cheerful reckless smile. “My answer—is yes, sir.”

  The King took a few hasty steps, and swung around. “Don’t be so quick. You’re not—you can’t be—fully aware of the dangers!”

  He’s torn, Conrad realised.

  The King’s expression vanished into blank politeness, but Conrad retained that glimpse. A man in the position of wanting simultaneously to encourage and discourage… Because he thinks I’m too rash?

  Because this is hazardous?

  “Sir, at this point, I’m as aware of the dangers as I can be. If I hear nothing after this that I find I object to as a matter of principle, I’ll write your libretto. You have no idea how much I want to do it! Respectable people—don’t employ atheists. The opera industry keeps me in bread and olives, but where it rubs up against the respectable world, I’m reminded again and again what I am. Censors, patrons, impresarios… the noblemen on local opera boards…”

  Conrad Scalese wouldn’t have been allowed into the army, if not for the wars against the Tyrant. Even then he was promoted no higher than lieutenant.

  “You’re offering me the opportunity to practise my skills as a librettist, and perhaps do something that no one in opera has ever done… Whatever else you have to tell me, it’s almost certain I’ll agree. I can’t promise success. Only that I’ll put everything I can into the attempt.”

  Conrad was aware of the smell of his own sweat. To be sticky, hot, ill-dressed, and the clear victim of a scuffle isn’t the way to come before a king.

  He waited.

  The King reached out and laid his hand on Conrad’s shoulder, ignoring the coat’s scuffs and dirt superbly.

  “Conrad Scalese. Nothing you hear after this can go beyond you and I, unless I give explicit permission. Do you swear—affirm—that you will keep silent about what I tell you?”

  “I affirm it, sir.”

  Conrad paused.

  “Except—my servant.” The term did not sit easily in Conrad’s mouth. “Tullio Rossi will find out what’s happening, no matter what I do. But if he gives me his word, I know he’ll keep it.”

  “Will you put your life on his discretion?”

  “Always.”

  His tone must have conveyed that this wasn’t a rash or rapid judgement. Ferdinand gave an accepting nod

  “Very well. Inform this Rossi of what you must. And tell him, not that I’ll hang him, but that he’ll get you hanged if he’s lax. If I know the type of man, that will keep him silent more than a threat to himself.”

  Conrad nodded, quietly impressed.

  “Tell as few as you can,
as little as you can—and if you decide at any time that you want nothing to do with the employment I offer you, I need you to affirm you’ll never speak of any part of it afterwards. Never, to anyone. Will you affirm those things?”

  “I affirm that I’ll keep silent.”

  Conrad frowned.

  “—Unless anyone will come to harm by my doing so. In that case, I’ll do my utmost to consult with you first, sir, but I won’t keep quiet if it means someone will be hurt or killed.”

  “…Has anyone ever told you you’re a difficult man, Conrad?”

  “Yes, sir. Almost everyone.”

  Something in that evidently appealed to Ferdinand. The King shook his head ruefully, with a mercurial smile that Conrad realised was much more characteristic of the man than his banal public expression. It did not detract from his sincerity.

  “Very well, I accept the reservation. I accept your word. In turn, I swear I’ll tell you all of this matter that I can, except where reasons of State mean I cannot.”

  Ferdinand offered his hand. Conrad took it. The King’s grip felt surprisingly strong.

  “I’ll guarantee your safety as much as is humanly possibly. In fact your defiance of the Church is useful, Conrad. I can make you seem just a bone of contention between Cardinal Corazza and myself—our views are known to differ… But, if you were in the Neapolitan forces during the northern campaign, you’ll know that not all dangers can be avoided. There are powerful men involved. They won’t like being opposed.”

  Powerful men—but not the Camorra or the società onorata?

  The same kind of powerful men.

  The old helpless fury spilled into Conrad’s memory, and this time goaded him. “I’ll need you to provide safety on the other Sicily for my mother, Agnese, and the family. I can undertake this with a clear conscience, but I don’t want them dragged in.”

  “That’s reasonable. Yes.”

  Ferdinand turned on his heel, making restlessly for the end of the terrace.

  He’s not relieved that we’ve made an agreement. If anything he’s more tense. What is it he has to tell me?