A Baroque Phantom
By Beverle Graves Myers
The opera house had become my home. The people of Venice named it La Fenice because it had risen from the ashes of its predecessor like the mythical phoenix bird. I had no trouble recalling the fire that nearly destroyed the old theater. The smoke and flames drove me up to the highest tier of boxes at the rear of the vast, horseshoe shaped auditorium and here I had endured ever since.
From my lofty flight, I could look down on the commoners that gave a small coin to watch the opera from hard benches in the pit. They cheered their favorite singers with enthusiastic bravos and pelted them with flowers. The unpopular singers endured hisses, jeers and a hail of less welcome objects. Candle stubs and rotten fruit both made convenient ammunition.
At least once a week, the patrons of rival singers came to blows. These fights entertained me nearly as much as the action on the stage. I could have sailed down, silent and unseen, to have a closer look at the brawling populace and the bumbling constables trying to quell the hullabaloo, but I preferred to stay near the ceiling. A timid ghost? Oh yes, but at least I was safe.
The theater was deserted much of the time. I spent the lonely hours between performances slipping in and out of the luxurious boxes that were really miniature salons for noble families and rich merchants. In the dark, I would curve my ethereal self around a gilt chair and imagine that I was a white-wigged gentleman ready for a night of pleasant diversion. Then, seeking comfort when I realized the futility of my pretense, I would bury myself in the folds of the box's velvet curtain.
My one solace was the virtuoso singer, Carlo Beluzzi. When he stepped to the front of the stage to pour his heart out in song, I rushed to the box railings with the rest of the eager audience. He held us in thrall, hardly believing a mortal man could sing so divinely. Beluzzi made rough working men weep and bejeweled ladies faint when he unleashed the swelling trill of his unearthly soprano. Yes, his soprano. In those days, they still gelded talented boys to preserve their angelic voices.
Beluzzi was a handsome eunuch, a well-proportioned man of pale complexion, tumbling dark curls and sweet humility. It was not only the sheer beauty of his voice that I loved; it was the memories he conjured up. His high, pure tones helped me recall scenes of my innocent childhood days. His voluptuous mellow notes bespoke sensual pleasures that filled me with nearly forgotten longing. And his bravura arias spurred me to furious activity within the domed ceiling of my chosen refuge. Around and around I would fly, brimming with boldness. At these moments I knew I was not meant to spend eternity haunting an opera house and searched for an exit from my earthly prison. Alas for me, when Beluzzi's incomparable strains faded away, my mettle dissolved with them and only my invisible tears remained.
Of course, there were other singers down on the stage. Another eunuch who sang supporting roles had his loyal adherents. I suppose he warbled well enough and he certainly had a pretty face. The gossips giggled that he had quite a following of ladies and reputedly satisfied them all despite his condition. For all that, I thought him a fine old fool. Run to fat, as many men who undergo the knife do, he strutted the boards like a melon on toothpicks. I dubbed him Malmelone, the rotten melon. His vain postures and empty vocal acrobatics simply wasted time until my sweet Beluzzi, my true joy and saving grace, returned to the stage.
One summer, the rich failed to quit the humid, mosquito-ridden city to make the annual pilgrimage to their country villas on the mainland. For once, the opera house gave performances well beyond the middle of June and on into an unusually sultry July. While this development suited me admirably, I was puzzled by the break in ancient tradition and by the long faces of the usually merry Venetians.
Tentatively, staying well away from the flickering wall lamps and open candle flames, I wafted towards the box of a prosperous snuff merchant who always seemed to be up on the latest news. I found him entertaining a group of his colleagues from the Rialto marketplace. He was just uttering some alarming words.
"...has settled in at Brescia. I hear the battle left Milan in shambles."
A stout individual in a coat of rose-colored silk shook his droopy jowls. "The French devil! Has he allowed his troops to pillage the city?"
"The little general is craftier than that. He threatened to turn his soldiers loose on Milan, then offered to restrain them on payment of 20 million francs." Our host took a pinch of his product from a jewel-encrusted snuffbox. "He collects his tribute with one hand and empties the churches and palaces of their treasures with the other."
A young dandy with a froth of fine lace on his shirtfront stood at the rail. Mopping his forehead with a square of linen, he spat, "Napoleon! Bah, I'm sick of hearing his name."
"You must admit he's done one thing for us, Signore." Our host smiled broadly while his guests looked puzzled. "Have any of you ever had a better summer? With everyone staying in town for fear of Boney, my sales are up one hundred percent."
"Try to keep that up when your stockroom is empty," drawled the merchant by the rail. "Then try to get a supply ship past a French blockade."
"Oh, I don't predict it will come to that. Venice may not be the power she once was, but she still has some friends."
I followed the snuff merchant's gaze towards a box of soldiers cavorting with some laughing courtesans. So this was the meaning of all the unfamiliar uniforms and Austrian accents I had noticed around the theater of late. Venice had allied herself with her northern neighbor to fight the French threat.
The stout merchant heaved himself out of his chair and raised his wineglass. "I propose a toast to our Doge and his navy. May they keep us from foreign masters be they French or Austrian." After drinking, he added thoughtfully, "Although, of the two, I'm not sure I wouldn't prefer Napoleon. At least he speaks Italian."
"Have a care, Signore. There are prying ears everywhere you turn these days. If you count the French and Austrian spies and add the Doge's own informers, Venice probably contains more agents than honest citizens."
A drawl came from the railing, "All the more reason we should enjoy the opera while we can. The rumor on the Piazza is that the Doge may close the theaters for the duration."
I recoiled in horror as cries of "No, surely not" filled the box.
"The authorities want to curtail the flow of information." The young dandy fanned himself with his handkerchief. "Obviously, the theaters are a convenient place for people of different ranks to trade secrets."
Sick and shaken, I retreated to the seclusion of an unused box. Close the theaters until the French general ceased to menace the city? How long would that be--a month, six months, one year? I contemplated an infinite stretch of lonely hours in the darkened auditorium without even a rehearsal or a costume fitting to break the monotony. Panic tore at the shreds of my spirit; I knew I couldn't last. Without Beluzzi's inspiring voice, I would surely languish and wither away to nothing.
I fretted constantly over the next few days, but began to relax as the theater doors stayed open and performances went on as usual. Clearly, the young merchant hadn't known what he was talking about; he had merely repeated wild gossip. When the blow fell, I had lulled myself into such a rosy state of complacency that I didn't immediately sense it.
On the opening night of a new opera, the curtain rose to reveal a scene in ancient Rome. Malmelone, decked out in golden armor with plumes a yard high springing from his helmet, stood at the far right, the place customarily reserved for the most illustrious singer. He attacked the hero's first aria in his tiresome, florid style. The audiences of my day expected the singers to embellish the composer's original melody with their own musical devices, but this fellow was ridiculous. Never had I heard such a barrage of disjointed cadences and random strewing of notes. Half of the house hissed and searched for missiles to heave at the stage. The other half was inexplicably charmed by his vigorous performance and yelled for an encore.
I pondered the bad taste of some of my fellow Venetians while I waited for Beluzzi's entrance. Since he was not singing the hero's role, I expected him to appear as a god floating down from the clouds in one of the elaborate stage machines. With a sinking heart I waited through the first act, the ballet and most of the second act. Still my angel did not appear. Something was terribly wrong.
I cruised over to the snuff merchant's box but it was packed with ladies more interested in social chatter than the happenings on the stage. I sank to a lower tier of boxes and heard a woman in a black velvet mask utter Beluzzi's name. She was fanning herself with peevish vehemence and begging her cavalier to discover the cause of the singer's absence. Everywhere I found the same story. I even floated down above the heads of the populace in the pit, roaming farther from my ceiling refuge than ever before, but no one seemed to know why Beluzzi was not in the cast of the new opera.
I longed to fly back up to the top of the theater and curl myself into some corner, but how could I retreat without discovering what had happened to the missing eunuch? I hovered miserably. I knew no one in the audience cared about Beluzzi as much as I did. If he failed to return, the fickle Venetians would forget him within a week. I had to do something.
Gathering my courage, I slunk towards the front of the theater. I passed over the orchestra pit, then right in front of two female sopranos shrieking at each other across the stage. Reaching the wings, I floated aimlessly, unsure of my next move. I spied Malmelone waiting for his next entrance. He was sitting on a packing case between two flats of scenery. A dancer swished past him and he made a grab for her waist. She settled herself on his lap willingly enough, but slapped his cheek when his hand strayed too far under her gauzy skirts. "Good girl," I thought, "smack him right out of the theater."
The prima donna came offstage clutching a seam in her costume and calling for her dresser. A wizened woman with a curved spine hurried up with a needle and thread and proceeded to stitch her mistress back into her bodice.
"Everything is going wrong tonight, Maria," the soprano grumbled. "The theater is just not the same without Beluzzi."
"Where have they taken the poor lamb?" the seamstress asked through a mouthful of pins.
I floated as close as I dared, tingling with anxiety.
"I suppose he's being held in the prison behind the Doge's palace. That's where they take traitors to await trial before the Tribunal." They both gulped uncomfortably.
The little dresser shook her head. "I can't believe he did it."
"No, I don't believe he's guilty either."
"What? What was it that he didn't do?" I wailed silently, nearly bursting with frustration.
The singer continued. "If messages to French spies are being passed through this theater, it has to be someone else. Beluzzi cares nothing for politics. Music is his only passion."
"How could he have sent messages from the stage anyway?"
"They say he was using a code. You know he never sings an aria the same way twice. Ouch, watch your needle woman." The soprano jumped and gave the seamstress a wary eye. "An anonymous note delivered to the Secretary of the Tribunal accused Beluzzi of changing his improvisations to signify the numbers and movements of our navy's ships. It's a ridiculous charge, but in these desperate times the Tribunal might believe it."
As the dresser bit off her last thread and the soprano hurried towards the stage, I let myself drift up to the upper reaches of the wings. Here I was surrounded by the gears and pulleys that could turn the stage into a wind tossed sea, a burning forest or a crashing thunderstorm. A cloud of tattered cotton wool made a convenient perch for me to rest and think. Whether it was the torment of picturing my angel in a dank prison cell or my fear that his absence would destroy the remnants of my tenuous spirit, I began to reason more coherently than I had for many months.
Beluzzi's accuser had kept his identity a secret, but he was obviously familiar with the singer's performances. Was he someone from the theater, then? It was hard to believe another musician would silence Beluzzi's golden throat with such a cruel accusation. Even during the best of times, the Tribunal of the State Inquisitors was not known for dispensing impartial justice. If Venice was seriously threatened by this Napoleon, anyone accused of helping the enemy would be swiftly found guilty and executed by hanging. I vowed no rope would touch that precious throat while I possessed one ounce of strength.
I sprang from my soft resting-place, ready to do battle. Down on the stage, the singers were taking their curtain calls. I watched Malmelone step forward in his vain, prancing gait. Would he unjustly denounce a fellow singer to acquire the premier roles that should have been beyond his showy, shallow talent? I answered my own question with another. When had I ever seen a man attempt to make so much of so little? I decided to follow him up to his dressing room.
A visitor was waiting for us. A handsome young man in shirtsleeves sprawled on the dressing room sofa with a glass of brandy.
"Domenico!" Malmelone gave him a crooked smile. "I thought you weren't coming tonight."
"You should have known I couldn't stay away." The visitor laughed lazily. "I thought the opera would never end."
The singer threw his wig on a pile of trunks and sat before his dressing table. His painted face defined by dark, arching brows assumed a demonic cast in the flickering illumination of the oil lamps on either side of the mirror. "Well, as long as you are here, you might as well make yourself useful."
The young man sprang to his side and began to unbraid the hair that had been confined under the singer's powdered wig. Malmelone turned out to have a fine head of silky tresses that kept Domenico busy for some minutes. He ran his fingers through the black waves as he applied the brush and pomade. He couldn't seem to resist burying his face in the curls before gathering them into a black ribbon at the back of the singer's neck. All the while, Malmelone kept up a murmur of questions that Domenico answered in an offhand manner.
I began to back away when the singer's young admirer started helping him remove his costume. A shelf packed with scent bottles and greasepaint halted my retreat. A glass jar teetered on the edge of the shelf and smashed on the floor. The two men by the dressing table jumped almost as high as I did. Had I done that? To my knowledge, my disembodied presence had never caused an object to move. But then, I couldn't recall ever seriously trying to move anything.
"What was that? How did that fall off?" cried Malmelone, giving the shards of glass and spreading stain a cross look.
His admirer turned the singer's face back towards him. "No matter. Whatever it was, I'll buy you another one."
Malmelone grimaced and put his hand on his forehead. "Domenico, I'm not feeling well. I think you should come back tomorrow night."
Plaintive pleas ended in harsh words and, finally, the young man grabbed a red jacket off a peg and slammed through the door. I had noticed the jacket glinting in the lamplight but dismissed it as one of the singer's costume pieces. It was as full of gold braid as a regimental dress uniform.
With that thought, I couldn't squeeze through the transom and fly down the stairs fast enough. My quarry was just going out the stage door. A stiff breeze off the lagoon hit me broadsides and pressed me against the side of the building, but I pushed on, determined to get a good look at that jacket. As Domenico strode angrily towards the gondola mooring, I flew alongside, inspecting medals and counting chevrons. I was right. Malmelone's devotee was a lieutenant in the Venetian navy!
I sped back to the dressing room. Malmelone had changed into his street clothing and was bent over his dressing table. The sly songbird was humming one of Beluzzi's arias as he pushed a quill furiously over a sheet of foolscap. He thought he was utterly alone, but I was right behind him, reading every word over his shoulder. Line by line, he noted the details that Domenico had carelessly provided: the number of ships under construction at Venice's huge shipyard, their tonnage and their armaments.
I chuckled silently. Here was proof that could gain Beluzzi's freedom. The treacherous singer bundled his papers into a leather folder. He gave his image in the mirror a pert smile and hurried out the door with the folder tucked under his arm.
It was now or never. Stopping a large man didn't compare with knocking a jar off a shelf, but I had to try. I pulled myself into a tight ball and, when he stepped onto the stairs, I launched myself towards the middle of his back. He gasped and grabbed the banister but didn't lose his grip on the folder. As I cursed my weakness, he whirled around and peered into the gloomy depths of the hall outside the dressing rooms.
Shaking his head in bewilderment, he started down the stairs again with his hand firmly on the banister. What could I do? If he got through the stage door, my chance would be lost.
If brute force wouldn't work, I would have to try something else. I remembered all the times Beluzzi had lifted me from the depths of despair with his sweet, unearthly voice. I thought, "This is for you, my nightingale, my angel." I fastened myself to the singer's shoulder. With every bit of energy I could muster, I sang out the name I had given that rotten melon--"Malmelone."
He shrieked. His arms shot up and his feet flew out from under him. He rolled to the bottom of the stairs like the melon he was. The horrible crash drew the cast and crew to the stairwell. The soprano with the ripped bodice was the first to arrive. When she saw the lifeless singer's chin pointing over the back of his shoulder, her screams rose up the stairs in an echoing wail. I waited until I saw the director of the company gather Malmelone's scattered papers and begin reading them before I cruised back to my haven for a well-deserved rest.
A few weeks later Beluzzi opened in a new opera written in his honor. This spectacular occasion marked his first appearance on stage since Malmelone's treachery had been unmasked. Released from the paralyzing melancholy that had confined me to the ceiling, I was all set to watch his performance from the perfect vantage point, a spot right above the conductor. As the curtain rose on the virtuoso singer in the costume of a conquering hero, my newly found voice mingled with the wild applause and cheers rocking the theater. It was as if all Venice had crowded into La Fenice to say, "Forgive us. We should never have doubted you."
When it was time for his first aria, silence reigned. Beluzzi came forward with his usual dignified bearing. His deep, dreamy eyes roved over the theater. With a graceful gesture, he planted his spear, expanded his armored chest and lifted his gaze. As if he could see me, he aimed a soft tone directly under the space I had chosen to occupy. He held the note with a seemingly inexhaustible breath, gradually swelling its sound to the fullest possible measure of purity and power.
I was startled to find myself rising along with his crescendo. Supported by a pillar of sublime sound, I was pressed upward through the dirty cotton wool in the rafters to emerge near a bank of clouds shining with a celestial glow against the night sky. The roof of the theater was swiftly receding beneath me. Anticipation mounting, I watched a beam of light descend from the shining clouds and surround me with a sense of comfort and warmth such as I had never experienced. I knew I would never see the inside of the opera house again. With Beluzzi's seraph-voice fading into the distance, I bade the gentle eunuch a grateful goodbye and sailed up the silvery beam to find the eternal home that had awaited me all along.
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