4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Read Online Free PDF Page B

Romeo and Emilio, but he was still well out of earshot. “Maestro Weber must think I can sing Tamerlano. He cast me, after all.”
    When Carmela narrowed her eyes, I remembered what an avid collector of backstage intrigue she was. And how much she enjoyed springing her information on unsuspecting innocents.
    “What do you know, my lovely friend? Out with it, or I’ll make sure I stumble over your entrance in each of our duets.” Not certain whether I was joking or not, I smiled to make Carmela think I was.
    “Only this, Tito dear. Maestro Weber didn’t want you for the part. The French songbird was the one who insisted.”
    “Madame Fouquet?”
    “Umm.” She rolled the sound on her tongue like a mouthful of chocolate. “Gabrielle Fouquet refused to join the cast unless you were engaged for the title role. Absolutely adamant, they tell me. Maestro Weber and Signora Dolfini were so determined to have the new French sensation sing Asteria, they finally agreed. At some point, you must have impressed her most satisfactorily.” She finished with a questioning eyebrow and a knowing pout.
    “But I’ve never met the lady,” I replied, well aware of Carmela’s titillating implication. Many women were enchanted by my kind. During performances, they cheered, moaned, and swooned. They threw flowers. Once the curtain came down, they fought like tigresses to get backstage. It was not true, as many thought, that we castrati were unable to complete the act of love. Some of us were quite able to fulfill our admirers’ desires, though none of us were able to plant the seed that would lead to pregnancy. Most women deemed this another point in our favor.
    “Really, Carmela,” I continued. “I don’t think I had even heard of Madame Fouquet until a few months ago when she burst on the scene at the Italian Opera in Paris. Has she been to Venice, do you know?”
    “Her husband says she has sung only in France and Germany. He should know. He has managed her career from the beginning.”
    “Is he a singer, as well?”
    “No, he’s rather close-mouthed about both their backgrounds, but I gather that he’s been knocking around several countries as an impresario.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Jean-Louis Fouquet.”
    I shook my head. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of the man.”
    She responded with an impish grin. “You wouldn’t have. The type of talent he engages runs more to ridottos and masquerades, the sort that gentlemen frequent.”
    “I wonder how he came to hook a soprano of his wife’s caliber,” I murmured.
    She shrugged. “Even the worst fisherman gets lucky sometimes.”
    Carmela’s words heightened my curiosity about Gabrielle Fouquet, but as it appeared I would not set eyes on the lady until the morrow, I changed the subject. “What about you? You must have been on an extended tour. Now that I recall, our last opera together was over two years ago.”
    She looked out at the darkening sky, again pulling on her earring. “Yes, quite an extended tour.”
    “Where did you sing?”
    “Last month I sang at the Italian Opera in Paris. That’s where I made the acquaintance of the Fouquets, not that they mix with other singers any more than is necessary. ”
    “And before that?”
    “Oh, here and there. We’re all such vagabonds, aren’t we? Singing for our suppers wherever they’ll have us.”
    “I’m surprised our paths haven’t crossed more often. There are only so many opera houses, after all. Before Rome, I spent some months in Dresden—a very congenial city for musicians. Did your tour take you there, by any—”
    “Oh, look,” Carmela interrupted, pointing excitedly. “A shooting star. Did you see it?”
    I hadn’t.
    The soprano squeezed her eyes shut and brought fingertips to her lips. “I must make a wish. Quiet now, while I think.”
    Before I could question her further, a bell summoned us to dinner. I offered Carmela my arm, and Octavia bustled onto the loggia to claim Maestro