“You saw him?” I asked. “Is it your church as well? The Sant’Agnese in Piazza Navona?”
Proietti flushed. “They were at the Basilica Sant’Andrea della Fratte, near the Piazza de Spagna. There was a concert that evening, choirs, and a few noted opera singers. All divine music, nothing entertaining, like Rossini,” he finished in disparagement.
“Ah, you went to attend the concert yourself.”
“Do not try to give me excuses, Captain. I was following them, as you well know, watching what Trevisan was up to. He sat like a stone, while glorious music in a beautiful basilica flowed over him. Dear Gisela was touched by it. As was I.”
“And the contessa? Was she moved by this splendor?”
“I do not know. She left Trevisan to sit with friends. As Trevisan is a foreigner in this city, he had seats away from the pews of the nobles, but the contessa managed to finagle her way into one of the enclosed pews, where she and her highborn friends can lounge in luxury.”
I imagined the contessa had been welcomed by some aristocratic lady who’d wanted to cultivate her favor.
“They remained for the entire concert?”
“Indeed. The music ended about midnight. Trevisan led Gisela and his mother out and into his carriage, which quite blocked the road. It is a very narrow street. They clopped off home, and I went to a tavern and became rather drunk.” His smile was rueful. “So you see, Trevisan has an alibi for that night, but I do not.”
I shrugged. “He could have slipped away from home once he reached it and gone to de Luca’s. Though I have to admit, I do not knowwhyhe should murder de Luca. They might have argued, but Trevisan is a very contained man. He’d more likely serve de Luca with a lawsuit than strike him while his back was turned.”
“Yes, in all aspects, except for my daughter, Trevisan is very honorable,” Proietti said bitterly. He lifted his glass. “Confusion to him.”
As a watchful footman had already swept away my wine glass, I could not drink to his toast, but I said, “Hear, hear.”
We watched Trevisan speak to the guests, coolly composed. He was well aware of the whispers, I could see, but he absorbed these without a qualm.
My wife was deep in conversation with the contessa, Gisela attending them both. If the other ladies felt snubbed by the contessa’s lack of attention, they put their annoyance aside to enjoy watching the tableau. Tales of this musicale would be all over Rome by morning.
The contessa at last left the divan to stand before the pianoforte. She clapped her hands for attention, and conversations tapered off.
Her voice, in its fluent Italian, held strength, though it was low and almost dulcet. From what I could understand, she thanked the guests for coming and spoke about the soprano, who had entered and stood a little way from the pianoforte. The pianist, a slim man, had quietly settled himself on the piano stool and sat waiting.
The contessa stood straight, no stooped posture for her, gestures calm and precise. She must have been a thoroughly beautiful woman in her youth, and I could still see that beauty in her.
The contessa ceased speaking, her audience applauded, and she glided back to her seat next to Donata. Gisela, who had taken an armless chair beside the contessa’s sofa, made certain she was comfortable.
The soprano stepped forth, the pianist gently touched his keys, and the woman launched into song.
I grew instantly enchanted. The soprano’s voice began in the softest of pianissimos, fluttering among the notes of the music. Then it began to swell, rising to the gilded arches of the ceiling, expanding to fill the room.
The audience was silent, entranced as I was. I could see nothing but the woman, hear nothing but her exquisite voice. She was rather plain, in fact, with golden brown hair straggling from pins around a sallow face. Her gown, while fashionable, did not fit her well, and one of her gloves sagged down her arm.
None of that mattered. Her voice transformed her into a goddess of beauty that could pierce the very soul. I would be a different man when I left this room, having been touched by this voice, this music.
The aria dipped in volume again then suddenly burst into fortissimo. The soprano sang on, her form becoming graceful and lithe, her arms lifting as the notes rose through the register, her hands outstretched in supplication.
I leaned forward in the chair I’d found at the edge of the crowd, Proietti next to me. The music swept into me, winding through my heart, my very fingers vibrating with it. I might have been alone in this salon, the others, even Donata, fading into swirls of color around me.
The soprano’s voice climbed, found the highest pitch I’d ever heard a human being make, and held it. I expected the woman to sag or collapse, but she continued with the note, supporting it effortlessly.
When I thought I would hear nothing but that pitch for the rest of my life, the soprano suddenly swept her arms down, her voice going with it, and finished with a strong note in the middle of the register.
She ended as the piano did, but instead of falling to the ground in an exhausted heap, she smiled at us, relaxing into an ordinary woman once more.
I leapt to my feet and joined the room in wild applause, my“Bravissima!”melding with the cries of“Brava! Brava! Voce bellissima!”
The woman waited patiently, as if used to such accolades. She gestured to the pianist, who bowed slightly, knowing the applause was all for the soprano. He returned his fingers to the keys and began another soft introduction.
The soprano gave us two more pieces, each more extraordinary than the last. I understood why Italian opera in Napoli and Rome had become the rage in the last century, as it was in the north of Italy now. This soprano was but one performer in a local operatic company, I thought I understood from the contessa’s introduction, not even a prima donna. And yet, her voice was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever heard.
