Instead, there in an armchair was Aristafeo, exhausted and afraid, and in his lap an envelope I had long expected, very like the one he’d sent before.
I knew it had to have been a magnificent bribe for Doro to do this; the ferocity of her loyalty had never once allowed such a thing. I’d had no shortage of admirers attempting to sneak into my rooms. I admired them both in this instant.
I shut and bolted the door before I walked behind the chair and embraced him, bending down. His head tilted back against my brow then.
I did not think I would get here, he said. He looked at his hands.
He turned the envelope over to me. I peeled open the flap, tossed the wax into the fire where it sizzled against the wood, and sat myself in the chair opposite him.
What did you tell Verdi? I asked. Or does he approve?
It was your maid I bribed, he said. The master never saw me. He does not yet know I am in his house.
He then reached and poured himself a cognac from the table beside him. He reached and handed me a cognac of my own.
It has been reported the tenor was killed in a duel, I said, of Giuseppina’s news. Was it you? I asked.
At first I thought it was, he said. We had set the date for the morning after his last performance in Carmen so it would not disturb the run. But he never came. Even his valet was surprised. It was very sad, in its way. We waited on the lawns of the Baroness’s estate in Rouen until evening, and I was declared the victor. I had the news published to shame him, he said, when he failed to show.
To first blood? I asked.
To the death, he said.
And on what terms? I asked.
Pistols. For your honor, he said. But my own as well. In truth, for many things.
When were you going to tell me?
Tonight, he said. If I had lived.
What delayed you, then? I asked.
The fire cracked and sputtered, and I could not look at it.
I was under suspicion for his murder, he said. Until they found his body in the Seine. The Baroness and her staff testified I had been in Rouen all night preparing to meet him, and I was cleared. And as I had not actually fought the duel, I could not be charged with dueling, either.
Are we free, then? I asked.
It may be we are, he said. At last.
I drew his ring out from the pocket at my waist and put it on, slid out a cigar and lit it, offering him one as well, which he took. As he did so, I saw in his eyes that he had guessed.
He was waiting for me to tell him what I could not tell him.
I must go, he said. I will spend the night nearby and arrive in the morning as a proper guest.
I reached back and undid the diamond comb holding my cadogan in place so my hair fell down around me in a dark wave past my shoulders. I stood and opened my dress swiftly at the back until it slid down before his chair. He sat forward to rest his face against my bare stomach.
Thank you, he said. And he then rose from his chair, turned me around, and brought me into the bed.
§
We lay there together afterward.
What of your curse—what will you do when you become a circus rider? he asked.
It was only a lie, I said. There is no curse.
He laughed. Then, yes, it’s fine; it’s clearly impossible. The rest of the opera is there, he said, indicating the manuscript. For you.
I went to the new pages after he left, finding the final scene. He had reminded me of my dissatisfaction with the ending. I was pleased he’d altered the end, at first. The circus rider found her old circus as before, but now she sang as a way to remind the angel who she was—it was the aria at the end of which she would lose her voice.
While she performs, the wizard, her former captor, and the wingless angel lost in his amnesia both sit in the audience. Her voice is the one thing that reminds him of who he is, the angel gradually remembering her, this last aria concluding on a high E-flat over high C.
This was my favorite note of my register for the imperial quality to it; a note, that if sustained, could cover the sound of the orchestra, the other singers, the crowd, all of it gone and only the E-flat remaining until it was the only thing you knew. For me, it felt like the one true thing about me, that I could produce this note.
What of your curse? I thought again, this question still in his eyes as he waited for me to admit what I would not admit. And I would not; I could not. I would never tell him, could never tell him. This now was the curse. He would never forgive me.
Let me prepare for my return to the back of a horse, then, I said to him. Good night to you.
He tried to smile at the joke as he stood and dressed. Then he kissed me good night, and was gone.
§
Doro came red faced the next morning to set my fire and lay out my clothes.
I’m proud of you, I said. I’m sure it cost him dearly.
She nodded and held out her hand, palm up. A beautiful ruby ring, face turned in.
It’s quite fine, I said. You did well.
She held out her hand, admiring the ring before turning it to face her and returning her attention to my dressing table.