F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (25 page)

 
          
Or
perhaps not so empty. Who knows what waits and watches behind those panes? But
the gondola doesn't stop.

 
          
Ahead
you notice something hanging from one of the bridges, something furry, dangling
upside down. A monkey? No... as you near you see it's a possum, hanging and
watching you with a big, bright Cheshire Cat grin. The same possum from the
upper level
—
the one with the hand? You
wait for him to do something but he only grins at you as you pass. Soon he
falls behind and the shadows swallow him, but the grin remains.

 
          
And
above and beyond him you spy the giant moon crescent scything into the
horizon. Thankfully there's some light in this benighted city. You catch
glimpses of it seeping between the buildings, glinting off the black mirrors of
its dead canals. You sense you are heading for the source. You feel your fear
receding.

 
          
But
then you hear a noise, a ratcheting sound, soft and rapid. You look up and see
a dark-haired boy in ragged clothes sitting on the railing of another of the
many bridges, his bare feet dangling over the edge at midspan. He clutches a fishing
pole in his hands and works the reel furiously, winding in the taut line from
the inky water. You shake your head. As if anyone could fish these polluted
waters.

 
          
You
watch the still surface as you pass, curious to see what he's caught, but he
keeps winding and winding. He must have miles of line out. Endless winding, as
you pass under his bridge and the next curve takes you out of sight. Yet still
you hear his reel... winding... winding...

 
          
And
then you round another bend and forget about him, for the night is suddenly
aglow. You recognize the place. It doesn't belong here; this is not the way it
really is, but you know the building.

 
          
The
Venice
Opera House.
Teatro la
Fenice.

 
          
You're
no fan of the opera, but you looked at its facade when you came to
Venice
. Sam once did sets here for
an avant-garde production of... you forget the opera.

 
          
And
then you see a familiar figure.

 
          
The
lion with the flaming mane sits regally on the quay, waiting. Music wafts from
inside, the sound of an orchestra tuning up.

 
          
The
gondola noses against the bulkhead and stops. You know what you're supposed to
do. The lion turns and watches you debark and climb the steps. Will the lion
say anything? you wonder. But then it fades away....

 
          
You
look at the marquee. It reads OTELLO, but the front doors are shut, apparently
locked, since they don't respond to your virtual grasp.

 
          
You
move around to the side, to the open stage door. You enter there. And you see
Sam:

 
          
She
weaves her way through the cramped backstage area. Outside, where the audience
sits, it's sumptuous and luxurious.

 
          
La
Fenice.
The
Phoenix
, a theater reborn from the
ashes of a great fire in 1774. The jewel of
Venice
. Royalty have enjoyed its
blue-and-cream interior for centuries. Mary Shelley wrote home to
England
about its beauty.

 
          
But
here, backstage, it's a madhouse, bedlam.

 
          
Sam
loves it.

 
          
And
what an opportunity. The youngest-ever art director for a major production at
La
Fenice.
And though her taste runs more to Nirvana and Pearl Jam, Sam finds
herself drawn to Verdi's thunderous music, the extravagance, the lush color,
and the gaudy pomp.

 
          
A
young nobleman walks by, bellowing basso vocal exercises. The chunky mezzo who
plays Emilia is complaining to the stage manager about something. Mezzos are never
happy.

 
          
Nor
is the prima donna, Katia Mareau.

 
          
The
star, the Desdemona, of this
Otello.

           
Sam carefully steps over the ropes
and flats all in place for the last act of this dress rehearsal. Katia Mareau
will be killed, as she will be for the next two weeks while well-heeled patrons
arrive by gondola to see Verdi's take on Shakespeare's tragedy.

 
          
Opera.
A silly, comic world, yet somehow wonderful. Larger than life; it obliterates
life.

 
          
Sam
walks up to the door with the carefully calligraphied gilt name
—
Katia Mareau
—
then
below it, in slightly smaller letters,
Desdemona.

 
          
Sam
knocks once.

 
          
No
response, so she knocks again.

 
          
And
the voice inside sings a greeting.

 
          
"Si,
entrare!"

 
          
Sam
goes in and finds Mareau in front of her makeup table, studying her image
surrounded by a legion of lightbulbs. She doesn't even glance at Sam.

 
          
"Oh.
Samantha, puh-lease close the door. 1 feel a chill. So damn moist here."

 
          
Sam
turns and dutifully shuts the door. Mareau certainly felt worse chills growing
up on a big ranch in
Wyoming
.

 
          
"You've
seen the set?" Sam says.

 
          
"For
Act Four? Yes, my dear, and the bed's too small." Still not looking at
Sam. "But 1 told you that, didn't 1. Well, we'll see how it plays
out."

 
          
Sam
nods. It's the bed that this Desdemona will die in, night after night. Diva
Mareau wants a grander stage for her swan song.

 
          
The
director told me that the blocking is fine, that
—
"

 
          
"He's
an ass. A silly, stupid man. Couldn't stage a yard sale."

 
          
Now,
finally, Mareau stops and looks at Sam.

 
          
"Have
you been eating, sweetheart?"

 
          
So
strange for Sam to be so much in the spell of this woman. Mareau feels like a
giant elemental force, whether singing... or not.

 
          
Mareau
stands. "I worry about you, you know."

 
          
Sam
nods. Mareau is a tall figure, with dark brown eyes and lustrous black hair
that cascades to her shoulders. She's wearing the Act IV nightgown, a pale blue
item, sere and iridescent. She takes a step to Sam.

 
          
"An
important day, eh, Samantha?"

 
          
The
first dress rehearsal was always the make-it-or-break-it point. After it's
over, they will know whether all the confused elements of the opera
—
the sets, the singers, the orchestra, the blocking
—
have come together.

 
          
Mareau
moves closer.

 
          
"You
look like a frail bird, Samantha. Have you given absolutely everything to our
production ... with nothing"
—
Mareau touches Sam's cheek. The singer's hand is warm, comforting. Practiced.
She traces a finger over Sam's
lips
—
"left
for me?"

 
          
Sam
knows this is crazy. How she fell into this
—
relationship
—
is beyond even her. Is it the sheer force of Mareau's
personality, her charisma, her power
—
or
some stupid weakness? She doesn't know.

 
          
The
singer's other hand comes up to Sam's left cheek, holding her head, like a
mother examining a schoolgirl's first makeup.

 
          
You
recoil.

 
          
For
a moment, you consider hitting the Exit button. Because what you think you will
see will challenge even what you thought you knew about your sister. Was there
nothing she wouldn't try, nothing she wouldn't experiment with?

 
          
And
yet Sam seems so quiet here, so subdued... a little girl.

 
          
You
brace yourself.

 
          
Mareau
leans forward and kisses Sam, a strong, passionate kiss.

 
          
For
a moment Sam stands there, letting herself be engulfed by this woman. Then her
hands go up and encircle Mareau, touching the pale, silky blue material. And
Sam is dizzy with the smell of the perfume, the taste of those full lips, the
glare of the makeup lights hitting the mirror, filling the tiny dressing room
with warm, yellow light.

           
It's Mareau who breaks off the kiss.
Too abruptly, as if all she wanted was a quick confirmation of Sam's devotion.

 
          
"That
was
sweet. But J have a bit of bad news."

 
          
Samantha
nods. The schoolgirl, listening to
—

 
          
'Tonight.
After the rehearsal, 1 won't be able to"
—
a
hesitation
—
"meet you. Some old
friends from the Met are here."

 
          
"And
after that?" Sam doesn't keep the disappointment from her voice.

 
          
"Dearies,
after that I'm going right to sleep. I won't have time"
—
she smiles
—
"for anything."

 
          
Another
brush of Sam's cheek, and it's over. Dismissed. Love given and withdrawn. The
promise of other times, other embraces.

 
          
The
room feels as if it's spinning.

 
          
A
knock on the door.
"Presto, Signora."

 
          
"Presto,
right
—
as if anything happens in
this damn country
'presto.
' But let's see if I was right about the bed,
eh?"

 
          
Sam's
mouth opens. She wants to say something. But the only thing there, at the tip
of her tongue, is corny, stupid, embarrassing. Something like /
love you.

 
          
So
she says nothing.

 
          
Mareau
turns away, and fires off a few high practice trills that are deafening in the
small room.

 
          
Then,
slipping into a "New Yawker" accent, Mareau says, "Let's go let
the Moor kill me, eh, kiddo?"

 
          
And
she leaves the dressing room.

 
          
You
feel the emotions washing over Sam: the confusion, the pain, and finally the
emptiness.

 
          
Is
there more to this? There has to be. It must be important, but why?

 
          
You
follow Sam out to the backstage area, to Act IV of Otello.