Gustav. You can play the ballet at least? The theme?” he smiled, challenging. “A stanza?”
Gustav’s eyes flitted to where the Marchese stood with Antonia. The room had gone still, waiting. Then the Marchese gave a slight nod and held out his hand toward the pianoforte, inviting Klein to play.
As Klein stepped to the beautiful golden pianoforte that dominated a stage on the far side of the room, all eyes turned to him. And Vincenzo made his way to stand beside the Marchese.
“Dare I ask if you will be gracing us with a new work tonight?” the Marchese asked in a low voice as Klein put his fingers to the keys, the first graceful bars floating over the guests, perking them up and out of their dissipation.
“No?” the Marchese continued, when Vincenzo did not answer directly. “I did not think so. Vincenzo, I am happy to let my daughter be foolish with you, if you can afford her, but that doesn’t mean I have to be. I would have kept you on if you had written anything worth performing while under my roof. But alas, you proved less than worthy.”
Vincenzo could feel the blood rushing to his face, a fury of hate and self-loathing covering his skin like tar. But he could not let this man see. Thus, he schooled his features into passivity and pretended to listen to Klein play.
“Perhaps I did,” he admitted, pressing a hand to his breast. “Although I am currently working on a piece that might prove more so. Tell me, what do you think this Klein will prove?”
And with that enigmatic statement, he bowed and left the Marchese to listen to the music.
Taking two steps back, he found himself against the wall, next to Oliver, who listened intently to the music.
“He’s very good.” Oliver whispered to him after a time.
“Hmph,” was all that Vincenzo could reply. But secretly, that pit of worry that had settled into his stomach upon meeting Klein had begun to grow and churn since he put his fingers to the keys. Klein was good. Very, very good. His fingering was graceful, impeccable. He pulled down on the keys instead of striking them, making the sound less jarring and more of an element of the space they occupied.
The section of his composition that he had chosen to play was powerful, angry. Vincenzo could imagine the wind beating against the Greek sails as rain poured down violently on stage in a depiction of those tragic Greek sailors lost at sea. And then, suddenly, the mood of the music changed—calming, like the storm passing. Klein told a story with his music . . . and he held the attention of every person in the room.
It was a complete disaster.
Damn it all—if only he had known about Klein before!
“Oliver.” Vincenzo turned to his friend, accusation unhidden in his voice. “Why did you not tell me about Klein’s opera being staged at La Fenice? And that the Marchese is financing it?”
“Because I didn’t know. I resigned from the theatre months ago. Remember?”
Oh yes. Oliver’s thwarted departure. Those few weeks Oliver had thought he was headed home had a lasting impact. He had never understood the hold Oliver’s family had on him. Perhaps it was one of the effects of having been raised by one. To his mind, Oliver and his father did not even get along—if they had, why would he have run to Venice at the first opportunity? So why Oliver should jump up to come home when called was beyond him. Family had its uses, Vincenzo supposed—gave one something to lean on when times were tough. But guilt and sacrifice were its pitfalls, and they just got in the way.
“But you still talk to some of the girls, the director,” Vincenzo replied.
“Yes, well, perhaps the director refrained from mentioning the Marchese since he knows the topic is delicate for you. And the girls . . .” Oliver shrugged. “When they talk to me about the opera, it is only to gripe about the lack of female roles.”
Vincenzo looked up, confused. “But doesn’t
The Odyssey
have a wife, and a daughter?
Gustav’s eyes flitted to where the Marchese stood with Antonia. The room had gone still, waiting. Then the Marchese gave a slight nod and held out his hand toward the pianoforte, inviting Klein to play.
As Klein stepped to the beautiful golden pianoforte that dominated a stage on the far side of the room, all eyes turned to him. And Vincenzo made his way to stand beside the Marchese.
“Dare I ask if you will be gracing us with a new work tonight?” the Marchese asked in a low voice as Klein put his fingers to the keys, the first graceful bars floating over the guests, perking them up and out of their dissipation.
“No?” the Marchese continued, when Vincenzo did not answer directly. “I did not think so. Vincenzo, I am happy to let my daughter be foolish with you, if you can afford her, but that doesn’t mean I have to be. I would have kept you on if you had written anything worth performing while under my roof. But alas, you proved less than worthy.”
Vincenzo could feel the blood rushing to his face, a fury of hate and self-loathing covering his skin like tar. But he could not let this man see. Thus, he schooled his features into passivity and pretended to listen to Klein play.
“Perhaps I did,” he admitted, pressing a hand to his breast. “Although I am currently working on a piece that might prove more so. Tell me, what do you think this Klein will prove?”
And with that enigmatic statement, he bowed and left the Marchese to listen to the music.
Taking two steps back, he found himself against the wall, next to Oliver, who listened intently to the music.
“He’s very good.” Oliver whispered to him after a time.
“Hmph,” was all that Vincenzo could reply. But secretly, that pit of worry that had settled into his stomach upon meeting Klein had begun to grow and churn since he put his fingers to the keys. Klein was good. Very, very good. His fingering was graceful, impeccable. He pulled down on the keys instead of striking them, making the sound less jarring and more of an element of the space they occupied.
The section of his composition that he had chosen to play was powerful, angry. Vincenzo could imagine the wind beating against the Greek sails as rain poured down violently on stage in a depiction of those tragic Greek sailors lost at sea. And then, suddenly, the mood of the music changed—calming, like the storm passing. Klein told a story with his music . . . and he held the attention of every person in the room.
It was a complete disaster.
Damn it all—if only he had known about Klein before!
“Oliver.” Vincenzo turned to his friend, accusation unhidden in his voice. “Why did you not tell me about Klein’s opera being staged at La Fenice? And that the Marchese is financing it?”
“Because I didn’t know. I resigned from the theatre months ago. Remember?”
Oh yes. Oliver’s thwarted departure. Those few weeks Oliver had thought he was headed home had a lasting impact. He had never understood the hold Oliver’s family had on him. Perhaps it was one of the effects of having been raised by one. To his mind, Oliver and his father did not even get along—if they had, why would he have run to Venice at the first opportunity? So why Oliver should jump up to come home when called was beyond him. Family had its uses, Vincenzo supposed—gave one something to lean on when times were tough. But guilt and sacrifice were its pitfalls, and they just got in the way.
“But you still talk to some of the girls, the director,” Vincenzo replied.
“Yes, well, perhaps the director refrained from mentioning the Marchese since he knows the topic is delicate for you. And the girls . . .” Oliver shrugged. “When they talk to me about the opera, it is only to gripe about the lack of female roles.”
Vincenzo looked up, confused. “But doesn’t
The Odyssey
have a wife, and a daughter?
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