A Cadenza for Caruso by Barbara Paul Read Free Book Online Page A

“Eh, you can try asking at the opera house—Mr. Gatti knows everyone. Or—I know!—booking offices! Some of the other agents must surely know him.”
    Ugo’s face lit up. “That is a good idea, Rico! I will go right now.” He hurried off to get his hat and coat.
    Caruso continued his pacing and heard Ugo leave. Poor Puccini! How could any man bear it? He did not deserve this.
    The tenor was jittery, edgy. He still had a rehearsal to get through today, and he was in no condition to concentrate on singing. He needed something to relax him. “Mario!”
    He had to call only once; the youngest of his three valets was there, waiting quietly to hear what his employer wanted.
    â€œI will have my massage now, Mario. Immediately!”
    The young man didn’t so much as blink at this outrageous change in routine. Mario always gave Caruso a rubdown after rehearsals, when the tenor was tense and wound up. He must have wondered why Caruso wanted a massage now, before going to the opera house. When Caruso was ready, Mario started slapping scented oil on his back.
    â€œMario, what does one do with a blackmailer?” Caruso asked.
    â€œOne goes to the police, signore.”
    â€œHm. But what if going to the police causes harm? Harm to innocent people?”
    â€œOne goes anyway. Better the risk of harm than putting one’s life into the hands of a blackmailer.”
    Caruso shook his head and dropped the subject. He’d forgotten the absoluteness of youth—this is right, that is wrong. “Mario, that suit you are wearing is starting to look frayed. You have been wearing it how long?”
    Mario thought back. “Only two and three-fourths years.”
    Caruso took a moment to figure out that three-fourths of a year was nine months. “Go get yourself a new one—have the bill sent to me.”
    â€œGrazie, signore, grazie! ” Mario beat a happy tattoo on the tenor’s back.
    Caruso grunted and dismissed Mario’s sartorial problem from his mind. There had to be something he could do to help Puccini. There had to be.
    New York barbershops were, to Enrico Caruso’s way of thinking, one of the seven wonders of the modern world. They were not just for haircuts and shaves—oh no! There one could also be perfumed, powdered, manicured, pedicured, steamed, and massaged. One could buy toilet articles there, or ease sore muscles by lying under a heat lamp. Or one could clear congested nasal passages by breathing a specially prepared sulpha vapor. And every barbershop in Manhattan boasted its own particular cure for hangover.
    But what Caruso liked most about the better barbershops were their bathtubs. Huge, commodious things that were far more comfortable than the tub he used at the hotel. Plus rows and rows of bottled scent for the water: lilac, mimosa, sandalwood, musk rose, lavender, blue hyacinth, verbena, hibiscus, wisteria, violet, birch leaf, chinaberry, honeysuckle—the tenor wanted to try them all. (Except gardenia; Caruso never used gardenia. He couldn’t stand the soprano the scent was named after.) Caruso could soak in the barbershop bath for hours if he wished, the attendants constantly making sure the water stayed at the temperature he liked. New York barbershops were, in short, havens of repose and comfort for tired businessmen and distraught opera singers.
    Mario’s massage had gotten him through the rehearsal well enough; but at the end of the day Caruso felt the need to soak and steam—and talk. He liked the camaraderie of the barbershops, but that wasn’t the kind of talk he wanted this time. He persuaded Pasquale Amato to go with him to Tonio’s on Seventh Avenue, where he asked for a private room with two tubs.
    Once he and Amato were installed in their tubs, Caruso told the attendants not to come in until he rang for them. Then he proceeded to tell Amato everything he had earlier in the day promised Puccini he