Mozart’s Blood by Louise Marley Read Free Book Online

qual mai s’offre.” Nick Barrett-Jones displayed the richness of voice, especially at the top, that caused world-class companies to hire him. He would make a handsome Don, with his blue eyes and wisps of brown hair curling at his neck. At times his voice was glorious. His musicianship, though, was disappointing, shallow and derivative.
    Luigi Bassi, the first Don Giovanni, had also been a handsome man, but an impressively stupid one. He had possessed a great voice, and Mozart liked his acting, but he never grew in the part. It was as if, once he learned it, it had been carved into the marble columns of the Nostitz Theater in Prague, never a nuance or shading to be changed.
    Ugo claimed someone in New York told him Nick Barrett-Jones learned his rôles from recordings. This first read-through seemed to support the rumor.
    Brenda McIntyre, the Australian woman singing Donna Elvira, was past her youth and heavy with middle age, but she had the perfect dark, edgy soprano for a woman half-mad with frustrated passion. The Commendatore, Lukas Weiss, was a weathered man of sixty. His dry bass fit the role of the ghostly father to perfection: noble, furious, unrelenting. He confided to the cast, before they began, that he had sung the Commendatore a hundred times.
    â€œThen, Lukas,” Octavia said, “we are all honored to be part of your one hundred first performance!” Everyone smiled at that, agreeing, and she felt they were off to a good start.
    The rôle of Ottavio was to be sung by a pudgy tenor with a clear, high voice, the perfect Mozart instrument. Octavia had sung with Peter Wellington before, and always liked his work. His short stature was a little awkward for love scenes, but they were both professionals. They would manage. At the first break, she touched his arm. “Peter,” she said. “You sound marvelous, as you always do. And is David here?”
    â€œOh, yes.” He pointed to the table where Russell sat with the stage director and the concertmaster. “And we’re both just dying to hear all about your Traviata in New York! Is it true that twit of a conductor was after one of the chorus boys again?”
    Octavia smiled. “Peter, you know I never gossip except with Ugo.” He laughed, and she turned to wave at his partner. David kissed his fingers in her direction.
    The nicest surprise of the cast was Zerlina’s young lover, Masetto. He was tall and broad-shouldered, thin, surely no more than twenty-six or twenty-seven. His dark hair set off his eyes, which were a surprising light brown that made Octavia think of caramels. He sang with a natural musicianship and an instinctive characterization. She turned to watch him from his very first notes. Massimo Luca, she thought, had a bright future. She couldn’t wait to tell Ugo all about him.
    When the lunch break was called, the director approached the principals. “Someone will show you your dressing rooms,” he said.
    The singers tripped along after a cheerful woman with a clipboard. They rode down to the stage floor and crossed through the ellipse to the narrow corridor leading to the artists’ dressing rooms. La Scala was new to Marie Charles, and she exclaimed over everything they passed.
    Octavia’s dressing room was the closest to the stage. Brenda McIntyre raised her eyebrows at this, pressed her lips together, and went into her own dressing room, closing the door firmly behind her.
    Octavia pretended not to notice, though she found the show of ego tiresome. She wished this cast could be a friendly one, especially because Russell was so sensitive.
    She thanked the assistant and said, “Marie, I’ll see you after the break,” before she went into her own dressing room.
    Ugo had proclaimed the dressing rooms at La Scala to be shoe-boxes with showers, but Octavia didn’t mind them at all. They were certainly cramped, and although lavish effort had been spent making all of the