A Song for Ghosts E-Book

Manja Siber

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: An opera for two
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 728

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Garvanos Scimia has not wanted to go to Dresden and join the Royal court theatre. But he has been sent away from his home in Milan and now here he is, a new singer at the Royal Court Theatre. It won't be easy, he knows. His nerves and his tendency to break downs take care of that. Also he is a born Gypsy, which is just one more problem on the heap. But then Ivan takes him under his wing. Ivan who lives in secret underneath the theatre and who has the most lovely smile and the most wonderful voice. With his help Garvanos finds confidence in himself, in his voice, in his feelings and - and maybe he can make it? Maybe it will be alright?

Leseprobe

Manja Siber

A Song for Ghosts

© 2020 Manja Siber

Verlag und Druck: tredition GmbH, Halenreie 40-44, 22359 Hamburg

ISBN

Paperback:      978-3-347-12405-9

Hardcover:      978-3-347-12406-6

e-Book:           978-3-347-12407-3

Cover design by: Trudy Wenzel https://synticfaye.artstation.com/ Original picture:

Fassade Königliches Hoftheater Dresden from: “Die Bauten, technischen und industriellen Anlagen von Dresden” published by the Saxonian association of engineers and architects via Meinhold press, Dresden, 1878

Authors Ludwig Neumann, Hermann August Richter, Otto Siebdrat, Richard Steche, Robert Wimmer

CC BY-SA 4.0

This work of fiction is protected by copyright law. The publication and redistribution of this work or its parts outside the boundaries and regulations of fair use without the author's and publisher's explicit written permission is strictly forbidden.

Preface

Dear reader,

please be aware that in this novel you will quite often read the word “Gypsy” in relation to one of the main characters and his ethnicity.

This word is today considered a slur and I refuse to use it in any modern-day context.

This novel is set in 1848, where the word was not considered a slur yet. This doesn’t change a lick of the prejudice and ostracising Sinti and Roma faced then and still face today.

In the 19th century there was no other word. The use of the terms “Sinti” and “Roma” dates back to as recent as the 1970’s. Even the most sympathetic, positive or at least neutral writings would always use “Gypsy”, “Gitano”, “Zigeuner”, “Boheme”.

The use of the term “Gypsy” is strictly in its historical context and I do not endorse its use outside of it. I ask you to respect that.

Chapter 01

Dresden, May 1848

It would be all right, Garvanos told himself, looking at the building in front of him. It would be alright.

In the bright, clear afternoon air the Royal Court Theatre, looking over a grand plaza and facing a high-towering sand stone church, appeared a lot smaller than at night when it had been alight with the soft glow of chandeliers, glistening against the darkness like a jewel.

Garvanos drew a deep breath and tried his best to let the sweet spring air calm his nerves. It would be all right. He would do fine here. He could sing – sing well enough for the Scala at the very least. He was used to getting by on meagre means. He would try – and likely fail – to find someone to share a place with, but Dresden was big and probably crawling with poor artists, looking for the same prospect. Maybe with some luck he could find some of his kind and have some reprieve there.

It would be all right.

His hand searched for the recommendation letter Maestro Mauro had written for him and with another deep breath, letter in hand, he wandered around the building towards a side entrance, leaving the grand staircase aside.

There was bustle and business there, people entering and leaving all the time, and he waited a bit for a someone to slow down – and finally, finally a group of girls – ballet, probably, judging by their lithe physique and thin arms – bustled out, giggling.

Garvanos pushed his glasses up his nose and took yet another deep breath. “Excuse me!”

The girls stopped right in their tracks, turning to him, pale, thin faces questioning, noses upturned into a fashion that could have been almost coquettish if they hadn’t been so young and cute if it hadn’t been for the sneer that came with it.

Garvanos was keenly aware that he was seized up and down and he knew exactly what she saw, dark, ruddy skin, black hair and dark eyes.

The girl scrunched her nose and Garvanos felt almost like a goose on the meat marked. If that was the case he was probably deemed insufficiently fattened up, despite his generally rather stocky built. Not that ballet dancers on this level could afford a good goose anyways.

“I am looking for the director, if you could-”

“Music or dance?” one asked, cutting him off, while the rest of them took a step away from him.

“Singing.”

“Stage,” she said.

“Don’t steal anything,” another one said.

“Of course not,” Garvanos said.

“I mean it!” she hissed before the first girl grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away.

Garvanos looked after them, at least until one of them turned around, shooting him a dark stare. He quickly turned around and scuttled inside.

From inside the Royal Court Theatre wasn’t much warmer, at least not at the side corridor where he entered; the warmth would have to wait until he reached the main area, be it the great reception hall with its grand stairways and chandeliers or the corridors, rooms and closets of the backstage.

Theatre houses by their very nature were a maze and it took three times of running past the same bloody beam before Garvanos finally found a small door that opened and – miracle of miracles – he found himself looking at the auditorium, dark and only illuminated from the stage side.

Garvanos took a glimpse inside.

The stage emitted a soft, yellow candlelight that illuminated the gilded carvings and stucco of the ceiling, the walls, the boxes for the noblest audience of this place. Here and there, red velvet gleamed like embers in a fireplace.

On the stage, some more ballet girls were dancing an elegant choreography to a simple piano arrangement of a part of Mozart’s Magic Flute that Garvanos recognized as the introducing song of Papageno.

The song ended and the girls rushed off the stage amidst a man yelling, “You done finally, good, go, go, don’t have all day!”

Their place on the stage was taken by a man and a woman who started with their work without delay.

Garvanos patiently waited for the song to end, enjoying the duet and dialogue in which the two went through the lines of the three ladies as well as the arias of Tamino and the Night Queen.

From down, there came an impatient “Again!” and so, they started again.

The woman was perfection. Her soprano was clear and sweet like spring water, but there was a certain edge to it; she herself was a striking appearance with dark hair and a skin that didn’t need the candle light for its dark golden shimmer, that was still a lot lighter than Garvanos’ own complexion. She was perfect for the Night Queen, able to evoke both gentle, kind starlight and threatening, all-encompassing darkness.

The Tamino was her polar opposite, flaxen hair tied back to reveal a very slender, long neck and a fair face that was both very sharp and determined yet at the same time amazingly youthful.

His singing was just as sharp and punctuated, pointedly and not at all befitting for someone stricken with love.

They sang through their dialogue before there was a rumble from the chairs. “Stop! Stop! Alexej, stop, stop, stop! Now! Stop!”

The singers looked down.

Garvanos followed their gaze to a grizzly looking old man in a suit and jacket that clearly had seen better days, grey as whatever hair he still had on his head.

“Tamino is in love! At once! In! Love!”, he continued, in a thick, rolling accent that reminded Garvanos of hot porridge, dripping from a spoon, “Sing with love, love, not like you try to- to- Deborah, how feel you if someone talk about you to mother like that?”

The woman laughed very melodically. “Like he’s not in love and never has been in love before, but for some reason has to act like he is. Alexej is lucky that he’s so pretty and so young. With someone less good-looking I’d be insulted. And with someone older, I would be too busy laughing to hit even one note.” She cleared her throat. “On the other hand, if I showed someone a picture of my daughter and they sang like that I’d both feel insulted on her behalf and worried he might try to grab power from my hands instead of saving her as he was instructed.”

“Yes. Yes, exactly. Alexej, sing more like in love! Sing as if happy to see her.”

“Well, sorry if hitting the notes don’t make it sound love-sick and happy, me singing it wrong certainly won’t!” The man was a boy, Garvanos suddenly realized. Probably not older than seventeen, perhaps even younger. And he was singing Tamino. Also, he had noticed Garvanos.

“Oi, Ossip, we got a visitor.”

Garvanos felt a collection of eyes falling upon him and they didn’t feel friendly. Briefly he wondered whether it was too late to run and get back to Milan. Maestro Scimia would probably take him back in, right?

The man stared at him with dark, hard eyes and waved, impatiently, for him to come closer. “You, what you want?”

Garvanos tightened his grip around Maestro Mauro’s letter and forced himself to breathe. “I am one of your new singers.”

The cool dark eyes took him in and Garvanos desperately wished he had at least taken the time to straighten up his suit or comb his hair, do anything to appear at least somewhat civilized.

“Where you from? What is name?”

“G- Garvanos Scimia. I- I’m coming from Milan. Got schooled at the Scala.”

“Garvanos.”

“Yes.”

“Not sound Italian to me. You not look Italian.”

If the ground beneath his feet decided to open up and swallow him, Garvanos would have been decidedly very, very grateful. “I am aware.” He knew how to use a mirror, after all.

“From Milan, yes?” the woman on the stage chirped, looking down on him with a merry twinkle in her eyes and then, ignoring the old man, continued in a gentle, Veronese lilt, “Sono le strade piene di gatti ancora qui?”

Garvanos still felt a wave of relief. “Solo se da gatti si intende chi non ha una casa e del lavoro e troppe bocche da sfamare – oh, aspetta, ho pensato che si stava chiedendo su Napoli!”

She laughed. “Oh, finally, finally someone who gets the joke.”

Mr. Kirsch once again took a close look at him. Good. “Milan. Scala? Why you here then?”

Garvanos swallowed hard. “Uh- Maestro Scimia thought I might need a change of air.”

A smaller stage had been his exact words, with an expression of sorrow and regret that still made Garvanos sick in his stomach. “He wrote ahead on my behalf and- uh, I also got this.” He handed the letter over.

Mr. Kirsch opened it and read it, brow carefully furrowed, while he gestured for Garvanos to come closer.

“How old you are?”

“Twenty and three.”

“Voice range?”

“Tenor.”

“Countertenor?"

Garvanos shook his head. “Maestro Scimia tried, but I am on the lower end of the spectrum. I have some training as a baritone, though.”

Mr. Kirsch took a glance at him. “What were we practising just now?”

“Mozart’s Magic Flute. The Night Queen is just convincing Tamino to go and rescue her daughter Pamina.”

The boy on the stage grumbled something that sounded somewhat like, “Well, everybody knows that.”

He nodded. “Good. Alexej, let sing him it. Want hear him. Just check. You, up there. Did warm up already? No?! Five minutes.”

Garvanos stared at the man, the woman, the boy, as they all looked at him.

“What you waiting for? Invitation? Own tutor? Vodka?”

Garvanos flinched and then quickly retreated to the stairway that led to the area behind the curtain.

Finding a suitable spot, he started warming up, singing octaves up and down, going higher and higher.

The space behind his eyes had started to throb, but he paid it no mind. His throat was doing its work, his voice was clear and powerful, and he managed to jump about one and a half octaves without trouble.

Good. That was good. But would it be good enough?

He took a deep breath.

“Oi. Time’s up, the old man’s getting impatient.”

Garvanos turned around to see the other singer standing behind him. Up close he looked even younger, with skin so fair that he could see veins underneath and bright hair like spun gold. If he ever smiled, he’d probably look positively angelic, but Garvanos doubted that there was ever any other expression than some degree of disdain on his delicate features.

“Thanks.” He headed out, where the woman awaited him with a kind smile. She was extremely pretty, her skin as fine and smooth as glazed porcelain and eyes of a dark blue that was almost lilac.

“Deborah Santelli,” she smiled with a cheerfully mocking curtsey and a gesture like an open hand.

Garvanos tried to return the smile. He suspected it ended up more like a grimace.

“Good! Are introductions done? Great, get to work! You start at the Dies Bildnis verse, from top. Deborah, you do the ladies again!”

Deborah’s face fell a bit, but then she took a breath. “As you say.”

“Good. Piano!”

Garvanos recognized the melody that was hammered out, humming a few notes before starting with Tamino’s verse, as the hero admired the picture of the abducted princess Pamina, his love interest. She seemed a goddess, to this poor, hopeless fellow, who was instantly declaring her his whole reason of existence.

Garvanos was relieved, that his voice did its job. It sounded firm and strong, maybe a little too low for a role like Tamino. A pure-hearted hero like him called for a higher, crystalline voice. Garvanos most certainly hit all the notes, but his voice was a touch too deep, too earthy.

He wobbled a little at the last lines and struggled on before Deborah Santelli sang her part of the duet, encouraging the strapping young prince to save her dear, dear daughter.

They played through the entire dialogue in which the Night Queen’s handmaidens gave Tamino a briefing about how the abduction of Pamina had gone along, firing him up for the quest, before Deborah finished, announcing the Queen with a loud, dramatic “Sie kommt! Sie kommt! Sie kommt!”

The next moment her voice seemed to switch, straight back to what it had been when Garvanos had listened in first. Clear, and cutting-edge sharp she recited the verses in which the Queen introduced herself as a mourning, worried mother, before starting her aria. “Zum Leiden bin ich auserkohren!”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Ossip Kirsch yelled and the piano died. “We know that bit, and we know you are primadonna for reason, yes!”

His gaze fell on Garvanos. “You, though. So far what parts have performed?”

Garvanos swallowed. “No leads. In Milan, I was mostly understudy. I sang the Magic Flute before. One of the three boys. And the first Armoured Man. Occasionally one of the slaves.”

“Hm.” Mr. Kirsch looked at him, sharply. “I be clear. If I said so you not would find moment of work here, I not care whether you already have contract promised. Even less care what your maestro say about you. Showers you much with praise, when have so thin resume.”

A blinding, deafening wave of nausea was rising in him and suddenly the floorboards were far, far away.

But it wasn’t like he hadn’t expected this. He should have known.

“But need new voices. You not half-bad. You have place in Dresden?”

What? Garvanos stared at him.

“You deaf? Not good – no?”

Garvanos shook his head, quickly.

“Good. Have lodgings here?”

“Nothing permanent. A room in an inn,” he admitted. And who knew whether he would still have it tomorrow. The owner had only accepted him in after he had paid twice the regular price, but even that hadn’t gotten him even some basic form of courtesy. He probably should have paid the triple amount for that.

“Ah.” Mr. Kirsch nodded, then he looked around and into the wings. “Kästner! Andreas Kästner! You! Come here!”

A young man with several faint, round scars on his angular face came out and gave Garvanos a wary look. “Yes?”

“You live in boarding house, yes?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, eyeing Garvanos with even more suspicion.

“Good. New singer needs room. Permanent one. There beds free in your place?”

The man ran a hand through his sandy hair. “Suppose so. Johannes got a place to share with his sister a few days ago. Don’t know whether there’s a bed for the likes of him, though,” he added with a nod to Garvanos.

“Try. Works here now. Is always good, I hear.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, I can try.”

“Good. You!” Mr. Kirsch turned to Garvanos again.

Garvanos stiffened. “Yes!”

“You and Kästner will go now and see if you can get a room.”

“Yes.”

Mr. Kirsch waved his hand in the air. “Rehearsal for chorus is at seven in morning. Be on time. In two months, we hold try-outs for Lortzing’s Wildschütz, so prepare yourself if want a part in that. Alexej, you heard how you sing when in love?! More like this!”

The boy grumbled some more as he who re-joined Deborah on the stage.

Andreas Kästner turned to him. “I’ll listen until they are done, then I can get you to the boarding house,” he declared. “Understood?”

“I’m from Italy, not stupid,” Garvanos said in German.

Andreas Kästner blinked and then, very slowly, he nodded. “We’ll see about that. Take a look around, maybe. Don’t steal anything.”

Garvanos was too used to this jibe for it to hurt anymore. He shrugged and left the wings and then gave himself a tour of the theatre, a maze of corridors and crossroads and beams and lifts and cranes and doors, dressing rooms for the ballet corps, male and female, strictly separated and probably chaperoned – the costume storerooms – the props room, next to it – the dressing room for the chorus and minor solo singers, only one, so men and women probably changed in shifts; in the back of the room screens and separated vanities provided a semblance of privacy and personal space for those who had earned it.

Then there were the dressing rooms for the solo singers and the more prestigious the person – regardless, the role – the more space between the doors.

Only four doors had more than two arm lengths between them and one door was labelled “Alexej Beljajew”. That was probably the boy from before.

Didn’t seem to friendly a fellow. That could spell trouble – life as a chorus singer or an understudy was hard enough without having any of the soloists hating you. Although in Milan it had rarely ever been the men who had started drama, that honour had usually belonged to the primadonna and the head ballerina. God help you if they for some reason both decided to hate you. Garvanos had watched a few young women leave the Scala because of that. But the leading ladies weren’t the leading ladies for nothing, so the rest of the theatre usually had suffered in silence and waited for the drama to blow over and Garvanos had his own share of troubles to worry about. All he could do was praying that this boy wasn’t interested in behaving like a primadonna, only because the actual one seemed a nice enough, at least nice enough to consider him a landsman. Maybe it had been a while since she had had contact with an actual Italian and was now taking what she could get?

He listened to snippets of conversations floating around him, bits in German that he almost understood.

This language was confusing. Some words were actually familiar to his ears without him having to try too hard, but then they messed it up with too hard words, too many edges, too complicated verbs and a grammar that seemed to be designed as an instrument of torture.

Still, Garvanos had managed to learn the language, at least well enough for everyday purposes. Maestro Mauro had insisted on him learning German years ago, considering how much German music and especially opera had grown in importance over the last few years. Or maybe he had planned all along to send him away. It wasn’t like Garvanos would be missed at the Scala. He couldn’t even begrudge Maestro Mauro his decision to send Garvanos so far away. Quite a few of the German countries had a long and celebrated theatre tradition and Dresden especially was one of the big cultural centres of the German speaking countries. Maybe Garvanos would find a spot for himself here. Maybe, with any luck, people would hear his Milanese accent, consider his last name and would chalk Garvanos up as some eccentricity on his parents’ part?

Considering Andreas Kästner’s reaction, probably not.

Head bowed down, tucked in between his shoulder blades almost defensively, he returned to the wings.

Rehearsals were still going on. On stage a bass singer as bass a singer could be and a soprano, probably in her thirties, went through the dialogue between Sarastro and Pamina.

They were good, Sarastro deep and filling and awe-inspiring – a wise and kind leader and protective father figure for the girl he had taken.

Pamina’s sweet, flexible soprano wept her sorrow and her worries for her mother, occasionally broken by hopes for a better future with a lover she had yet to meet but was already enthralled with.

“Piece of shit,” he heard someone mutter beside him and as he turned, saw the tenor. Alexej Beljajew.

Garvanos flinched. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were here.”

“This opera is shit,” Alexej mumbled, as if he hadn’t heard him.

Garvanos blinked at him. “You’re singing the male lead.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not full of shit.” The boy shrugged. “And we all need bread, right?” he slowly blinked at Garvanos, his bright eyes hard and cold with something almost like fury. “Don’t look at me like that. You tell me you love singing so much or whatever?”

Taken aback, Garvanos stood in silence, while he listened as Sarastro and Pamina came to an end.

“Elise, get lyrics into thick skull of yours tomorrow! Is not like Pamina has many lines!” Mr. Kirsch bellowed.

Surprisingly, the soprano was positively glowing when she left the stage. Then she saw Garvanos and for a moment she made a face as if smelling something intensely unpleasant and then briskly walked past him.

“Alexej! Your scene with Johannes! Then enough for today!”

The boy sighed, “Ugh, finally!” and then left towards the stage.

Garvanos listened to the piano smattering the melody and then the bass started delivering what were the Priest’s lines, questioning the hero about his aim and destination.

Alexej Beljajew had no trouble delivering the expected feelings. Tamino’s distrust against the supposed villain - be it Sarastro or one of his high priests, who knew how this production was supposed to go - was palpable and he didn’t shake it off after he supposedly had started to believe his word.

“Stop! Alexej! Tamino not sarcastic here!”

Alexej Beljajew on the stage took an audible, deep breath.

Garvanos just waited for him to start screaming. If he started screaming, he wouldn’t be surprised at all.

However, the boy did not scream.

Garvanos heard him breathe out and then, with an utterly fake tone of resignation sigh: “Yes, true, he believes every single word, strangers he doesn’t know tell him and is extremely easily swayed to their cause. He probably wouldn’t know sarcasm if it stood in front of him yelling his face off as he deserves for his idiocy.”

From down below, a soft, long-suffering groan rose to them, then ended sharply and Mr. Kirsch said, “Again. From top.”

They started again and this time, Alexej acted on the conversion of Tamino, portraying him with the wonder and elation of watching a sunrise after a night’s vigil. His voice was already mostly formed but still had retained that glass clear, aerial quality Garvanos was used to hear from chorus boys before they grew up.

“Then now! Done! Who on stage tonight? Both of you? Good, see you then.”

“See you!” the bass greeted before leaving for the curtain.

“He took a quick glance at Garvanos. New face?”

Garvanos quickly nodded. “Yes- uh- Mr. Kästner is supposed to show me to a boarding house.”

“Chorus then? Well, welcome to Dresden. You are?”

“Thank you. Scimia.”

The bass smiled through his thick, red beard and offered him a hand. “Johannes Erhard. Scimia’s the only name you go by?”

“Garvanos Scimia.”

The bass paused for a moment. His brow furrowed.

Garvanos swallowed.

“Well,” the bass said and nodded for emphasis, in case you don’t know yet – we’re all stage folk here. We have each other’s back no matter what unless someone doesn’t deserve it. You got that?”

Garvanos wasn’t sure he got every single of the doubtlessly many meanings of this. He nodded anyways. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Oi, Johannes, if you have time to be a papa to any new nose around here, you have time for your wife too!” Alexej Beljajew hissed. “Go home!”

Johannes Erhard laughed. “If your wealth of experience and wisdom accumulated in your long, long life says so, my dear boy – I will! See you tonight!” He wandered off as well.

Alexej Beljajew sighed and glanced to Garvanos again. “So, you know what’s up after the Magic Flute?”

“Not yet.” Garvanos had the distinct feeling this might change in the next few moments.

“Wildschütz. Comedy. Light-hearted. Ossip mentioned it before, learn to listen if you want to survive. You should try out for it. Easy to sing, you might even get a small spot.”

“And what if not?”

The boy stared at him. “Then you’re where you were before.”

“Why would you want me to try out?”

Alexej Beljajew snorted. “What? Does this look like Paris to you?”

“Doesn’t sound vomited up enough around here,” Garvanos said. “So, why then?”

“I like to see how far people can get.” His eyes were still hard and cool but the glass shard sharp edge had come off a bit. Would be interesting to see how far you can get. If you get anywhere at all, it’s just as likely that you remain flailing on the ground. That could be quite entertaining too.”

Yes, that sounded a little more like a typical primadonna than Deborah Santelli’s sweet laughter and genuine smiles and Italian jokes.

Andreas Kästner apparently was done watching the rehearsals and now turned around to Garvanos. “Oh, you’re here already? Good. See you tonight, Beljajew!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Alexej Beljajew mumbled and then wandered off.

Andreas Kästner huffed a laugh and waved. “Ah well. Come along.”

Garvanos did and was led into the spring-warm midday sun and through streets and alleyways, filled with laughter and screaming and talking and the rumbling of horse pulled carts.

An ever-flowing stream of German surrounded them, strongly marked by the Saxonian dialect which blurred and slurred the usually hard and sharp edges of the language, everything spoken in a high-pitched, almost painful singsong.

Garvanos prayed he’d get used to it and quickly. Preferably before his ears started to bleed.

“So”, Andreas Kästner turned to him after a quick stop at the inn where he had stayed the night so he could pick up his suitcase, “gypsy, right?”

Thank goodness, he spoke Italian, although his accent was almost as thick as plaster.

“Si.” Garvanos nodded. “I grew up in Italy. Maestro Scimia took me under his wing when I was three or four.”

Andreas’ face moved ever so slightly. “Ah. So – more Italian, then?”

“I suppose.”

Andreas Kästner shot him a curious glance. “Why do you have a gypsy name then?”

Garvanos shrugged.

A name is a present and a valuable one at that, Maestro Mauro had once said.

“Your caretaker should have given you an Italian name when he took you in. Who’d want a gypsy name for their child anyways?”

It’s the first thing our parents give to us. Who am I to take that away?

Again, Garvanos shrugged. “No idea. Gypsies maybe?” He looked ahead and nodded to one tall, time-darkened dome of sandstone. “That’s the Church of Our Lady over there?”

“It is.” Thankfully, Andreas Kästner picked up on the change of topic. “In case you ever lose your way in the city, head towards there and once you’re on the Neumarkt, you should be able to find your way back to the theatre.”

Another corner, they stopped to let some carriages and carts pass and then crossed the street.

The boarding house turned out to be a broad, five-story building with a bright blue facade and a thin, tired-looking widow for an owner who made a humble living out of renting out beds and offering food for theatre folks from behind a small desk with a thick, large book on it that looked very well-thumbed.

She looked at Garvanos closely, going so far as drawing up her oil lamp close to his face, despite the fact that bright midday light shone through the window and lightened up the birch wood panels on the wall and the bright, yellow tiles on the floor. “Do you even work?!”

Did he work at the Royal Court Theatre? Ossip Kirsch had said so, but still-

“Mrs. Haubener,” Andreas sighed, Really?”

“There’s a way how things are done”, the woman snapped. “Especially with these folks.”

“Royal Court theatre,” Garvanos blurted out. He had time to find out whether that was actually true later.

“Orchestra? Chorus? You don’t look like ballet.”

“Chorus.”

“Well, Kirsch is known to be somewhat tolerant.” She nodded. “Alright. You pay your rent weekly. Breakfast is at six. Supper at eight. Your rent is twelve Groschen. The fare includes seven meals, your choice whether it’s breakfast or supper. Let me know in advance. Everything else you book on top. If there’s trouble you leave immediately.”

Garvanos glanced to Andreas, but the man nodded and Garvanos decided to trust his judgement. “Alright.”

“Good. You got money to pay for the week? If not, you can start paying next week, but put two Groschen on top of it for six weeks, then we’re good.”

“I-” Garvanos’ throat was tight. “I can pay.”

“Good.” She nodded, curtly, then held her hand out.

Garvanos quickly reached for his purse and counted up twelve Groschen into her palm.

Mrs. Haubener smiled as she pocketed the money and opened a book. “Your name?”

“Scimia, Garvanos.”

She pressed her lips to a thin line, made a note behind the name and closed the book again. “Before Mr. Kästner shows you to your room – you can come and go at your own leisure, there’s always someone opening up the doors. But you won’t bring women to your room. You won’t come towards the girls’ rooms. If you have a female visitor, you can receive them in the mess hall where everyone can see you and you will behave properly. No smoking in the room. If you violate any of these rules or if I hear too many complaints from the other tenants or if you can’t pay your rent, I will kick you out at once, understood?”

Garvanos hurried to nod, although his head was still picking apart the last sentence just in case, he had missed anything on first hearing.

“Good. Mr. Kästner, you know where there’s a free bed, you take care of him.”

“Will do and thank you!”

“Can we count you in for supper?”

“Gladly.”

Mrs. Haubener looked at Garvanos. “Do you want breakfast tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” With a wave, they were dismissed and Andreas headed for the stairway.

Garvanos followed him.

On each floor, there were two closed doors, left and right.

“Left are the women’s rooms and Mrs. Haubener is serious, by the way, don’t ever go there. I had a girl who lived there and we were planning to get married sometime in the future. We were only allowed to meet in the mess and only with a chaperone, so we usually went out or met at the theatre.”

“Oh,” Garvanos said, “Uh- you were planning, you said?"

Andreas swallowed audibly. “She-” He looked at Garvanos, quite mistyeyed all of a sudden. “She changed her mind. In the end, she found it more lucrative to marry one of the sponsors of the lead ballerina.”

“Oh- well-” Garvanos tried to find the right words, failed and thus, didn’t say anything.

Andreas, visibly collecting himself, drew a deep breath. “Oh well. She will regret her decision in time, you will see. She will beg me to take her back. I am not entirely sure yet whether to forgive her then or spurn her.”

This left Garvanos speechless for entirely different reasons. While they went up another floor, he left Andreas to his ramblings until he finally opened the door to reveal a corridor with yet more doors, three on each side.

Andreas wandered down the corridor and opened the middle door on the left. “Ah, I was right – there’s room here.” He waved Garvanos to come closer.

The room had six beds, one of them empty and obviously unoccupied. Next to each there was a small nightstand, at the foot end of each bed a cask for clothes and other personal belongings.

The others were all showing various signs of general occupation.

“Three of them are in the orchestra – bit wild, those folks, take care when they offer you something – anything they call home made, especially when it’s something to drink. The other two are singers, like you and me. Be quiet and you’ll be fine. I think.”

Garvanos nodded, slowly and not entirely reassured. “Thank you.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m one floor up, middle room to the left.”

Again, Garvanos mumbled, “Thank you”, and then he was left alone to unpack what he had with him. Not that it was much, three pairs of trousers, two shirts, one good shirt, four sets of underwear. One suit for formal occasions, but Garvanos knew that he should replace it soon. The poor thing had seen more wear, tear and repair than a formal suit should. At last, one well-thumbed edition of Boccaccio’s Decamerone, which Garvanos carefully placed on his nightstand, running a finger over the back of the book. Maestro Mauro had used this very book to teach him reading, maybe a year or two after he had started giving Garvanos music lessons.

The memory brought a wave of homesickness that made Garvanos nauseous enough to sit down on the bed. Why had he ever thought this might be a good idea? It wasn’t, it so definitely wasn’t and he-

He took the book in his hands, feeling the familiar weight, the blue linen, once coarse, now softened by uncounted times of touching, the paper having lost the stiff freshness long ago, bending to his touch as he opened the book.

There was a sheet of paper inside.

Garvanos blinked, then picked it up and unfolded it.

Maestro Scimia’s neat, flowing cursive stared at him in Italian and Garvanos smiled a bit. It was like him to write him a note.

My dear, little Corviccino,

By now you have hopefully settled in in Dresden. Don’t be too discouraged by Ossip Kirsch. He is gruff, but a good sort and he appreciates hard work or so I have heard and you are one of the hardest workers I have experienced in my life and you have more talent than you yourself believe. I do hope so very much that Dresden will do you good and help you realize what you can do. With lots of love and all the best wishes,

Mauro Scimia

Garvanos dropped the note, taking in a deep breath.

Maestro Mauro had wanted him to go here and Garvanos had not protested. Maestro Mauro wanted him to be here. Now Garvanos was here. Maestro Mauro wanted him to succeed here.

Hopefully, he would.

With lots of love and all the best wishes, he had written.

That was some comfort at least. Maestro Mauro hadn’t sent him away because he didn’t care for him. Maestro Mauro wanted him to grow and change and succeed.

So, Garvanos would try his best.

So Garvanos would now consider Dresden the place to grow and change and succeed.

So Garvanos would now consider Dresden his home and try to make it one.

It would be all right.

It had to be alright.

Chapter 02

It was anything but all right and Garvanos knew it.

He had wandered Dresden a bit more, but it had been a short stint. Acutely aware that people stared at him, taking in that stranger with dark skin and thick, black hair, so obviously foreign, so clearly a gypsy, no matter how well he dressed, how articulate he was, how good his manners were. He had managed only two or three streets before the stares had driven him back into the boarding house.

By the time of his return the place had started to crawl with people coming back from their morning work or already heading out for the evening performances, the foyer was overrun with dancers and musicians and artists talking amiably or curtly to each other.

Here, at least, nobody had paid Garvanos any more attention than a quick, curious glance, thank goodness.

He had met up with Andreas Kästner for supper, listening to him chattering on and on about which chorus singer had done this and that and which ballet girl he was intending to woo this year, so he could marry her, so his former betrothed would see how well he’d be doing without her and then she’d regret everything and try to reconcile with him, how wonderful La Santelli was and how angelic Marianne Bergmann.

He didn’t say much, partly because Andreas clearly revelled in having someone who listened to his troubles, even if it was only some Italian-raised Gypsy.

Partly it was because Andreas was talking fast and with that thick, Saxonian accent of his, so Garvanos had to focus all his attention on understanding what he was saying.

Nightfall came and when they returned, Mrs. Haubener, as thin-lipped as in the morning, handed him a blanket, sheets and a pillow, all clean and smelling faintly of lavender and all smooth and tinted the softest shade of yellow with long years of use.

So now here he was in a freshly made bed, in a room he shared with some strangers, doing his best to catch some sleep.

It proved to be a tough exercise.

He was used to the relative quiet of the garden under his window in Milan, surrounded by a high wall that kept out most of the noise. No such luxuries here.

Dresden was a loud city night and day, full of the rumble of the carts, the clopping of hooves, the chatter and laughter of people and the shatter of glass.

Even after pressing the pillow over his ears, the sounds still intruded on him and followed him into his dreams, tainting the memories of home.

Morning came too early and as he rose, he saw five other tousled heads rising, blinking, looking around and then stumbling out of their beds to get dressed.

The other men blinked at him. “New face, eh?” one commented. “Where you work?”

“Chorus,” Garvanos mumbled and then hurried down,# before they could stare at him anymore or ask questions or tell him not to steal anything or try to talk to him in general. He definitely could do without talking.

Downstairs a maid servant handed out trays with bread and butter and cheese and porridge and strong, black tea and made a mark behind his name on a list, not without shooting him a dark look.

He ate in silence, taking notice of the fact that Andreas wasn’t coming down and scanning the many, square tables of the room that was serving as mess hall. Everyone down here looked just as tired as Garvanos felt and the tea did only so much to alleviate his troubles. Down here in the mess hall, the gender segregation was almost non-existent, men and women eating in peace at the same table, sometimes in bleary silence, sometimes with a side of friendly banter or bickering, before they got up, carried their dishes back and then left, possibly for whatever line of work they were keeping themselves fed and housed with. Maybe everyone was just still too tired to care.

Garvanos cleared his plate and then left.

The Royal Court Theatre was waiting.

Life was waiting.

Work, however, wasn’t waiting, so he better hurry and there were a lot of things he would rather face than an angry Ossip Kirsch right at his first day. Being thrown off a cliff most definitely or being run over by a horse cart most definitely would have been a far more delightful prospect.

Of course, this only resulted in him being far too early.

Nonetheless the door was already open and he could go inside to follow long, yellow-dark corridors towards the stage.

Each step took him closer and he still didn’t feel too ready to face what lay ahead.

But there it was, the stage, the auditorium, and there was Mr. Kirsch, already sitting in one of the chairs close to the orchestra pit.

For a split second he wished he had been too late.

He took a deep breath and came out into sight. “Good morning.”

Mr. Kirsch looked up. “Ah. You here. Good. Warm up.” He waved and then turned back to the newspaper he was reading.

Garvanos started with some breathing exercises, widening his lungs, then loosened his lips and tongue by making hissing, chortling sounds and blowing raspberries before finally getting to his vocal cords, moving his voice up and down in even, uninterrupted glides, before singing scores and then slowly moving on to simply three-tone melodies.

When he was done, Mr. Kirsch had put his newspaper aside and was watching him intently.

Garvanos tried his hardest to hold his gaze, but at the end he had to avert his eyes.

“Tenor, right?”

“Uh, yes. Last time I checked- just now-”

Mr. Kirsch raised an eyebrow and it occurred to Garvanos too late that he might not appreciate cheek. Well. Too late. But maybe it wasn’t too late to slink away to a corner and die, in a potentially less painful way than what Mr. Kirsch might do to him.

But Mr. Kirsch did nothing that might have pointed towards the impending, painful termination of Garvanos’s life.

Instead, he reached to the seat next to himself and grabbed a small folio. “There!” He lifted his arm and threw the thing for Garvanos to run after and catch it.

When he opened it, he found sheets of music.

“Fifteen minutes before other singers arrive. Go through it, see what you already know. Practise the rest with me afterwards.”

Garvanos leafed through the songs. “I think I’m good,” he then said after a moment’s pause, “I mean, I know them from Maestro Scimia-”

“You sing any of them on stage?” Mr. Kirsch asked.

“Some of them,” Garvanos admitted. “I never performed in Nabucco because I was considered too young, but I studied and practised it.”

“With whom?”

With Maestro Mauro, Garvanos wanted to say, but that would have meant Mr. Kirsch thought of him as some sort of genius, deserving of such intense tutelage. Which he was not. He wasn’t bad per se or he would not even sing in chorus or even a small solo role. But he most definitely wasn’t what Mr. Kirsch would expect. And Mauro had practised these songs with him in private, for their own mutual amusement, so he had been lenient with him and-

“Nobody. Alone.”

“Ah.” Mr. Kirsch crossed his arms. “So, Va, Pensiero too?”

Garvanos nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” He leaned back in his chair, looking up to Garvanos expectantly. “Well. Let’s hear.”

“What? No.”

Mr. Kirsch let out something like a growl. “You say no to me?” he asked, face twisting up. “You say no to me?! To me? You?!” He had risen from his chair, staring at him.

Garvanos’s stomach churned.

“So! You sing now or not?! Are you singer or not?!”

The nausea was getting worse by the second and still, Mr. Kirsch was staring at him.

So, finally, he nodded.

“Ah, fine. You need piano?”

Garvanos shook his head. “I-” His German was leaving him, right now when it would have been really important to appear at least somewhat confident. “Sto bene.”

“Then do so and do now!”

He stepped closer to the piano that was half-hidden behind the curtain, sheets of music in hand, and then he was out of Mr. Kirsch’s line of sight.

This was good.

Garvanos actually managed to calm down his breathing, deepen the draws of air he took and settle his nerves, just a little bit.

It was enough so his fingers didn’t tremble when they touched the piano keys, playing the first few beats that lead into the song, before his voice set in. “Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate; va, ti posa sui clivi,” he began the central chorus number of the opera.

Somewhere along the singing he dared to come back out on stage, doing his best not to think about Mr. Kirsch sitting down there in his chair, looking at him with was most definitely was utter disapproval.

Instead, he focused on the song. “O mia patria sì bella e perduta! O membranza sì cara e fatal!“ How fatal it is to think of you, home - and no, he would not allow himself to think too much about Milan anymore. He was here now. He was here.

It ended with “che ne infonda al patire virtù.“ and Garvanos let out a deep breath of relief after a second.

Mr. Kirsch nodded. “The rest of the songs in repertoire? You know these?”

“Yes.” Should he sing these too? Knowing would have been nice.

“Good.”

There was not much more time. Garvanos already heard footsteps, many, many of them, and they all were light. Chorus singers usually were young, hoping to rise through the ranks in time, becoming someone’s understudy and maybe even lead singer themselves at some point. Those who didn’t flourish when they grew older could either stay or try and find some other employment, maybe as a private music teacher or as a performer in a smaller theatre. Most stayed small, with small names, small incomes, small lives.

Garvanos could be happy about that. He had never dared to dream of anything big. A small life suited him just fine.

But here they were, the other singers, looking at him, some smiling, some gaping, all as if the Prima Donna herself had declared it proper and reasonable to practise with them.

“Oh. Morning,” he mumbled, trying to smile at them.

He was met with silence.

“Take place!” Mr. Kirsch called.

“Well,” one of them commented, Garvanos couldn’t see his face, “could be worse”, before they took their designated places.

Garvanos relied on Mr. Kirsch’s cues to join the tenor singers.

They positioned themselves and the other singers only slightly shifted away from him. That was good.

One man with a shock of pale blond hair over an equally pale face eyed him sharply and then turned away.

Practise went on and it was – it was all right.

Garvanos found he liked the voices surrounding him and that he could sing along quite nicely with them. That was good as well. Anything else didn’t matter.

It wasn’t until eight o’clock that any of them heard another set of steps and then an annoyed, “Oi, Ossip, you wanna keep them for the whole day?!” from backstage.

Only then the spell was broken. Only then Garvanos woke up again, realizing that he was on stage, surrounded by dozens and dozens of people.

He looked around. Next to the curtain Alexej Beljajew leaned against a beam, arms folded across his chest, a dour look on his face. “We wanna start, y’know?”

“Yes, yes. Good! Chorus, dismissed! Schedules for next evening performances in next week hang on board, take look!” Mr. Kirsch waved at them and they broke formation.

“You sing really well,” a young man said, next to him, smiling politely. “Wouldn’t have thought. When you went through Nabucco you didn’t even have an accent. ”

“Thanks. Italian is my mother tongue.” Garvanos managed to pull up the corners of his mouth. “Mr. Kirsch is pretty demanding, right?”

“Yes, but that’s what makes us good.” The man grinned. “I am Johannes.”

“Garvanos.” They shook hands while heading off the stage.

“Scimia! You on stage tomorrow with Magic Flute,” Mr. Kirsch called. “For rest you check board.”

Garvanos swallowed a little and nodded before following the others off the stage, along the corridors to the communal changing room and the announcement board.

Garvanos was scheduled for five evenings. That meant three different performances.

“As I said,” Johannes grinned, “demanding job here, but that’s what makes you good. If one’s not up for it, he’ll be happier somewhere else.”

Garvanos, after a moment, decided to shrug. “It’s not worse than the Scala.”

“Oh right,” Johannes looked him up and down. “You’re from Milan. Andreas told me. You don’t look Italian, mind you.”

Garvanos raised an eyebrow.

“I guess you hear that a lot?”

“And I am familiar with the concept of looking glasses and able to apply this knowledge in my everyday life, yes.” But still, Garvanos found himself smiling as he said this.

Johannes grew a bit less polite and a good deal more genuine. “Yeah, alright, admittedly, the only person in this whole opera who looks Italian is La Santelli, so, I guess we’re in the same boat here.”

Garvanos laughed. “Seems like it.”

They moved aside so the others could have a glance on the board as well.

“So, you’ve got time today, what you gonna do?” Johannes asked.

“Don’t know. Maybe I’ll take another look at the town. I still didn’t manage to see all that much. And practising. You?”

“I am on stage tonight, so I guess I’ll rest at home. My sister always complains I’m too exhausted.”

Garvanos nodded and smiled. “Good, then.”

“See you tomorrow.” Johannes turned, waving, and then he wandered off.

Garvanos looked after him for a bit before turning his attention back to the board.

For a few more moments he studied it and then turned away, making a mental note to bring a pen and paper with him tomorrow, so he could write it down properly.

It was still so early in the day. Preparations did not start until five or six and performances would go on until as late as eleven. Thankfully, chorus singers were generally not required to partake in any social after-functions, so Garvanos would hopefully not have to worry about lacking sleep.

“So?”

He turned around to find Alexej Beljajew standing behind him, staring.

“Uh. Hello. Again,” Garvanos mumbled, trying not to sound too disturbed about the fact that the boy was here, in front of the changing room, instead of the stage where he was supposed to be practising and rehearsing.

“Ossip’s busy with Deborah and Marianne,” Beljajew said, as if reading his mind, “Deborah’s understudy.”

Garvanos nodded.

“So.” The boy folded his arms in front of his chest. “You gonna try out for Wildschütz?”

“I don’t know yet,” Garvanos admitted. “This is my first day here and it seems Mr. Kirsch already has its pick on solo singers.”

“So what? Afraid you blow it up?”

“No, not really.” Garvanos found himself looking for words. “I mean, I simply don’t think I’m gonna do too well, so, maybe I should focus on improving in general- I could do better next time?”

“Ah.” Beljajew took a deep breath. “So you don’t wanna blow it up, so you don’t try at all? Okay, we can make this much shorter.” He took a step closer and Garvanos found himself walking backwards until he hit the wall. “If you think so, you’ll blow it up. End of story. We don’t need that here, we need folks who are good and we need folks who can sing.”

The boy stood now directly in front of him, staring him in the eye. “Get out then, we don’t need you!” With that, he turned around and stomped off.

Garvanos stood and stared after him.

What the hell had that been about?

He didn’t know, he didn’t care, he decided. It was silly.

Still he found it strangely hard to turn around and go down the corridor to the door. His feet were heavy, slowed down.

He paused, close to the door.

This boy called him a coward because he was hesitant about a try-out.

Garvanos shook his head. If that was a reason to call him a coward, then fine, really, that was fine.

But still.

This child had declared him unfit to sing because of this. And maybe that was the case to some degree. Someone too afraid for a try-out was certainly not fit for a solo spot at the centre stage.

The idea of this brat being right left a very sour taste in Garvanos’ mouth.

His feet started walking again, turning, going back, to the stage.

Alexej Beljajew was still standing there, behind the curtain, looking out on the stage.

“So,” Garvanos sighed in something that probably was defeat, but for some reason did come out quite undefeated, “You got the scores and a libretto for the Wildschütz?”

Considering small parts rarely ever had any solo numbers of a length to speak of, practising the big and important roles was inevitable when preparing for a try-out. The Wildschütz had only one big tenor part and that one had quite a few solo verses, so, more than enough material to take his pick from.

Leafing through the libretto for a suitable piece to sing, Garvanos had had chuckled quite a few times; light-hearted as it was, the humour was just outright vicious at times, with one young bride happily poking fun at the age of her middle-aged groom right in the beginning.

The story continued with circumstances threatening the wedding, dressup, cross-dressing, going into hiding, mistaken identities, and supposedly comical love situations. It resolved in some happily married love matches in the end; none of them incestuous or adulterous, so far.

And Garvanos had thought Italian opera could go over the top. Leave it to the Germans to blow it up even more. Also, leave it to the Germans to attempt and make allusions to incestuous adultery funny.

There were smaller practise rooms in the back of the building and Garvanos made it his habit to go and find himself a free one after morning rehearsal and practise there for two hours or so.

The music was fun and energetic and easy enough to play if the lead melody was all one was trying for anyways.

Singing was trickier with these energetic, fun things that sounded so nice and easy, but were anything but.

Garvanos got into the routine of starting with a scene between the Baron and his brother-in-law, the Count of Eberbach, discussing how the unmarried Baron had sneaked in under the disguise of a stable boy and had already started flirting with the Counts wife – who was also his sister. He sang the Baron’s parts, only humming along whenever the Count had a line.

Once this was finished, he moved on to one of the first longer verses of the Baron in which he declared himself smitten with a supposedly poor young woman. “Ja, ich muss die Holde sehen,” the verse started, as the duke expressed his desire for a beautiful woman.

That was good. He could recall emotion when needed.

He then would move on to the second longer verse the Baron had, one he sang together with the Count, expressing their shared disbelief that their equally shared, poor, low-born sweetheart was engaged to a middle aged, homely school teacher. “Nein, es ist kaum zu glauben, dass dieses Monstrum hier imstande wär’, zu rauben der Mädchen schönste Zier!”

The disbelief and anger were no problem either. In fact, it was really fun to sing and Garvanos found himself looking forward to these few hours every day, in the morning, during rehearsal and when performing.

Occasionally, when he was almost done with singing through the baron’s parts and his voice was warm and flexible and easy, he found and felt the notes coursing through him and leaving him in a sweet flow.

His days slipped into an easy, familiar routine of rehearsal, practise and on most evenings, performances, during which he wrote a short letter, informing Maestro Mauro of his safe arrival in Dresden and at the theatre, his good health and, after a moment of hesitation, the upcoming try-outs. These sorts of things were what Maestro Mauro loved to hear, so Garvanos gladly provided.

He would usually chat with Andreas (at least on days the man wasn’t obsessing over his former fiancée) as well as with Johannes and some other men from the chorus, sometimes after performances they would try and find some place for dinner in a group.

It most definitely helped Garvanos improve his grasp on German, to sit and listen to them exchanging stories and throwing good natured jabs at each other, even though he would never make sense of this mash up of accents they featured.

“Gar, you know any fun stories from the Scala?” Johannes one day asked, cheerfully chewing on a bit of potato dipped in curd. Their favourite dinner at the inn Seidelhof was wonderfully cheap and filling – hence its status.

The mood was good tonight. Mr. Kirsch had praised them. At least Garvanos had the feeling that his “like that tomorrow,” was a praise, considering the reactions of the other singers.

“Uh-” Garvanos quickly stuffed a piece of steaming potato into his mouth to chew on and regretted it immediately.

He desperately tried to roll the bite in his mouth without actually touching it with his tongue, grabbing for his beer to ease the pain a bit.

The hurt and the subsequent cooling made the beer actually almost drinkable.

“Urgh.” Garvanos swallowed. “Now that’s a story, a singer who dies of a hot potato and awful alcohol.”

Johannes laughed. “I tell you, you will get used to beer.”

“I do hope not before I can afford proper wine again.” Still, the beer was cold and his mouth was still smarting from the hot potato, so Garvanos took another sip. “Anyway, it’s funnier when it happens to the director of the opera and involves some meatballs, spitting and the primadonna in her brand new, yellow dress. For a moment I thought she’d join the ranks of the ghosts haunting the Scala.”

There was a round of laughter and finally someone said: “You got many of them there?”

“Ghosts?” Garvanos rolled his eyes. “Every department has their own stories. Sometimes up to ten or so. It’s become a competition of sort, whether ballet or singers or stagehands are better at creeping each other out.”

“You got so many ghosts, send them over here!” A boy, Thomas laughed. “We got only one and he’s been here for only a few years!”

Considering all the technology a stage demanded, the endless corridors, the ever-present bustle of people, it wasn’t hard to mistake a gust of wind for a moan or the creaking of floorboards for steps. And of course, when people left out sweetmeats to appease a ghost or two, they would disappear.

Maestro Mauro had always made a show of laughing at these superstitions and secretly sprayed Holy Water on corridors and in rooms that were considered particularly haunted.

“One ghost? In how many years?” Garvanos inquired.

“Yes and a quiet one at that,” Johannes grumbled. “Worst we’ve noticed was some rustling of curtains during a dress rehearsal. Send some of yours over, Gar, it would liven things up a bit.”

Garvanos managed a chuckle. “Maybe I can write Maestro Scimia to repeat the meatball incident, then we’d have one fresh and full of energy.”

One of the other men snorted. “I would love to bear witness!”

“Yeah, with La Santelli it’s kinda hard to do,” Johannes sighed. “She always wears so dark colours.”

“She would laugh at it and spit something on your shirt in revenge.”

“So she’s always so nice?” Garvanos asked.

“Yep.” Johannes shrugged. “Dunno how she got to her position with