An Ode to Life E-Book

Manja Siber

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 714

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The gripping sequel to "A Song for Ghosts" Dresden 1848 Just as opera singer Garvanos is at the cusp of success after months of struggling and plans his future with his lover Ivan, life finds a way to throw obstacles in his path. Richard Wagner returns and reclaims his position as head director of the Royal Court Theatre. With him, ghosts from the past come to haunt the opera and Garvanos helplessly watches Ivan retreat back into the shadows he dragged him from. Between Wagner's malign presence and Dresden more and more heating up in riots and commotions, will Garvanos be able to take his future into his hands?

Leseprobe

www.tredition.de

Manja Siber

An Ode to Life

www.tredition.de

© 2021 Manja Siber

Print and publication: tredition GmbH, Halenreie 40-44, 22359 Hamburg

ISBN

Paperback:

978-3-347-31586-0

Hardcover:

978-3-347-31587-7

e-Book:

978-3-347-31588-4

Cover design by: Trudy Wenzel

https://synticfaye.artstation.com/

Original picture: Längsschnitt 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.

Prelude

Dear reader,

as with “A Song for Ghosts”, the same applies here.

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. Both “A Song for Ghosts” and “An Ode to Life” are set in 1848 and 1849, when the word was still a more neutral term. 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 to as recent as the 1970’s. Even the most sympathetic, positive, or at least neutral writings would always use “Gypsy”, “Gitano”, “Zigeuner”, “Bohéme”.

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

“And my predecessor.” Ossip Kirsch's voice was strangely empty, eerily quiet. Garvanos had never heard him being anything gut gruff and on the verge or even outright booming. “Of course, most of you know Mr. Richard Wagner.”

This was most definitely not alright.

Mr. Wagner, thin and seemingly unassuming, looked around, a genial smile on his face.

If Garvanos had never heard anything about this man before he might have been tempted to find him nice.

As it was, after all he had heard, after everything he knew, the smile was nauseating.

Richard Wagner.

The man who had been responsible for Ivan living in secret.

The man who still haunted him.

He looked around.

Strange. Just a moment ago they all had been laughing and smiling, chatting, congratulating each other on a performance gone well.

The cheer had all but died.

Garvanos felt as if the silence would drown him; it rushed and roared deafeningly in his ears.

Their illustrious audience, Friedrich August II of Wettin, King of Saxony and his small entourage all seemed oblivious to the sudden shift in mood, still to engrossed by the performance they had enjoyed not even an hour before. Or maybe they deliberately ignored it.

They had seen them perform Rienzi, an opera by Richard Wagner.

Had they requested this opera specifically because they had already known the composer would be present?

Why had nobody told them anything?

Where was Ivan? Was he still around, hearing all this?

Richard Wagner inclined his head ever so slightly, either oblivious or deliberately ignoring the stony silence he had elicited. As with the Royal family, it was impossible to tell. “Well, I must say, Mr. Kirsch,” he said in quite a pleasant voice, sonorous, full and self-assured, “You have worked wonders on them. I cannot remember ever seeing any of them so disciplined as they are here.”

Garvanos saw Mr. Kirsch nod again. His broad shoulders were so tense, he feared they might burst. His grey hair seemed even more frizzed than usual.

“Oh, my. Miss Bergmann, I haven’t seen you tonight. Are you well?” Mr. Wagner asked, a smile crossing his face as he walked over to Marianne and took her hands.

Marianne Bergmann looked like she’d rather be elsewhere, her pale face blotched with an uncomfortable blush. It had almost the same shade as her red hair. “Well enough. Thank you.” She glanced at Deborah as if begging her for help.

“We didn’t know you were in Dresden,” Deborah Santelli finally said.

Garvanos noticed that her Italian accent was thicker than he had ever heard her. Her dark eyes flickered with something he would have almost dared to call hatred, but no, surely not. Not Debbie-

“What a pleasant surprise. How long will you be staying?” She raised a hand to her temple and brushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“Oh, my dear,” Mr. Wagner smiled, “you make it sound like I am a mere visitor.”

Garvanos ears were filling up with a rushing, ringing sound.

“I am so sorry I had to leave my post for a while, but as I see, you all were in more capable hands than I would have thought. Nonetheless, I have delightful news for you. My absence is over. Starting tomorrow, I will resume my post and my work as musical director.”

The ringing in Garvanos’ ears grew ever louder. Mr. Kirsch would lose his position? He had had plans for the whole remaining year. What would become of these? And what about him? He had just proven himself, he had just made the leap from chorus singer to soloist, he had just passed his probation, he-

Mr. Wagner would not allow a Gypsy as a lead soloist, Garvanos was sure.

“Of course, Mr. Kirsch will retain his position as director and instructor of the chorus – he has always done good work there. In my absence he even managed to discover some new talents.” Mr. Wagner’s eyes wandered over Marianne, Andreas, and Thomas, lingering on each of them. Notably, he didn't spare Garvanos a glance.

Garvanos’ stomach sank.

No. He wouldn’t suffer him in his position.

“I see, young Mr. Beljajew has positively blossomed in the last few months.”

Alexej Beljajew blossomed now as well, cheeks flushing from the praise.

“Miss Santelli, I hear you are as well as ever? What a pretty work you delivered tonight. Lovely as always.”

Deborah looked like she was biting down a scream and Garvanos could see Marianne move closer to her, reaching out. Deborah moved her hand, but she didn’t take Marianne’s’.

And now, finally, Mr. Wagner turned to him. He had pale eyes and equally pale brown hair and hard lines around his nose.

He pulled up the corners of his mouth in an of a smile. “Our Rienzi. What was your name again?”

“Scimia,” Garvanos answered, “Garvanos Scimia.” He was sure that Mr. Wagner would have known his name already. But it was probably for the best to humour him.

“Ah. Yes. An interesting choice for my lead, indeed.” He nodded, fixating Garvanos with his gaze. “We will see.”

Garvanos’ stomach dropped and then started to churn. The ringing in his ears grew almost unbearably loud.

Mr. Wagner, still smiling, bowed. “Tomorrow will be an early start and a long day for me, so with your permission I will retire now.”

“Please.” King Friedrich August smiled pleasantly and the ladies of his small entourage – his wife, queen Maria Anna, and the Lady Lola Montez nodded along with him. “My good man, have a good night's rest, who knows when you will have it again.” He waved his hand in a friendly gesture of dismissal.

Mr. Wagner smiled, bowed, and then left.

Garvanos watched him walk away as the king and his relations came closer now. He wanted to vomit. He couldn't.

The king, his brother Prince Johann of Wettin and their wives inspected him, he noticed.

Remembering his good manners, he smiled and bowed.

“Mr. Wagner is right,” Princess Amalie, sister to the queen and wife to the prince remarked. Seizing him up and down like one would with a horse on the market, she remarked, “I did not think of it during the staging, but it is an odd choice, isn’t it.”

“Interesting was the word,” Prince Johann reminded her. “An apt one, too. It is impressive how he learned the words so well.”

As if Garvanos was a circus animal to gawk at and comment on.

“It is easier to learn your lines when you understand the language,” he said before he could think.

The princesses and the prince stared at him.

Damn. He had spoken out of turn, without being addressed first.

The prince stared at him. The princess and the queen were staring at him.

Finally, Lola Montez commented from the side, “Isn’t it lovely how language can civilize and unite us?” Her voice was a rich, molasses-sweet alto and probably had received some training in her youth, but not enough to turn her into a singer of note. Mostly she had learned – whether by training or by experience – to speak exactly the way she wanted to speak, to form each and every word very carefully, putting just enough inflection on it to suggest the hint of an idea.

Her dark grey eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“Thank you, madame,” Garvanos said, bowing his head.

The Montez, apparently satisfied already, nodded, and turned then her attention to both Deborah and Marianne.

The queen and the princess still occupied him with their curious looks and occasionally questions about how different life here, always in one place must be from roaming the world? Garvanos could only shrug for an answer. How would he know? He had grown up in Milan. He had been educated and trained at the Scala.

But wasn’t he a Gypsy, the princess asked, her voice distant to his ear.

He barely even noticed.

Yes, he answered, but he had been raised in Italy, by an Italian.

He barely even noticed.

But didn’t he feel the urge to wander and roam, that was inherent to the Gypsies, the queen asked.

He barely even noticed.

The prince and the king engaged into some talk with Johannes Erhard, nodding and smiling eagerly and again looking to Garvanos when Johannes Erhard pointed to him with a big smile on his face.

He barely even noticed.

Ludwig of Wittelsbach and Lola Montez talked to Deborah and Marianne for a while before they turned and left.

He barely even noticed.

Shortly after the king, the prince and their wives bade them a good night as well and finally they were alone.

He barely even noticed.

He barely even noticed how Alexej Beljajew kept chatting on in excitement, his bright green eyes sparkling.

Garvanos could only half-heartedly listen to him.

How much earlier had Ivan realized who was there with the king, waiting to be introduced? How was he doing right now?

Alexej finally sighed, his fair, pretty face drawn into a frown. “You know, you can tell me to shut up and let you leave, it's alright.”

Garvanos blinked.

“And people always complain I am rude.” Again, he shook his head, his bright, blonde hair fluttering around him.

He sighed. “Sorry. I think I-” Words. How did words work again? “I suppose, I’ll just go and find Ivan now.”

Alexej nodded. “You do that.” He was still grinning. “Have a nice night.”

Ah. Yes.

A nice night was what had been his intention, but probably not anymore. His own stomach curdled and churned, and he still wanted to vomit. Who knew how Ivan was doing?

When he returned to his dressing room, Garvanos saw for himself.

Ivan had retreated there at some point during the meeting. Now he was sitting in Garvanos’ chair, Garvanos’ jacket in hands. At some point he must have grabbed it so tight that now there were small wrinkles in the fabric of the sleeves. He was pale, staring ahead without giving the impression of seeing anything, his grey hair falling over his shoulders in long, tousled strands.

Garvanos softly closed the door.

His lover did not look up. Coming closer, Garvanos could see that he was shivering, shaking in slight, fine tremors.

Not good.

Garvanos knelt down at his right side, resisting the urge to immediately reach out to him. “Ivan?” he asked softly, his voice a breath.

Ivan’s one eye slowly blinked, then he looked up, his pale, hazel gaze fixing on Garvanos. The shakes increased, as did his rapid blinking. His breathing shallowed and several times he swallowed, as if choking on something.

“Ivan, I’m taking your hand now, alright?”

Ivan gave no indication that he had heard him. Maybe he hadn’t. Or he had but couldn’t work his way through the words.

Garvanos carefully placed his fingers over Ivan's hand and felt them taken in a surprisingly strong grip.

Garvanos suppressed a yelp and instead reached out with his other hand, placing it on Ivan’s arm.

Ivan’s breathing hitched and became even more shallow.

Garvanos’ head was spinning. What had Mauro done with him when he had had one of these episodes? He had somehow gotten him through it, but how?

What had been the progression for him? How had he felt?

“Ivan, listen to my voice, yes?”

He let his hand wander up on Ivan’s arm.

Ivan’s breath came out in short, flat gusts.

His hand wandered back down and then closed it around Ivan’s hand, pressing it. “Alright. Alright. Ivan, breathe, yes? Breathe in, love.”

Ivan was still shivering, but he was also breathing in for as long as Garvanos said so.

“And out, yes?”

And Ivan breathed out, slowly, slowly, in a shivering, hitching stream.

He was still shivering, more violently now, teeth chattering.

Garvanos moved his fingers over the back of Ivan’s hand. “Focus on breathing, yes? In – out – in – out- yes, like that. That's good – in – out – in – out-”

Finally, finally, the shivering subsided and at last, at long last, Ivan drew one final, ragged breath. “Thank you-” His voice came out raw and hoarse as if after a long, heavy cry. “I- I- thank you.”

Garvanos gave his hand a gentle squeeze and managed a soft smile. “Welcome to my life.”

Ivan breathed out. And in. And out. Garvanos gently moved his fingers over Ivan’s wrist. How strange. He was used to be the one in need of this. Usually, he was the one breaking down. So often he had been the one breaking down and in need of comfort.

Not now. Now he was the one giving comfort. And while he did not wish for Ivan to experience something like this again, it was nice to be able to support for a change.

“Is always bad like this?”

“Sometimes worse,” Garvanos sighed.

Ivan sighed and paused, looking for words. “You- how often you go through this?”

“Don’t know. Often. Sometimes there’s a lot of time between these moments. It’s been a while since my last fit.” Garvanos dared to scoot closer, and Ivan didn’t oppose the contact.

In fact, he leaned into it and carefully Garvanos lifted their joined hands and pried his out to place them on Ivan's shoulders. “It's been a good long while. You are good for me, I think. I am getting more resilient. Stronger.”

“If you have so often and- and not crazy-” A short hiccup, “And you get out of it again and then go on.” He took a deep breath. Another hiccup. Another breath. “You did not get stronger. You were.” He chose his words carefully now. Still, his accent was more pronounced than usual. “More than me. I am not sure I could deal with it.”

“You did just now.”

“Because of you.”

“I don’t think anyone should be expected to go through this alone. I didn’t. If I can prevent it, you won’t either.” Garvanos kissed his forehead. “Do you think you can walk?”

Ivan leaned into him. “I hope so.” He got up, tried to stand and then his knees buckled, and he stumbled.

Garvanos caught him and leaned him onto him. “Let’s go down.”

Ivan clung to him on their way down, his fingers curling into the fabric of his clothes. His breathing had found an even, calm rhythm when they arrived in the darkness of the corridor that led down to his cave. Garvanos made a mental note of this. Ivan had lived a good part of his life in darkness and semi-darkness so far. Maybe darkness helped him to calm down.

He carefully counted his steps through the cave, turned them at precise angles and only briefly brushed against a chest as he navigated them to the bed. There he let go, placing Ivan on the mattress.

Then he fumbled with the matches until he managed to strike one against the side of the bedpost.

With a hiss the small, dark-golden flame sprung into existence and Garvanos lifted the glass balloon of the oil lamp, lit it, and marvelled for a moment how the cut and polished glass multiplied the single flame before he turned back around.

Ivan’s arms wrapped themselves around his waist, pulling him back closer to himself.

Garvanos ran a hand through his hair, brushing it back from his left temple and with a deep sigh Ivan leaned into the touch and against Garvanos’ stomach, sending a warm gust of air over his skin, followed by a shiver.

“Ne idi,” he mumbled, raw exhaustion framing his voice.

Garvanos placed his hands on both sides of Ivan’s face and lifted it to look at him. “I won’t,” he whispered. “I’ll stay right here.”

Ivan’s one seeing eye shimmered, but it seemed unfocused, unclear, distant.

“I’m right here,” Garvanos continued. “I’m not going anywhere. Alright?” He bent down to press a kiss on Ivan’s brow and to his immense relief and delight, Ivan then turned up his face nuzzling and meeting Garvanos’ lips with his own.

Leaning back, he pulled Garvanos on the bed with him, sliding a hand underneath his shirt.

Garvanos felt his fingers spreading and his palm flattening against his back.

Removing himself from the kiss, Ivan nuzzled Garvanos’ neck, the tickle of breath occasionally joined by the press of lips and the soft flick of a tongue.

The touches, the warmth, the feeling of Ivan half under him started to pool and collect in the pit of Garvanos’ stomach. He ran a hand through his hair in long, languid, gentle strokes and Ivan took deep, intense breaths with each stroke. “Is this alright for you?”

Ivan lifted his head, looking up to him. “Is it for you?” he asked back, voice still raw and thick. His hands moved over Garvanos’ lower back, flat and firm, intent on feeling as much of him as possible. They came to rest at the waistline of his trousers. “I want to feel you. If it is alright.”

Garvanos kissed him, moving a little so Ivan's hands slipped a little further on his back. “Anything for you, love.”

“If not, do not-” Ivan tried to say, but he faltered and sighed.

Garvanos let his hand run down his side. “No need to worry.”

Undressing was a quick affair; then for a long time they simply laid there, bodies entwined.

Garvanos could feel Ivan’s heartbeat against his bare chest, strong and steady and calm; Ivan’s hands tracing paths over his skin; Ivan’s muscles twitching under Garvanos’s fingertips.

Garvanos was almost sure that that was it. Ivan was relaxed in his arms, breathing calm and steady. Maybe he was more exhausted than they both had anticipated.

His half-erect penis still prompted Garvanos to whisper, “What do you want?”

Ivan didn’t answer immediately, drawing Garvanos even closer to him and into an almost desperate kiss.

His penis twitched against Garvanos’s leg and Garvanos delighted in it. He pulled Ivan on top of himself.

Breaking the kiss Ivan moved to Garvanos’s temple. His breath tickled over the shell of Garvanos’s ear, and the sensation trickled down his spine and into the pool of desire that was building up.

“You,” Ivan whispered, “you inside me.”

The words were enough to make Garvanos hard. At the same time, it was not quite shock, but the feeling definitely went beyond surprise.

Slowly he pushed himself up on his elbows until he was sitting up, Ivan straddling him.

It was closer to the lamp, allowing him to examine Ivan’s face. He was so tense.

“Sure?” he whispered.

“I want to feel you. As much as possible.”

Garvanos bit on his lips. This was not exactly what he had expected. He had always thought their roles reversed whenever he had thought about that form of sex. The way Ivan had sometimes teasingly entered him with a finger and the ideas he occasionally whispered into Garvanos’s ear had always suggested he saw it the same way.

He nodded and then leaned his brow against Ivan’s. “Tell me if something is good or not, yes? Please?”

Ivan nodded, breathing against his lips before kissing him, sweetly and almost innocent. “I would suggest the use of the oil.”

Evidently, he was feeling better. Good. That was very good.

He kissed him again, leaning into it and over until Ivan had to fall back on the mattress, still holding Garvanos tightly in his arms.

Garvanos took his wrists, lifted them above his head, mainly to gain more freedom of movement. Ivan writhed under his grip in a way that suggested that he was struggling against the loose grip, but more for the struggle itself rather than to break free.

He liked being held down. Garvanos made a note to himself.

Softly he kissed down his way Ivan's temple, then whispered sweet nothings over the shell of Ivan’s ear.

He would need the oil soon. Garvanos did not plan on teasing him too much tonight, focusing more on holding him, tightly, firmly, gently, reassuring him and himself that he was still there.

No teasing, just long, drawn-out, hopefully enjoyable lovemaking.

With a – for now – last kiss he parted from Ivan, kneeling between his legs, bending over, and twisting to reach to the nightstand, to pull open the upper drawer and get the little flask of oil they usually kept constantly refilled with diligence.

Garvanos pried off the stopper and for a moment enjoyed the scent of lavender and mint rising into his nostrils. The scent was a precursor of pleasure to him, coined as such by the many times Ivan had applied the oil to his cock to heighten the sensation of each touch.

He spread the oil on his fingers and then returned his attention to whom and where it actually belonged.

Ivan made use of his hands being suddenly free again and reached out, wrapping his arms around Garvanos’ shoulders.

Garvanos let him, let him draw him closer, let him kiss him, let his hands wander over his shoulders, his back, and only when he started to touch and play with his buttocks, Garvanos gently pushed him back into the mattress. Ivan’s hands fell off his back.

“Another time,” he said. “Yes?”

“Yes.” Ivan smiled and then leaned back again.

He didn't turn around and when Garvanos shot him a questioning look, his smile turned a little sheepish. “I like seeing your face.”

All of a sudden Garvanos’ hands were trembling as he moved them over Ivan's body, sliding downwards and one around his waist.

How had it felt for him?

Ivan had never entered him right away and so Garvanos did neither. Instead, he spread the oil on the anus, massaging him there until he felt him relax a bit.

His free hand, slick with oil as well, had started playing with one nipple. Ivan liked that and it had its intended effect of relaxing him further, leaning against Garvanos# hands.

When he pressed into him there was still some slight resistance and Ivan's face tensed up a little.

Garvanos bent down to kiss his neck upwards to his lips. “Are you alright?”

“Not used to it anymore,” Ivan answered with a small, husky laugh. He ran a finger over Garvanos’ cheek.

Garvanos moved into him for a bit, watching Ivan's face tense, relax, fall slack for just a moment before he collected to himself.

“Good?”

“Very good. I think you can go on.”

Garvanos did.

Adding a second finger proved more of a challenge, though.

Ivan tensed up and hissed under his breath and Garvanos paused in his efforts.

Last time he had been in that position and had felt discomfort, Ivan had done his best to distract him and had done so a little too well for them to do proceed any further.

He gently pressed a few kisses on Ivan’s neck, putting a hint of teeth behind it that had Ivan whimper softly. Good. Garvanos knew he was sensitive at the neck and the throat, more than probably other people and he kissed him there before sucking down on the skin.

In the meantime, he dipped his fingers in the oil again, spread it over his palm and savoured the tingle and the bite that came from the pepper and the mint, the latter contrasting and complementing in scent with the lavender.

Even just wrapping his fingers around Ivan’s cock had him jolt slightly and Garvanos felt him relax around his fingers.

He took his time spreading Ivan, listening to whispered or sometimes just moaned encouragements, but he was straightforward about it. Right now, Ivan needed him, rather than any teasing.

His own erection was throbbing painfully between his legs and against Ivan’s skin and any noise Ivan made just aroused him even more.

“Is it alright?”

Ivan looked up at him and then, slowly, nodded.

There was a bit of a fumble, Ivan lifting his hips, Garvanos pulling his knees over his shoulders and trying to angle himself. They lost their balance a bit and Garvanos fell a bit on him. They laughed, breathing against each other’s lips. Inarguably Ivan’s laugh was the best sound Garvanos had heard tonight.

It might have been easier if they would take a different position, but Ivan held him too tightly to move away and Garvanos was already pressing against him and into him.

Ivan arched up to him – and then stopped, exhaling sharply.

Garvanos paused. “What’s wrong?”

“Too fast,” Ivan mumbled, face tense. “Slower.”

Garvanos ran a finger over his cheek. “We can stop. If it’s too much we stop.”

But Ivan shook his head, clinging to Garvanos’ shoulders. “Please. Not. I am alright. I am.”

“Please, I don’t want to hurt you-”

“You are not.” Ivan jerked up against him. “Please.”

Who was he to deny him?

Garvanos moved again, slower this time, more deliberate, with more restraint, slowly gliding in and out again, in again and a bit deeper. With each move Ivan shuddered, tensing, and relaxing again, exhaling his breath in soft moans and whimpers.

And then a final thrust and he was in entirely, entirely encased in dizzying, tight heat.

They paused for a long while.

Ivan breathed out, long and soft and with a laugh. He reached out to touch Garvanos’ cheek.

“Love you,” he whispered and pulled him down to himself, “love you, my d-ah!”

Garvanos thrust into him, cutting him short.

They were slow, slow all the way through, pressure building up between them bit by bit, without any rush and Ivan’s soft moans dripped from his lips in long, languid breaths in between the kisses Garvanos pressed on his lips.

Slow were the strokes Garvanos lavished on Ivan’s erection trapped between them and even when they came – Ivan first, Garvanos a little later, savouring the heat and tightness closing in around him – they did it slowly, bit by bit.

It was blinding nonetheless, sending shivers through him and he sank down on Ivan, gliding out.

Under him Ivan was still shaking as he raised a hand and ran it through Garvanos’ hair.

“How-” Garvanos’ voice was hoarse and raw, and he cleared his throat a bit, rolling off of Ivan in the process. “How do you feel?”

Ivan breathed in. And out. In. And out.

And finally said, “Wonderful. So much.” He ran a finger over Garvanos' cheek. “Thank you. Thank you. So much.”

Garvanos leaned in and kissed him on the lips and Ivan responded lazily.

“Are you alright?”

“I think. Can you fetch me the wet cloth, though?”

Garvanos turned and twisted a little without getting out of Ivan’s arms. He bent over and his hand found the bowl of water underneath the bed and the cloth in it.

He wrung out the excess water before handing it over to Ivan, who then carefully and with gentle, caressing strokes wiped him down before cleaning up himself and then carefully throwing it back away under the bed.

After having done that to his satisfaction, he snuggled back in closer to Garvanos, running a finger over his back.

Garvanos chuckled and then scuttled closer. “How are you? Really?”

“A little sore,” Ivan admitted. “Filled. Calmer.”

“Good.” Garvanos smiled. “I’m glad.”

Ivan pulled him closer to himself, breathing into his hair. How lovely. How warm. How Good. Garvanos curled up a little around him and leaned his face in the crook of Ivan’s neck.

“What do you think of him?” Ivan asked after a while.

“Mr. Wagner?”

Ivan nodded against him.

Garvanos thought about it for a little and then sighed deeply. “I haven’t seen much of him yet and I already have some notions and ideas about him, of course. Maybe he turns out to be alright. And maybe I am too moody about this, but-” He shrugged and rubbed his temple a little. “I mean, he obviously can’t stand Deborah. You should have seen his face when he had to talk to her.”

“No, he does not like her,” Ivan agreed. “He never did.”

“The feeling seems mutual, too” Garvanos added after a moment. “She seemed like she was willing him to drop dead.”

“I know. She does,” Ivan said. “Wish for his death, that is.”

“Her career hasn’t suffered from it as far as I can tell, though,” Garvanos mumbled as he ran a hand through Ivan's hair. “How bad can it be?”

Ivan smiled. “I do admire your optimism. And for what it is worth – if it is too much, I am here.” There was a palpable bitterness in his voice. “Which is unlikely to change anytime soon.”

Garvanos lifted his head. “What do you mean?”

“That man knows pretty much everyone who has anything to do with music and anyone who fancies themselves to. He would-” He swallowed. “He would learn of me. And then-”

Mr. Wagner appeared to be well-connected, true. He probably knew most of Dresden’s nobles and wealthy bourgeoisie. If Ivan were to take up any teaching work Mr. Wagner at some point would hear of him, but if he went by a different name, how would he ever draw the connection?

Ivan’s face hinted that he might not be too receptive of this suggestion, so Garvanos bit it back. Maybe he would come to this conclusion himself in time.

“Might as well,” Ivan sighed. “It is not like I can leave Alyosha alone now.”

“He seems to quite like Mr. Wagner,” Garvanos pointed out.

Ivan bit his lip. “Which is exactly why I refuse to leave him all alone,” he replied. “Or would you like him to fall back under his thrall like before?”

“I can’t tell. I haven't witnessed that before,” Garvanos admitted. “But maybe it will be different this time around.”

“What would make you think that?” Ivan asked.

Garvanos chuckled. “I doubt that last time he had a handsome stagehand looking out for him.”

Ivan paused and then nodded. “Yes. Right.” And finally, finally he smiled. “Yes. Maybe it will be alright. At least in that regard.”

“At least in that regard,” Garvanos repeated. “And with everything else – we shall see.”

Two weeks passed and brought the upheaval with them, Mr. Wagner had announced on that Sunday evening after the private performance of Rienzi Garvanos had hinged his hopes on.

Several of their female singers quit on short notice, citing worry how the changed work environment might have a negative effect on both their virtue and their inner lives.

“Figures,” Deborah commented wryly, “if there is one thing Mr. Wagner likes, then it is a woman dependent on him.”

“Would that be why he doesn’t like you?” Garvanos.

“Part of it,” Deborah replied without ever elaborating on it.

The emptied ranks quickly filled up again. Dresden had a lot of women with reasonable skill and decent ambition.

Mr. Kirsch was removed from his position of head musical director, which, as Mr. Wagner declared, he had only held for interim anyways. His absence had never been permanent, albeit it had taken him a little longer to return than he had planned. Or so he said.

Garvanos, wondering what that might mean, asked Johannes about it, who was cross about the development for his own reasons.

“It sucks,” he sighed over their usual dinner of potato dishes and awful beer. “With Mr. Kirsch it would be alright. I could leave for a while and come back to pick up my position where I left, no issue.”

“You still haven't told us why you're leaving,” Andreas pointed out.

“Personal matters,” Johannes replied after a sip of his beer.

“Girl troubles?” Thomas asked.

Garvanos almost choked on his beer and for once it wasn’t due to the beer itself.

Fact was that Johannes was leaving Dresden with his sister for his patrons’ country estate.

The girl had gotten pregnant and needed a place and some time in peace and Johannes didn’t want to leave her alone in this. Garvanos had learned of it by chance and had sworn silence.

“Anyway, with Wagner back I might as well stay away from Dresden for good,” Johannes continued after a bite from his potato casserole. “Kirsch would have given me my position back and then maybe a chance to prove myself as a soloist.”

They all hummed and nodded in agreement.

Ossip Kirsch was a strict man, harsh even and demanding. But he also liked to see them progress and step up to their potential. Garvanos had gotten his lead solo for exactly this reason. Mostly.

“You think Wagner won’t?” Alexander asked.

“Doubtful,” Johannes said. “He has people he wants to push forward. I never was one of these people and will never be. I’m not impressionable enough.”

That was probably it.

The issue of Mr. Wagner's political alignments stuck with them as well.

“He was in favour with the king before March,” Johannes, a few days later, explained over a by-the-riverside lunch, consisting of some shared fruit tarts.

It was a cloudy, oppressive day, promising a rainstorm later. A rainstorm would make for interesting background noise for Garvanos’ singing lessons with Ivan later that day. He was looking forward to it actually. It was an exciting prospect, secret singing lessons with his secret lover up in the attic of the theatre, set to lightning and thunder.

“With Wagner it was always a matter who was in the room and whom he was talking to. He can talk about revolution and abolishing the monarchy in the morning and then go and have lunch with the king an hour later. Pocket his payments by the king and then go right back to demand the monarchy to be abolished. After March, he fell out of favour more or less. Was a bit too vocal about the events in Berlin when the revolution picked up there. But apparently that's over now? I think he was in Vienna recently?” He shrugged. “Maybe he could talk his way back in the kings’ good graces. You know, when Mr. Kirsch took on the position of musical director, nobody thought it would be only for a time. We all took it to be permanent. Mr. Kirsch took it to be permanent. The plan was that he would stick to a majority of the schedule Wagner had given for the running season but replace a few operas in the second half. Marschner’s’ Vampyr and Hoffmann’s’ Undine were some of these replacements. Mr. Wagner is fonder of staging Lortzing operas. Or some Beethoven.”

“I certainly don’t complain about Undine,” Garvanos sighed.

With Mr. Kirsch now being only responsible for the chorus and Mr. Wagner keen on being in charge and control, soon further changes came.

It started, innocently enough, with a note hung up on the announcement board, where notes were fond of being hung up.

Garvanos blinked up at the new daily rehearsal schedule, then exchanged a look with Andreas.

Finally, he locked eyes with August Stadler. The other man had never liked Garvanos, often enough he was actively hostile to him. But now, oddly enough, his face mirrored Garvanos’ own worry.

His pale eyes were narrow.

Chorus rehearsal had been pushed back about two hours. It meant they wouldn’t have to show up until nine, which was nice. Less nice was that it now was to be held at the same time as the soloist’s rehearsal.

“Well-” he finally said, “We seem to have something of a problem here.”

“Hard to believe I’m agreeing with you,” Garvanos sighed with another look to the board.

“Well.” Andreas cleared his throat. “Chorus rehearsal will start in a moment. We can ask what this is about later.”

They went through the rehearsal, most of them focused, some of them absent-minded enough to be bellowed at by Mr. Kirsch. Mostly, the bellowing helped. Some cases were incurable, at least for today.

Rehearsal came to an end.

“So, who’s gonna ask him?” Alexander whispered.

“Not me,” Garvanos declared at once, “forget it.”

“Why not? He likes you, he won’t rip your head off,” Johannes hissed.

“Rehearsal over!” Mr. Kirsch called.

They already could see Deborah, Marianne and Beljajew. Soon Anna Herzog would follow and then bass singer Johannes Erhard.

And then, just behind them, Mr. Wagner came strolling in.

Mr. Kirsch noticed him and with a last, sharp wave, he turned away from them and stalked over to Mr. Wagner. Being a lot smaller and broader in the shoulders he looked a lot like an angry, grizzled old bulldog trying to go up against a Greyhound.

“Mr. Wagner,” he said.

“Good morning, Mr. Kirsch,” Mr. Wagner greeted him, smiling genially. “What can I do for you?”

“New schedule,” Mr Kirsch said, visibly boiling. “Why not was discussed with me?”

Mr. Wagner’s smile widened. “Mr. Kirsch. I do think you still know your way to my office? It has been so long since you stomped in last time.”

Mr. Kirsch breathed in as if to scream. Then, instead of screaming, he breathed out again. “Will discuss here and will discuss now,” he then said. “New schedule concern singers. Singers shall hear.”

Mr. Wagner didn’t stop smiling, although now it seemed a little frozen over. “Of course. Thank you for reminding me. How thoughtless I can be, it is just terrible.”

Mr. Kirsch seemed to try very hard to not answer to that. He was more or less successful. “Indeed. Why are rehearsal for chorus and soloists at same time?”

Said soloists came closer now. Marianne Bergmann and Deborah Santelli listened to the exchange with rapt attention.

“I figured it would be the best. I was of the opinion that you would be of a likewise mind. Of course, I now see that I was wrong.” He folded his long, thin hands behind his back.

“Would be good idea how?” Mr. Kirsch asked.

“Both the ballet corps and the department for dramatic acting have spoken to me. Both would be most grateful for an additional time slot for them. Of course, everyone agrees that the opera is the main draw of this house and the favoured subject of the king and thus deserving of all the attention lavished upon us. Nobody argues that.” He walked up and down in front of them, waving his finger. He looked a very, very annoying schoolteacher. “However, I do think we should show our respect to them, too. And how better to do so than by giving them an additional time slot out of our own? Don’t you all think so as well?”

“Good gesture,” Mr. Kirsch said, “Not good plan, still.”

Mr. Wagner's smile turned into something like a grimace. “How come? It works out perfectly well. After all, since I can turn my full attention to our soloists, you are free to form the chorus into a solid, reliable unit.”

Mr. Kirsch crossed his arms. “No need. Already are. Some good enough for first solo. Need be in both rehearsals then. Cannot be in two at same time.”

Mr. Wagner’s eyes widened in something that was probably supposed to be surprise. “Oh yes, I forgot! I hear the new soloists are all of high quality, I did not think they would still partake in the chorus rehearsals.” He tapped his chin with his finger, nodding to himself. “Well, that is unfortunate. Of course, we cannot possibly demand of any of you to attend to both rehearsals at the same time. Mr. Kirsch is absolutely right.” Another nod. Then he said, “I suppose it would be best to promote Mr. Stadler to one of the lead soloists. I know, it is not common practise to rush things like that, but we have always been a little unconventional, haven’t we. Now, if we do the same with Mr. Kästner-”

Andreas yelped a little. “What, why?”

“I have heard you during the rehearsals.” Mr. Wagner's smile almost seemed genuine again. “I do think you would make a rather good Heilmann and who knows what else.”

“What?!” That had escaped Garvanos before he could help himself.

“Not happening,” Mr. Kirsch declared the same moment and both Johannes and Andreas called, “That role’s already taken!”

Marianne, Deborah, and Johannes Erhard made similar noises of disagreement.

Alexej stared at Mr. Wagner as if he were doubting his mental facilities.

Mr. Wagner looked around. “Mr. Kästner has a solid voice, a nice gravitas as well. Mr. Scimia should decide whether he wants to be a tenor or a baritone before he can aspire to have a solo in any capacity and then work hard to earn it,” he said and turned to Andreas. “I consider you a good fit for the role.”

Andreas did not answer immediately. Garvanos’ stomach sank. If Andreas took Mr. Wagner up on that offer, Garvanos could not even begrudge him, not entirely. It would be a massive step up. And it still. And still. And still, he would be so, so mad.

“Garvanos worked like a horse to get the part,” Andreas said at last. “I’ll do the same and maybe it pays off.”

Mr. Wagner looked at him and then nodded slowly. “I see.” He turned around.

Mr. Kirsch clapped in his hands. “Done here today. Until tonight!”

Most of the chorus singers bustled off the stage now, with only Garvanos, Andreas and August remaining.

Andreas turned to Garvanos. “I know you don’t really want to, but get a damn solo role in the Faust, you hear me?! At least take part in the try-out. You have to. And then you partake in any try-out we have. Don’t let up even once.” He clasped Garvanos at the shoulder. “You got that?!”

“Yes.” He nodded, despite the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Yes, I got it.”

And here he had thought his life couldn't get any messier.

Chapter 02

The surprises didn’t let up just because one day had passed.

No, instead the next morning offered them another surprise.

At least it was a pleasant one this time.

It was just about seven, a few of them were still bleary-eyed and shambling, still recovering from either a long evening on stage or an even longer evening in a pub, traipsing, and grasping through the lingering fog of too little sleep and maybe a beer or two too many.

And suddenly Marianne came waltzing in “Morning!” her voice rang through the corridor.

Andreas, bleary eyed and yawning, perked up immediately, as he saw one of the two women he worshipped so much. “Good Morning! Are you coming to listen to us?” he asked, very awake at once.

Marianne laughed. “Far from it, I'm here to sing.” She ran a hand over her smooth, fiery hair that was combed, parted, and curled as exquisitely as if she was planning to go to a ball afterwards. In contrast, her dark grey gown seemed almost drab. “I hope I am not imposing or anything?”

“Oh no, not at all,” Andreas replied quickly. “That is- well, I can’t decide, obviously-”

Mr. Kirsch came, saw her, and nodded. “You have music?”

She smiled at him. “Did I ever not?”

Mr. Kirsch didn't even deign that with a response, which was in itself response enough. He just sighed and waved for her to pick a place for her to sing.

She did, taking a spot among the few sopranos they currently had. “this feels quite nostalgic,” she remarked to a strawberry blonde girl next to her. “I hope, I am not rusty.”

The girl – Wilhelmina Mix, Garvanos recalled – blushed. “I’m sure you’re not!”

“Thank you, that is very sweet of you.” Marianne smiled. “Shall we sing?” she now asked Mr. Kirsch, bright as the sun.

Mr. Kirsch waved with his hand.

They sang.

And for now, that was it. And it as fine. Garvanos just wondered what would come next.

He found out, yet again, the next morning.

Again, Marianne showed up for the chorus rehearsal, impeccably made up and bright eyed.

Just like yesterday she was right on time.

Unlike yesterday, she had brought company.

Deborah Santelli, looking just as well-turned out as Marianne, with her hair braided and wrapped around her brow like a dark coronet, smiled at them.

Johannes Erhard and the theatre’s principal alto, Anna Herzog followed.

Each of them took places among the chorus without comment.

Alexej Beljajew’s presence was a little more surprising.

“Funny seeing you here,” Garvanos said. “I would have thought Mr. Wagner's suggestion would be alright with you.”

Alexej shrugged, stifling a yawn. “It is. In principle, I mean, we have two people responsible now, why not split the workload and save some time along the way?”

“So why are you here then?”

“It's not well-executed, that’s why.” Despite his yawning, he seemed to be in remarkably good mood. “You, Kästner and Stadler are still part of the chorus first and foremost. None of you have so many obligations as soloists, yet. All three of you should be soloists full-time soon enough, but until then you are chorus singers who also work on solo roles. That should be kept in mind when working out new schedules. And that didn’t happen and that’s stupid.” Alexej crossed his arms against his chest. “And first and foremost, I am a singer and loyal to other singers.”

Garvanos nodded. “I see. Thank you.”

“Alexej! Scimia!” Mr. Kirsch yelled, “Less chatter. More singing!”

They sang. Deborah had taken her plane at Marianne’s side, chatting amiably with the chorus girls around her, when they were not singing. Alexej glared around, as if daring those around him to try and chat him up.

Mr. Kirsch yelled, corrected them and was his usual self, not eve sparing a glance to Mr. Wagner, as he came in near the end of chorus rehearsal. Instead, he turned to Deborah.

“Lots enthusiasm,” he said, “appreciate. But are solo singers, you.” He let his gaze wander around.

Deborah lifted her chin. “Most of us started as chorus singers here and some of us officially still are part of the chorus,” she said. Then she broke into a smile. “And we all could use some polish from time to time.”

Mr. Wagner shot her a dark look, but he didn’t say more than, “You got quite enough polishing, my dear. Now!” He clapped his hands. “Let’s get to the actual work!”

Garvanos managed a polite smile and a nod. Best to commit to work for as long as he was allowed.

The issue of the changed schedule was dropped silently, but that didn’t mean much. Nor did it change anything. Mr. Wagner was still the instructor and director for the soloists and systematically he went through everything they knew and re-taught it, since obviously they had been doing it all wrong the whole time.

Rehearsing their running performance of E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Undine thus quickly grew to be a very, very exhausting exercise in patience in the face of constant, insistent annoyance for the next weeks.

“Miss Bergmann, you have such a pretty head voice. Sing with it,” he declared as they went through the duet she sang with Deborah.

“I know, but when I sing from my stomach, I have more volume and body,” Marianne tried to argue, “And as a human woman I would need to sound grounded and real in contrast to a wispy, waifish water spirit.”

Mr. Wagner shrugged. “A sound argument, but it won’t help your development to pigeon-hole yourself on one way of singing. Now, my dear, do as I told.” He waved. “The scene from the top again!”

The music set in again and Marianne, after breathing a heavy and deeply annoyed sigh, sang again, describing the beautiful summers day, her character Berthalda enjoyed with her new friend Undine. She sounded thinner than before. Why would Mr. Wagner want her to sound like this?

Deborah, by contrast, sang as high and clear and transparent as ever as she joined her in the duet, adoring, the wonderful day, and the close friendship between the two women. She and Marianne had always sounded quite similar, but right now they were almost impossible to tell apart, especially since Marianne’s voice was significantly thinner now, Deborah drowned her out.

Mr. Wagner sighed. “My dear girls, how many more times? Please! Walk a bit more apart, the audience should see both of you! Not to mention that Undine and Berthalda are not friends. We have discussed that already.”

They had, quite a bit even in the last few weeks and so far, Deborah and Marianne were of a different mind about this, adamantly refusing to change said mind. By now, the discussion had become a staple of their daily rehearsal routine.

“They are friends at this point,” Marianne said, “unless faithful sisterhood means secretly-not-so-secretly hating each other nowadays. In which case I propose a new word for friendships between women.”

Just a few days ago, a similar discussion had upset both lead sopranos so much that they had left rehearsal in a furious huff.

Still, Mr. Wagner had to say something about it. “They both fight for the same man. Undine obviously wishes to befriend Berthalda, yes,” he raised a finger, wagging it in front of them.

He looked, Garvanos found, a lot like a schoolteacher in front of very stubborn children.

“She does so in order to please Huldbrandt and to fit in better with humans. Berthalda on the other hand is merely polite to her, but coolly so. I don’t see a lot of friendship there. Please keep that in mind when you sing now again.”

Deborah and Marianne sighed heavily and then sang again.

Garvanos felt Johannes Erhard step next to him. “For someone professing how much he admires Mr. Kirsch and the way he taught us, he does try very hard to undo everything, doesn’t he?”

Garvanos nodded. “It is evident how much he respects our previous work.”

“You are good, though?” Johannes Erhard asked.

Garvanos answered with a terse nod. “I am alright. Got to be, right?”

“Good to hear that.” Johannes Erhard smiled and then was called to play his role.

Garvanos let out a silent breath as soon as Johannes Erhard had turned. He was alright, yes, but if he was completely honest with himself, he wasn’t as alright as he would have liked. But that was nobody's business but his own.

And it wasn’t like he had no reason to worry. Oh no, he had more than enough of those.

First was the fact that Mr. Wagner tried to work with Garvanos as little as humanly possible, citing that he was fine. No need for him to overexert himself, he had said. However, whenever he did decide that Garvanos required to be worked with, things looked very different very quickly. Mr. Wagner did the same with him as he did with all of them. Everything Garvanos had taken on under Mr. Kirsch, the way he interpreted his lines, how he acted and reacted to the other people on stage and their character interpretation, was to be respected, of course, Mr. Kirsch had done incredible work, of course, but surely Mr. Scimia could see why Mr. Wagner would like him to change this line, stiffen his posture, be more imposing, befitting his role of a priest?

Garvanos had laughed at this at first. He was not imposing. It was quite impossible for him to be imposing. “Oh, but you are,” Mr. Wagner had insisted, smiling a slick smile, just shy of being unpleasant, “I have seen you act out my Rienzi. Imagine my surprise when I saw you in this role. And then my even bigger surprise when you when you then were acting out the rile just as I would have wanted.”

That had stung. Rienzi was a delusional despot. Charismatic and convincing, but terrifying. He had played the role as such and he had made sure that his character’s awfulness. And apparently, he still had come across as the tragic hero Mr. Wagner had intended to be.

Damn it.

“You can be very imposing, trust me.”

Mr Wagner had continued smiling in that fashion that could appear kindly and encouraging, but that Garvanos had quickly come to consider condescending at best and utterly dismissive at any other time.

So Garvanos had done his best to be more imposing, as much as the role of a fatherly, kind, gentle priest allowed him to.

Then of course, there had come a slew of directions. “Sing this more from the stomach.”

Garvanos had sung from the stomach.

“Sing higher. Low notes don’t suit you.”

Garvanos had sung higher, despite the fact that he had just settled into his voice.

“Don’t be so stiff. Your character is a kindly man. His authority is not wielded like a hammer.” – “Be more authoritative.” – “Don’t act like you need to scare Kühleborn away.”

By now Garvanos was very, very glad whenever a day passed without Mr. Wagner working on him.

“That is what he wants,” Ivan said after Garvanos finally mumbled something along these lines to him during one of their lessons, a few weeks after the schedule incident, “You are supposed to not want to work with him anymore. You are supposed to be glad when he is not paying attention to you. You are supposed to not wish to work. You are supposed to give up.”

“I want to work, though,” Garvanos sighed. “Just- just not with him. You understand?”

“I do, love,” Ivan sighed, “Trust me, I do. He does not want you to be here. He does not want you to have solo roles. He does not want you to exist, maybe.”

“Not just maybe, I bet,” Garvanos sighed. “I mean, he wouldn’t be alone.”

Ivan sighed and ran a hand through Garvanos' thick, dark hair. “You know, I could drop a chandelier on him,” he suggested, “It would solve a lot of problems.”

“Do you know what one of the chandeliers here would cost?” Garvanos mumbled in protest.

“I do. It would be worth it.”

He sighed. Ivan usually could calm him down, had done so for the past few weeks, but the situation was eating on him as well. “No murder until he actively does something that would warrant it,” he said, leaning his brow in his hands.

“I think his current actions already do warrant it,” Ivan insisted, his brow furrowed. “But you are right.” his brow furrowed even deeper. “I am quite fond of the chandeliers the theatre has. He would not be deserving of the honour of being smashed by one of them.”

He was trying to make Garvanos laugh and Garvanos did him the favour and laughed, despite not feeling like it.

At some point it actually began to work.

In the meantime, they tried to go about their days, as if nothing had changed as least as much as possible.

Rehearsals were a chore to get through.

Garvanos’ nerves, never the most resilient against high pressure, had him live through these days in something of a dazed haze.

That was a first. Usually, his response was breaking down and blanking out.

Then again, he had been under pressure and exhausted for weeks on end in preparation of the damned staging of Rienzi.

Parallel to that, the everyday business had commenced. The rehearsal for Undine. Then performing an opera for a full audience in the evening.

Lessons with Ivan. Maybe some social engagement. And then the next day the same thing all over again.

By the time they had made it to the performance of Undine, Garvanos had been too tired to even feel tired anymore.

And now it went on. No break. No rest. No respite.

Work.

Prepare.

Practise.

Try not to break down.

By now Garvanos could hardly even remember how it felt to not be exhausted to the bone, too tired even to break down.

He could only hope it would pass at some point. Preferably before he passed.

Until then, all he could do was to go on and not break down.

And pray that at some point he would be able to think it was worth it.

Johannes aside, Garvanos’ entire friend group from the chorus had prepared for the try-outs for Louis Spohr’s Faust, which promised to make things interesting.

Johannes only kept out of this because he would leave soon anyways. They had discussed this in advance over a few potato dishes and far too many beers for Garvanos’ liking, but that was Germany. One had to live with that and pray the aftertaste would not be too bad the next morning.

They all would try out for certain parts, but only Garvanos and Alexander would sing for the role of count Hugo, the betrothed of one of the many women Faust was madly in love with. Between them, they all had agreed that Garvanos would be a better fit for the role of the young, earnest and kind Hugo, who loved his fiancée dearly and was deeply hurt by her falling under the thrall of another man.

Rationally he had no reason to be as nervous as he was. He had prepared himself thoroughly. Alexander, too, and they also had sung through the Hugo parts together often enough for him to hear them in his dreams. They both knew very well that Garvanos was better suited for the role and Alexander had laughed and sighed. “If he doesn’t pick you, then at least we really can blame it on your nose, you know. That’s something.”

Yes. That was something.

His friends didn’t know better. They didn’t understand that every time they commented on anyone – be it Alexej as a Russian, Mr. Kirsch as a Jewish Russian or Deborah as an Italian – being fundamentally different from them, that this extended to Garvanos as well. Garvanos himself sometimes had trouble understanding it, nor had he ever had found the words to express it, not even with Mauro who had always listened, always found the meaning in the jumble and mumble Garvanos would occasionally throw on him.

Mauro had understood a lot.

He had understood that Garvanos had longed to feel like he belonged in Milan.

He had understood that Garvanos couldn’t feel like that when every single person they met took a look at his face and his dark skin, heard his name and decided that a Gypsy was not worth looking at or talking to.

Mauro had understood this.