Sore, and drowsy from the narcotics, Nicolas opened his eyes to see the blurry face of Charles looking down at him.
Nicolas forced a smile and said, "I knew it was a simple procedure. I survived and now my voice will be beautiful, forever."
Charles shook his head and let out a shaky breath, "mind that you don't get an infection in the wound, then. You're still at great risk." he paced a little in agitation and continued, "don't move about or you could hemorrhage."
"Don't worry Charles," Nicolas closed his eyes, contented—euphoric, even—as he listened to his friend fight off tears of worry. Though he was no longer in charge of the orphan boy, young Charles seemed genuinely afraid for Nicolas' safety. All things felt right for a moment and Nicholas decided that no matter what happened, learning that Charles was concerned for him had been worth all the trouble. "I'll be healthy as ever, soon. Just for you," he muttered before falling back into sleep.
In the enchanted golden light known as Rome, the clergy and their wards could become detached from the world, and no one more was detached that young Nicolas. The orphan entrenched himself on this path towards singular goal and flourished in the steadiness found in focus. Already familiar with the process of healing, he bathed his wounds, listened to the doctor, breathed deeply through the residual pain, and —after the chill of the post-narcotic ache left—he returned to his daily singing practices. This was his great work:carving his body into God's most perfect musical instrument. Therefore he cared not for the matters of men and feeble governments--his history lay in Rome, his future lay in Rome. Here was the vastness of God's power confirmed, with the most beautiful music in all the world in the most beautiful buildings in the world.
But in June of 1844 the famous Bandiera Brothers were executed—shot while screaming "viva l'italia". This trouble was far to the south, but the news spread. And it picked up overtones of martyrdom and revolution as it climbed northward.
Meanwhile, the liturgical calendar pedaled onward. Charles completed his novitiate and pronounced his first vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, promising to become a member of the Society for Jesus —a Jesuit—upon completion. Nicolas and Jeanette attended the ceremony with a proud heart. All was going just as Charles has said it would on their first journey to the holy city. He was on his way to becoming a priest and Nicolas was making inroads in the liturgical music every day with his busy mind. His brain never stopped spinning, thinking of new ways to make himself useful. One day, fate intervened: the director of music died, and no one was there to immediately fill the role. This left the late director's papers (including his extensive research into Palestrina) unattended and available for Nicholas' perusal. He thereby drowned himself in music theory, and Renaissance polyphony, especially in madrigals.
However, the role of music director proved to be difficult to fill: Several contenders came and staked the position out, but notably, no one stayed on. There were stronger whispers of unification for Italy, and visitors as well as citizens could feel the unrest below the surface. The future of Rome was uncertain, even as the hymns were sung in endless cycle.
But in June of 1846 it seemed that everything would change when a reform candidate was elected Pope—Pius IX. There was an uproar in response and bitter rivalries broke out between these profound men of God. Each impassioned adversary insisted they knew how best to prepare for a future of populist revolts and labor movements. Intrigue and secrecy clouded the Vatican. The Austrian prince made a move to disqualify the liberal contestant, and with that, suspicion worsened against the empire. It cost the prince the Papacy, and perhaps all of Rome.
For the revolutionaries, victory had literally been achieved. Every little man of the public wasted no time in exclaiming the joys of the future, in which the pope himself would lend ear to the cries of the populace. His name was taken up as a cheer in the streets of the faithful. Hope was palpable. And while more conservative clergymen grabbed tight to their robes and planted their feet in the Vatican, the liberal rebels were mustering. For the next twenty months young people from Sardinia to Corsica envisioned a papal ally in Pius IX as they sang the names of their own martyrs. True to his promises, he pardoned hundreds of rebels and prisoners of war. Dominico in particular was very encouraged by the whole situation and read aloud passages by a Piedmontese Father who had proudly suggested a confederation of Italian states under leadership of the Pope. But things simply weren't as simple as the dream of a Second Holy Roman Empire. While felicity beckoned on one side of the revolution, the other side studiously prepared for war.
Authority was still officially claimed by the Austrian kingdom—even in the Papal States. This inconvenience amongst supposed allies occasionally produced serious friction, with the ruling order and the royal authority on one side and an agitated population with a sympathetic Pius IX on the other. So while the Pope spoke of peace, those sentiments often failed to reach the practical life on the street. Charles saw this most notably.
"It's fine for a priest safe in Piedmont to announce a new golden age of the Catholic Church," Charles complained to Nicolas, who wasn't listening that hard. He made sure old Dominico was looking his direction when he continued, "I'd like to see Father Gioberti try those words here, amidst Risorgimento. The very children would pull him apart."
"Isn't that why he's not here?" drifted in Nicolas lazily. "Vincenzo Gioberti was exiled several years ago."
"Yes!" Dominico chuckled into his jowl and agreed, "by the ruling order. The Jesuits."
Charles stifled a groan and rolled his eyes politely. The Jesuit order had been struggling under prejudice since its inception during the counter-reformation. Firstly, the Protestants saw them as some kind of elite force of scholars and priests sent out to assure Papal supremacy . The truth turned out to be even more damaging: the Society of Jesus had been notoriously unhelpful in their mission efforts, especially in the Americas. After speaking out about the atrocities perpetrated by Spanish colonizers, they were banished by the king of Spain. The other leading kingdoms all followed suit back then, culminating in papal suppression by Pope Clement XIV. Jesuit teachings and establishments had only been restored in Rome a mere 30 years previous. And while those tensions and prejudices had never seriously affected anyone he knew of personally, Charles noticed a distinct change in attitude—even among supposed peers like Dominico— as the suspicion rose.
A voice seemed to say, "Whose side is the church on, really?"
It was cold in Lombardia when the first strikes against the Austrian government were made. January 1848 brought tales of popular strikes and by February there was rioting in Tuscany. Not long after the Tuscan riots produced its demanded constitution, Pope Pius came through with his promises for one for the Papal States. Once it was official, pontifical authorities wasted no time in decorating the papal banners with pennons of the Italian tricolor, hoping to quell any rioting before it happened.
On March 21st the news of the revolution at Vienna arrived, and the excitement of the Roman populace knew no bounds. Finally, the revolution had come to the Austrian prince; authority could change hands. Every bell in the city rang hard with joy. The townspeople poured into the streets and squares-- some firing muskets in the air, some to strewing flowers; some hoisted flags on the towers, some decked their balconies with the tricolor. It seemed everybody was shouting 'Italia!' in one breath and cursing the empire in the next.
Anyone not thrilled with the news stayed quiet and to be sure, revolution wasn't for everyone just yet. As the encouraged populace tore down sigils of Catholic Austrian governance, Church leadership shifted uneasily. Pope Pius quietly went to the Roman College, which was commanded by the Jesuits. Upon meeting with the leaders of the school, the Pope pleaded with them to flee to Sardinia for their own safety. They took his advice and Charles and his schoolmates were left leaderless.
Without much notice, the school transformed into a Roman seminary under the Jacobians, a less controversial sect. The novices--not yet confirmed as Jesuit brothers or scholastics-- found themselves in a state of limbo. They clung to the Jacobian priests and one another for direction and did all they could to keep the school in running order.
None of this mattered much to Nicolas. He certainly noticed when Charles' school abruptly lost its staff, but once Charles assured him that he and his fellow students would be staying at home, Nicolas stopped putting thought to it. He had far more important things on his mind: at long last, It was Nicolas' turn to solo in the choir. He had been singing with the boys at the basilica for over two and a half years and he was by far the best in class. Every morning Nicolas rose, bathed his sinuses and dutifully followed the exercises of the great Cafferelli. Trusting his own judgement, he devised a special mask, the best one yet, to sing this solo in. Between the dim light of the basilica to the curly mop of dark hair gracing his temple, no one in the audience could immediately make out the mask. Finally he had achieved his goal: he was a perpetual soprano and singing up front like a regular choir boy, discrete mask rendering him invisible among the other singers.
Nicolas noticed the congregation stir when they heard his voice: Sleepy men would pipe up suddenly, the old ladies wept and the village girls peered closely in the candle-lit chapel to try and make out the face of the voice. One Sunday in Advent, he managed to catch the eye of the girl who finally spotted him. A strange horror sank in his heart as her eyes lit up. Nicolas watched the reaction ripple through a whole line of soft and rounded teenage girls. Blushing giggles from fawning admirers were generally frowned upon before the eyes of God. But Nicolas knew exactly how far the authoritative eyes of the liturgical masters scanned, and could guess the coy delicacies or gentle admiration that fell outside of it. He nearly lost his breath when he noticed the attention, and to his incredible chagrin found himself upset for the first time about his castration.
It's just the mask, though, a voice seemed to say. It's silly to be this upset.
It was rather silly after all.
And there was no time to think on it, besides. Nicolas carefully inhaled and refocused on the music.
In the Spring, the king of Sardinia declared war on Austria, with the help of the crown princes of Tuscany and Sicily. For a brief time, the Vatican assisted in this revolutionary endeavor, but after victory in May, the Holy Father announced that he would not endorse a war between two Catholic nations. Revolutionary movements were appearing spontaneously all over Europe, and he was bombarded by demands from the socialists who were getting impatient and occasionally violent. After the first bloodshed from war and continued bullying, the once liberal pope had a much different outlook.
The reception to this news was cold. This is what Charles had feared when all his headmasters fled home and abandoned their charges, all with sureties of safety in their mouths.
By June, the people's faith in Pius IX was beginning to wane. It was a meager San Giovanni festival in Laterano. Charles and Nicolas snacked on stewed snails in the Piazza, as the Pope led the candlelit procession to the church. But hearts were uneasy. Town folk muttered under their breath about promises and expectations. Young people vanished from the Piazza once the pope arrived to begin the ceremony. It was a precarious calm before an unknown storm and Charles--no longer a boy--was already weary. After the unrest at the Roman college, his heart sank to see the foreboding that seemed to follow the Holy Father. "I have an idea, Nico, let's go," he sighed and lead them out of the Piazza. Nicolas looked at his friend, still working a juicy gastropod out of its shell. Nicolas had never seen Charles look this downtrodden before--not even when the Jesuit order fled Rome in disguise. He walked with a hurried frustration in his air, jaw clenched and lips quivering.
"Where are we going, Charles?"
It took Charles a few paces to respond, but he took in a deep breath and said, "I was remembering something I heard while at the soup kitchen the other day." He gave a troubled but genuine smile and said, "it made me think of you. You still play that violin of yours?"
"Noelle," Nicolas corrected with a flourish, "and yes every day."
The quietest of chuckles could be heard in Charles next breath, "yes I remember now. Noelle."
"She's a much less forgiving instrument than anything with a keyboard, however, and practice frustrates me."
"I've heard sounds on these strings that I think might interest you. You see, rumor has it that you've picked up where the dearly departed musical director left off in his love for polyphony. But while he defended Palastrina, you're defending Gesualdo."
"Ah that is where you have it wrong, my friend," Nicolas laughed, "I defend his music, never the man."
Charles shook his head, "Carlo Gesualdo was in consort with Satan, Nicolas. I know his music is liturgical, but it's the music of something cursed."
"How can you know that? No one has heard his music in this century!"
"They can NOT play the music of a man who's ghost still haunts the Villa that he slaughtered two people in," Charles tittered, smiling despite himself. Nicolas was forever finding thorns to twist in the sides of his elders, and Charles never quite understood why. He was disruptive to every sense: his eerie voice, masked appearance, intimidating intelligence and overwhelming eagerness made quite the effect on the other residents and scholars.
"That only makes him all the more tragic, brother Charles!" he waved about dramatically as he spoke, excited with the drama of it all. "He had a special servant to whip him soundly each day for the rest of his life to repent! Yet he still spends his afterlife haunting the grounds in agony," Nicolas wove about in extra circles around the young man as he walked, mimicking a forlorn ghost until Charles couldn't hold back a smile. "Besides, you've got it wrong."
"Oh, I do?" Charles eyes narrowed as his grin broadened-- Nicolas was doing it again. He was about to speak some kind of abomination or slander.
"Yes indeed!" Nicholas quipped, "Gesualdo isn't trapped where he murdered his wife and her lover. He haunts the castle where he had his infant son put to death!"
Charles was completely incapable of keeping a straight face, "Nico, hush!" he guffawed and instinctively looked around to see if anyone had heard.
Paying no mind, the boy continued, "he was lowered in a cradle from the bedroom window and in the street below there was a choir to sing death madrigals for three whole days and nights until the the young prince died!"
"Nico!" Charles scolded through his chuckle, "that's terrible!"
"I know!" the masked face cackled.
Charles shook his head and said, "well, regardless, I think you're going to love this."
Nicolas hopped ahead dramatically and walked backwards in front of Charles, who was taller than he. "What is it? More snails?"
Charles only response was a broad smile. He must have known they were close, because then Nicolas heard it.
The foreign violin.
The sonorous stroke stopped Nicolas in his tracks. Charles nearly ran into him but Nicolas swerved at the last minute, his head darting, seeking the sound as it tripped across the alleyways from an impromptu festival stage. A brown-skinned man with a huge fluffy hat played violin in the half light of the sunset and a luscious array of lamps. Nicolas turned up to Charles and asked, "how did you find him?"
"They came to the soup kitchen, like I said. I heard something I've never heard before and followed the sound to this group. They said they were going to be here after the festival was over."
"They?"
"Shh, keep watching."
As more performers appeared, Charles was pleased to see the kid perk up and marvel wide eyed and unblinking. The musicians were playing in non-diatonic intervals, sliding in between tones and tuned modaly to one another, as in nature.
Not, it should be noted, as in the Basilica.
Nicolas had been questioning the senior staff members of liturgical studies on the devil's tritone and other so-called sinister methods of writing music for some years now. He had grown up embedded with his studies and in fact outgrown several of his instructors. Nobody wanted to answer his ludicrous questions about chromaticism and it's potential place in liturgical works. Occasionally he'd been rumored to start fights with other chorus members—even other Musici—over quality of pitch or opinions about acoustics. He read dissertations from other schools of music and argued for greater breadth in liturgy. The fact that stringed instruments were banned from mass drove the young musici wild, and in response he devoted his childhood violin to "the notes I cannot sing in church in an instrument that cannot be played in church with a name that cannot sing in church" because this "second voice" of his was given a woman's name—Noelle. Women also were not allowed to sing in church.
However, in other parts of peninsula, the mass was being played to the popular tunes of Donizetti and Rossini. Opera scores were being played openly in worship service to the delight of a good number of parishioners. Meanwhile, not even the great stringed masses of Mozart and Handel would be played in the perfected acoustics of the St Peter's chapel and, frankly, this was an outrage.
In the lantern-lit alley with the exotic sounds of the heathen, Nicolas found whatever it was he believed himself to be looking for. Those hidden gestures and emotions that could only be perceived by utilizing notes in between notes or in the lamentation of an old woman's vocal cords or the sly question mark of a string that hovers on the penultimate tone on its way toward tonic. My god, but wasn't it about time the church finally enter the 19the century?
All the long walk back to the bridge, Charles smiled peacefully as Nicolas made a one-sided conversation about music theory. Once Charles was out of sight, the one sided conversation continued—for even though he was no longer the tiny French orphan who had first arrived several years ago, Nicolas still spent most of his time talking to Jeanette.
The instant Nolle was back in his hands, he extolled to her the nature of the sounds he had heard that evening. Picking up the bow, he tried to mimic the tones and tempo that were still so fresh and real. Nico and Noelle practiced in his dormitory shelter, daring anyone to stop them.
No one did. And as the months carried Nicolas and his precious intervals into a most discomfiting summertime, a voice seemed to say, "will you still be fiddling when Rome finally burns?"
