A ballet is nothing to add lightly, he said. Un Ballo in Maschera, did you know it was not always set in America? I was forced to set it in America so as not to offend a prince. An American masked ball! I’d never heard of such a thing.
I did not, I said, amused. I was to perform this next for him in Milan, to open the season at La Scala in December with it. Where was it set previously? I asked.
Sweden! But the offended parties were Napolitanos! And Napoléon III, also, strangely. He usually only minded if an opera was overlong.
We laughed.
A few courses were served and then he asked me if I might agree to another opera altogether. This as he set the plates full of risotto in front of us.
I Masnadieri, he said.
I smiled and looked down to my risotto. This offer surprised me. When he’d asked me to dinner that night, I’d thought it was to discuss some further detail of the Milan production. I knew this other opera a little—I would be killed by bandits instead of dying in my cell this time—and I was about to say yes, as I usually would to such an offer, and then did not.
Speak freely, my dear, he said. Something bothers you.
How to say it? I was tired of dying this season, tired of playing so long at death and madness. My initial hesitation began there and was joined by the irony of his granting an old wish—acting as if I did belong to him—even as a new one had appeared. The idea of originating a role written by a protégé of his had taken root in me over the course of the day and had even grown into a romantic fable, the more plausible to me as I sat here. Giuseppina had met Verdi when he was a struggling young composer beginning his career with Nabucco. She had created both the lead soprano role and her life with him, leaving behind the more famous Donizetti for the handsome young composer. Composers often courted singers with original roles in operas, as they both knew well.
I thought of myself as a Giuseppina then, waiting for my own Giuseppe to appear and hoping, perhaps, that he had.
But I had not yet met this new Giuseppe. They, it seemed, had; they knew who he was. I couldn’t say no to Verdi, though, especially for an opera without a score, written by the protégé I had meant to ask after next. He would eventually find out, and this would insult him. And so I could not say yes, and I could not say no, and I could not ask my question, not right then. I could lie, the thought came, but as quickly came the thought that to lie to him was a grave sin against our friendship. For he would know.
What’s more, I had no lie prepared.
This is a surprise. We were so sure you’d be pleased, Giuseppina said. She raised an eyebrow, and they sat back in their chairs again. Verdi held his glass to the side near the candle flame, and along the tablecloth a deep red shadow pooled.
My novels, I heard the writer say, in my memory of the night before. They all come true. And I knew what I would say.
As you can tell, I said, I am afraid to consent.
The lie was still forming on my tongue when a feeling came, like that premonitory trill of the string section in an opera, the warning of danger.
I feel it brings a curse, I said.
Verdi squinted and looked up. The red light from his glass flashed along the pressed white linen tablecloth.
I fear the roles I take come true, I said. Condemn me to repeat the fates of my characters in life. This I worded as a suspicion, for I already regretted this lie, which had seemed small and ridiculous just a moment before, but still useful somehow, and now was an explosion, the words still in the air around me like smoke, a smoke that could grow to cover my entire life. And Verdi’s face was now so grave, so solemn, I was about to contradict myself, or laugh, or agree to take the role if only to please him when Giuseppina reached for my hand. She glanced at her husband, who did not meet her eyes, and then she leaned very close to me.
Of course they do, my dear, she said. This is why I have sung nothing since marrying.
Verdi put his glass down. Cursed? I wonder. What have you dared? He stroked his beard as he met my eyes, a faint smile on his face.
The great tragedies are told of the families who’d caught the attention of the gods with their hubris, struck down but known forever to us. The House of Atreus, for example, he said. But perhaps you are cursed. Perhaps when we do as we do, he said, the gods learn something or are entertained. Certainly we do not. He pulled my free hand to him and kissed it, as if I had bid him good night. Take very good care, he said. Our prayers are with you. I do understand. And if this means you must withdraw from the other production, please, tell me.
I sat silent before them, humiliated, unable to answer until I remembered the matter of my other mission and decided to proceed as plainly as possible.
What is this I hear of a protégé? I asked. A young composer, a recent winner of the Prix de Rome?
Verdi said nothing but stood and removed our plates and then returned to the table with grappa, which I took.