Alexander Chee - The Queen of the Night

The song for the entrance of the trovatore, Manrico, began next. It is one of the most beautiful, I think, of the songs there are for men. He is announced first by a harp, which is his lute, heard in the distance as he approaches through the forest at night, intent on Leonora, who listens for him from her window as Count di Luna, on hearing him, hides in the dark garden.

Alone on this earth,

at war with his fate,

one hope in his heart,

of a heart for the troubadour!

If he possesses that heart,

beautiful in its pure faith.

He is greater than any king…

The troubadour king!

Leonora rushes to the garden and embraces the Count, not the trovatore, mistaking the one voice for the other, the one man for the other, upsetting both. I knew the story well enough from the tenor; this is a clue that the trovatore is the Count’s long-lost brother, his hated rival for Leonora’s affections, unknown to him. But I knew, even if the tenor had a brother who sang, his voice would not sound like the tenor’s; there could be no mistake.

The tenor was not in the audience because he was on the stage.

You imagine it , I told myself then, for the trovatore was still singing in the distance, unseen. And so I even believed this little lie for an instant more until the moment he stepped into the clearing and removed his mask.

I wondered if he could see me through the dark, sense me here in the box. I glanced at the Comtesse, who held her opera glasses close to her face, intent on the stage. Was this a trap? She betrayed no sign of what I suspected.

If this was a trap, it was a beautiful one.

Never , I silently swore there in the dark. Never will I be on that stage with you, singing this. Never .

The scene ended as Count di Luna and Manrico fought a fierce duel and Leonora threw herself to the ground in despair.

Manrico wins the duel but spares the Count’s life and returns to his Gypsy camp, where his Gypsy mother reveals she is the daughter of the Gypsy the Count’s father murdered. Manrico is really the Count’s brother — the bones found when her mother burned were her own son’s. This is why Leonora mistook them for each other. Manrico is told Leonora believes he is dead and is entering a convent out of grief, and so he runs to stop her but finds the Count there to do much the same. He and Leonora escape to the woods where they can live together as lovers, but a trick of the Count separates them, and the Count kidnaps her and imprisons Manrico. Leonora agrees to marry the Count if he would free Manrico, but she swallows poison instead and goes to the prison so she can die in Manrico’s arms.

After her death, Manrico loses his will to live without her, stays a prisoner, and goes to his execution willingly. The Count discovers the truth of his brother’s identity only when it is too late for the Count to save him. He has killed the brother his father had asked him to save.

Victory, defeat, victory, defeat, victory, defeat. Such is tragedy.

The Gypsy’s daughter cried out in victorious revenge: the audience again came to its feet cheering. The Comtesse rose to leave the box early. As I still expected the tenor as the Comtesse’s next guest, I was relieved to make an exit. We entered the lobby just as the rest of the audience flooded out, the Comtesse and I their first sight as their eyes adjusted to the light of the candelabras.

She studiously paused, and the crowd likewise paused to see her turning slowly to display herself in the black velvet gown she wore that evening, her hair piled high on her head and spilling down the back, the hair at her brow powdered à la Madame Pompadour, the enormous rows of pearls at her neck, a necklace of hers for which she was famous. I know there would be stories of her told describing all of this and ending with the slow turn she made, the lobby briefly her theater before she tossed her hair and departed with me.

As I turned to leave, I saw myself as I must have looked beside her to the crowd: the blue silk of my own dress a contrast to her black velvet, my dark hair swept back and curled to display the Emperor’s love gift to her. Our little tableau vivant .

She had been like an actress running for her cue. All was as she’d wanted it.

To the Café Anglais, she told the driver as we were seated, and we left, off to meet my prospective admirer.

§

When we were seated finally at our table, the Comtesse ordered for us, and after the champagne was served, she spoke.

You asked what you might do for me, she said. I have certainly found a position for you as well as an admirer. But first I must speak of a somewhat uncomfortable matter, which is that the Emperor has requested you.

I did not immediately understand her meaning, and so she waited until I did.

As I smiled and lifted a glass of champagne to my lips, she said, He does like a horsewoman. Eugénie, of course, and then also Marguerite Bellanger. You wouldn’t be one of the ones he has there at night, though, she said. You’re young but you’re not trivial, not at all. Even when you don’t speak, I think that voice is there. It comes with its own atmosphere.

All of my thoughts stilled as I understood she meant my singing voice. I had never discussed it with her.

I won’t let him have you, though, she said. But he did ask and then insist. I can still refuse him, and he’s not as well as he once was — I think such an audience would disappoint you. Still, the idea of being able to take the young woman who stole Eugénie’s lover from her is, well, it has an undeniable appeal for him. It makes you an extraordinary prize.

There was a beat of silence amid the din of the room around us, the wing of some terrible angel overhead.

You’re under the protection of the Italian embassy here in Paris, such as I can offer. You have, however, humiliated me to the Emperor. So I must set some conditions.

She said this quietly, pausing to sip from her glass.

You seduced a favorite of the Empress’s and escaped from her service, leaving her short a dresser during the series at Compiègne. I admire this as a feat, certainly — I have also taken a man she loves. You are, perhaps, nearly like my own daughter to have done so. And it is very useful to me to know the Empress has a closely guarded lover, but I’ve had to deny I know where you are. For even though she may not have lovers, when her lovers take lovers, her guards are certain to punish the girls involved.

She let out an exasperated, dismissive chuckle and surveyed the room.

And so to prevent your being hunted as a fugitive, tortured, or even executed as a spy, I have introduced you to Paris this way. Hidden you in plain sight, in gowns, your hair freshly curled.

She finally looked at me. I hope we understand each other.

I said nothing and then remembered to nod. She continued once I did, returning to looking around the room.

All of this is better than you deserve, I think. For there’s the matter of one Jou-jou Courrèges. A former star of the Cirque Napoléon and a favorite of the Bal Mabille, declared dead at Saint-Lazare and stricken from the registry. Mysteriously beaten to death despite arriving at the jail in good health. This after a bitter argument in the street with a famous tenor who was one of her amours. And who, it would seem, owned her contract, having bought her from a popular house in the Marais.

Here I was, thinking you were a poor mute orphan girl, and it would seem you have been crisscrossing Paris in disguise for years. You are, I should say, an incorrigible criminal. And yet he is so happy at the thought of your reunion, our mutual tenor friend. And he is so dear to one of my own dearest friends. You are, he says, a rare talent.