Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

“Just at that moment,” continued Puccini, “a courier arrived at the hotel and presented me with a package in which there was a manuscript labeled La Bohème da Ruggiero Leoncavallo . I handed it to Ruggiero and he gasped. His handwriting, his melodies, his plot—all was there in front of us. And then, as if to mock us, a note addressed to both of us was delivered by the hotel maid: dated a week ago, it said simply: Davvero, ce ne saranno due . . . o tre . . . o quattro! ”

“Indeed, there will be two or three or four La Bohème s, if I interpret the note accurately,” said Holmes. “And presumably you have continued to receive, each of you, further portions of the other’s opera?’

“Yes, we are almost halfway through each version. All of our attempts to find the strange genius who began this have led to nought. He obviously has managed to obtain access to our ateliers, how and through whom we have no idea. And why has he chosen to do this? What is the motive?”

“But most importantly, cari signori ,” I interjected, “it is not that this scoundrel gained access to your ateliers. Indeed, neither of you has begun to write, so that if your agreement holds, there is nothing in your ateliers for him to use. The physical accoutrements, the paper and ink and other things, are easily available, but the musical insights—they are another matter. If he is working on his own, then we must admit that we are dealing with an incredible musical genius, one who can read your future musical thoughts from what you have already published.”

“Brilliantly put, Watson. I must say that I am impressed by your logic. Because of its great achievements in painting and sculpture, Italy is no stranger to artistic forgery. It is not surprising therefore that fraud has finally moved to the field of music,” said Holmes.

“We come to you, Signor Holmes, not only because of your international reputation, but also on the recommendation of two people who know you well: Grimaldi, of the Roman police, and Lombroso, who speaks in the most glowing terms of your abilities. Signor Holmes, you must find Murger, to see if he agrees to having his book transformed into opera. If he does not agree, or is dead, then we will abandon our projects. And who is writing these versions of La Bohème . And why?”

“I accept, dear amici , with pleasure. Please leave the two Bohème s with me and I shall examine them closely for any clews they might provide about the identity of the author. In the meantime, keep strangers away from your notes and manuscripts. Remember that a good musician can easily mimic the work of another, but this appears to go far beyond mere mimicry. As soon as I have some results, I shall notify you.”

“Many thanks, and arrivederla , Signor Holmes.”

“Well, Watson, we have our work cut out for us. Where is Murger?”

“He is drinking his morning tea,” said I.

Holmes followed me into the sitting room. There sat Henri Murger, much refreshed and in rather good spirits, considering his ordeal. He smiled and thanked us profusely for our help the night before.

“ Messieurs, merci de nouveau . I assume you are Mr. Holmes and you Dr. Watson.”

Holmes nodded and assured our guest that we were happy to have saved him from the cold and that he should feel free to stay with us as long as he was in Rome. “Monsieur Murger, right now I need some information from you.”

“Tell me and I shall answer as best I can.”

“M. Murger, what I have to ask concerns your novel Scènes de la vie de bohème , a book that you published many years ago, in 1848. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Monsieur. The book was a failure and I forgot about it until recently when two Italian composers of opera, Leoncavallo and Puccini, wrote me asking if I would acquiesce in their writing an opera based on my work. The letters were mi Unfortunately, someone else preceded them and offered me a large sum for the rights, which I have accepted.”

“And who is that, may I ask?”

“Monsieur Holmes, that is the difficult part. I do not know who he is, or where he is, except that he lives here in Rome, but not permanently. His home is in Foggia, nearer to Naples. He asked me to meet him tomorrow outside the Rome Opera house. And so, I shall.”

“Good, Monsieur Murger. One other question. Who indeed was the young woman who helped you?”

“ De nouveau , I cannot say exactly. Yesterday, I left my hotel early hoping that I would find you—I have your address from Louis Frobin of the Sûreté de Paris —but the snow was so high that I barely managed to reach your quarters. I saw the young woman you mention selling paper flowers in the snow. It was the first time that I had seen her. When I fell in the snow she tried to lift me. I must have fainted. I still heard her say that she knew was my daughter, but my only daughter lives in Paris and so the young woman is at best confused.”

“And why were you searching for me, Monsieur Murger?”

“I am an old man, Monsieur Holmes, with many needs. I learned that you were in Rome and I thought that you could accompany me to the meeting with the composers of La Bohème . But perhaps the case does not amuse you, Monsieur Holmes?”

“ Au contraire , Monsieur Murger, it does amuse me and I have already spoken to the two composers. Please continue to rest here. Watson and I have some work to do.” Murger nodded, closed his eyes, and was soon overtaken by the fatigue induced by the events of the previous night.

Holmes paced back and forth, almost silently, as he considered his next move. “The young woman, Watson, she is part of this story, though I am not sure as yet how she fits. Right now, she is merely part of the locale. Come, the sun is shining. Let us inform our Soliti Ignoti of what has transpired and enlist their aid in finding the woman. Our own Gabriele is said to be enamoured of her. Last night, she arrived at the Café Momus dressed in the most expensive attire and accompanied by a rich merchant from the north, possibly England or Germany. Era in carrozza vestita come una regina .”

We found our archangels in their den, a small flat on Via Muzio Clementi. We were in luck. They told us that they knew the young woman and that she had been surviving in the cellar of the Café Momus. Gabriele, in fact, said that he had just seen her as she ventured forth with her paper flowers that morning. She was starved and he gave her some coins with which she bought some bread. She thanked him and said that a great patron of hers had arrived in Italy and was going to take care of her as soon as he arrived in Rome. Then she would repay him. Holmes asked that Gabriele take us to the young woman, and we followed him as he walked quickly toward the Café Momus.

The café was closed, and Gabriele took us to a narrow alley that went to the back. There we saw a broken window through which Gabriele called to the young woman. There was no answer. “She is not here,” said Gabriel.

“I must enter,” said Holmes.

“Very well,” said Gabriele, “we shall stand guard as you break the law.”

Holmes climbed through the window. I watched as he searched the room. He later told me that the articles stored there were the pathetic possessions of someone close to abject poverty: a few tattered shawls, a bonnet, a soft muff, some worn-out shoes, and a thin blanket. There were no clothes that fit the description of those of the night before. As to the rest, there was no bed, only a dirt floor. There was only one piece of furniture, an old chair on top of which was a note, recently written, that read in its entirety: Amore, arrivo oggi a Roma. Sono solo, senza P. Incontriamoci al più presto possibile. Sarò all’incrocio di Via Margutta e Via Babuino verso le dodici domani. R.