Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

I detected a pinch of pomposity in Holmes’s tone and said no more. “Sorry, old boy,” he said. “I am sure my enthusiasm is a bit difficult to take, but hear me out.”

“I am listening with the greatest interest.”

“Good. We may dispose of Boito immediately. He is now working as a librettist for Verdi. He has no time for the machinations of other composers. That leaves two finalists: Ponchielli and Giordano. Despite the greatness of some of his music, Amilcare Ponchielli is uneven as a composer, and his chief work, La Gioconda , is marred by deep dramatic faults, the notorious “Dance of the Hours” being the most reprehensible. That leaves Umberto Giordano, a native of the city of Foggia and perhaps Italy’s greatest operatic composer of the present generation. A brilliant melodist, orchestrator, and dramatist, his opera Andrea Chenier is the high point of all the scores I have examined.”

“I must say, Holmes, that my ignorance is profound in his respect: I have never heard his name before.”

“You will hear it more and more. Lombroso knows him well and so it should be easy to find him. I think there is someone at the door. Probably a courier with a message from Lombroso with Giordano’s address.”

I took the message from the courier and handed it to Holmes.Via Orlando di Lasso 45, interno 12. È a casa proprio addesso. Lombroso

“Come, Watson, let us go and meet Umberto Giordano. Let us see if my reasoning proves correct.”

I perused a map of Rome that Holmes had tacked to the back of our front door. “It is nearby,” I said, “just off Via Palestrina. It is no more than a ten-minute walk.”

The walk was indeed a short one, for Via Orlando di Lasso crossed Via Palestrina only two streets north of our residence. Interno 12 was on the first floor. The door opened as soon as Holmes rang the bell.

“Signor Giordano?” asked Holmes.

“ Son’ io ,” replied Giordano with a grin.

“ Ma io non son la mamma morta ,” replied Holmes with a broad smile.

“Certamente no. Infatti, io aspettavo il famoso nemico del male umano, il Signor Sherlock Holmes. Credo, se non mi sbaglio, sia lui chi sta in fronte a me. E Lei, dovrebbe essere il famoso dottore Watson. Dunque avanti, signori, entrate senza lasciar indietro la speranza.”

I beg the reader’s indulgence here, for he can quickly see from the above that the converstion between Giordano and Holmes went far over my head with its witticisms, its references to Dante and other poets, and its plays on words. I sat silently with a bemused expression on my face, waiting for Holmes to come to the point. It was Giordano who first spoke with reference to the reason for our visit.

“I calculated that you would arrive precisely when you did. Shall we speak now in all candor, Mr. Holmes, with reference to the two Bohème s?”

“Indeed we must, and as quickly as possible.”

“I assume you compared the works of Puccini and Leoncavallo to mine?”

“Indeed, I did. And I found what I was looking for: in Act III of Andrea Chenier , just before the aria “Nemico della Patria,” there are two modulations to the key of A minor preceded by two mournful notes played by the bassoon that only Puccini and Leoncavallo would be capable writing aside from you. And furthermore, dear Giordano, in your version of Puccini’s La Bohème , the same rare chord appears. Perhaps we should give it a name—say, the Chenier inversion. And it has led me directly to you.”

“Indeed,” said Giordano with a broad smile. “Please tell my friends, Leoncavallo and Puccini, that I have made my point. They may have Murger’s La Bohème , but impress upon them that I have been angered by Pagliacci and Tosca , both of which have large elements of my work embedded in them.”

“I assume, then,” said Holmes, “that you are the gentleman who was to meet Murger.”

“I am, and I told Murger that I was no longer interested in La Bohème . My next opera will be Fedora .”

“Ah,” said Holmes, “the novel of Sardou.”

“Indeed,” said Giordano, “I hope you will come to the opening.”

“ Ma certo ,” said Holmes, and we left.

“Well,” said I as we walked toward Piazza Venezia, “what now? You have made peace in the world of Italian opera, an opera buffa in itself. A remarkable achievement.”

“Thank you, dear fellow.”

Holmes maintained his silence as we walked home. As we approached Piazza Venezia, he stopped suddenly and sat down.

“Have you a pen on you, Watson?”

I pulled out my notebook and pen and gave them to him. He scribbled out a short note, and we resumed our walk home. As we approached the gate of the Villa Orsini, Holmes stopped and handed the note to the guard.

“Watson, it is high time to think about a glass of frascati and a light lunch.”

“Indeed,” said I.

We took a cab to Campo dei Fior, where we lunched sumptuously. We arrived at our quarters at three. Both of us were overcome by the meal. Holmes relaxed with a cigar and I rolled myself a cigarette. I was about to doze when there was a knock at the door and Holmes rushed to open it. It was a courier with a note in answer to his delivered to the Villa Orsini.

“Watson,” said Holmes, “forgive me, but I neglected to tell you that we shall have guests tonight. My note delivered to the guard at the Villa Orsini has received a prompt and positive response. It is Friday, is it not? This note from Raffaele says that he would bring Lucia and her padrone here for a light supper. So enamoured is the padrone of our flower girl that he is ready to cast her in a minor role in his new music drama. This will at least hide her for a time from his wife, who I gather is terribly jealous.”

Holmes turned towards me, a wide grin over his face.

“Who is this mysterious padrone ? Do you know?” I asked.

“Yes, I am convinced that he is a musical figure of the greatest accomplishment. He is also a well-known aficionado of the card game scat. I gather that he plays with his friends every Friday. By the bye, Watson, what will you entitle this story when you finally write it out? ‘The Case of the Two Bohème s’?”

“No, Holmes, I shall call it “The Man in the Blue Coat.” He can only be Richard Strauss in this instance.”

“Good, Watson. He barely appears in the story, remains without a name, yet he is essential to the plot and insures something rare in the world of opera: a happy ending.”

“Very good,” said I.

There was a second loud knock at the door. I opened it this time to find our landlady standing there in the black attire of a butler. Held high overhead was a tray bearing a steaming teapot and a fresh loaf of bread. In her left hand was a white envelope, which I was sure contained the rent bill.

“ Monsieur est servi ,” said la Signora.

“ Capriccio ,” said I.

“Good,” said Holmes. “My compliments, dear Watson. You have learned much on our voyage in Italy.”

Our landlady left our tea near the window and, with a flourish, disappeared through the door.

THE CASE OF THE VERMILION FACE

also known as The Sins of Cardinal Corelli

IT WAS, IF I REMEMBER CORRECTLY, THE SEVENTH OF April, 1903, a grey, wet London morning, on which I heard Holmes moving about quietly in our sitting room. When I entered, I found him halfway through breakfast. He was seated in his favourite armchair, staring into the rising flames of the fire he had just prepared. Over his lap he had placed a heavy Afghan blanket, on top of which sat a tray with our teapot and bread and butter.