The True Adventures of Nicolo Zen (11 page)

The house must have been there all the time, I thought with a shiver, invisible to me until that orange light appeared. Yet as the clouds closed up again, and the light faded, the house remained, and the amber lamps on either side of the door began to glow.

I gathered my courage and walked to the door. The door knocker was a white lightning bolt. A footman answered my knock. Short and bald, he had a flat, impassive face. His hands and feet were no bigger than a child’s. His face was pale and his irises black, as if they were one with his pupils. He wore an ivory earring in his left ear and was dressed in white from head to foot.

“Coat,” he said.

I removed my clarinet from the inside pocket before he took my coat and hung it in a closet.

Then he held out his hand, palm up. I had forgotten about the medallion. I dug it from my pocket, and before he closed his fingers on it, I could have sworn the eye on the medallion was now open.

He pointed toward a long hallway and said, “Inside.”

He led me down the hallway, around a corner, and through a low archway. We were in a small white room, containing only a white carpet and table on which there was a vase of white flowers. This room, in turn, led to a slightly larger room, with a larger table, carpet, and vase, on and on, through a series of Moorish archways, five rooms in all, each a purer white than the last, so that by the fifth room the table and carpet were barely distinguishable. In that room, too, I discovered that the carpet was
composed, not of wool, but hundreds of butterflies that every few seconds fluttered up to the ceiling and returned to the floor in unison. And I realized there were other creatures present, an owl that swooped by and a lizard skittering into the corners, they, too, so white that they were only visible, three-dimensional, for an instant before literally disappearing into the woodwork. I could barely discern the footman anymore, until he stopped and turned around in the last archway, even his pale face standing out against that whiteness. He beckoned me into an enormous, four-storied room filled with marvels even more spectacular than the butterfly carpets.

On platforms hung by wire from the ceiling beams there were white trees on which doves were perched, singing, preening, darting between branches. The ceiling itself was glass, but the snow falling outside was passing right through it, dissolving before it reached the floor. In the center of the room three marble mermaids stood atop a circular fountain, poised to dive into the milky water. Incense was burning in braziers. There was a pyramid of birch logs in the fireplace, ready to burn. And everywhere I looked, elaborate stage props: silver hoops, birdcages, swords and daggers, ropes, nets, chains, a small mountain of trunks and boxes, and the only colored objects in sight, relegated to a half-hidden alcove: a set of frightful masks and two red and green Chinese cabinets adorned with dragons and tigers. I was trying to absorb all of this when I came on a succession of wall mirrors that reflected me as I passed—that is, some image of me that did not belong to my body or wear my clothes, but instead was white and transparent, like a ghost. I froze before the last of these mirrors, my heart pounding so loudly that the footman had to shout to get my attention.

“Sit,” he repeated.

I took the chair he indicated, clutching my clarinet. I understood now why it had been fashioned of the whitest ivory, rather than wood.

“Wait,” the footman said before disappearing through a low door.

It was clear he only spoke one word at a time, out of choice or necessity I didn’t know. But there were more compelling mysteries to occupy me in the minutes I spent alone in that room, gazing at the birds and watching the snow fall, and, after hearing a splash, turning to find one of the mermaids missing. If all of this is an illusion, I thought, the magician who created it must be unimaginably powerful, and as if on cue, a booming voice echoed from behind me.

“Good evening. Didn’t Lodovico offer you tea?”

To my astonishment, the speaker was the man depicted in the statue outside, tall and imposing, with the long hair and mustache, which were jet-black. In fact, except for his face, everything about him was black: velvet robe, silk pants, leather gloves, boots. He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and large, nimble hands. His huge eyebrows, like streaks of black paint, converged over his nose and curved back to his temples.

“Lodovico!” he shouted, and the footman appeared from the low door. “Bring the boy burdock tea, with a plate of figs and jam.” He looked at me. “Would you care for anything else, Nicolò?”

“No, thank you, sir.” I saw that his eyes had immediately gone to my clarinet.

“Call me Massimo. And come, warm yourself by the fire.”

What fire? I thought, until I realized the birch logs had started burning on their own.

I sat on an ottoman near the fireplace, and Massimo in a high-backed chair whose arms were carved into serpents. Seated, he somehow appeared even taller, looking down on me. His gaze was intense, but I tried to meet it, and not shy away. Lodovico brought me my tea and figs. Inhaling the vapor off the tea, I wondered what burdock was.

“It’s a medicinal root,” Massimo said. “Drink this tea every day with honey and you will strengthen your mind. Try it.”

I took a sip. Even with the honey, it tasted bitter.

“Before we go any further,” Massimo said, “I would like to hear how you acquired the clarinet.”

Though this was my reason for being there, I hesitated. The landlady had made it clear that Massimo wasn’t fond of his cousin; I was wary that the story around my clarinet, and Signor Agnetti’s role in it, might somehow offend Massimo and incur his wrath.

“Don’t be afraid. Just tell me.”

I did so, and he listened closely. Nothing seemed to surprise him, but he did betray a faint smile when I mentioned my brief stint with the orchestra at the Ospedale.

“So Signor Vivaldi made you Prima Clarinetto. Would you play me something?”

I froze. I hadn’t expected this, and with his eyes upon me, I wasn’t sure I could concentrate.

“Play anything you like,” he said.

I put the embouchure to my lips, closed my eyes, and launched into one of the solos I had played with the orchestra. The sound
carried well in that room, and when I finished, Massimo nodded approvingly.

“Excellent. I am so pleased to find the instrument in such deserving hands.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Only a man like my cousin would never have tried to play this clarinet,” he said with a frown. “I made him a gift of it, and he thought it could only be valuable because it is ivory. I told him it had more significant qualities, but I knew he wasn’t listening because he only measured value in karats—and this clarinet is very light, is it not? He had no imagination. And he was a terrible businessman, always just a step ahead of the debt collectors. At any rate, after your father chose the clarinet—fortuitously for you—my cousin would have comforted himself by calculating the value of the ivory in relation to the labor your father rendered him and deciding he had gotten the better of the deal.” Massimo chuckled. “If this were a typical clarinet, of ebony or rosewood, or even the elephant tusk from which it was carved, that might have been the case. But it is not, as you discovered within moments of receiving it. No doubt you have a wonderful ear, and a real talent, but would you like to know how you came to play so beautifully, so quickly, an instrument you had never laid eyes on?”

“Very much so.”

“I assume you had never even heard of the clarinet.”

“No, sir. Even the Master had little knowledge of it.”

“Is that so,” he said, clearly pleased to hear this. “I acquired this one in Leipzig, from a famous instrument maker, on my last tour of Germany. It was the ivory that attracted me. I was assured it was one of a kind. Then I learned what a unique instrument
the clarinet is, so new to the world. I felt I could make this one even more unique, so when I arrived home, that’s what I did.” He paused. “Do you know what a spell is? Forget about the tricks of hypnotists and witches. A true spell is rooted in chemistry and physics, not trickery. All things are composed of particles, and all particles are composed of atoms, which are invisible, even through a microscope. If one can rearrange those particles, and rechannel the energy that animates them, he can make an object—or even a living thing—behave differently. Everything is changeable because atoms are constantly in flux. A fallen leaf decays into soil, a fish is eaten by another fish, stones and shells break down into sand. All of nature is governed by laws. But if someone has the focus and concentration to bend even one of those laws, he can alter its connection to all the others. Do you understand, Nicolò?”

“I think so.” I understood about the soil and the sand.

“Imagine pulling a single thread from a fabric, which then unravels.” He pointed to the ceiling. “Or altering the composition of a pane of glass by diverting the energy that binds its particles just enough to make it permeable, at a certain temperature, to flakes of snow. Or rearranging the components of a musical instrument so that the energy a musician brings to it produces the notes he hears in his head. It is not just an extension of him: it is one with him.”

I nodded. “Yes, that’s how it is when I play the clarinet.”

He smiled. “I know. I put a spell on this instrument that would enable the very first person who attempted to play it to forge this connection and make music with extraordinary skill. Man or woman, old or young, that person, and only that person, would be able to play the clarinet flawlessly from the first, so long as he
could harness his concentration and energy. My cousin could read music, and because our relationship was so strained, I hoped the clarinet might bring some joy into his life. I should have known he wouldn’t try to play it, and clearly your father didn’t before he presented it to you. You were the intended one. And your friend the cook is correct: now the clarinet can give you an entirely new life as a performer.”

“And my ability to play it—”

“Will remain as it is. The clarinet is yours. And only I can reverse the spell on it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It is my pleasure. There is only one condition: you must never give or sell the clarinet to anyone, under any conditions.”

“I would never do that.”

“Should you no longer want it, you must return it to me. Keep it close. If you allow it to be stolen, even if you are not directly at fault, I will hold you responsible.” He stood up. “And you don’t want that to happen.”

I shook my head.

“Good. Many people owe me favors, Nicolò. One is a music impresario named Emmerich Hoyer. He books engagements for some of the finest musicians in Europe. I am going to give you a letter for him that will ensure that he helps you in any way he can. But you must set out to see him without delay, as soon as you leave this house. When you do, your fortune will be made.”

“In what part of the city will I find him?”

“He is not in Venice. You will be leaving Venice.”

“When?”

“At once. Can you do that?”

“Tonight? Can I say goodbye first to Signora Botello and Bartolomeo?”

“I’m sorry, but no.”

“They have been so kind to me.”

“I will inform them, I promise you.”

“My clothes—”

“Lodovico will pack a bag for you, with clothing and provisions. It will be a considerable journey.”

“Where am I going?”

“Vienna.”

“Austria?”

“It is freezing at this time of year, but also quite beautiful. Most importantly, there are musical events every night—operas, concerts, recitals. Herr Hoyer will find you living quarters and see to your other needs. Are you ready to do this?”

I was overwhelmed. I didn’t fully grasp the implications of what he was proposing—how could I?—but I followed my instincts. “I’m ready,” I replied.

“Come with me, then.”

I followed him down a long hallway, parallel to the one by which I had entered with Lodovico, but deeper inside the house and even more private. We passed several curtained windows, and then one that overlooked the Rio di San Cassiano. Massimo stopped and beckoned me to his side. Night had fallen. The canal shone in the darkness beneath whirling snowflakes. A lantern bobbed on the quay where a constable was making his rounds.

Massimo did not say a word. He lifted one finger and pointed
it toward the canal, and in a burst of light that blinded me momentarily, the water was replaced by a forest of sunlit leafy trees that stretched all the way to the Grand Canal.

I gasped.

“What is your favorite fruit?” Massimo asked calmly.

“I—”

“Quick.”

“Oranges.”

Before the word left my lips, there were clusters of oranges hanging from all the trees. Where the constable had walked there was a farmer with a basket picking the fruit.

“Now close your eyes and count to five,” Massimo said, “then open them again.”

When I did, the trees were gone, and the snow was sifting into the dark canal.

“How did you do that?” I said.

He shook his head. “Never ask how.”

He led me to the end of the hallway, where a door opened onto a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a rack of rolled-up maps, and several globes and astrolabes. There was a telescope at the window and a microscope on a table beside a tray of glass jars filled with powders, unguents, plants, and insects. Only four candles were burning, so the room was not nearly as bright as the rest of the house.

“Wait here while I write you that letter,” Massimo said, entering the adjoining study and closing the door.

Gazing around at the thousands of books bound in white leather, I discovered I was not alone. There was a girl in the corner with her back to me taking a large book off the shelf. She was
wearing a white dress and white slippers, and her long hair was tied back with a white ribbon. She turned around and walked toward me, and I was stunned to see that it was Julietta.

“Julietta!”

She shook her head and smiled. “That is not my name.”

Indeed, she did not speak in Julietta’s voice.