Author's Note: This may be a bit rushed, but I've been getting a little more writing done now that summer break has officially started for me. This is one of those optional half-chapters that you don't have to read but add more details to the lives of the characters. Anyways, I probably won't publish during the first two weeks of June since I'll be traveling but enjoy this and whatever else I write before I leave.
The impresario's eyes bored into Gabriele's as he slid his hand under his wig to scratch his scalp.
"Well, are you literate in music?" he asked, withdrawing his hand, which now had a considerably larger amount of blood under his nails.
Gabriele winced as he glanced down at the sheet of paper in his own, cleaner hand. Gaetano's waistcoat felt tighter.
"Yes, signor," he swallowed, glancing down again. He squinted at the sheet music, playing it in his head.
Leaning on his fist, the impresario looked up at him expectantly. Briefly clearing his throat, Gabriele gave the man what he wanted.
Và, stringi quel seno,
Quel seno infedele,
Che fà il tuo diletto;
Mà d'atro veleno
Lo sparga crudel
La destra d'Aletto.
For a moment, the room was silent. The silence was broken by the impresario chuckling under his breath.
"A fine voice yet horrible, horrible reading of the music. I shudder for the composer. Where were you educated, signor...signor-"
"Gabriele Sanfelice, ever let yourself forget it. I studied in Napoli since I was nine-years old but my sight reading's barely improved since," he replied, thrusting his chin upwards, his lips pulling back into a confident smirk.
"Well, Signor Sanfelice, where was that aria from? Madonna..." the impresario said, scratching his scalp, "Have you ever auditioned for anything before?"
"The fifteenth scene..." Gabriele trailed off, squinting down at the sheet of paper in his hand, considerably less confident, "...Atto Primo of, of Sofonisb', I believe,"
The impresario's lips pressed into a line as he placed his wig back on his head. His brows furrowed, but not in a manner to suggest that he was disappointed.
"A fine singer, but bring back a napulitan' who appears to be more educated next time. The voice of this one should be good enough, I suppose," he said, mocking Gabriele's slight accent.
Gaetano nodded slightly, and the pair left the room soon after. Biting the inside of his cheek, Gabriele let out the deepest exhale of his life.
"I'll prove to this bastard that I'm more than merely 'good enough', that damned louse-having litt-" he began, his native dialect shining through every word.
Gaetano laid a hand gently on his lover's shoulder.
"Let us be off to the Teatro San Samuele, you must calm yourself. I do not recall you telling me that you've seen an opera buffa before."
YOU ARE READING
A Songbird's Lament
Historical Fiction[Ongoing] Gabriele Sanfelice. Rondinello. Castrato. In a small town outside Napoli during the beginning of the 18th century, 9-year-old Gabriele Sanfelice lives a simple life; playing with his friends, and singing in the local church choir on Sunday...
