The Connoisseur

Chapter 7 - The Rake Punished

Music.  Music such as she had never heard.  Classical hadn’t moved her in the past – my own past, Sophia reminded herself – but this?  Flying, thrilling strings; the most delicate arias from the most delicate soprano voices; immense, thunderous brass; and there, at the front, the man who had conceived of it all.  How could that Mozart stood before her be real?  He was a man made of words and sounds and books two hundred years hence, not a being of flesh and blood.  Yet, she thought, there he is, down before his orchestra, beating out time.

And yet here I am also.  As the arrogant, promiscuous Don Giovanni pursued his lusts, seducing the young women around him in his devilish baritone voice, Sophia looked all around the theatre, at the audience, at the musicians, at Alexander, and at herself.  I am here, in 1787.  I am here.

She beamed, turning to Alexander.  His look, however, startled her.  He stared in fierce concentration at the stage, his brow furrowed. 

“This is where it all begins,” he said quietly, not looking at her.  “See, Don Giovanni chases Donna Anna, giving in to the passions that will obliterate him.  Ah!  Here is the Commendatore.”

She tried her best to follow the opera.  The Commendatore, furious at Giovanni’s pursuit of his betrothed daughter, challenged his foe to a duel – but the dissolute Giovanni slew him in cold blood, escaped, and the survivors swore vengeance.  Thundering, ominous chords ended the scene.

At last Alexander turned to Sophia as the next scene began.  “What do you think?”

“It’s quite good,” said Sophia, taking deep breaths.  “Yeah.  This definitely works for me.”

She tried to suppress a huge smile and failed miserably. 

Alexander smiled back.  “I’m sorry if I appear distracted by the music.  I find it so compelling.”

“That’s fine,” said Sophia.  “We’re here to watch it, right?”

“No one else is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at them.”

She did.  The soprano on stage had just begun a vengeful aria, but people in the audience were talking aloud, walking between seats and cheerily greeting their friends.  The overture had been so compelling that Sophia had not noticed them.

“I do them a disservice,” said Alexander.  “They are certainly listening, but opera is a social experience too.  This is the place to see and be seen.  It could be much worse.  At the 1840s Paris opera people play card games and get in fights during the performance.  It makes bad opera far more entertaining.”

“But this is good opera.”

“This is the best opera.”  Alexander sat back contentedly.  “Nonetheless, I expect we’ll be having visitors soon.”

He wasn’t wrong.  As the servant Leporello sang of Don Giovanni’s hundreds of sexual conquests and infidelities, the curtain behind Sophia rustled gently, and the attendant appeared.

“The Count of Scheslingen, sir.”

“Very good,” replied Alexander.

A lavishly dressed man swept into the box.  His face was young, but pockmarked and sallow, and his resting expression was a sneer. 

“Good evening, Count,” said Alexander, rising from his seat.

“And likewise,” said the Count.  “How goes your business in Sicily, sir?”

So he’s met the local nobility before, thought Sophia.  She wondered how many people throughout history Alexander had met.

“And how are your sisters?” said Alexander.  “I do not remember seeing them tonight.”