Desdemona by Tag Cavello (love books to read txt) 📕

Suddenly there came a knock at the door. I opened it to find our conductor, Simone, standing at the threshold. Immediately it took me aback, for the look upon his normally thoughtful, slightly flustered face (the face of a Tuscan poet, if I may be so bold as to add, fiercely in love, searching the hills of his homeland on a sunny day for that one line, that one magical string of words proper enough in harmony and complexity to convey the burning of his heart) had become stern and calculating. He did not move. His tall, lean frame seemed to give off waves of coolness, in chorus with the draft. I bade him come in. He refused, then imparted upon me this piece of unpleasant news:

I was to leave San Agustin at once. Something I had said or done had caused the bishop to become unhappy with me. Simone would not tell me what that something was, though I, in reeling astonishment, all but begged to know. Whatever it was, Simone seemed to believe it, too. Throughout his short visit he continued to look at me in a way that suggested a longing to raise his boot and step, with disgusted ferocity, upon the face to which he’d been forced to speak.

“Simone, really,” I began afresh, having retreated and regrouped my senses best as I knew how. “I’m certain we have a simple misunderstanding, nothing more—“

“I’m afraid not, Horatio,” the other rejoined. “The bishop is quite adamant about having you gone. And the choir, though together for only three more shows, shall have none of you either.”

“Smettila!” I nearly barked, my own anger beginning to boil. “Questo non ha senso!”

But the conductor’s own demeanor did not change. He looked at me, cool and insistent, for several seconds before allowing himself to gaze past my shoulder, where no doubt he discovered the bags I’d been packing.

“It would seem that you’re well aware of the circumstances already,” he remarked with perhaps a nip of sarcasm.

“Not at all,” I replied. “I planned to stay at San Agustin for the remainder of our run.”

Simone shook his head slowly. He still had not entered the room.

“So I’m to leave right now?” I felt compelled to ask.

“Correct.” And at this point Simone at last began to display some flurry of sympathy. Looking rather sad, he dropped his head and told me the bishop would have come down with the news himself, except that he felt too embarrassed for me to conduct a formal presentation.

Confused as much as I’d ever been in my life, I once more beseeched Simone to impart his knowledge of whatever crime I supposedly committed. Again he shook his head, clearly unconvinced of my ignorance.

“Amor, tosse e fumo, malemente si nascondono,” he whispered, then turned and walked away, leaving me agape.

He had quoted an old Italian proverb which means: Love, smoke, and cough are hard to hide. Pertaining to me, I had no idea what it was supposed to mean.

I spent that night on the streets of Intramuros, bags in hand, newly alone in an alien world. After dinner I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked several in a long, dark passageway under the fortress walls. During this interlude I came to the conclusion that whatever it was I had done to upset the bishop scarcely mattered amidst the immediate timeframe of things, as these were to be the final days of the choir anyway, and we shan’t be seeing each other ever again. Faces floated in my mind—friends I’d made on the road. We’d shared happy times, drinking toasts in obscure corner bars, celebrating holidays on the roofs of fancy hotels, swapping stories of the girls we’d loved, the games we’d played, the tears we’d shed. No more would we laugh together, or help one another through troubled times. The old friends were gone. It was time to make new ones.

As I thought these things it began to rain. At the end of the tunnel I could see it—a curtain of silver upon the empty street, whispering its arrival to the trees, smudging wares in the window of an old shop, long since closed for the night. Streams formed along the curb, carrying off that day’s dust.

“So be it,” I whispered to myself, there in the gloomy passage.

I was sorry the Lord no longer wished to hear me sing for Him. Perhaps one day I would have another chance. But for now I was on my own, far from the mystic rose of that long dead poet, with its thrones set at great distances to which one could always see, as I felt I could still see, though I stood far from the light of angels.

The next day found me at Mrs. Dominguez’s door, deposit in hand. An odd look surfaced on her face, yet she relinquished the apartment key. From there I retired to my new abode and unpacked. Whilst doing so I shouted a greeting to Princess. No reply traveled back from the basement stairs. Indeed, I didn’t see nor hear from her for the next several days, by which time I had begun my gig at the Lyric Theater, singing in conventional operas such as The Magic Flute and Carmen.

I bought some furniture for the apartment. Not much, mind you, but I needed a place to drink my coffee and read my books. For the bedroom I put a mattress on the floor, and a fan in the window. That window overlooked the street where, I discovered, children often played after dark, their laughter mingling with the evening air as the lyrics of pretty song do its music.

And as the days became weeks, I wondered more about Princess. Several times over that June and July I ventured downstairs to knock on her door. Never once did she respond. I watched the front walk from my window. The postman left packages. Occasionally a boy would come to trim the lawn, or tend to Mrs. Dominguez’s sampaguita shrub. But of Princess I saw nothing. She had either moved away from the building at some point, or had found my company too awkward to pursue. Whichever, I began to let the memory of her slip away, focusing fully on my performances at the Lyric, and paying the rent on time.

Then at the beginning of August a typhoon warning came over the radio. I had just settled for the evening in my sparsely decorated living-room, a book in hand, ready to while off an hour or two with music and prose. You Butterfly by Andy Williams, one of my favorite tunes, began to play, then was cut off by a weather bulletin. It informed that a rather powerful storm was approaching the Philippines. It would arrive in Manila before midnight. All residents were to prepare themselves appropriately. Having never been through a typhoon before, I had no idea how to conduct myself, but my powers of improvisation were quick, and my mind sharp and keen as a cutting blade…

∞

“I hid myself in the closet,” Donati said.

Dante tilted his head. “Excuse me?”

“Just kidding, my boy, just kidding.”

∞

I battened down the apartment as best I knew how. I also went to check on the well-being of Mrs. Dominguez. She invited me in for dinner with her family, which I accepted, and we made pleasant chatter over rice and sinigang as the wind outside grew stronger. At some point or other I mentioned Princess. It must have been toward the end of the meal. It was full dark by then. Twigs were blowing across the porch, scratching at the door like phantom fingers. The trees had begun to howl.

“Will we lose the electricity?” I asked. “If so I should fetch Princess. She’ll be frightened all by herself in the basement.”

The cup of coffee Mrs. Dominguez had been about to drink from froze halfway to her lips. She blinked at me for a moment, then began to laugh. “Of course,” she said, “of course. I’ll be sure to check on her as well.”

I stayed for a short while longer, drinking coffee and telling stories of my travels. It must have been close to eight o’clock when I at last bid my gracious hosts goodnight. A gale met me on the porch, ruffling my clothes. Leaves scurried over the lawn. Street-lamps flickered. I went to my apartment and made sure a number of candles were readily at hand. I secured the back door. Then I went downstairs to look in on Princess. Not in the least expectant of an answer to my knock, I became quite surprised when her voice suddenly floated forth.

“Mr. Donati? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” I answered. “Is everything all right in there?”

Only it was hard to know where to send my voice, for her reply did not seem to come from behind the door, but rather, somewhere upstairs.

“Mr. Donati? Mr. Donati?”

Now I felt compelled to go back up. The steps creaked under my weight. Halfway to the top she called my name again. Her voice was very faint—the voice of a girl on a faulty telephone line. Reaching the top step I had no idea whether to turn left or right. I went left, into the kitchen. Not finding her there, I next opened the door to the back balcony. A gust of angry wind tore it from my grasp. It banged against the counter, rattling a number of cheap saucers and plates. I could already see the balcony was empty, but stepped outside anyway to marvel the coming storm. My hair whipped in all directions. The back lawn howled in a chaos of twigs and flower petals.

Certain the power would go out at any moment, I rushed back inside to set up candles around the apartment. Halfway through the chore it happened. The lights flickered once, twice, and then were gone. I stood motionless. Rain began to spatter the window. I went to the curtains to make sure all was secure—

And the chair behind me creaked.

It was a Louis XV copy I had purchased cheap from a lady in the village who told me her grandmother had died in it years ago. Her story meant little to me at the time. The day had been sunny, the winds calm.

Again the chair made a noise.

I turned—

And there in the flickering gloom sat the body of a wrinkled, withered corpse. A woman, old at the time of her death, with thin white hair, sunken eyes, and gaping jaw.

She used to sleep in this chair all the time, I remembered the lady telling me, all the time. And then one night she just didn’t wake up.

Someone knocked on the window, fast and desperate. Screaming, I whirled round. The curtains were closed, blocking all view to the porch. For a moment the knocking stopped, then started again, even more harshly then before. Somehow I built up the courage to go to the window. I drew back the curtains to see the horrified face of Princess, screaming to be let in.

“Mr. Donati!” Five more quick knocks struck the glass. “Mr. Donati! Open the door!”

I obeyed her command without hesitation. My mind reeled. She’d been trapped in the storm! Caught outside without protection! I found the door lock, twisted it, and pulled on the handle. The door flew open on rain-swept floorboards. I could see no one, yet felt something cold—colder even than the storm—rush inside. Turning in effort to track its progress, I could see that the chair had at some point relinquished its ghost. Then a noise came from the basement steps. Then the door to Princess’ apartment opened and was slammed shut.

The voice of reason spoke next. It implored that I remain put—that I light more candles and wait out the storm as best as my nerves would allow. Yet I could not pursue its logic. Somewhere nearby was a frightened girl who needed comfort.

I locked the front door, seized hold of a candle, and descended the