Although he had retired—by now he only acted as honorary examiner for some Conservatorio examinations—music was still the sole reason of Cottes’ existence; he only met musicians and music lovers, never missed a concert and followed with trepidation the budding career of his twenty-two-year-old son, Arduino, who was a very promising composer. “Trepidation,” because Arduino was an extremely reserved boy, chary of opening his heart and almost excessively sensitive. Since the death of his wife, the older Cottes found himself embarrassed and helpless where Arduino was concerned. He did not understand him. He did not know what sort of life he led. He realized that even on musical matters, his advice went unheeded.
Cottes had never been an outstandingly handsome man. Now, at sixty-seven, he was fine-looking in the way that is described as decorative. A slight resemblance to Beethoven had grown more marked with the years; he may have been pleased about this, for he took great care of his long white fluffy hair, which gave him a most “artistic” halo. A good-natured Beethoven, with nothing of tragedy about him; he was sociable, quick to smile and eager to find good almost everywhere; “almost,” because where pianists were concerned he could seldom resist turning up his nose. It was his only weakness and nobody minded it at all. “Well, maestro?” his friends would ask him during the intermissions. “Seems all right to me. But what would Beethoven say?” he would answer; or else: “Why? You didn’t really hear him, did you? Didn’t you go to sleep?” and similar old-style pleasantries, whether the performer were Backhaus, Cortot or Gieseking.
His cheery good nature—he was in no way put out at finding himself excluded by age from active artistic life—made him universally liked, and ensured him privileged treatment at the Scala. Pianists never take part in the opera season, and Cottes’ presence on difficult evenings made sure of one small nucleus of optimism. Whatever happened, he would be sure to applaud; and it could be safely assumed that the example of a once-celebrated concert pianist would induce many to moderate their dislike, convince the undecided and persuade the lukewarm to show their approval more openly. Not to mention his distinguished Scala appearance, and his past merits as a pianist. Hence his name appeared in the secret, jealously guarded list of “permanent and nonpaying subscribers.” With unfailing regularity on the morning of every prima, an envelope containing a ticket for a stall seat would arrive in his mailbox outside the porter’s lodge at Via della Passione 7. If the prima promised a poor box office, then it would contain two, one for him and the other for his son. But Arduino was not interested; he preferred to make his own arrangements with his friends, and go to dress rehearsals, for which there was no need to dress.
That was the way it happened for the Strage degli Innocenti. Cottes Junior had heard the dress rehearsal the day before. He had even discussed it with his father at lunchtime, in his usual vague terms. He had talked about some “interesting solutions of sound texture,” “deeply worked polyphony,” “vocal writing which was more deductive than inductive” (this last phrase uttered with scorn) and so forth. His ingenuous father had been unable to fathom whether or not the work was good, let alone whether his son had liked or disliked it. He did not push the point. He was used to the mysterious jargon of the young; sometimes, when confronted with it, he stopped short, intimidated.
Now he was alone in the house. The daily woman had already gone. Arduino was out to dinner, and the piano, thank Heaven, was silent. “Thank Heaven” was unspoken, deep in the heart of the older artist; he would never have had the courage to confess it. While his son was composing, Claudio Cottes suffered violent inner commotion. With almost physical longing he would wait moment by moment for those apparently incomprehensible chords to yield up something which resembled music. He knew that this was a weakness of old-fashioned listening, that it was impossible to turn the clock back. He told himself that whatever gave pleasure had to be avoided as a sign of impotent decrepitude and nostalgia. He knew that the supreme duty of the new art was to give its listeners pain, and that in this lay the proof of its vitality. But he could not react differently. He would listen in the room close by, knotting his fingers together so hard that the joints cracked, as if by such an effort he could help to “liberate” his son. But his son was not liberated; the laborious notes piled up in greater confusion, the chords sounded still more hostile, the whole thing was left suspended in air or dashed to the ground in a series of most obstinate clashes. God preserve him. The father’s hands would disentangle themselves with disappointment, and tremble slightly as they set about lighting a cigarette.
Cottes was on his own, and filled with a sense of well-being: a mild breeze came in through the open windows. It was half-past eight, but the sun was still shining. The telephone rang while he was getting dressed. “Is Maestro Cottes there?” said an unknown voice. “Yes, speaking,” he answered. “Maestro Arduino Cottes?” “No, this is his father, Claudio.” The line was interrupted at the other end. He went back to his bedroom and the phone rang again. “But is Arduino there or not?” said the same voice again, almost rudely. “No, el gh’è non,” answered his father in dialect,
