Cottes took a look in the wardrobe mirror at his dress suit, which was wide and loose in the old style, right for his age yet at the same time very easygoing. He wore a black waistcoat so as not to conform slavishly to the usual fashion; it was a little point of vanity, and seemingly inspired by the legendary Joachim. Like a waiter, in fact, but was even a blind man likely to take Claudio Cottes for a waiter? Although it was warm, he put on a light overcoat to avoid the curious glances of passersby, picked up his small opera glasses and left the house, with a feeling close to happiness.
It was a lovely evening in early summer, when even Milan manages to act the romantic city: the streets were quiet and half-empty, a scent of limes came up from the gardens, a crescent moon was high in the sky. Cottes set off down Via Conservatorio thinking about the brilliant evening ahead of him, of the friends he would meet, the friendly arguments, the beautiful women, the inevitable champagne at the reception announced for after the performance in the opera-house foyer. He went a slightly longer way around, which meant he could avoid looking at the detestable covered canals.
At this point he met a strange sight. On the pavement was a young man with long curly hair, singing a Neapolitan song into a microphone held an inch or two from his mouth. The microphone was connected by a wire to a case containing a battery, amplifier and loudspeaker, and the voice emerged from it with insulting arrogance, so that it echoed around the houses. His singing sounded like a wild outburst of fury, and although the well-known words were those of a love song, the young man made them sound like a threat. Around him clustered seven or eight small boys with doped expressions, and that was all. On both sides of the road the windows were closed and the shutters up, as if nobody wanted to listen. Were all those apartments empty? Or were their inhabitants shut inside, pretending not to be there, afraid of something? As Claudio Cottes went by, the singer made no move but sang even more loudly, so that the loudspeaker began to vibrate: it was a peremptory invitation to put money in the saucer on top of the case. Cottes was disturbed, without knowing why; he quickened his steps and went straight on. For several yards he felt the gaze of those two vindictive eyes fixed on his back.
A pox on him! thought the maestro to himself. The impudence of the demonstration had put him out of temper, he did not know why. Just before he got to San Babilà, he was even more put out by a brief meeting with Bombassei, an excellent young man who had been his pupil at the Conservatorio, and was now a music critic. “You are Scala-bound, maestro?” he asked, noticing the white tie under the open label of Cottes’ overcoat.
“Do you wish to imply, insolent young man, that I’ve reached the age . . . ?” said he, ingenuously fishing for a compliment.
“You know quite well,” said the other, “the Scala would not be the same without Maestro Cottes. But Arduino? How come he’s not with you?”
“Arduino has already been to the dress rehearsal. He had an appointment this evening.”
“Ah, I see,” said Bombassei with a shrewd smile of understanding, “he will have wanted to stay home . . . this evening.”
“Whatever for?” asked Cottes, noticing the emphasis.
“He has too many friends about,” and the young man indicated the passersby with a nod of the head. “I’d have done the same too if I’d been in his shoes . . . but please excuse me, maestro, here’s my tram . . . I hope you enjoy yourself!”
The older man was left in the air, uneasy and puzzled. He looked at the people on the street, and could see nothing strange: except that perhaps there were fewer about than usual, and those there looked distracted and slightly anxious. Although Bombassei’s talk was still an enigma to him, there suddenly came to his mind, in an unrelated and confused way, some of his son’s half phrases, the new companions who had recently appeared, the evening commitments which Arduino had never explained, eluding his questions with vague explanations. What if his son had got himself into some mess? And what was there so special about this evening? Who were the “too many friends” who were around?
Turning these problems over in his mind, he came into Piazza della Scala. His anxiety vanished as he looked at the comforting ferment at the entrance to the opera house. Watched by an admiring crowd, women were hurriedly streaming in, in a flurry of trains and veils; through the windows of the sumptuous cars as they queued up in long lines, one could catch glimpses of jewels, white shirtfronts and bare shoulders. A threatening and possibly tragic night was about to begin, but the Scala in its impassive way was displaying the splendor of bygone times. Never in recent seasons had there been such a harmonious union of material and spiritual wealth. The very restlessness which had begun to spread through the city was probably increasing the feeling of animation. To an informed observer it seemed as if a whole privileged and exclusive world were taking refuge in its beloved citadel, like Nibelungs in the royal palace at the coming of Attila, to enjoy one last supreme night of glory. But in reality very few people knew. The softness of the evening made most of them feel that a dark
