Evening, October 9 (Gregorian), 1636
Venice
Jan and Brigitte Willemszoon nearly depleted the last of their funds to hire a carriage that night, but after the shameless flattering that had won them this invitation to dine, they couldn’t arrive at the house of rising opera composer Samuele Fulla by such undignified means as their own feet. Artists, after reaching their first taste of fame, leaned toward vanity; Italians, from what they’d seen, even more so; and castrati were reputed the worst.
They were greeted at the door by a maid better dressed than they were, which caused them a moment of panicked concern that subsided when they were cheerfully led into the house. It looked newly built, but was decorated with all manners of small porcelains and woodcuts that seemed selected for their age. Jan felt that the owner of the house must be someone practiced in the effect of carefully chosen appearances; Brigitte suspected there would be little to be found beneath them.
“Ah!” came the delighted cry from somewhere inside, preceding the swift-moving sight of the composer, who gave Brigitte the impression of an overfed Biblical giant wearing too much lace. “There you are—the lifeblood of every poet, the reason for every act of creation, the nourishment of the sensitive soul,” he enumerated as he crossed the hallway to embrace them with unexpected fervor. “Admirers.”
They proceeded to another room, which Jan abstained from commenting on, but which to his Dutch-shaped sensibilities was furnished in undeniable bad taste. No space was left blank, no rest was permitted to the eye, and his mind was taken back to the warning Brigitte had given him weeks before. She’d said Catholics knew no subtlety and thus she and Jan would need to remember to discipline their tongues if they wanted to obtain answers. That had been a long, heartfelt conversation, at the end of which she’d succeeded at convincing him to risk everything on this trip. He still dreaded the possibility of being left penniless and stranded far from home, but she’d been right. The script Fulla had written was the only clue they’d had in years about the fate of the Mayflower. Finding out what had become of their parents was well worth an assault on the senses. Since their entrance into Catholic lands, he hadn’t seen any of the sinful extravagance her words had hinted at, but the excess with which Samuele Fulla decorated his house and his own person matched every warning.
The previous night, when they had approached him on the street after a massively acclaimed performance, they had spoken in French, which had become the most practical way for travelers from all parts to make themselves understood in the world’s crossroads that was Venice, but once they had mentioned they were visiting from the Netherlands, the composer had switched to a very defective Dutch he was all too happy to boast of. During the hurried tour he was now giving them of his portrait collection, Brigitte’s ears caught what she believed to be an English turn of phrase transplanted onto rapid Dutch, but she couldn’t be certain, given the carefree way he was dismembering the language.
The maid reappeared and spoke into the composer’s ear. His face brightened and he announced, in an overexcited tone, “We have dinner!” Then he laughed, although it was not clear at what, and by exaggerated motions of his unnaturally long arms he guided his guests to the next room.
The food was not much to speak of; it consisted of carrot soup, watered-down wine, and one breaded chicken leg for each of them. Even the napkins looked insufficiently washed. The maiolica, however, was all but scandalous. Brigitte made a point of eating her soup in very small spoonfuls to ensure the conversation would not end prematurely.
“Signor Fulla,” she began, “as my husband so vehemently said to you last night, we were moved in our hearts by the noble sentiments expressed in your play. It has such an exquisiteness of feeling, such a refinement of passion—” she fell silent, at a sudden loss for synonyms. “Um… if you will excuse our curiosity, may we hear about that wondrous process some call inspiration?”
Fulla giggled at the open adulation, more delectable than the dinner to him. “Every composer cheats a little, I must say. We all take some bits from one another and pretend we’ve made something new. It used to be the case that people were so enamored with Monteverdi that everything sounded like him, but these days you won’t find a musician in Europe whose dream isn’t to be the next Froberger.” He went on like this for several minutes, making a conscious exhibition of every semitone of his voice, citing name after name that the Willemszoons had only seen in print, but never listened to. Then he caught his breath and added, “Oh, forgive me. I got carried away. Music is my obsession, you see. I could discuss this all night.”
“Have you always been a composer?” asked Jan. Brigitte had advised him not to pry too obviously. She gave him a reproving look she hoped Fulla didn’t notice.
“Not always, no.” He sipped the wine to give himself time to compose an answer in his head. “I’m a singer, too. That was, in fact, my sole occupation for many years.” Jan wanted to guess how old Fulla was, but those jaded, weary eyes in such an impossibly smooth face made him give up the attempt.
“We didn’t know that,” remarked Brigitte, immediately regretting her words. Samuele Fulla was a eunuch in Italy; she should have deduced he was a singer. She composed her face and continued, “We would have loved to hear you sing.”
“I wasn’t really famous back then,” he replied, and had another sip.
“Didn’t they ever give you a big role?” asked Jan.
That question amused Fulla. “Oh, I never sang opera,” he said with a nostalgic laugh. “With my lack of training, that would have been a preposterous ambition. I mean, I can sing, but you know how brutal competition has become. Producers won’t give you a role unless your voice is superhuman.” He stared at some imagined far point and gave a rehearsed sigh. “No, I found employment in small churches, at the last row of the choir, where my voice would be drowned among the rest and no one would see me.”
“And still, you didn’t let that hold you back,” pressed Brigitte.
“No, no, no, I clearly didn’t, as you see.” Fulla chuckled again, and it occurred to Jan that, to stave off annoyance, he might keep count of how many times the eunuch laughed at his own jokes. “All those years were mere preparation. Did you ever see my first production?”
He seemed to enjoy the surprise in their faces. Brigitte was speechless, and Jan covered for her, “We didn’t know there had been one. You’re saying you wrote another opera before Moorflower?”
His intention accomplished, Fulla’s face relaxed. “I did, yes, but I should not be too proud of it. It wasn’t as well received as I’d hoped. That might change now, though. After the success I’ve had with Moorflower, I’ve already heard some people say they’re eager for more of me. So, who knows? You might get a chance to see The Sultan’s Captive after all.”
Brigitte saw a thread dangling, and jumped for it. “My husband and I have a fascination for plays inspired by real history.” She saw she had Fulla’s attention, and pursued that line, her mind working at breakneck pace. “You know how often a lazy composer will resort to drawing from the Greeks, and I have to admit, that’s always popular, but after a while, all myths sound the same. Besides, it’s not a healthy topic for a good Christian to dwell upon for too long.” From Fulla came the sound of what she could have sworn was a chortle, but when she looked at him again, he was busy gulping down his soup. “So… after having seen with my own eyes how realistic your work can be, the question occurs to me whether actual events inspired that earlier composition.”