An Apathetic Apothecary In Torino
I admit that I have cultivated the ridiculous dream of settling down and living a secluded, harmonious life. Why not here in cool, wonderful Torino with its glorious buildings and piazze?
But who am I kidding? There is no sanctuary for me in this old world. Too many earthly duties and the old sins I can’t be forgiven drive me back and forth across the continent. After trying to lay low, fraternising with my usual clientele of gamblers and powder addicts, and only occasionally socialising with the populace, the rumour that I am a skilled apothecary and surgeon has still spread like wildfire.
They shun me, but need me wherever I go. What can you do about it? It always happens, like a law of nature, and I usually comply when someone asks for my services. It adds goodwill, which allows me to continue my more profitable business end. After all, I’m not made of money.
I have been dragged out of my chambers this afternoon, urgently called to the Teatro Carignano, an opera establishment that I would place somewhere in the mid-tier. Still, this is Sardinia, and even the secondary houses hold their art to the highest standards. Their prima donna, a visiting English soprano of rising fame, suffers from a horrendously constricted throat and panic is spreading before tonight’s dress rehearsal. They are performing a piece by the Venetian Baldassare Galuppi, and her soprano role is of a difficulty that no understudy can handle well.
I gather the necessary ingredients for such a case and call for my trusty man with the carriage to take me to the scene. Can I cure a sore throat? Of course, I can. I can easily reduce swelling and relieve pain. Whether I can get her to sing is a different matter, but I once attempted to revive a dead lady and almost succeeded. That must count for something, even in this case.
Inhouse
On arrival, I am shown to her dressing room without delay or courtesies. As I move through the inner sanctum of these superstitious opera singers, I attract a lot of attention. Heads pop out from the curtains, and eyes follow my every step. I knock on her door to get out of the firing range.
– Mistress, it is the doctor you called for. May I enter?
A clear, youthful voice behind the door responds: “Please come in, Signore!”
I am greeted by a remarkable woman, a wonder of simple elegance dressed in a straight, light-blue dress of modest cut. I can tell right away, not only by her voice but also by her appearance, that she is not the Nightingale. She’s far too young and very tall with long, slender arms, a strikingly pale natural redhead with full lips, and incomparably kissable. I am not sure what her role is, but by her British hair and fair complexion, I guess she is a companion to the lady in question. She looks me over from bottom to top and speaks up, in English.
– Heavens! He does not look so dangerous, darling, and quite handsome too if a bit older.
I address the companion:
– Perhaps your Mistress would like to hold this conversation in English? I’ll be happy to oblige.
She blushes and looks down for a second, but finds her voice again.
– That will be splendid, don’t you think, darling?
I find the Nightingale sitting at her dressing table, not yet in her gaudy stage costume but in a silky dressing gown, her face ghostly white from a thick layer of paint. She is about to reply, but I hold up my hand to stop her.
– Please, do not attempt to use your voice. Not a single word, Mistress. Simply nod if you agree to my requests.
She nods, with a strained smile.
– I have been told that you can hardly make a sound. Is that so? She nods again, looking shattered.
– I shall do what’s in my power to help you, but expect no miracles. First of all, will you please gape for me?
She will. Using my handy magnifying glass and a candle in a bougeoir, I inspect the semi-famous throat. Giving it a long, hard look, I can’t find anything alarmingly wrong down there, only a slight swelling.
– Mhm. Have you had this problem before?
She shakes her head, unsure. I turn to her companion to ask for details, but the Nightingale grabs my arm with a chilly hand and says, in a half-whispering mode:
– I think, Signore doctore, if you will allow me to speak on the matter, (she janks my arm, to stop me from objecting) that it is not my throat that is the problem. I’m afraid it sits deeper, all the way down in my chest. It hurts when I breathe, and for a singer, that is even worse. Is it my heart, perhaps? Please let me know what you think.
She’s honestly worried, moved almost to tears with anxiety.
– May I listen to your chest?
She complies and breathes for me, as I press my ear to her bosom. Her heartbeat sounds normal if a bit sped up. Thankfully, she has not smeared her chest with lead-based cream, like these ladies tend to do, so my poor ear is safe.
– Mistress, I do not find anything, in particular, to be the matter with your throat or your heart. You are just a tad swollen, and for such a healthy-looking young lady as yourself, a serious heart defect would be unexpected.
She smiles at me, still tense but perhaps a little relieved. The Nightingale is known for her phenomenal voice, a soprano assoluta, capable of delivering all from the highest, flowery trills down to sombre, melancholic lamentations. She also maintains a reputation for her beauty. Standing above her, I must confess that I find her looks quite ordinary. I’m sure her face has pleasant natural features under all the makeup, but she is short and has a certain girth, and her hair is relatively colourless and flat without the voluminous wigs. I would not call her plain, but I conclude that the rumour of her beauty owes most of its shine to her stage presence and grandiose voice.
– What ails me? Tell me, please, and quickly if you know. I’m mad with worry.
– I will, but let me first ask a couple of questions to make sure. Are you looking forward to your performance, Mistress?
She hesitates.
– As long as my voice complies.
– Do you ever find it overwhelming? I understand that these Italian operas can be demanding for a leading lady.
– I enjoy my art tremendously. It is my whole life. That and my darling Catherine,
She whispers, with a wink to her companion. The Nightingale may be ordinary looking, but the companion, on the other hand, dear Buddha, what an uplifting sight for world-weary eyes! My gaze is drawn towards her mesmerising presence over there in the corner. This youthful British redhead with her big green eyes, flawless white skin and coyness has everything we ask for in a woman. She gives off a strong feline energy, willful, yet of a playful, whimsical kind. What I wouldn’t give to skin that cat! But alas, back to the clogged throat.
– How do you feel when you are about to go on stage?
– It is exhilarating! Naturally, the tension is high, but once the music starts playing, and you become the character, all worldly cares disappear.
– I see. Don’t let what I say upset you, but I suspect that your problem may be caused by your nerves, rather than anything physical. Tell me, has this happened to you before?
For the first time, she unleashes her diva manners on me.
– Absolutely not! She pants, half whispering. I have been doing this for years, and I know perfectly well how to control my nerves in all weathers!
A demonstrative cough is heard from the corner. I turn to her beautiful kitten of a companion.
– What say you, Miss Catherine?
Miss Catherine seems surprised to be involved, hesitating to find the right words.
– Darling Rose has had this problem on at least two occasions. Once in Copenhagen before a premiere and once more, not long ago, in Bohemia, when she stayed in bed for days, hiding under the blankets.
– Hush! Those times were not the same as this. On both occasions, I was unwell for… a lady’s reasons. Don’t mislead the good doctor with your juvenile drama.
– Cousin Rose, please! The doctor will not gossip to the impresario or spread ill rumours about us in the taverns. Or will you, Signore?
– Of course not. I never discuss my patients’ health with outsiders. Discretion is my watchword.
The Nightingale barks at me in a horse, almost inaudible voice.
– I don’t know what more to tell you, Signore. I have my nerves under control, tonight and always.
Catherine shakes her head in disagreement.
– Very well. Let us not dwell on it. You have spoken too much. Save your voice. I will prepare a medicament that will help relax your constricted throat and chest, but I need you to take it under my supervision. I have to make sure that it has the desired effect.
Brewing
My cure may sound conventional if you know my ways, but I’m not new to these cases, with performers’ blocked throats and jammed vocal cords. I see no infection here. My most qualified assessment of her condition is that it is caused by stage fright. It affects everyone now and then, even great artists. The goal is to help them relax, but not cause the voice apparatus to become numb.
I call for an errand boy to bring me a teapot of boiling water, and to hurry up with it. For this case, I prepare a concoction with honey dissolved in hot water, then add lemon zest to balance the sweetness and acidity, a strong powder of blue passionflower, pomegranate jelly, crushed golden root, dried chamomile petals, scraped cinnamon bark, and ginger root. Add a dash of silphium, and then I let it brew for five minutes.
This recipe is not of the alchemical kind, but to complete it, one must add an ingredient you might find hard to come by: two teaspoons of mummy powder. This is a highly effective cough suppressant known to reduce the swelling of the throat. As someone with a unique stock, I can reveal that the best effect is obtained when the powder is made from Egyptian royalty. Their inbred blood multiplies the strength of the magic.
As always, I add a teaspoon of the highest-quality opium and finish off with a splash of cognac to open up the sinuses, which these songbirds utilise for vocal resonance. The opium will relax her nerves and help her get over the anxiety about the coming premiere. When the brew has cooled down to the drinking temperature, I strain it and hand her a dose in a goblet. I pour the rest of the contents into a flascon.
– I want you to take it all. Don’t worry, it is perfectly safe, and I’ve been told that the taste is quite pleasant
She nods at me and empties the goblet like a seasoned drinker, without taking a breath. She exhales, and a content smile spreads across her lips. It hits home within minutes. I can see her tense neck and shoulders, her whole posture, relaxing.
– What is this medicine? It goes straight to the bottom of me.
– Dear God, Rose, says Catherine with an embarrassed, ladylike laugh.
– Very good. Let’s wait a quarter and give it a chance to take full effect.
A Simple Clavichord
By the wall stands a beautiful little clavichord. This happens to be my instrument of choice. I walk over and am about to sit down.
– May I? I ask Miss Catherine.
She sends me a big, somewhat surprised smile and nods.
I crack my fingers, collect my thoughts, and start playing an old tune which a friend once dedicated to me. It’s not overly complicated, but I’ve always appreciated its beautiful, melancholic mood.
It does not take long before the speaking voice of the Nightingale returns. Her natural timbre is deep, sweet and sensual, a pleasant surprise, and certainly different from the stratospherically high, jarring, harpy-like soprano that her audiences adore. This is the key to her beauty, the thing that the Nightingale has going for her, compared to other women: her beautiful, natural chest voice. I can see the attraction now. It is enough to make my nuts tingle.
– My oh my, Signore doctore, she says with a clear, intimate mezzo. I didn’t think you could play like that.
I nod at her and try a smile.
– How does it feel to use your voice, Mistress?
– Surprisingly good. Do you think I dare vocalise?
– I can’t say if you should try singing right away or if perhaps you need to warm up gently. You know your instrument best.
– Play me an F, please. Then, a G and an A.
I give her the keynotes, and she tries a couple of drills on low volume that sound flawless. She is all smiles.
– Absolutely brilliant! I hardly feel any strain or tenderness at all! I think I can use it! Thank you so much, dear Signore! You are a musician and a miracle worker. A man of many talents, indeed.
Getting up from the clavichord, I admit that;
– Oh, I’m but an amateur when it comes to the fine arts. What you see in front of you is a powder maker. Making cough drops and sleeping potions is the limit of my art, sadly.
– Nevertheless, what was that beautiful piece you played? I did not recognise the style, but it sounded very old.
– It is an old piece written especially for me, as a thank you for my services, a long, long time ago.
– That is a fascinating story.
It is also a story of the black death, blood-soaked battlegrounds, and upheaval, but I will not tell her that story. I’ll save it for another time.
Stage Exit
I turn to the ravishing Miss Catherine with some final instructions.
– Your Mistress may become drowsy after the rehearsal tonight. Please take care of her, and see to it that she gets a good night’s sleep.
– Don’t worry. That’s what I’m here for, she says.
– Signore doctore! exclaims the Nightingale in an operatic manner. If there is anything I can do to repay you, let me know.
I look her over from top to bottom, and she notices it. My gaze seems to make her blush, under the thick white foundation for her stage makeup.
– But please do not make demands based on… expectations. We are honourable women, despite what they say about us entertainers.
She turns to Catherine, and they both seem to find the remark amusing. I let it pass, as I know that my concoctions loosen tongues.
– Mistress, I shall ask for nothing in return if you promise to perform your very best on Saturday’s premiere. Let the theatre honour me if they like. Perhaps I will be there, in the audience.
She looks at me as if she is seeing me for the first time. I can tell that I have broken through the wall of suspicion that these women travel with.
– Spoken like a true gentleman, as we say in my country. A useful and generous one at that. If I may ask one more favour, would it be possible for me to purchase a supply of this wonderful medicine?
– I won’t lie to you. This is not the kind of medicine one should use regularly, as its positive effects can easily turn into the opposite. I prefer that you take it under my supervision. Feel free to call me if this condition strikes you again.
Then I turn to Catherine:
– I will leave you a flascon with one more dose, but please, make sure she does not take it tonight. That would be a dangerous overdose. Save it for future needs, but only if necessary. The medication is not without consequences. It relaxes your nerves and sharpens your senses, but after four hours or so, it will make you fatigued and unfit to perform on the grand stage.
Catherine meets my eyes as she takes the bottle, and oh my, she’s delightful, as the British say. I pick up my equipment and ingredients. As I prepare to leave, the Nightingale addresses me one last time.
– One warned me to be most careful around you. They instructed me to have Catherine present while you were here, but I cannot see why. I must tell you that your reputation is exaggerated, Signore.
– Aren’t they always, Mistress?
Catherine adds in, still stuck in her corner, with a cheeky smile on her face.
– You have disappointed us with your flawless manners, Signore.
– Catherine, for God’s sake! Pay no attention to my niece. She is a darling child, gifted with a heart of gold, but she can be quite a nuisance.
I bow to the two temptresses and take my leave.
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