A Cadenza for Caruso by Barbara Paul Page A

as much mail as an entire small town.
    The first letter he picked up followed a common pattern.
    Dear Cousin Enrico ,
    You may not remember me from our early days in Naples, as I was only a child when you left. I have been living in the United States of America for three years now and have fallen upon hard times .…
    The letter went on to ask for a small stake to start a coal-and-wood business in Ohio and was signed Federico Caruso .
    It was amazing the number of Carusos that had sprung up in the world over the past few years. True, “Caruso” was a very common name, but no man alive ever had as many relatives as the number that now claimed kinship to the Caruso. Federico Caruso, for instance—the tenor had never heard of him. For all he knew, Federico might be a cousin at that. The amount of money the man asked for was modest, so Caruso wrote him out a check.
    â€œRico!” Ugo said reprovingly, looking over the tenor’s shoulder. “You must stop giving so much money away! Who is this ‘Federico Caruso’? Another long-lost relative, undoubtedly?”
    â€œWell, well, perhaps.”
    Ugo snorted. “ Anybody can ask you for money and get it! What do you know of this Federico? He could be a liar and a thief! He could beat his wife and children!”
    Caruso waved his arm in the air, inadvertently sprinkling Ugo with ink. “How am I to know which ones are deserving? They cannot all be liars!”
    Ugo threw up his arms in disgust and stormed away. Caruso returned to his mail; they had had this argument before. Ugo was downright stingy with Caruso’s money; keeping the accounts had given him a proprietary interest in it, Caruso supposed.
    But even as he went on reading the mail, his thoughts kept returning to Puccini and Luigi Davila. Finally he pushed the mail away in irritation; concentration was impossible. He took out his sketch pad and tried a few drawings but couldn’t get the lines to go right. He slammed the pad shut and was annoyed that it didn’t make more noise.
    Caruso sat and twiddled his thumbs for a few moments. Then he thought of his watches—ah yes, he would play with his watches! He hurried into another room and started taking small black boxes out of a bureau drawer. Caruso had only recently begun collecting the eighteenth-century enameled gold timepieces, but already he had enough of them to make an impressive display. The tenor loved their look and their touch; he loved the heavy feel of them in his hand. But today the watches failed to work their usual magic; Caruso was just handling them without seeing their beauty. He put the boxes back in the drawer.
    The Hotel Knickerbocker apartment had eight rooms; the times Caruso had stayed there before, the place had been ample enough. But today the rooms seemed to be shrinking in on him. He prowled all eight of them, looking for something, anything to distract him. Barthélemy was out, running some personal errand. Ugo was seated at a table working on the accounts, still grumbling over what he considered Caruso’s excessive open-handedness. Mario had turned invisible, as he always did when he was not needed. Martino was sewing a button on a coat.
    Caruso sat down and watched Ugo and Martino work. He didn’t feel like reading or playing cards. A trace of morning hoarseness still remained in his throat, so it was too early to start vocalizing. He should lie down and rest. He jumped up and sprayed the room with perfume.
    â€œIs something wrong, Rico?” Martino asked. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
    Suddenly Caruso felt that if he didn’t get out of that apartment he would suffocate. “Martino! Bring me my coat and hat. I am going out!”
    â€œTo distribute alms among the poor, no doubt,” Ugo muttered from his table.
    Martino brought Caruso his hat and fur-collared coat, his gloves and cane. “Where are you going, Rico?” The same question he asked