When I first watched this Opera, I knew it said something special... Something I believe speaks to youth. If only they would watch it. But, (as do several opera buffs wrestle) how can one stir operatic interest among youth? My answer: This would be a great YA. And, I have spent the last year+ pursuing the endeavor.
I began this work with these three rules (in order of importance): Reflect Mozart’s vision and his personal wrestlings—obviously that requires conjecture on my part (I likely got something wrong). Allude to the opera’s music. And create a realistic story that fits the historicity of the events and fixes time-elapsed issues that often accompany operas.
So, for Mozart's birthday I have decided to offer a gift (such gift giving can be one of the most fearful ventures) a soft-release of my YA Zaide project. With trepidation, I paste the first chapter below.
ZAIDE
1NE
Overture
The power of the picture is dead.
Images bombard us, fighting for their place in our brains. A thousand words?
More like, we use a thousand pictures for every word. In turn, we would think
nothing of sharing our likeness with someone, even in the most casual of
settings. Some say that’s a good thing. They say we’re being open and honest.
But, are we so open and honest with complete strangers, that those close to us
don’t know who we are? Or, have those close to us overlooked what we wanted to
say, using us to serve their purposes? So, we search for those willing to
listen.
Zaide had a picture. One picture.
In those days, you had to be someone important to have one. A portrait. A
talented soul painstakingly shaped and shaded each fine feature. If you had
been lucky enough to have any, you wouldn’t give one away to a friend of a
friend’s roommate. Zaide kept hers in a
pocket close to her heart. She had a love/hate relationship with the portrait.
It was beautiful. Everyone said she was beautiful, but this picture carried a
different kind of beauty. The picture was a portrait of who she wanted to be,
not one of who she thought she was.
Crowded with dirty peasants, the
port streets roared of rouges and merchants.
Janissary soldiers scanned from various posts. With a cloth fluttering
from the top, their high squared off hats dared stowaways to press their
luck. African eunuchs waited behind
Zaide. They wore gray, collarless outfits and their faces were as stoic.
The multi-domed palace loomed high-hilled
at the horizon opposite the harbor. Rows of spear-tipped cypresses surrounded
the path leading to the commanding center arch. Shrubs and trees dotted the
hills surrounded the palace, clumping thicker in draws.
The docks smelled the foul smells
domesticated creatures. If only, for just one time, spices would be the only
imports of the day. But, then Zaide wouldn’t have been there, for her lot was
to welcome the new livestock. Zaide stood, trying to rid herself of any emotion.
Trying to let herself stay hardened. The wind flailed the hem of her dress
against her shins. The sea air strained through her veil filtering no muck
vapors. She held her headscarf away from her eyes. She was not required to wear
her coverings, but she just couldn’t do her job without it. She couldn’t bear
it. She needed the protection.
Osmin faced the Barbary
pirate ship. His arms crossed his chest as if they were stamped there. A
scourge dangled from underneath his arm. It was his special whip with bits of
shrapnel tied into the ends, ‘to make a good first impression.’ Beneath his curled mustache, his smile
mirrored cruelly. His turban was red and gold. Again, he wanted more vibrancy.
Anything to get them to remember him.
This was his Christmas morning.
“Do you think there will be any
beautiful ones?” Osmin asked Zaide.
Zaide scowled beneath her veil.
“I have to find a wife for an
honored slavemaster among this lot.” Osmin chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to have
to waste a beautiful one on him.”
Zaide said nothing, staring toward
the ship.
Shouts and whip-cracks roared from
the boat. Soon after, a line of neck chained prisoners walked down the
ramp. The pirates yelled their foreign
rants as if the volume meant their words were more likely to be understood.
The prisoners wore drab, dark
clothes. Simple outfits without glamour.
“Puritans,” Zaide thought. “I need
to go with English or Dutch.”
The pirates lined up the new lot,
while Osmin negotiated with the captain.
Zaide scanned the crowd. Each
looked down, some lips murmuring in prayer. 14 people in all. Most were men,
but one was a family.
The little girl grabbed her
attention first. Around 7, she was openly sobbing, not trying to be brave.
Next to her was the only woman, or
girl, close to marrying age. She was around 15. Zaide eyes burned. That’s the age I was when captured. Of all
these puritans, she’s in for the most horror. At least, I had someone captured
with me. Someone to share my burdens. But… they were all sold to other
provinces. The girl did not stand out, but she was not unattractive either.
Her sandy hair was braided. Her cheeks soft and speckled. Her dark loose
clothes left her body shape a mystery, but she was not stout.
Next to the girl stood a man and a
woman. Zaide assumed they were the parents. The mother was too old for the
harem, and would most likely be sent to the palace kitchen, with the youngest
girl. She resembled both the little girl and the older one. The father’s face
hung with all sorts of emotions: brave, kind, sad (not for himself but for his
family), and gentle. He looked like the kind of father, Zaide would have
liked.
At the other side, a sandy-haired
boy held his mother’s hand. Zaide’s breaths fluttered like a floating,
lingering oboe series, at the sight of him. His face scared Zaide. She didn’t
know why. She had seen that expression before. No one with it had ever
survived, and that didn’t seem to bother them. But, with head-butting irony,
for as long as they lived, they made the best slaves.
His cheeks were soft. His nose as
well. His eyes as blue as the Mediterranean .
They shifted to Zaide. The kindest glance slapped her. She looked away. Her diaphragm and spine quaked, long and low
as if the fluttering oboe started to weep.
She had hardened herself from slaves’ pleading looks, but her quivers were
akin to the fear-piercing nerves she had had when first put into the
translating position.
Osmin finished paying for the
slaves. He had shouted a bit in the haggle, but not of anger, more like a man
arguing over which sports team is better.
The slave trader scanned the new lot. Pointing his whip at all the men,
he said, “Take them over there.”
Slavemasters unchained the three
females from the group, and dragged the men to one side.
Her face filled with confusion and
fear, the lone teenage girl let the slavemasters guide her to Osmin. She kept
her head point down. Osmin placed his hand below her chin, forcing her face up.
She resisted until fear trumped rebellion. Scanning her, Osmin laughed, low
from his belly. “She goes with the eunuchs.”
The eunuchs walked over to the girl
and grabbed her upper arms.
Osmin returned to Zaide’s side.
“She’s pretty,” he said, pointing the tips of his mustache toward the young
girl as the eunuchs unchained her. “But not beautiful enough for anyone
important.”
Zaide clenched her teeth. Dog. Could there be a fouler spirited
person? Even at great loss of myself, I’d destroy him if I could.
Osmin looked her way as if he had
heard the grinding crack of teeth. “The
slaves?” He spoke with a ‘do your job’ tone.
“Hold your tongue. I need to figure
out the language. If you weren’t such a barbaric simpleton, you could do it
yourself.”
“Beauty fades. Your mouth never
will. The day that you fall out of favor…”
“You will sour Soliman before I.”
Zaide didn’t waste her ears on him. She walked closer to the slaves.
As eunuchs dragged the teenage girl
away from the rest, dreadful understanding contorted her expression. She
flailed as they secured her with a new set of chains. “Why are you taking me
away from everyone else? What are you going to do to me?” Her struggles did
nothing to slow the slavemasters from securing her.
One of the men slapped her,
mumbling shut her last set of complaints. They didn’t dare use the whip and mar
the goods.
“Leave her alone.” Not yet fettered
to any other slave, the girl’s brother knocked a slavemaster to the ground. His
leg chains rattled as he ran toward his sister with a galloping gait. He did
not even reach half the span before a slavemaster kicked him to the ground.
Scourges weren’t afraid to dig into the boy’s skin. He tried to stand as they
lambasted him. Osmin joined in with a giddy smile.
Sharp cracks and meaty thwacks
throbbed inside Zaide’s ears. Her guts twitched toward him, but her outer sense
kept her limbs still. With each lash,
her muscles seized as if she had been the one being beaten.
“That is enough.” Osmin said
shortly after they started. “He has much work to do. These kind are good
workers.”
Osmin walked to the docks, dipped a
bucket in the sea, and returned. “Hold him down.” He said. He smiled big enough
to sheen toothy yellow.
Slavemasters stretched out his arms
and legs. The boy was too weak to fight.
Osmin dipped his head close to the
slave. “You can let your spirit serve you well, or you can have it bring you
misery. Either choice shall give me great pleasure.”
They boy did not understand the
words, but could discern to tone. After a quick chuckle, Osmin dumped the
saltwater over the boy. He screamed, not
like a kicked-dog yelp, but more like an ‘I can endure this’ growl.
Osmin nodded with pride, as if he
had just discovered a prize-racing stallion.
A deadening cold waved over Zaide’s
back and neck, goading out even more tension. She tightened her fist, wishing
she had the power and ability to use it.
Slavemasters yanked the boy off the
ground by his chains. Although bloody and bruised, his previous peace-filled
expression returned. Wrenching his elbows behind him, they forced a bar between
the crooks of his elbows and the middle of his spine. His hands remained
chained below his ribs.
“English.” Zaide swallowed and
rotated her neck. She ached from having seized at each boy’s blow. She had seen
plenty of floggings and even ordered a few herself, but none affected her like
this.
For the most part, she was immune
from receiving a beating, only the Sultan was allowed, but he never touched
her. At least that way. And the ways he did touch her, didn’t happen too often.
He had big selection. Above all, Sultan Soliman loved Zaide, and he wanted her
to be happy—within his confines. She had two responsibilities. Spend the night
with the sultan at his request, and translate orders to European slaves.
Otherwise, she had free reign of the palace.
She’d rather spend the night with
the sultan, than crush captured soul’s spirits.
Comparing her lot to that of the other slaves, she bore her nights with
Soliman chiding herself. “I deserve this. I deserve this, for what I have done
to these people.”
Zaide cleared her throat and spoke
with as much domineering as she could muster. “Slaves. Welcome to your new
home. I am Sultan Soliman’s fav…” Zaide spotted the boy staring at her with
kind-hearted pity. Blood trickled beneath a blue eye.
Zaide’s heart plucked her vocal
chord as sharp as a harpsichord hammer. She murmured her lips silently for a bit.
“Well.” Osmin scowled.
“Calm yourself. It has been a while
since I’ve had to do English.” She faced the slaves again avoiding eye contact
with that boy.
“As I said. I am the sultan’s
favorite. An insult against me, would be as if you attacked Sultan Soliman
himself. You no longer belong to
yourselves. Your children, your wives, your friends now belong to the sultan.
But, despair not. Sultan Soliman is a kind man. He does not treat his slaves as
other nations. Do well, and you will be rewarded. Many of the highest officials
and viziers are slaves. Disobey, and you will perish.”
“Do they understand us?” The boy
asked.
A slavemaster scourged him where
his elbow met the bar. He gnashed his teeth and kept looking at Zaide.
“Slave. You are not to speak unless
spoken to.”
He nodded with his lips, followed
with a compassionate grin-frown.
“But, no. They do not understand
you.”
“Can you do anything to allow
families to say goodbye?”
A slavemaster lifted his whip.
“Stop,” Zaide said in Turkish. “I
asked the slave a question.”
She turned back to the boy. “No.
That would not be possible.”
“Thank you for allowing me to ask.
I do not envy you. Your lot is worse than ours.”
Zaide whipped around, flinging her
hands into the air, a sign ordering the men to take the slaves away.
She covered her face, leaving the
slightest slit in her veil. As tears and slime slathered her face, Zaide paced
away, holding in her choking throat, looking for a safe place to weep bitterly.
