Chapter Text
In general Hannibal prefers the company of women- testosterone is sweet to his senses and clashes horribly with the scents that most men douse themselves with. That is not to suggest that his rolodex has any shortage of options from the fairer sex- pigs come in all shapes and sizes.
His preference for female singers, in particular sopranos, is a bit more complex. He can admit to himself that the high soaring notes of an opera singer call to mind the sweet voice that echoes in the darkest corners of his mind palace. Poor opera singers remind him horribly, viscerally, that the echoes are all he has left. But the truly gifted singers manage to tease out the nuances of his memories and lend a richness to what fleeting remains he has of Mischa.
So perhaps it is not a surprise that when the opera season starts, he only vaguely remembers that a new tenor has been added to the company. It explains the choice of Puccini’s Tosca as the opening show; the opera has some of the most beautiful arias written for tenors. Clearly they wanted to showcase the new talent.
Hannibal is indifferent to the tenor right up until the start of Recondita armonia in the first act. The man in the role is lovely, lithe and younger than most singers. His curls sway slightly as he slinks gracefully across the stage. But Hannibal knows too much about the marvel of modern stage makeup to place too much value on appearances.
And then he begins to sing.
Hannibal is not a romantic, not really. But the tenor’s voice reverberates with a passionate, almost obsessive love as he sings about his lover; it echoes Hannibal’s own obsessive interests. There is something so piercingly true in his voice that Hannibal muses that he must be pulling from his real life to strengthen his music.
Between Acts 1 and 2, Hannibal makes a mental note that the tenor is off limits for his meal planning. A look at the program confirms that William Graham has proven his value as an artist well enough that removing him would only remove some portion of beauty from the world, no matter what the Ripper could create with his body.
Hannibal does respect art, after all.
Act 3’s romanza, E lucevan le stelle, is even more piercing. The soprano counterpart, one Hannibal had appreciated in the past, pales in comparison. Singing as Mario Cavaradossi, Graham’s voice aches with the remembrance of torture, the pain of love lost, and the expectation of death. Hannibal captures the tremors of the vocals to overlay the insipid sniveling that usually fall from a person about to die.
It is during Act 3 that Hannibal decides that he’d spare for at least one season, any members of the opera board that pushed for Graham’s recruitment into the Baltimore Opera Company. If the members could appreciate the tenor, then perhaps they were not entirely lost causes.
Overall, Hannibal is pleased with the prospects for the opera season. Graham’s performance was moving enough that when Mrs. Komeda hints at a dinner party, Hannibal feels positively inspired. Mario Cavaradossi died just as he believed he had escaped his fate. It would be amusing to see the look on a pig’s face in similar circumstances. Perhaps the vulgar catcaller he encountered two years ago would be a suitable target.
And that is where Hannibal’s interest in Will Graham would have ended, if not for the combination of Dr. Chilton’s smarmy pompousness, Hannibal’s role as a consultant for the FBI, and Eldon Stammets’ search for connections.
Though it galls him, Chilton is on the list of Hannibal’s invitees for the dinner party celebrating the opening of the opera season. Still, Chilton has long been groomed as a potential patsy should the FBI begin to close in on Hannibal. Cultivating his, well, not friendship, but acquaintanceship perhaps, has made dealing with his terrible manners worthwhile.
And of course, with his ear for gossip and desire for recognition, Chilton occasionally does produce some fascinating information.
“Now Mrs. Komeda,” Chilton’s voice manages to be both pompous and obsequious, a combination that Hannibal washes from his mind by taking a fresh bite of the rosemary-fig tenderloin he had prepared for the party. The pungent rosemary is palate cleansing, and the satisfaction of turning a particularly obnoxious catcaller into something delicious works to overpower his desire to remove Chilton’s vocal cords.
Chilton continues, “I know that you were in favor of bringing William Graham into our lovely little opera company, but do you really think it was a wise decision?”
Mrs. Komeda barely graces the doctor with a raised eyebrow, merely confirming, “after listening to him in person, I am more pleased than ever. I’m surprised that even someone without musical training,” the ‘like you’ goes unstated, “doesn’t appreciate what a gem we’ve found. I’ve never heard a singer that managed to convey such a rich variety of emotions, especially at such a young age. He sings with the maturity of Plácido Domingo in his fifties.”
“Well, his disorder makes it a bit of a cheat, don’t you think?” The condescension in his voice has Hannibal interceding before Mrs. Komeda verbally eviscerates him; Chilton apparently has some new piece of information but lacks the subtlety to share it gracefully. Hannibal is curious enough to indulge the man.
“Disorder, Frederick? I do hope you’re not violating any expectations of confidentiality.”
Chilton waves away the suggestion dismissively. “I’m sure it’s known to anyone who has sought out his services.” When no one rises to the bait, Chilton huffs and continues. “In a certain sector of the art world, Graham is sought out as a savant at picking out counterfeits and forgeries.”
“I fail to see how that in any way would make his inclusion in the Baltimore Opera a mistake.” Mrs. Komeda notes. “Having an artistic eye or outside interests hardly detracts from his talents.”
“That’s the point, though. It’s not talent that makes him a gifted singer or a consummate art appraiser.” Confident that Chilton cannot sing nor appraise art, Hannibal places little value on that assessment. “Really, he can only do both because of his empathy disorder.”
Hannibal doesn’t give Chilton the satisfaction of looking interested, but he is curious nonetheless.
Without prompting, Chilton continues, “he can portray emotions so well because he can feel what other people feel- he’s just a mirror, reflecting other people. Practically a psychic vampire.”
“And the art?” asks another guest, the rest of the table clearly listening in on the ongoing discussion.
“I’ve not seen it in person, but apparently Graham can recreate a scene from an artist’s perspective, can learn an artist so well that he instinctively knows whether they produced any given piece of art.”
“Fascinating,” Mrs. Komeda acknowledges, “but even with a disorder of that nature, do you really think his vocal training, his acting, his understanding of art, takes no skill?”
“Indeed, I would think it takes more skill to be able to portray such varied and rich emotions, to understand an artist so deeply, and still remain himself,” Hannibal says smoothly. “Functioning with an empathy disorder would be a great challenge, especially in a highly emotive environment. I am dreadfully curious to how you found out about this, Frederick.”
Chilton lowers his voice before saying, “I’m sure you heard that part of Graham’s contract excuses him from some of the more public social events, I was merely the doctor who reviewed the records to confirm that his antisocial traits would not be dangerous.” There is clear frustration and bitterness in his voice when he continues, “the man refused to be interviewed, even though he’d be the perfect subject for a new paper I’m working on.”
The clear breach in propriety and patient privacy is not unnoticed by the people at the table. While they enjoyed the gossip, Chilton has inadvertently limited his access to the social strata he was trying to enter. No one wanted to be fodder for future revelations.
The topic is closed with Mrs. Komeda’s firm “he has clearly nurtured both a talent and a rare gift. I, at least, am more pleased than ever that he’s joined us.”
The conversation flows on, but Hannibal is caught by the idea of Graham standing in the shoes of an artist, of knowing their process so intimately as to immediately see a forgery. He wonders what the man would see in art made by the Chesapeake Ripper.
Later, as she leaves, Mrs. Komeda murmurs to Hannibal, “Chilton clearly doesn’t have the discretion necessary to work with artists. Can I call on you to make a referral if the director or a singer needs medical attention, mental or otherwise?”
“Of course, it would be my honor to help in any fashion.” Unfortunately with Chilton as the vanguard of Baltimore’s opera community, Graham will most likely not seek medical help through the opera’s connections. But offering referrals to less interesting members would be no hardship and would be an easy way to undermine Chilton’s attempts to gain prominence.
Hannibal can only sigh in resignation when a week later the arts page is filled with speculation as to Will Graham’s supposed empathy and ability to connect with anyone. The column insinuates that Graham uses his emotional connections and possibly his physical attributes to obtain parts beyond his skills. At least the article notes that the singer is intensely reclusive, which serves both as an explanation for the failure to interview him and as a shield to the poor man from those who would rudely invade his life. Hannibal makes note of the writer; such lies about the skill of an artist really deserve an immediate response.