Nicola laughed. At which Madame Torelli looked slightly surprised, but then she laughed too. A sound so inexpressibly deep and beautiful that Nicola was enchanted.
‘I suppose it is rather funny,’ she agreed. ‘Though it infuriates one too,’ she added. And the dark overtones of her voice when she said that made Nicola wonder immediately what happened when this woman was infuriated.
‘When can you come to me?’
‘Tomorrow if you want me.’
‘Good. Do you speak any language but English?’
‘Serviceable French and a smattering of Italian and German. I don’t know that I could conduct a correspondence in the last two, though,’ Nicola admitted.
‘It doesn’t matter. Most of my correspondence is in English.’
‘You speak it marvellously yourself,’ exclaimed Nicola with sincerity.
‘Why shouldn’t I? I am half English and was born here.’
‘Were you? But I thought I read once that you were born near Florence, in a small cottage by the banks of the Arno.’
‘Not at all,’ said Gina Torelli without a flicker of her fine lashes. ‘In point of fact, I was born near Camden Town, in a large tenement at the wrong end of Euston Road.’
‘But in this magazine article they were so factual, so — ’
‘Yes, of course. The myth persists quite surprisingly. I invented it once myself for an American woman journalist who annoyed me by her determination to find me what she curiously called “a cosy type”.
‘You did?’ Nicola laughed so much at this that her aunt again looked surprised and then laughed too.
‘You have a pretty laugh,’ she remarked with authority.
‘Oh, but you have a wonderful laugh!’ declared Nicola. ‘Like — oh, I don’t know — a chord on an organ or something of the sort.’
‘Dear child!’ said Gina Torelli. ‘I think we are going to get on.’
And get on they did.
During the next few weeks Nicola was sometimes staggered, but perpetually enchanted, by the overwhelming personality that had come into her life. She found that in her passion for her art and her ruthless pursuit of perfection Gina Torelli could be brutal, selfish, obstinate and, by every natural rule of behaviour, impossible.
Nothing was allowed to stand in the way of what she conceived to be the right artistic standards. And if in achieving these she offended, wounded, alienated or, indeed, ruined anyone, it was a matter of total indifference to her.
On the whole, the press disliked her, the critics admired her, her colleagues respected her and the audience adored her. She inspired both hatred and passionate loyalty. And it did not take her niece longer than a week to find herself among the most loyal adorers.
Not that Nicola was allowed to speak of herself as a niece, even if she had wished to do so. Torelli made that quite clear from the beginning.
‘You will never, in any circumstances, refer to me as your aunt,’ she stated on Nicola’s first morning. ‘You will call me “Madame” and later, when we know each other sufficiently well, perhaps you may call me “Gina”. But “Aunt” — or, even worse, “Auntie” — never.’
‘As you wish, of course,’ said Nicola, concealing a certain degree of indulgent amusement.
‘It is a ridiculous relationship for a prima donna,’ explained Madame Torelli. ‘One can be a wife or sister, certainly a mistress, and even in certain circumstances, I suppose, a mother. But not an aunt.’
‘Why not?’ inquired Nicola. ‘It’s rather a nice, uncomplicated sort of relationship, really.’
‘That,’ said her aunt firmly, ‘is probably why it is totally inapplicable to a prima donna.’
Nicola accepted this. As, indeed, she would have accepted almost anything Gina Torelli told her at this time. She was fascinated by the singleness of purpose which informed this woman’s whole life, she was dazzled by the glamour which always attaches to any great stage figure and from time to time she was curiously touched by the streak of almost childlike simplicity which was in such marked contrast to everything else in her famous aunt’s make-up. A simplicity which made her seem strangely defenceless, in spite of the fact that Nicola knew perfectly well she was capable of bulldozing her way across almost any obstacle in the course of her artistic career.
The first time Nicola saw her really angry was a terrifying occasion. Her manager, Dermot Deane — a small, plump, energetic man with an unrivalled flair for knowing what the public wanted — had to break it to her that she could not have her favourite conductor, Oscar Warrender, for her opening concert at the Festival Hall.
‘For your performances at Covent Garden — yes, of course,’ he explained. ‘But for the concert he will not be available.’
‘You must make him available,’ said Gina Torelli coldly.
‘Quite impossible, my dear. He will be in South America.’
‘Then you must bring him back from South America in time.’
‘Can’t be done, I’m afraid.’
‘Then I do not sing.’
‘Nonsense, Gina — ’ he had known her many years — ‘the contract has been signed and — ’
‘I DO NOT SING,’ repeated Torelli in capital letters. ‘That is final. Oscar must be there. It is years since I have sung in this country. This benighted country,’ she added rather gratuitously. ‘I require the support of the greatest conductor there is. After all, I am the greatest soprano there is.’
‘Gina, it’s a simple geographical fact,’ Dermot Deane explained patiently. ‘Your contract requires you to sing here in London. His contract requires him to conduct in Buenos Aires that very same night.’
‘Buenos Aires!’ She suddenly spat out the words as though she were referring to some backward settlement in the Congo. ‘What has Buenos Aires to offer when Oscar could conduct for me, here in London?’
Then the storm broke. Nicola had never heard so many words pour from any human mouth with such speed and distinctness. Even in her fury, Torelli’s diction was perfect. It was like the wild surge of tropical rain, and Nicola almost literally cowered from it. Even Dermot Deane blenched a little before the spate of mingled English and Italian, with an occasional abusive French phrase thrown in for good measure. But he stuck to his guns. And when the storm had ceased, and only the lightning still flashed from those marvellous eyes, he said pacifically,
‘I’m sorry, Gina. It was out of my hands. But you’re having one of the most talked-of conductors of the day. Julian Evett, the young Canadian — ‘
‘Julian Evett?’ Gina Torelli’s splendidly sculptured nostrils distended contemptuously. ‘That — junior bandmaster?’
‘Oh, come, Gina. Warrender himself thinks the world of him. And the young man is fast making a great reputation for himself.’
‘I am not used to young men making their reputation on my platform,’ was the withering reply. ‘They should either have made it — or keep out of my way.’
But, to her surprise, Nicola realized that a degree of good humour was returning. It was almost as though her aunt had enjoyed the drama of a first-class row and now felt all the better for it. Others might be shattered. She was stimulated. And after a moment she said musingly,
‘Julian Evett. I heard him quite recently in Canada. He is not without talent. But he has little idea of the relative importance of people. I shall enjoy making his life hell.’
She made this last remark as she might have mentioned a dress she intended to wear that evening, which shocked Nicola. But Dermot Deane — perhaps relieved that he had gained his point — laughed rather callously, Nicola thought, and merely remarked that the young man was well able to take care of himself.
‘You think so?’ Torelli turned away, humming the Habañera a trifle provocatively, and proceeded to autograph some recent photographs which Nicola had just brought in.
The manager made a slight face at Nicola, raised his eyes to heaven, and took his departure. Nicola followed him out into the hall and asked anxiously, ‘
Will she really play up that poor man?’
‘Probably.’ Dermot Deane shrugged on his coat. ‘But as I said, he can look after himself.’
‘Is he such a fine conductor?’ She felt a melancholy interest in him because of his connection with Brian’s last concert.
‘Quite outstanding. He made a sensation in the States and recently he completely captivated some tough, sophisticated international audiences at the Canadian Festival.’
‘I know! He conducted when — when Brian Coverdale last played, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ Dermot Deane reached for his hat. ‘That was a sad business. I think Evett took a bad knock over it. He admired young Coverdale tremendously.’
‘Did he?’ No loyalty to her aunt could keep Nicola from feeling an immediate warmth towards the unknown conductor.
‘Well, didn’t we all?’ The manager shook his head regretfully. ‘Such a tragic waste. It should never have happened.’
‘What do you mean — it should never have happened?’ Nicola’s voice was suddenly sharp, and she stared at Dermot Deane with such startled intensity that he must have realized that he was talking with less than his usual discretion.
‘Oh, one never knows the truth of these things. There are always stories afterwards. But the less said the better now.’
‘But I’d like to know. I — I knew Brian Coverdale very well.’
‘I’m sorry, my dear. I was just thinking aloud, which is a stupid habit. There’s no mystery about it really. One just feels it’s the sort of thing that should never have happened, simply because a string player of his calibre comes all too seldom.’
He said good-bye then and went away, leaving Nicola with the uneasy impression that, for all his seeming candour, there had been something he had deliberately suppressed the moment she had indicated a personal interest in Brian.
The thought tormented her during the next few days, and those words ‘tragic waste’ rang disturbingly in her ears. Perhaps, as he had finally asserted, he really did mean no more than that the loss of any such talent could ill be afforded. But the very idea that there might have been something avoidable about the tragedy appalled her.
For the moment there was nothing she could do about it, but it did occur to her that possibly Julian Evett might know something, and she might have an opportunity of speaking to him. That was, of course, if loyalty to her aunt permitted any friendly converse with him.
She met him first when he came to the apartment for a preliminary discussion of the concert programme. He was not really at all her idea of a famous conductor — even a famous conductor in the making. Slim, tense, with a sort of quicksilver quality about him, he could have been an actor, an orchestral player, perhaps even a pianist. But in contrast to the controlled strength and limitless vitality of anyone like Oscar Warrender, for instance, he seemed hardly the person to stand up to the gruelling demands of orchestral conducting.
Within five minutes, however, Nicola realized that he had a strength of purpose and an inner vitality all his own. He was polite in his approach to Madame Torelli, but he burned no blatant incense at her shrine. On her side, she was perfectly charming on the surface, but vetoed every single suggestion he had to make.
Finally he said, ‘Madame Torelli, we don’t seem to be getting very far, do we? Perhaps you don’t really want to be the soloist at my concert and are trying to find a way out?’
‘At your concert?’ Torelli smiled incredulously. ‘I was under the impression that you were accompanying me at my concert.’
‘In that case you were under a misapprehension,’ he told her pleasantly. ‘Perhaps I was too. Shall we be adult now and discuss the artistic demands of our concert? I’m sure we are both too intelligent to want to put personal sparring before professional integrity.’
Nicola, who was sitting in the background ready to make notes of any decisions eventually taken, held her breath. But after a pregnant pause, Torelli inclined her head, as though accepting the not bad suggestion of an undoubted inferior. And then the discussion went forward more constructively.
Nicola found herself amused and impressed, as well as slightly annoyed by this young man’s technique. Strictly speaking, of course, he had been entirely in the right. But her loyalties were by now so completely committed that she slightly resented anything less than respectful admiration where her aunt was concerned.
At the end of half an hour all vital decisions had been taken, however obstructive Torelli might have chosen to be. Then, without offering him so much as a drink, she said, ‘Show Mr. Evett out, Nicola,’ rather as though he literally needed to be shown his place.
In the hall, he cocked an amused eyebrow at Nicola and inquired, ‘Is she usually like that?’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ he replied coolly. ‘But I commend your loyalty. Tell me — I know it’s a time-dishonoured opening, but where have I seen you before?’
‘Nowhere.’ Her tone was also cool. ‘I’ve never seen you in my life until today.’
‘But I’ve seen you. I never forget a face.’ He frowned in concentration, and she thought suddenly how good the bone-structure of his face was and how extraordinarily intelligent and expressive the unusually dark blue eyes.
‘I know!’ he exclaimed. ‘It wasn’t actually you yourself. It was a photograph. You’re the girl Brian Coverdale used to talk of so much when he first came to Canada.’
‘Brian spoke of me? — to you?’ Gone was the cool air of withdrawal now. She forgot that he had presumed to be amusedly critical of her aunt. She remembered only that he had known and admired Brian.
‘What did he say?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Please — please tell me anything you can about him.’
‘There’s not very much I can tell.’ Suddenly and rather inexplicably, it was he who had now become withdrawn. ‘I spoke on impulse. I’m sorry, I realize it must be a painful subject to you.’
‘Oh, no! I mean — yes, of course it is in some ways. But it would be wonderful to speak of him to someone who knew him well. To someone who saw him after — after I did.’
‘Nicola dear!’ called Madame Torelli very musically from the drawing-room.
‘I’m coming, Madame! I’m coming.’ She looked imploringly at the conductor. ‘Would it be possible, somehow? Gould we — ?’
‘Very well.’ He spoke abruptly but like a man who took his decisions quickly. ‘I’m staying at the Gloria. Phone me there, and we’ll dine together one evening.’
‘Oh, thank you!’
With the merest gesture of his hand he took leave of her and went his way, while Nicola went slowly back into the room where Torelli, without looking up from her desk where she was writing, asked, ‘What kept you so long in the hall?’
‘We — I happened to mention someone we both knew — Brian Coverdale, the viola player. He played under Mr. Evett in Canada. He — he died while he was on tour.’
‘I remember. I was there at the time.’
‘Were you?’ Nicola was immediately interested.
‘Certainly. I was the principal star of the Festival,’ stated Torelli without false modesty, for she was a woman who knew her value to a hair’s breadth and saw no reason to conceal the fact. ‘Oscar Warrender was conducting for me then, of course. But I went to hear this young man. That is how I know about his moderate gifts.’
‘I see,’ said Nicola. But before she could bring Brian back into the conversation, her aunt went on calmly,
‘I must tell you, dear child, that in our world — ’ by this, Nicola knew, she meant strictly the musical world — ‘there are people who are our friends and also those who are not.’ She paused, with her unrivalled sense of timing, and then went on, ‘That young man is not. I would not wish you to cultivate him in any way.’
‘No, Madame,’ agreed Nicola, somewhat disingenuously she realized the next moment, in view of the fact that she had more than half arranged a dinner date with him.
Not, however, so far as Nicola was concerned. It was going to take much more than that to make her give up the precious opportunity of talking to someone who knew Brian. And long before her conscientious scruples had time to go into action, the chance was made for her.
Quite often, in her capacity of companion as well as secretary, she was required to remain at the apartment overnight. There was no hardship about this. Life around Torelli was never dull, and frequently Nicola met interesting people from the musical world on these occasions. But on this particular evening, to her intense relief, Madame Torelli was herself going out, so that Nicola was able to go home to her own little flat, and from there she immediately telephoned Julian Evett.
‘Yes?’ was all he said in answer to her call. But the one monosyllable sufficed to bring him immediately before her, so that she could almost see that thin, lively, intelligent face, lit by the slightly mocking eyes.
‘It’s Nicola Denby,’ she explained breathlessly. ‘You spoke to me this afternoon at Madame Torelli’s and said — ’
‘Yes, of course. Can you dine with me here at the Gloria this evening?’
‘Oh, yes! If that suits you.’
‘It suits me. Seven-thirty all right? — Then I’ll be waiting for you in the foyer at seven-thirty.’
He rang off then, almost before she could express her thanks, and she was left staring at the receiver and wondering if he had now reached the point of feeling that he had been rather stampeded into this invitation.
She felt uncomfortable, and was still feeling uncomfortable when she met him in the foyer of the Gloria later that evening, although she knew that she was looking her most attractive in a midnight blue dress which Brian once said made her look both elegant and endearing.
Julian Evett ushered her into the restaurant a little as though this were a business appointment. And as soon as they had chosen their meal he came straight to the point of their meeting.
The Curtain Rises (Warrender Saga Book 4) Page 2