‘I can’t ask Julian Evett,’ reiterated Nicola, as she followed her aunt from the dressing-room and downstairs towards the stage door.
‘Then ask Michele,’ replied Torelli calmly. ‘She will be in London in a week or so, and — if I read her aright — she will be only too happy to talk at great length about her somewhat uninteresting self.’
Nicola was immediately struck silent. Not by the reproof still distinct in her aunt’s tone, but by the simplicity of the solution offered. She could ask Michele. Not perhaps with the bludgeon-like frankness of the Torelli method. But at least in a way that might draw a little information.
It would be agony to have to wait the week or so to which her aunt so airily referred. But the alternative — to ask Julian Evett — was not even to be thought of. She would ask Michele!
‘Well?’ said Torelli, as she settled herself with a slight sigh of genuine weariness in the waiting Rolls. ‘Does that solve your problem for you?’
‘Yes, I think it does.’ Nicola smiled suddenly and began to look more like her usual self.
‘Good! Then we can let the matter rest.’ With an expressive little gesture, Torelli almost visibly washed her strong, capable hands of her niece’s inconsiderable affairs. ‘And now perhaps you can spare a thought for my concerns. It is so many years since I have sung at Covent Garden that this is almost in the nature of a comeback. And a comeback is more difficult than a debut in many ways. I shall need a good deal of support from those around me. I hope I can rely on you in some degree.’
‘Oh, you can! indeed, you can,’ exclaimed Nicola remorsefully. ‘I’m sorry I was so self-absorbed. It was just that — ’
‘I know, dear, I know. Don’t tell me again about the importance of Brian Coverdale. I really couldn’t bear it before I have had something to eat. And don’t apologize either. It brings out all the worst in me when people are over-submissive.’
So Nicola made a supreme effort to be her natural, independent but affectionate self. And if she still felt shattered by what Oscar Warrender had said, she managed to thrust all that into the background of her mind for the time being.
It was just as well that she was experienced in this respect by now. For during the next two days everything in the joint lives of her aunt and herself was subordinated to the overriding importance of the Covent Garden return. This of course represented, even more than the Festival Hall concert, a challenge to every facet of Torelli’s art. She would be defending her title as actress and stage personality as well as singer. And although the dress rehearsal had gone so sensationally well, this was no absolute guarantee that everything would go as well on the night.
‘I’ve seen many a good dress rehearsal followed by disaster,’ she said to Nicola with almost operatic gloom.
‘But not, I’m sure, when it was based on cast-iron technique and a complete mastery of the stage,’ replied Nicola firmly.
The reply was momentarily acceptable and her aunt smiled. But a few minutes later she observed, ‘Anyone can develop a cold at a moment’s notice.’
‘Fortunately you don’t show the slightest signs of doing so,’ said Nicola cheerfully. ‘Stop tormenting yourself for nothing.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ cried Torelli angrily. ‘Only an artist understands what I’m going through at this moment. You’re just a stupid, well-meaning, over-talkative little girl who — ’
But just as she was getting ready to quarrel in earnest, most happily the telephone bell rang, and on inquiry Nicola found that it was a long-distance call from her uncle.
‘From Peter?’ Torelli snatched the receiver and immediately burst into a flood of half tearful English and Italian.
Nicola moved towards the door, but then she was held there for a moment by the sheer fascination of the varied expressions which chased each other across her aunt’s face. She was everything by turns, from a romantically excited girl to a fretfully complaining middle-aged woman, and if she had been projecting it all to the last row of the gallery she could not have been more telling.
‘She loves him,’ Nicola thought, as she slipped away out of the room. ‘She really loves him very much.’ And the discovery both touched and surprised her.
Much later, when Torelli came to her in the small room where Nicola worked, it was obvious that whatever had transpired in the conversation had cheered and calmed her to a degree.
‘That was Peter,’ said Torelli, exactly as though Nicola had not originally taken the call and known all about it. ‘He’s on his way home. He will probably be here in time for the first performance of “The Flute”. He’s on his way home!’
‘I’m so glad.’ Nicola smiled at her aunt with all the warmth and affection she genuinely felt. ‘You really love him very much, don’t you?’
‘Love him?’ Torelli looked slightly surprised. ‘Yes, I suppose I do, in my way. There isn’t much youthful rapture about it, of course. Why should there be? But he’s like — like an old shoe. He fits me. He’s comfortable — comfortable!’ She broke off and sighed. ‘I wish he were here already,’ she said. ‘I’d feel better if he were here.’
‘It won’t be long now,’ Nicola reminded her soothingly.
‘And as for that “old shoe” stuff — whatever did he say to you that made you look suddenly like an excited girl?’
‘Did I look like that?’ Torelli was visibly intrigued and gratified. ‘I can’t imagine, unless — Oh!’ she broke off and laughed suddenly. Her perfectly beautiful laugh, only on a lighter note than she was wont to use. ‘Nothing, really. Just something silly between ourselves.’
‘All about old shoes?’ suggested Nicola amusedly.
‘No, nothing like that at all!’ But she did not offer to repeat it. Instead, unexpectedly, she kissed Nicola and said, ‘I’m sorry I was cross a little while ago. I was getting rattled. But I’m all right now. Everything’s going to be all right now.’
And it was.
*
There are, as every opera-goer of ancient vintage knows, a few performances — very few — which confer a sort of cachet on those who were present, giving them the right to speak in terms of insufferable superiority to those who were not. The return of Torelli as Lady Macbeth constituted one of those occasions. And, as Nicola stood in the stalls at the end, still clapping her exhausted, stinging hands, Julian Evett moved over to her and said above the clamour,
‘This is something we shall remember all our lives.’
‘You too? You feel that way?’ Nicola turned a radiant face upon him.
‘Of course! Do you think I’m any less romantic or enthusiastic than anyone else in this crowd? If you want the truth, I adore Torelli at this moment. Tomorrow I shall remember she is in many ways impossible. But tonight I’d willingly lie down and let her walk all over me.’
‘Oh, what a darling thing to say!’ Nicola laughed, and actually caught hold of his arm in her excitement and delight. Unlike Oscar Warrender, he apparently saw no reason to remove that hand, and they stood there for a moment or two, very close together and with a current of indescribable harmony coursing between them — until the great red curtains swept up again and Nicola pulled her hand away to join in the final burst of applause.
After that they slowly made their way round backstage together, neither with much to say to the other and both of them faintly self-conscious because all the barriers had been down for that moment when they stood and applauded Torelli together.
The scene backstage was now familiar to Nicola, but she never failed to thrill afresh to the curious mixture of glamour and almost sordid realism. There was something inescapably exciting about the contrast between the dreary corridors and flights of stone steps and the glimpses into dressing-rooms through half-open doors. There one might see some gorgeously clad figure to which an overpowering stage personality still clung even after the curtain was down — giving the curious impression of someone strangely over-life-size and coming from a fascinatingly alien world.
Torelli was still in her last-act costume, surrounded by friends — and possibly enemies — the picture of glowing triumph and almost naïve happiness. Julian stayed only to kiss her warm cheek and congratulate her before he went to Oscar Warrender’s room. But Nicola remained, of course, content to be mostly in the background while intrigued and amused by the people who came and went.
Those she knew, like Dermot Deane, greeted her briefly. But there were others who fell upon Torelli with cries of admiration and affection suggestive of close family ties. They took no notice of Nicola and when, after the exit of a whole group, Nicola managed to whisper to her aunt, ‘Who were they?’ Torelli replied cheerfully, ‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’
The moment when Nicola started forward from her chosen background position was when the crowd at the door shifted again and among the handful of newcomers who entered she recognized the unmistakable and beautiful red hair of Michele Laraut.
But first things came first with Michele. She saw only the star of the evening in that first moment, and her greeting to Torelli was a miracle of respectful awe. In her turn, the older woman was charming in a friendly, faintly condescending way. And it occurred to Nicola that, in spite of the difference in age, they were well matched in their backstage technique.
‘I didn’t realize you would be in London quite so soon,’ Torelli said. ‘Rehearsals for the “Flute” don’t start until the seventeenth.’
‘I know. But I think it’s always best to be in good time if one can, don’t you?’ was the reply, spoken just a trifle too much as one distinguished colleague to another.
‘No doubt you’re right,’ replied Torelli with unmistakable irony, and with a slight nod and an even slighter smile she turned to speak to someone else, leaving Michele very much on her own.
But, seizing her obvious opportunity, Nicola came forward eagerly and said,
‘Hello. I’m sorry we didn’t get together in Paris. But perhaps we’ll have better luck in London. Are you going to have any free time in the next few days?’
There was a moment of hesitation. Then Michele said, in her pleasantly husky voice, ‘I was sorry about the Paris meeting too. I just couldn’t make it that afternoon.’
The small but deliberate lie made Nicola blink slightly. Not, of course, that she had expected to have any account of Michele’s meeting with Julian Evett. But this cool assertion that she had not been able to be there at all gave her the uncomfortable sensation which visits all truthful people when someone else lies to them.
‘What about arranging something while you’re here?’ Nicola pressed her.
‘Oh, no doubt something can be managed.’ Michele smiled — but vaguely, and Nicola had the inescapable impression that she was being put off. Her own anxiety for a talk, however, was too keen for her to accept the evasion.
‘Could we fix something now?’ she suggested. ‘Or would you like to give me your phone number and — ’
‘No, you give me yours,’ was the cool reply. ‘I probably shan’t stay more than a day or two where I am now. If I have your number I’ll call you when I know what I’m doing.’
‘Very well.’ Nicola scribbled down both her home number and the number of her aunt’s flat. It was all she could do, but she knew that she had been frustrated in her real intention. Now the ball was in Michele’s court and, if Nicola were not much mistaken, there it would remain — ignored.
‘She doesn’t really want to meet me and talk,’ Nicola thought. ‘Why doesn’t she? It isn’t just that I’m no special use to her. It’s something more positive than that.’
But now the last visitors were being ushered from the room and Lisette stood purposefully ready to take her mistress’s costume and wig and help her to change.
‘You can stay, Nicola,’ her aunt said. ‘And now tell me really how the performance was.’
‘You know how it was,’ declared Nicola with a laugh. ‘And if you didn’t, there have been dozens of people to tell you during the last twenty minutes.’
‘Most of them know nothing about it.’
‘I’m not sure that I do!’
‘Yes, you do. You have natural judgment. I’ve noticed that,’ observed Torelli, as she stepped out of her heavy costume and enveloped herself in a faded cotton wrap which she always wore in the theatre because she considered it lucky — one of the few superstitions which she permitted herself. ‘You’re inexperienced, but you have a sense of quality. All too rare these days.’
‘Well, then, let me prove my sense of quality by telling you that I thought you and Mr. Warrender absolutely beyond praise, I thought the Macbeth good without being sensational, and I thought the Macduff had a rare tenor voice that will take him places if he ever learns to use it properly.’
Torelli laughed approvingly and said, ‘Good child! Correct in every particular.’
‘And if you want that opinion reinforced by an even better-informed one,’ Nicola went on with a smile, ‘Julian Evett said that this evening he would willingly lie down and let you walk all over him.’
‘He said that?’ Torelli, who was rapidly and expertly twisting up her long, heavy hair, turned from the mirror and laughed. ‘He’s a nice boy. You should marry him, Nicola, and keep him in the family.’
‘Marry him? Don’t be absurd!’ The laughter was struck from Nicola’s face. ‘Have you forgotten what he did?’
‘Probably,’ replied Torelli tolerantly. ‘When a man makes a remark like that about me I’m prepared to forget almost anything else he has done. Now, please, my dear, don’t start reminding me about that unfortunate business in Canada. I’m not in the mood to take it. Let us talk of something else. — Did you notice how the little Laraut tried to put herself on a professional level with me?’
Nicola swallowed hard, and said with an effort, ‘I noticed that you snubbed her. Rather unnecessarily, I thought.’
‘Not unnecessarily at all,’ retorted Torelli firmly. ‘With the Micheles one must begin as one intends to go on. She will be an excellent Pamina and that is why I wish to have her in the cast. But she must not be allowed to have ideas above her vocal station. I noticed you talking to her, by the way.’
‘I was trying to arrange a meeting, in place of the one we — we missed in Paris. As you know, I particularly want to talk to her. But she’s oddly cagey. I don’t think she wants to have much to do with me. She wouldn’t give me her phone number and though she took mine, I feel pretty sure she won’t use it.’
‘Then we must force the issue,’ said Torelli, with the pleased air of one who saw a challenge and intended to take it.
‘How?’ inquired Nicola dubiously.
‘I don’t know yet.’ Torelli stood up to allow Lisette to slip her dress over her head. ‘But I shall find a way.’
And, half impressed, half irritated, Nicola felt inclined to believe that she would. It might not be her own way of doing things, but Torelli would find some way. Always provided, of course, that the matter remained in her mind as being of any importance at all.
During the next ten days no further reference was made to the subject. Nor of course was any word received from Michele. But, sorely though Nicola’s patience might be tried, she dared not raise the matter again with her aunt. For one thing, Torelli was now deeply involved with the ‘Trovatore’ rehearsals, as well as the repeat performances of the highly successful ‘Macbeth’.
‘Trovatore isn’t such fun dramatically,’ she complained once to Nicola. ‘The mezzo has all the jam in that respect. Vocally, of course, Leonora is a tremendous part, and a lesson every time one goes on to the stage. But I’m getting a bit old to have troubadours singing at my window. And she’s a poor-spirited creature, really, when you come to think of it. No ideas above going into a convent when the luck turns against her and then drinking poison in the end. I’d have found a better solution than that.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ Nicola laughed. ‘Nevertheless, you bring the tears to my eyes when you sing your dying p
hrases.’
‘Yes, I’m pretty good there,’ Torelli agreed. ‘It’s easier than you might think, you know. It sounds fiendishly difficult, but you’re lying down and that relaxes you naturally. Just notice next time you hear a basic screamer as Leonora. The tone may be as tight as a fiddle string during most of the opera, but once you put her on her back in the last act she has to sing in a relaxed way. — Some people, of course, would be well advised to sing in that position always,’ she added drily. ‘Have you heard from Michele, by the way?’
‘No.’
‘Then it’s time we did something.’ Torelli spoke briskly. ‘I shall ask her — tell her — to come and see me here, in order to discuss one or two details. Where is she staying?’
‘I wasn’t able to get her address, you remember.’
‘Tch, tch!’ said Torelli, by which she meant that Nicola should have prised this information out of her somehow. ‘Well, never mind. They will know at the Opera House and will relay any instructions of mine. Next Thursday afternoon, I think.’
‘I was intending,’ Nicola explained diffidently, ‘to see her alone, so that I could ask — ’
‘Of course, dear child! I shall arrange that you do. Leave it to me,’ replied Torelli affably. And she was obviously so pleased with whatever plans she was making that Nicola stifled a certain degree of misgiving and refrained from further argument.
The first Trovatore performance fell on the Wednesday of that week and, familiar as she now was with the pattern of things, Nicola neither expected nor received any attention so far as her own affairs were concerned. They went through the usual nerve-strain, meticulous preparation and eventual triumph. And if the mezzo deservedly carried off the dramatic laurels, Torelli pretty well brought the audience to their feet with her sheer singing. The impeccable phrasing and the subtle grading of tone colour were miraculous, and Nicola realized that only the most accomplished artist could hope to achieve anything like such an effect.
On Thursday morning Torelli read the critiques with obvious satisfaction. Then, suddenly, like a girl let out of school, she flung down the papers and exclaimed,
The Curtain Rises (Warrender Saga Book 4) Page 11