“Would you like to come here for cocktails on Christmas Day?” asked David.
“Oh, that would be lovely,” she nodded in delight.
“Well, so be it! It’ll be a nice way to round off a busy year.”
It was well past midnight when they returned to The Songbird. He walked her up the stairs to her attic room, and she made him tea while he lounged on one of the tattered chaises.
“Thank you, David. Tonight was the most wonderful night of my life. My first proper performance on stage, the glorious meal, and your company. It was simply delightful.”
“Perhaps it will be the first of many such nights?” he enquired with a hopeful tone.
Embarrassed by his forthrightness, Suzanna blushed and looked away. Eager to change the subject, David looked at his pocket watch.
“Don’t worry about the tea, and I need to retire for the night. It is past my bedtime!”
“I don’t want you to go yet. The night is still young!”
“I know, neither do I. But in the morning, we’ll be dead to the world, and I am sure Max will have more errands for us.”
David walked to the door and she followed him.
“Goodnight. Sleep tight,” he whispered, leaning in a little towards her ear.
“Goodnight,” she replied.
Before she knew it, he had leant forward and kissed her on the lips. It was the first time she had been kissed. Her heart galloped and thumped inside her. She prayed he would not hear it knocking against her ribs. With that he smiled and slipped away, blowing her another kiss as he closed the door behind him.
David left the theatre and walked across the road to his townhouse apartment. As he slipped off his shoes and collapsed into his Chesterfield armchair, he looked through the window and saw that Suzanna’s light was already off. But Suzanna wasn’t asleep. As the stage set of Venice surrounded her bed, in her mind’s eye, she floated under the Bridge of Sighs in her golden gondola. Her mother had told her the legend that if a couple kissed while drifting underneath it at sunset, as the bells of St Mark’s Campanile rang out, they would enjoy eternal love and happiness. As she imagined reclining in the ornate gold boat with the blissful image of David Liebowitz centre-stage in her thoughts, Suzanna made a wish that one day she would fall asleep in his protective arms—in real life.
6
She’s the one
It was Monday morning, and David leaned back in his chair and looked at the pile of ledgers in front of him. For the first time in his career that he had no desire to work. All he wanted to do was sit back and dream about Suzanna. He was not sure what had happened to him or why his feelings towards her had become so romantic. One thing was for sure, without Suzanna at his side, his life was dull and empty. He decided it could only mean one thing—he was falling in love.
That Saturday night was the first time in years that he felt truly alive, simply because he had encouraged Suzanna to follow her lifelong dream. He had lived vicariously through her joyous moment. Perhaps, my father feels this way when he makes somebody smile too. He began to have more empathy with his father’s propensity to put other people’s happiness before his own financial wellbeing. Suddenly, his father’s generosity and nurturing outlook made sense.
David threw his pen onto the desk, causing the ink to splatter everywhere. He sighed as he tried to blot the splotches away, then stood up and stretched. Surely, there are better things to do on a Monday morning. His mind wandered back and forth between Suzanna and the pile of work on his desk. Eventually, he gave up and focused on Suzanna.
As a young man, David had felt a vague affection for the occasional woman that he met, mostly when he was away studying at college. Still, this feeling for Suzanna was unlike anything that he had experienced before. He could think of nothing else except the soft skin of her cheek against his lips and an overwhelming desire to protect her. He did not believe that she was weak. On the contrary, she had worked with his cantankerous and unpredictable father longer than anyone else, which was proof of her mettle.
The lovestruck man put on his hat and coat and went to look for Thomas. When he found him, he was in deep conversation with Max.
“Come on, Papa, Tom, let us go and drink tea at Claridge's.”
Thomas looked at David, suspiciously.
“Don’t you have work to do? Your desk was covered in a thick layer of white when I saw it last—and it wasn’t snow!”
“Of course, my desk is still stacked with paperwork. It’s a never-ending battle.”
“And you still want to go out? I don’t think you have ever been out during working hours in all the years you’ve been doing The Songbird’s books. Are you feeling alright?” joked Max.
“Well, are you coming with me or not?” demanded David.
“Yes. Yes. Let me get my coat, it’s bitter outside,” grumbled Thomas.
“And you, Papa?” snapped David.
“Of course, I am coming with you. It’s not every day that my son falls in love!”
David frowned at his father. How had the old goat guessed his news? Fortunately, the comment seemed to fly over Thomas’ head.
The three men arrived at Claridge's and were seated in the magnificent sitting room. The chairs were beautifully carved and polished. The walls were white with gold wall sconces. The staff had set the table with perfection in mind. The silverware was polished until you could see your face in it more clearly than a looking glass. The white tablecloths were crisp and elegantly draped with not a crease or crumb in sight. The linen, made with the finest Egyptian cotton, offset the delicate porcelain tableware and sparkling crystal glasses.
“Have you two forgotten about Christmas?” Max asked once they were seated.
David grunted, and Thomas sighed because they both knew how important Christmas was to Max. It seemed his Polish blood made him determined to bring endless yuletide cheer to his audiences in the cold depths of winter.
“I have been giving the festive programme, some thought. As you know, I am retiring soon, and I want to make this the best Christmas show that we have hosted in the history of The Songbird.”
David and Thomas nodded in trepidation. For the past five years, each December Max said he was going to retire. Yet, the older man carried on working, tirelessly, making sure each Christmas was even more lavish than the previous year. David was already doing calculations in his head as to how he would finance the extravagance that Max insisted upon. Thomas was trying to imagine what sort of fantastic spectacle would need to be dreamed up this year.
“Not only am I retiring, but it is the last Christmas of this century. On Christmas Day, 1899, I will manage my last performance.”
“Papa, The Songbird will never be a success without you.”
“Of course it will, David, I have taught you and Thomas everything that I have learned in all my years of being the owner.”
They both shook their heads, wondering how they would cope without Max. It might be an exhausting task to try to reign his enthusiastic plans, but Max Liebowitz certainly had a special connection with the crowd and empathy that David and Thomas’s more clinical approaches lacked. The old thespian seemed able to read their minds.
“All you need to do to be successful is to have extravagant ideas and make them happen.”
The two men groaned. Max was as undeterred as ever in the face of ruinous financial adversity.
“Now, you two, listen up. Over the years I have challenged you, David, to make plans for every eventuality with a minimal budget—” He paused to smile. “—and Thomas, I have taught you to create a magnificent show out of very few resources. What more training do you need?”
The two men said nothing and resigned themselves to bending to the patriarch’s will once more—somehow, they would make his dream come true.
“So, what do you have in mind for Christmas this year?” Thomas enquired.
“I intend to create the greatest spectacle that the West End has ever seen.”
�
�Yes, you always say that, but we need specifics. We can’t start preparing if we don’t know your plans.”
“Well, two weeks before Christmas we will have a gala dedicated to the elite who have supported us for many years. Then, on Christmas Day,” Max told them, “we will be entertaining the poorest of the poor—for free.”
“So, there will be no paying customers on Christmas Day? I know you like to be charitable, Papa, but the theatre’s finances are stretched to breaking point,” exploded David.
“—And, in the spirit of the season, we will be offering them a festive meal and a glass of something to warm their cockles as well.”
“Tell me you’re joking, Max,” said a worried Thomas.
“For heaven’s sake, you two. We will have plenty of food. I am sure we can eke it out with some clever cooking. I can ask if our brewery suppliers might donate something to raise a little cheer—”
“—Even so,” interrupted David, “I don’t know how we will pay for it. Free entertainment for those who have fallen on hard times is one thing, but throwing in a hearty meal as well? Well, this is the most ridiculous request you have made in years.”
“My son, I have faith in you. You have never let me down. You will find a way. ”
“What will you need me to do, Max?” Thomas wondered out loud.
“It is simple, my good fellow.”
From experience, Thomas knew that it would be anything but simple. He anticipated the worst, and rightly so.
“I want Norway Fir spruce trees, the biggest trees that we can find. They have to decorate every nook and cranny,” enthused Max, his eyes twinkling and his speech animated. “I want a lot of holly wreaths—with luscious red berries. And of course, there must be lots of lights that sparkle like stars. There must be big bunches of mistletoe under every arch.”
Thomas and David’s eyes grew wider as the list of requirements lengthened at a frightening pace.
“And we must dress up the entire theatre in the traditional Christmas colours of red, green and gold.”
So far, Max had not mentioned any logistics that Thomas had not accomplished before—after a lengthy struggle, mind you.
“There shall be entertainment for every single person in attendance on Christmas Day. We will perform a full show for them.”
David stared at him, startled.
“Father, your goodwill is beyond measure, but the cost—”
“—Oh, stop talking about money all the time,” laughed Max. “You need to appreciate that this will probably be the first and only show that many of those people will ever experience in a real theatre in their lifetimes. We will provide a Christmas they will remember forever. And for that reason, so shall we.”
David threw his hands up in the air and exhaled loudly.
“It’s impossible. We simply don’t have enough money to do both nights. You’ll have to pick one or the other, Papa,” the son wailed in desperation.
“No. You need to find the money,” said Max with determination, “because I want to reward all the people who have blessed me over the years. Without them, I would be nothing.”
“How have these poor people ever blessed you? You don’t even know who they are!” protested Thomas.
Max was becoming annoyed with the two men.
“Yes, I do. And so do you!”
They looked at him agog.
“How?” David replied dismissively.
“Every single person who has ever delivered food to our premises, or fixed our coaches, painted our sets, sewed our stage outfits, painted the walls, fixed the floors, sold us flowers, swept the pavements outside and cleaned our floors inside—they have all helped us run our business. These hard-working men and women have received a pittance from their masters, and we need to acknowledge them. Without the workers, and their loyalty and labour, we would never have been as successful as we are.”
Tired of arguing about money, David said nothing. His father would never accept how precarious their financial situation was as long as he lived. The only option was to limit the damage.
“Thomas,” continued Max, “Find Lee Ting-Chong. I want the best Chinese fireworks.”
David’s heart sank. Fireworks! Please not indoors! He’s getting worse in his old age!
Thomas’ anxiety levels also lept sky high, but for a different reason. He had never arranged fireworks before and was terrified of them burning down the building. The newspapers were always full of calamitous events involving fiery showpieces backfiring on stage. Mishaps were common.
“Also, before I forget, I have spoken to Lord Ashwood. He is providing all the pheasants we need for the Christmas Gala dinner for our wealthy supporters.”
David nodded with relief at the news. It was the first sensible thing that Max had said since they sat down.
“Ashwood has one condition, though,” warned Max. “We have to spend a weekend at his country house and hunt them ourselves.”
David could not believe what he was hearing. He was a city gent through and through, and country pursuits were outside his remit and experience—not that Max was bothered about such details. The frustrated son chose to stare out of the window and dream about Suzanna instead. Seconds later, he was dragged back to the grim reality of the planning.
“How are we going to raise the finances for the event, David? Tell me what cunning scheme you were hatching just then,” demanded Max in excitement.
“There is no cunning scheme. I have no idea how we will fund—”
The son’s words of concern fell on deaf ears as Max’s liveliness heightened further. Once the old man got a bee in his bonnet about a kind gesture he wanted to make, there was little that could be done to stop him.
“I want all the regular Christmas fayre throughout the season: Pheasant, ham, turkey, vegetables, potatoes. Yorkshire pudding with gravy, plum pudding and custard. And mince pies—plenty of those. The cook can bake those in advance. They’ll keep fresh for days in tins. Large bowls of punch and mulled wine would be lovely and warming. And trifle—with sherry in it, of course. Have I missed anything?” Max asked as he raised his eyebrows.
“Christmas cake?” advised Thomas despondently.
“Of course, yes! Christmas cake. How silly of me to forget! We’ll need dozens of those,” roared Max in delight as he imagined more details of the festivities and the sea of happy faces enjoying them. “Can we stretch to a sixpence in the cake, or will you killjoys begrudge me that little bit of extra expenditure, too?”
“For goodness sake, Papa! All we ask is that you be realistic with your plans. By all means, have fun, just cut your cloth to your means.”
David’s voice trailed off as he realised he was wasting his breath. The tea and cake arrived, and the three men ate in silence. David and Thomas were too terrified to say another word in case Max thought of something else to add to the burgeoning list of requirements.
It was Thomas who came up with the solution while he was finishing his cup of Earl Grey. He began to grin.
“What is it?” demanded David, struggling to see anything to smile about.
“I have the perfect resolution to this little financial conundrum.”
Max was bouncing around with glee. David thought Thomas might be losing his grip on reality even more than his father. Thomas cleared his throat as he dabbed his lips dry with a crisp white napkin.
“Gentlemen, we are going to have a competition on the gala night—a singing competition between Suzanna and Monique. Monique will draw her usual huge crowds of wealthy patrons. We can double the entry fee for this unique extravaganza. Why? Because two weeks before Christmas everyone has a looser grip on their purse strings. We’ll easily bankroll the Christmas Day event.”
It was the worst idea that David had ever heard. As he sighed, he let his eyelids droop down to shield him from the nightmare scenario that was emerging before him. He imagined Max and Thomas like massive snowballs rolling down a steep hill, hurtling further out of control, gathering pace
and power with every second they were left unattended. The metaphor was exactly how he saw the Christmas project was turning out. Bedlam.
“Yes! By Jove, that is pure genius!” exclaimed Max. “Gentlemen, this Christmas competition will be the talk of the town. Anyone who is anyone will be itching to attend. Get onto the newspaper forthwith, Thomas. We need to advertise it. Well done, my man, I couldn’t have thought of a better idea myself.”
7
Let battle commence
Early the next morning, Max called Monique and Suzanna to the stage. He never dealt with the performers in his office, believing that addressing them from behind his desk was cold and intimidating. Rapport with his performers mattered.
“Beautiful ladies,” Max began. “I realised that we have considerable talent in our humble establishment. Therefore, I have decided that we will hold a singing competition on our annual gala night. The tickets sold will raise money for our charitable luncheon on Christmas Day. I can guarantee the glorious prize will make it a very special evening for one of you.”
The two women looked baffled. Both the competition and the luncheon were news to them.
“Yesterday, I went to the Italian Embassy, to pull a few strings with my friend the ambassador. He’s agreed that the best singer on the night will get a chance to audition for the Florence opera at Teatro Verdi,” Max continued. “The winner will depart for Italy shortly after, and off to the chance of a lifetime.”
AN excited Max had been busy planning the competition since the meeting at Claridge's the day before.
“C’est vrai?” Monique crooned in her delightful French accent. “Magnifique! It will be a dream come true for me,” she added presumptuously.
Suzanna flinched at the gravity of Max’s news and Monique’s arrogant response to it.
“The ambassador, Francesco de Renzis, and his wife will attend. He will deliver the opening speech and announce the winner. It will be a wonderful evening. Anyone who is anyone will want to be there. We will certainly top up the theatre’s coffers. And ladies, imagine the opportunity to study and perform at the greatest opera house in the world.”
The Christmas Songbird Page 6