Secret of the Song

by Cathie Hartigan

  ‘Then perhaps will you think about it?’

  ‘No, Silvia,’ she said. ‘I won’t think about it. Fetch me a glass of wine.’

  If the sun were never to shine again I wouldn’t have felt more miserable. I poured out the wine slowly, blinking back tears. When I gave it to Donna Maria, she looked into my face, then, to my surprise, after taking a sip she gave the glass back to me.

  ‘Here,’ she said, ‘swallow a little of this. I think we both have need.’

  I remembered Don Carlo and his glasses of wine sending me into a swoon, so I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t agree with me, my lady.’

  ‘Have just a sip then, to celebrate. For you are right, Silvia. I will not sit with Don Fabrizio at the party.’

  What a difference I felt then! So much so, that I did take the glass and have a little sip after all.

  We decided that Don Carlo’s own father would sit next to his daughter-in-law, and I took care not to place Don Fabrizio on the opposite side of the table so the lovers couldn’t trap themselves in each other’s gaze. But on the morning of the party, Pietro came to see me.

  ‘You have one less for the table. Don Carlo’s father is ill.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ I said. ‘But that means …’ I shut my mouth so suddenly my teeth came together with the click of a mousetrap.

  Pietro looked surprised. ‘Means what?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just that … I’ll have to put Don Giulio in his place.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, no. Not really.’ I laughed, ‘I’d best find a bigger chair, that’s all.’

  Don Carlo’s blood uncle, Don Giulio. Oh dear. Praying that Donna Maria would be sensible was about as useful as sewing a seam with no thread. She didn’t like Don Giulio at all, but he liked her more than enough for both of them.

  I pinned a smile to my face before the guests arrived and kept it there the whole time. It made me look simple, but that was all to the good. Donna Maria had turned the contents of the palazzo all about once again and brought out the best cutwork tablecloths, but she did not insist that I sat with her. Of course not. With Don Carlo back home it was back behind the screen for me.

  If Don Carlo suspected his wife then he did not show it, even though she’d asked to move from her apartment above his to the opposite end of the palazzo. Her excuse was to complain about the night-time noise of the young swifts in their nests outside her window. Personally, I enjoyed the squabbly conversations of the baby birds at any time of day or night. They didn’t have fears that their behaviour might betray them. Perhaps their parents did, for they could have nested anywhere under the building’s eaves, but they didn’t, choosing the corner open to the piazza rather than the narrow street, where there was less room for their swooping flight.

  When Don Carlo refused my lady’s request, I thought he must suspect, but I was there when he responded with a wave of his hand, as if some slight nuisance or a fly troubled him, rather than a rival for his wife’s affection. He didn’t want to hear the noise of such an unpheaval whilst composing his latest lute pieces. At least, that’s what he said. I was there and heard him clearly.

  How Don Fabrizio came to sit diagonally opposite Don Giulio I don’t know. Men never take any notice of what women say – except perhaps when the woman is the Queen of England – and I could hardly insist he moved.

  ‘You look like you’re at a funeral, not a party, Silvia.’ Pietro slapped me on the knee. ‘Cheer up, girl.’

  ‘I’ve had a little bad news,’ I lied. ‘My aunt …’

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is she …?’

  I shook my head, not saying anything more about my imaginary aunt. Of course, he thought she’d died. That’s what happens when you stay silent, people make up something instead. Pietro was kind, but he was Don Carlo’s man, and I was my lady’s maid. If we’d been in another household we might have been able to speak freely to each other, but to do so here would be fatal.

  Through the screen I could see Don Giulio laughing and leaning his fat bulk towards my lady. She leaned away, managing to maintain her polite face. Opposite, Don Fabrizio had one hand on the table and was indicating something extravagant with the other. It might have been the noise that meant his voice couldn’t be heard, but I think he meant to interrupt any conversation between them.

  Don Carlo played the lute, of course, but fortunately with other musicians and singers. And my lady asked Torquato Tasso to recite quite early, straight after the little herb tartlets, while everyone’s digestions were still strong and not too much wine had been drunk. Wine. Several times that evening, I swore I would never touch it again. Once the children were taken to bed, the noise in the sala grew louder as the wine in the jugs ran out and was replenished more and more often. Everyone laughed at unfunny jokes and the singers sang unseemly words with gestures to match.

  ‘Silvia. Silvia!’ Donna Maria’s voice called. I ran over, taking care to appear at the opposite side from Don Giulio. She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Come with me,’ she said.

  We ran up the two spiral staircases to her apartment at such speed that I was almost giddy when we reached the top.

  ‘I cannot bear that hideous man and his vile breath a moment longer,’ she said, her face flushed with anger, wine and exertion. ‘First of all he is patting my hand, then my arm, then …’ she paused for breath, ‘then Silvia, under the cloth, he has the audacity to not only place his hand on my knee, but then, he … he began to go further up!’ She shook her head.

  I poured some water, rinsed a cloth and began to wipe her brow, all the while making soothing remarks, but she pushed my hand away.

  ‘It’s truly terrible, Silvia. Not only Giulio’s hideous slobbering, but to see Fabrizio so close! I can hardly look at him, but I feel his gaze. It is like fire!’ She sat down on the chair beneath the window, then stood up, crossed the chamber and threw herself down on the bed.

  ‘It’s good that Don Carlo is so taken up with his friends,’ I said, trying to find something to be glad about.

  ‘Pfft … Don Carlo? He’s such a—’

  There was noise on the stairs and we both stiffened. Surely Don Giulio could not move so fast.

  ‘Fabrizio!’ My lady jumped up at the sight of the Duke.

  ‘My love …’

  And they were in each other’s arms. Keeping my eyes firmly on the floor, I left them. Alone in the antechamber, I tried to breathe normally, but it was as if I were wearing a girdle of iron, I was so afraid. How long before they were both missed? And who would miss them? Don Giulio for sure.

  In the distance I could hear laughter and voices and told myself there were always comings and goings of people at parties. But then I heard something that set icy fingers clawing at the back of my neck. Holding my breath, I listened again. Silence. I began to relax, I must have imag— but there! I had heard correctly. Terrified, I fell back against the door, my heart thumping in my chest more loudly than the slow footsteps that were, for sure, ascending the stairs.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Charles said he might visit in a few weeks.’ My mother sighed, then wriggled around in the spacious comfort that only first class air travel can provide.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said, distracted by the glistening Alps beneath us. ‘You did tell him he couldn’t stay with us, I hope.’ I swallowed another mouthful of brandy. Charles was apparently a nice man, but then Thomas had hoodwinked us all.

  ‘Oh, Lisa, listen to you putting obstacles in the way of everything. We can sort it somehow.’

  ‘Mum, I am not having him stay in my flat and that’s the end of it. He can book into a hotel. For heaven’s sake, if he can afford to go on a first class jolly to Sorrento then that shouldn’t be a problem.’

  She went quiet. But not for long. ‘What about Duncan? Will you let him stay?’

  ‘Oh, Mum. I keep telling you, it wasn’t like that. He’s married.’

  Silence.

 
‘So was Thomas.’

  ‘Yes, but Duncan told me. Besides, it wasn’t like that.’

  She gave one of those I-don’t-believe-you-for-a-moment shrugs before flicking through her week old copy of Woman and Home that she’d brought from England in case she felt homesick. Home. How was Mollie? According to her texts she was having the best of times. Sophie was lovely and every minute with Jon was fun and he didn’t worry about stuff like I did – all of which translated in my mind as: he’d been totally irresponsible, wrecked the flat and they’d all nearly died after setting fire to amaretti biscuit wrappers. I could see the tall tin in my mind’s eye. It was at the back of the cupboard … Stupid, I told myself. They won’t even know they’re there. Nobody I knew liked them except me, but I’d managed to squeeze a tin into my suitcase. A souvenir, I told myself, and when I’d eaten all the biscuits, it would be a good place to entomb a Barbie.

  I thought about Duncan. It wasn’t like ‘that’ at all. But he was funny, kind and as far as I knew, honest. He did tell me about his wife, and when he spoke about her and his grown up daughter, it was fondly. He missed them and showed me their photographs. The family was obviously wealthy and well travelled – Sydney, New York, Paris.

  Duncan’s hotel was way beyond my means and although tempted by his offer to pay half, with the feeble excuse of being half responsible for my missing the ferry, there was only one place I wanted to stay. Actually, wanted wasn’t the proper word. I knew that the Palazzo San Severo, where Gesualdo once lived, had been converted into apartments, but most of the building was a hotel. So, when the opportunity to spend a night at Hotel San Severo suddenly presented itself, I’d felt strangely compelled.

  Duncan did talk me into dinner at his hotel though. It was heady, to be in such splendour. The food was fantastic. I had gnocchi for starters because it was a word I recognised, but shrink-wrapped potato wodges from Tesco they were not: spinach and parmesan little spheres of deliciousness they were. The monkfish was equally amazing and as for that white chocolate and pistachio panna cotta …

  But although I’d really enjoyed the fabulous food, and said so, it wasn’t the main topic of conversation. That had been about the Renaissance, the Spanish Inquisition and Signor Pace’s warning. The frontispiece appeared to be the work of the most talented engraver working in Naples at the end of the century. Salvo Carlino was the nephew of the printer, Giovanni Giacomo Carlino. Salvo worked for Carlino & Pace but nothing was heard of him after 1597. It was assumed he had died, although there was no evidence for that.

  Which is why my frontispiece was such a surprise for Signor Pace, and the first reaction of his sidekick was to cross himself very vigorously. But then everyone crossed themselves in Naples.

  In hindsight, I wondered why on earth I was so keen to stay in Gesualdo’s old palace. Inside, the stone treads were worn down badly and while going up wasn’t too bad, coming down felt quite treacherous. Here was a job for the company whose advert I’d seen at the airport. It wasn’t only my marble needs that needed fulfilling, anyone could take a tumble.

  The room I had on the second floor was very contemporary and rather soulless. It could have been in any European city, especially given the Ikea furniture and waiting room décor in cream and brown. Dividing walls chopped through the moulding on the ceiling and the view from the window was of a featureless wall. When I leaned out over the balcony, I could just about see into the square.

  I wasn’t there for the view though. Teeth, bed, sleep, I thought, and that’s exactly what I did.

  Voices out in the street woke me. Whether violence was imminent was hard to tell. Italian spoken at high speed and loud volume sounded threatening to me, but I was surprised when I heard the clip clop of hooves. Whining scooters yes, but horses? I thought about getting up to look, but found I had no energy to move.

  It wasn’t a nice feeling. I lay in the dark somehow weighted down, every breath hard work. You’re still asleep, I told myself. That must be it, although it seemed then as if a part of me did get out of bed and did go over to the window. How could that be?

  Listen, said a voice in my head. Listen…

  Although I knew I was warm beneath the bedclothes, there was also a me standing shivery and cold. What I saw from the window I had no idea. Everywhere was dark and gloomy and the atmosphere heavy. The voices faded into the distance. But as they did so, I became aware of another noise, getting closer and much more menacing. Somebody was coming up the stone staircase and their footsteps echoed round the stairwell. They were slow and sometimes stopped, as if whoever it was didn’t find the stairs easy. I lay rigid, telling myself it was just another guest, but as they came ever nearer, I heard a the rasp of someone’s breath.

  That was it. I began trembling, no, rattling, in the bed. With what felt like Herculean strength I forced my arm from under the covers and leaned across to switch on the light. Whoosh! Bang! Light filled the room and I couldn’t see a thing. I struggled to sit up and then opened my eyes. Ah. That’s what made the noise: my book on Gesualdo was on the floor. Everything else was just as it was. Not only that, everywhere was quiet. No footsteps. I got out of bed and went to look out of the window. The shutters creaked and up above me birds squabbled in the eves. One by one, they flew off into the pale grey light of dawn.

  I went back to bed and slept like a baby till eight.

  When Duncan and I met for breakfast I told him about the night’s noises.

  ‘You think I was dreaming,’ I said. ‘I can tell by your expression.’

  He laughed and hid behind the coffee menu. ‘I don’t know what you mean. But,’ he said, ‘if you were me, what would you think?’

  ‘I’d think you were mad.’ I sighed. ‘Oh well, there’s no proving it, either way. Are you going to have the High Mountain or the Single Estate Colombian?’ We really were in very particular surroundings. It was a little too chilly to sit outside on the balcony, but the sun was bright, and through the window, I watched a couple of sparrows hopping about under the outdoor tables. ‘It’s a shame birds can’t talk, otherwise I could ask the swifts.’

  Duncan lowered the menu. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I disturbed the swifts nesting under the eaves last night. They were all awake, so could have been witnesses.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, they couldn’t.’

  ‘Couldn’t?’

  ‘Well, all the swifts have migrated south by now. They leave in September. Hmm,’ he scratched his chin. ‘I think I might have tea.’

  I looked at him for a while, then out at the sparrows. The memory of the birds fluttering away into the dawn was clear in my mind.

  I was replaying my time with Duncan when the plane began its descent. The sudden change of engine noise always made me jump and I had to tell myself to keep calm. I couldn’t stop my thoughts turning back to Signor Pace’s suggestion that the frontispiece I had was the equivalent of a curse.

  Certainly, Noteworthy hadn’t been its usual happy self since we had been asked to sing the Gesualdo, but I put that down to Daniela disturbing the equilibrium. Then I remembered my close shave with the bus and the poor man who drowned. In my mind’s eye, I saw the brown paper cover of the madrigal and the red spot of wine, that I kept thinking looked like blood. Somehow one spot had become two.

  I shook my head. Out of the window, I could see rooftops. Both Mum and I held our breath as the wheels of the plane touched down.

  Amongst the mosaic of faces in ‘Arrivals’, I saw Jon’s first. I’d been looking for Mollie but Jon, with his hair tufted up as if he’d drawn his hand through it, was taller than the rest. He was frowning as he scanned the crowds. A huge wash of gladness rushed through me. Glad to be down on the ground, glad to see him, in fact very glad to see him, and there was Mollie! Tears came to my eyes as she rushed towards me.

  ‘Mum, Mum!’ She flung her arms round my neck. Had she grown in less than a week? ‘Me and Jon,’ she said, as I squashed her against me. ‘We’ve had the best time without
you. It’s been brilliant.’

  ‘Shall I get back on the plane then?’

  ‘Only if we can come too,’ Jon said, rather quickly. He looked a little fraught, and I wondered if Mollie’s ‘brilliant’ was Jon’s ‘completely exhausted’. His smile was very slightly tight at the corners … he was a darling. Any anxiety I’d had about leaving him with Mollie fell away.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I said, meaning it, ‘but I think we’d have to busk our way on and hope everyone was very generous.’

  Mum sat in the back of the car with Mollie, who talked non-stop about her trips to the zoo (baby tigers!), Exmouth beach (they had to climb the escape ladder when the tide came in!), Dartmoor (got right to the top of Hay Tor!) and Birmingham.

  ‘Birmingham?’

  ‘Last minute job,’ Jon said. ‘I was going to turn it down but—’

  ‘We went on the train, Mum,’ Mollie interrupted, ‘and everyone thought Jon was my dad. How cool is that?’

  ‘Err …’

  ‘They were ever so nice to me,’ she galloped on, ‘and I was allowed to go on their computer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, nice people. A software design company,’ Jon said. ‘Mollie was a test driver. I’m supposed to write something for a radio ad.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ I was a little too sleepy to think about computer software. The brandy and gradual easing of the tension I’d held onto during the flight didn’t help. As I nodded off, I kept thinking about Mollie calling Jon ‘dad’. It sounded cool to me too.

  I woke to the motorway rumble in my ears accompanying Mozart. The car radio glowed in the dark. My head was on Jon’s shoulder. ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said, straightening up. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘You were spark out.’ I glanced over my shoulder to check on Mum and Mollie – also both out for the count – and he shifted away from me. I hoped he didn’t think I was shrugging him off. It wasn’t long before we lit up a bright blue motorway sign. Bath and Stroud. Still the wrong side of Bristol.