Cecilian Vespers

by Anne Emery

  We ate plate after plate of antipasto, pasta in mouth-watering sauces, fish, cheese, fruit, and sweets, and we washed down gallons of Chianti. By the end of it, I was playing the harmonica I always carried with me; Burke was singing a duet with one of the Benelli kids, a boy soprano; and Isabella was inviting us to a party the evening of the thirtieth at her place in a northern suburb of Rome.

  The next day we walked all over the city, admiring the Renaissance palaces, baroque facades and fountains, the buildings in warm shades of ochre burnished by the sun. We retired to our rooms early and slept away our jet lag.

  Our third day in Rome was Sunday, which meant Mass with the cardinals in St. Peter’s Basilica, an almost overwhelming experience given the immensity of the building and the enormous crowd of worship-pers. In the afternoon we found our way to the Bel Canto Auditorium in the Termini district of the city. The old palazzo was surrounded by scaffolding but it was open, so we walked in. Graziella Rossi was on the stage with several women in their late teens and early twenties. They didn’t see us come in and take seats in the back row. We listened as the young sopranos took turns singing arias from Puccini, Verdi, and Bellini. To me they sounded magnificent — a combination of natural talent and expert coaching from La Rossi. No doubt Graziella accepted only the top students. She issued gentle suggestions for improvement, and we heard the pieces again. Gentleness was the last thing I expected from the opera star. But it was clear from the genuine, unaffected delight she took in their accomplishments that she loved her pupils.

  “Do you think we should announce our presence?” I whispered to Brennan, and he nodded. We got up and headed for the stage.

  “Brennan! Monty! Come meet my girls! This is Melanie, Melissa, Annick, Anna, and Stephanie. You will see them in opera houses around the world some day. Girls, be good. This is Don Burke and Don Collins, the pope’s legions!” She repeated it all in Italian, and we greeted the students, complimenting them on their performances.

  “It’s all from Grazi,” one of them declared. “You are fortunate you did not hear me before!”

  “No, cara, it is you.” She looked with unselfconscious affection at the group, and said: “The daughters I never had!”

  “Sing something for us, Grazi,” Brennan urged her.

  “Sing about love!” one of the students requested.

  “Love — yes, the repertoire contains more than a few arias about love!”

  Everyone left the stage but the diva, and she sang to us about amore. Puccini’s “Chi Il Bel Sogno.” She was in fine voice as she soared to an effortless high C. Brennan translated it for me later, but it was all there in the music: mad, intoxicating love, the kind of passion you’d give up all earthly riches to possess. She walked to the back of the auditorium with us, and turned to Brennan. “Do you know that kind of love, Brennan?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “I won’t ask you who she was. Or is. But you will not pursue that life, will you? You belong only to God; you exist to glorify him with music. I have heard it said that most of us go to the grave with our music still inside us. That, at least, will never be said of you or me, Brennan. With our music we reach heights others can never reach. If we forgo other things in life, it is for this.”

  Everyone was silent for an extended moment. Then Brennan asked: “What will you be singing next?”

  “Tosca. I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “You’ll be brilliant. Will it be here in Rome?”

  “Oh yes, Tosca will be at home.”

  “I’ll watch for it. Maybe I’ll fly over.”

  “Let me know so I can get a box seat for you. Now, for sordid business. La puttana Albanese has swallowed the hook. She flies into Rome tomorrow. She believes Totti will be casting her in his opera this week! Here is where you will meet her.” She handed him a slip of paper, turned, and walked back to the stage.

  Brennan didn’t say a word as we made our way to our hotel. He stopped to light up a smoke and seemed to inhale half of it before moving on.

  He rallied later, though, and suggested an evening of musical theatre. He prepared me for the fact that most of the humour would go over my head, given that the bawdy jests and political jibes would be in a language I barely knew. Why go then?

  “A feast for the eyes, Monty, a feast for the eyes.”

  So we queued for admittance to the Teatro Sistina, which should never be confused with the Sistine Chapel, and spent three hours gazing in wonder at a procession of extravagantly gorgeous women on the stage.

  Monday was devoted to sightseeing. We hiked to the top of the Janiculum hill and enjoyed a panoramic view of the eternal city. We toured the Capitoline Museum where we saw busts of the Roman emperors, and the famous Dying Gaul, the marble sculpture of a Celtic warrior who was magnificent even in defeat. And of course we saw some churches, including San Pietro in Vincoli (Saint Peter in chains) and San Pietro in Carcere (Saint Peter in jail).

  In the evening, we returned to the Trattoria Benelli. Brennan asked me if I wanted to try a new place but, if you’ve made friends in Rome, and those friends can fill your every vinous and culinary need, why go elsewhere? The Benelli children were on the loose again, ensuring that Susanna and Isabella did not have a minute to relax, but that did nothing to cool the ardour of two men sitting at a table near the kitchen. One of them, big and blond, a German or a northern Italian, kept up a steady stream of conversation with Susanna whether she was in the room or not. She rolled her eyes in the direction of her admirer, and said something about him to Brennan in Italian. Whatever advice he offered was laughingly rejected. She headed off to the kitchen again.

  “Who is he?” I asked Burke.

  “Don’t know. Whoever he is, she says he’s been persistent. She’s not nasty enough to tell him to feck off with himself.”

  When we had polished off two bottles of Badia Chianti and could no longer cram in another bite of food, Isabella came by with two cups of dark, rich, steaming hot chocolate so thick that gobs of it clung to the sides of the cups. I had never tasted anything like it. It was the chocolate equivalent of Turkish coffee. She went to get a tray of cigars, and offered them to us. I declined, but Brennan picked out a big fat stogie and fired it up. Isabella reminded us that she was having a party, then let go with a string of sotto voce curses when the northerner piped up from his table, asking for the time and place of the party.

  Then it was time for the assignation arranged for us by Graziella Rossi. So, after emerging half-lit from the trattoria, we walked on unsteady feet to the Giulio Cesare Hotel, seated ourselves at the bar, and waited for our first glimpse of Zamira Halili, the woman who had stirred up so much trouble in the life of Father Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre. We knew her the instant she entered the room. Everyone in the bar marked her entrance. She may as well have been naked, her shimmering gold and black dress was so skimpy and tight. She wore four-inch stiletto heels as if she’d been born on them. Her thick dark hair was piled high on her head, with some curls escaping and framing her face. She had heavy-lidded dark eyes and a wide, unpainted mouth. I looked over at Burke and saw that his eyes were locked on her like some sort of heat-seeking guidance system.

  “Divil take the jewellery,” he said to me out of the side of his mouth. “If she’s still accepting bids, I’ll give her the Michelangelo Pietà.” He rose from the bar stool and faced her.

  Grazi had obviously given her an accurate description of Burke because Zamira headed straight for him and didn’t stop until she was in contact with him on all fronts. She looked up and purred in a thick accent: “I am Zamira Lule Halili. You are an Irishman and a priest and you are looking for me. How can I help you?”

  For a good fifteen seconds Burke neither moved nor spoke. Then he cleared his throat, backed up a bit, and said “Em, well,” and cleared his throat again. She laughed up at him, then looked over and noticed me.

  “Oh! Who is this? Your altar boy? What beautiful blue eyes you have, altar boy. I would like you to ke
ep them open if we spend time together.”

  “I’d have no trouble with that,” I assured her.

  “I am very happy to meet you two gentlemen! I like whiskey and fruity wine, and I am thirsty now.”

  Burke tore his eyes away and called to the waiter. “Cameriere! Tre Irlandese, per favore. Ed una bottiglia di vino Fenocchio Dolcetto d’Alba.

  “Tavolo?” he asked the siren.

  Si, she would like to get a table.

  When we were all settled with glasses in front of us, Burke introduced me. “This gentleman is Monty Collins. Your name again is …” He knew damn well what her name was. He just wanted to hear her say all those Ls again. So did I. “Zamira Lule Halili.”

  “And you have come to Rome in the hopes of getting a part in the opera being staged by —”

  “I will have a part. Totti will give it to me.”

  “Ah. Yes. Buona fortuna! And you may also be willing to help us with some information.”

  “Maybe I can help you, but my English is not good.”

  “You’re doing fine but if you want to switch to Italian, we can do that. I don’t know any Albanian. I can’t speak for Monty here.” I shook my head stupidly. “Tell us about Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre.”

  Her features arranged themselves in a frown, as if the subject was painful or annoying to her. “Enrico disappointed me. Treated me very badly!”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Burke assured her.

  “Yes. He assaulted me.”

  “Assaulted you how?”

  “When a woman says to a man no, it is no!”

  “True enough.” Burke and I both nodded.

  “And it is no even if before, when we loved, it was yes.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Enrico made promises to me.”

  “What sort of promises?”

  “That he loved me and would make me a home here in Rome. His family has apartments.”

  “And what happened?”

  “One day he told me we must say goodbye. No home. No place for me in Rome. My heart was breaking. I tried to show him that it was me he wanted and he would be lonely when I was gone away.”

  She spread her arms out and downward like those of the Virgin Mary in a thousand statues, but, with her upper body thrust forward in the slinky dress, the effect was anything but virginal. She conveyed very effectively the message that anyone born with a Y chromosome would miss her painfully if she were gone.

  “Enrico said it could not be. Then he moved on me and I said no, no more. He said I was seducing him again and he would not take no for the answer. I set the police on him. I charged him with assault.”

  “I see,” said Burke. He took a gulp of whiskey, then asked: “Did the case go to court?”

  “The case was going to court but it did not happen.”

  “Why was that?”

  “I told Enrico if he gave me something lovely to help me remember him, I would go quietly and leave him to the life he wanted. Life without Zamira.”

  “What kind of gift did you have in mind?”

  “A gift of the best quality. A woman loves jewellery, as you must know.” Priest and altar boy nodded in unison. Zamira continued: “The Vatican, it is all men. What do they know of jewellery? It is meant to adorn a woman’s body, but it sits in the Vatican museums. I said to Enrico: give me that necklace. It is gold, from ancient times. Older than Rome. An Etruscan bulla necklace, with a big round medallion and two other objects — they look like, how would you say it, vials — maybe for poison! — dangling from tubes of gold. I said to Enrico: ‘Give me that and you will never see Zamira Lule again. Zamira will say she was mistaken about the assault. Enrico can become the pope. Some day the pope will make a visit to Albania, and see me in the crowd shining with gold!’”

  It took a few moments for Burke to find his voice again. “So that was the plan. How did it go?”

  “He tried to cheat me. The Sferrazza-Melchiorres are liars and cheats. I learned this from the goldsmith he hired to do his dirty work on me.”

  “Back up there a bit, Zamira,” I said. “What goldsmith?”

  “Enrico went into the Vatican museum at night. He knows his way around there. He had a key, or bribed a guard. This was a collection that was being stored then, not shown to the public as it is now. But he had taken me there and showed me. So Enrico took the necklace. Put some kind of card there, saying the necklace was being repaired. He gave it to his nephew’s friend, who makes jewellery in Florence. I learned this because I followed Enrico there. Then I went to the friend. Enrico told him: ‘Copy the necklace and give the puttana the copy, the fake!’ He planned to put the real jewellery in the Vatican again. But Enrico did not know this young man would have sympathy for a poor woman abandoned and thrown away. I wept before the goldsmith. I promised him anything he desired if he would not cheat me like Enrico. The goldsmith fell in love with me; he told me he was giving me the real necklace and he gave to Enrico the fake to put inside the museum. A happy-ever-after end to the story!”

  No so happy for Enrico.

  “Where’s the real necklace now?” I asked.

  She leaned way over and said: “You can see it is not on me.”

  “I can see that. Where is it?”

  “It is protected. It is priceless.”

  “Do you really believe you have the original?”

  “Enrico believes it.”

  “How do you know?”

  She just smiled and poured herself a glass of wine. She took a sip, and a drop of the ruby liquid ran down the side of her mouth; she scooped it up with her tongue.

  “I am told the collection, Etruscan collection, is going to America for a tour.” She smiled again.

  Did she have the real one? Did her smugness mean she had had it evaluated and proven to be the original? If she was right, there was a fake artifact sitting in one of the Vatican museums, a fake soon to make its way to a U.S. museum, where a new set of experts would examine it. Did Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre know this? He would not be able to trust his nephew’s buddy to tell him the truth; nor would he dare risk another theft and a consultation with an expert. I had little doubt that Zamira was using the necklace as blackmail, extorting money from Enrico with a threat to go public with her story.

  Burke lit up a smoke and inhaled deeply. He looked at Zamira Lule Halili as if trying to figure out where the evening — where his life — was headed now.

  Zamira spoke up. “But that is an old story, and Enrico is an old love. All in the past. I have been given another chance to stay in Rome now, in my opera. Will you gentlemen be here for a long time?”

  “No. We’re leaving soon,” Burke replied.

  “I must go to my room. I am drinking too much here.” She stretched across the table and nearly all the way out of her dress and gave Burke a lingering kiss on the mouth, then favoured me with the same treatment. “My room is forty-three. I will be happy to see you there.” It was not clear which one of us she meant, so I assumed the invitation was extended to us both. With that, she rose and glided sinuously from the bar.

  “Fuck,” was all Burke said. We drank silently for a few minutes.

  “Tell me something, Brennan,” I asked him finally. “If I walk out of here, are you going up to that hotel room?”

  “No. She’s bad news, as if you couldn’t gather that from our little tête-à-tête here this evening. And that’s bad news all around, not just for me, if you’re thinking of sneaking up there yourself.”

  “What else would I be thinking, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Don’t do it. Have yourself a long, cold shower.”

  We compromised. We didn’t want to consign ourselves to the showers; nor did we want to stay within temptation range of Zamira Lule Halili in the Giulio Cesare Hotel. It was early, so we moved on to another bar Brennan knew, but I had taken only a preliminary sip of my drink when he turned to me and said: “It’s tonight that Susanna is having her party.”

  “Isab
ella is having the party. And yes, it is tonight.”

  “Right. Where is it?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Let me think … Tomba di Nerone district, north of here. The address had two fives in it and …” He searched his memory for a few moments. “I’ve got it. Let’s find a cab.”

  Isabella’s apartment had marble floors and marble door frames, and a wraparound terrace with a view of palm trees lit up in the courtyard below. But I didn’t spend much time contemplating the view. The party was in full swing, with platters of food, carafes of tawny red wine, clouds of cigarette smoke, and dance music coming from the stereo. Susanna was trying to discourage the advances of the blond alpha male who had been pestering her in the restaurant. She saw her way out when Brennan greeted her with a little wave. It sounded to me as if she said “Brennan, darling, you’re late!” and then gave the other man a “sorry, I told you so” kind of shrug. Brennan went along with the ruse and lied about why he was late, or at least that’s what I think he did. Susanna took Brennan’s hand, led him to the bar, put a glass of wine in his hand, and smiled up at him in a way that suggested perhaps he could be more to her than an excuse to avoid the attentions of another man. She had left her work clothes and her motherly demeanour behind her, and Brennan looked for all the world like a happy, happy man. Things looked promising for me as well. Isabella came up to me, two glasses spilling over in her hands, gave one to me, and pulled me onto the makeshift dance floor by the balcony doors.

  “Com’ è bello, eh Lina?” she called out to a friend.

  “È carino, si. Come un angelo!” Lina agreed. If I heard one more person in my life say I looked angelic, I was going to grow a Mephistophelean goatee. But I’d do that later. In the meantime, if Isabella liked the look of me, who was I to complain?

  The party went on till the small hours of the morning. My last sighting of Burke was him reclining on a sofa with Susanna kneeling beside him, taking sips of a golden liquid and transfusing it directly from her mouth into his. When I blearily asked him whether we had any duties scheduled in the city in the morning, all he said, in a languid voice I barely recognized, was “Let Rome in Tiber melt.”