The Contessa sat down, and slowly, as if with difficulty, she told the English girl everything. A few months earlier Michele had developed a serious bone disease. He had seen all the foremost specialists in Rome and in London, but their verdict had been unanimous. At that point Candy looked at her with beseeching eyes.
“What was it—their verdict?” she whispered.
Anna Landi’s lovely mouth trembled. “You must be brave, cara. They said ... they said there was no hope for him. They gave him—eight or nine months. Perhaps more, but not ... not long.” She put a hand over her face, as if to shut out the world and everything in it. “I told you to be brave,” she said in an odd, forced voice. “But I can’t bear it, Candy! You must help me!”
“Why has he gone to Switzerland?” It seemed to Candy that her own voice came from a long way away.
“Because a few weeks ago he heard that in Switzerland there was a doctor who might be able to operate. There is not much chance of success, but there is—a very slight chance. It’s—it’s a very dangerous operation, Candy.” Her voice rose hysterically. “Either it will be successful, or ... or...” She didn’t need to finish.
“And you didn’t know? You didn’t know anything about it?” Candy spoke mechanically.
“Of course I didn’t know. Marco was the only one who knew. I had no idea that he was even ill until Marco broke it to me this afternoon. Michele had written to him, asking him to tell me, now that he was going to—to have the operation, so that it wouldn’t be too much of a shock, if—” She clasped her slim hands together. “Candy, I’ve been a terrible mother! To think that he couldn’t tell me...”
“He couldn’t tell you because he didn’t want to upset you.” Candy spoke gently. She felt as if she had risen above all ordinary feeling, and in some peculiar way her spirit had become detached from reality, “Surely you see that.”
“But it’s horrible! All these months...” The older woman stopped, gulping, and taking a handkerchief out of her bag began automatically to dab at her tear-streaked face. Then she looked at Candy as if something in the girl’s face had caught her attention, and had startled her. After a long moment, she said huskily:
“It’s as bad for you, isn’t it?”
Candy stared back at her with eyes that made no attempt at any sort of concealment. “Yes,” she said simply.
“Then you’ll come with me ... you’ll come with me to Switzerland, won’t you?”
Before she could answer there was a knock on the door, and immediately afterwards it opened, and Signor Galleo walked in. His eyes went straight to Candy’s face, and what he saw caused him to say something violent in Italian. Then he strode across the room, and put an arm around the shoulders of the slight figure in period costume as if he thought it might be necessary to protect her physically.
“My God! What is happening here?”
“Don’t be angry, signore.” Anna Landi stood up, and she suddenly looked what she was—a desperately unhappy middle-aged woman. “I know I should have waited until after the performance, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t do it.” She walked towards Candy, and as, almost without meaning to do so, Lorenzo Galleo stood back, she put her arms around the English girl. “I know I was wrong, cara. It was cruel to tell you now. But it will not make any difference. All you must remember is that Michele is a good friend of yours, and one of his dearest wishes in the last few weeks has been to see you launched on the path that leads to becoming a great singer. If he can hear—if the news can reach him that you have had a big success to-night...”
Unable to say any more, she kissed Candy on both cheeks, and then stood back and nodded to Lorenzo Galleo.
“I am going now. Candy, I’ll see you afterwards?”
“Of course.”
“My car will be waiting to take us to the airport.”
“I see.”
When she had gone, Signor Galleo closed the door behind her, and then glanced from his watch to Candy with obvious anxiety.
“My poor child, sit down. You have still ten minutes, but this is most unfortunate. What did she say to you? If it was bad news about young Michele I am truly sorry ... truly sorry.” He cleared his throat. “He is a friend of mine, and besides, of course ... Well, it’s most unfortunate. But she doesn’t mean to take you away after the performance?”
“Yes.” Candy’s lips felt stiff, but her voice was normal. “He’s very ill ... in Switzerland. The Contessa is going to see him. She—she wants me to go with her.”
“You’re in love with him?” The question was matter-of-fact.
Candy stood looking at the Italian as if she didn’t really see him. Her face was inexpressibly sad. “That doesn’t matter,” she said at last. “I don’t think anything matters very much.”
“My dear—” He took a step towards her.
“Don’t worry,” she said steadily. “I’m not going to faint, or say I can’t go on. I’m just going to do my best.” She turned away to study her reflection in the mirror. “Do I—do I look all right?”
“You look wonderful,” he told her truthfully. “Incantevole. But, Candy ... his eyes registered his uneasiness, “you are all right—really?”
“Absolutely all right.” And she turned and smiled at him. Never, when she thought about it afterwards, was she ever able to understand how she managed that smile.
But she felt no nerves at all. Later, as she stood in the wings of the great theatre, waiting to go on stage, she felt as if she were standing outside herself, preparing to watch her own performance. It really did seem to her that nothing mattered—nothing, that was, except Michele. Michele, who instead of being here to-night to watch his efforts come to fruition was waiting in some Swiss clinic for an operation that would mean ... that would mean—Abruptly, she checked herself. Michele was going to be all right—of course he was going to be all right. There was no other possibility.
Standing by herself, erect and graceful, her head thrown back and her eyes half closed, she felt the majesty of Gounod’s music begin to creep into her soul, and the last shadows of doubt fled away from her.
She never did remember all the details of that evening. She did know that suddenly she was out on a wide stage, and an incredibly vast number of faces were looking up at her. They applauded her, warmly but not wildly at first, and then gradually their approval grew stronger. She slipped easily, almost naturally, into the role of Marguerite, the powerful tragedy of the story somehow appealing to her to-night. The magnitude of the part absorbed all her energies, demanded everything of which she was capable, and that total absorption was, more than anything, what she needed. She seemed to feel her voice gaining strength, her whole being gaining strength. Watching her from the wings, Lorenzo Galleo smiled.
She managed the Jewel Song with a competence and a, lilting gaiety that drew almost a roar from the audience. Only one or two of those present had any idea just how poignant that gaiety was, but there were very few who didn’t admire her skill ... or who didn’t appreciate that skill was only a very small part of what she was putting into her performance. She was inspired, throwing her heart and spirit into everything she sang, into her whole interpretation of the part, and the audience responded from the depths of its sensitive Italian being.
Then at last she was singing the final aria, and although she knew she was almost exhausted her voice soared with a new strength and clarity. The words she sang were alive with hope, with the triumph of good over evil, of light over darkness, and she felt as if they were lifting her up, giving her a magical new power that banished all her tension and weariness, and enabled her to bring her long ordeal to a conclusion in a way that drew the entire auditorium to its feet, and caused Lorenzo Galleo to draw a deep breath of relief and satisfaction.
The applause went on and on. Shouting and stamping and throwing flowers, the mass of people who had packed the old Florentine theatre to hear a new and untried English soprano demonstrated their enthusiasm in the way that was natural to them. An
d Candy, led out again and again and again for curtain-calls, gazed around at them in complete bewilderment. As flowers piled up about her feet she looked unbelieving, and after the first few minutes she began to feel almost panic-stricken. Why couldn’t they let her go? She wanted to get away ... The noise was deafening and a little frightening.
During the tenth curtain-call a hot-house rosebud landed on her bare shoulder, and in her tense state she almost shrank back. Her eyes met the eyes of Signor Galleo, who had gone down into the front of the auditorium, and he nodded and. disappeared. A minute or two later, when she once again found herself in the wings, he was there to meet her.
“Brava, brava!” Almost incandescent with enthusiasm, he lifted her hand and kissed it. “I knew it! I was sure. You were wonderful, incredible!”
She said nothing. In the background, the deafening roar of the audience went on. Lorenzo looked at her keenly, and a little anxiously.
“Yes, you have certainly had enough. I saw it from down there—it is why I came up. There will be no more curtain-calls. I will talk to them instead. Gabriella!” He beckoned to one of the girls from the chorus. “Go with Signorina Wells to her dressing-room.”
Candy found her voice just in time to call him back. “Signor Galleo...”
“Yes?” He came back to her immediately, his round dark eyes sparkling with a kind of paternal pride. “What is it?”
“I wanted to thank you. You’ve done such a lot for me. Thank you for helping me to get through all—all this.”
“My child—” he began, but she interrupted him.
“And now I’ll have to go.” She got the words out quickly and firmly. “The Contessa will be waiting for me. As soon as I’ve changed—”
He looked at her long and earnestly. “Candy, are you sure? This is your night. It is an experience that will never come again. You should be here in Florence. The Principessa Vancini has planned a party for you...”
“Then thank the Principessa for me, will you? Thank her very much.” Her eyes were large and strained, but very serious. “Tell her I’d like to have gone to her party, but I was called away—urgently.”
There was a short silence, and then he took her hands and pressed them. “Bene, my child, I understand. God go with you, and grant that you find good news at the end of your journey.”
In her dressing-room she found the Contessa waiting for her, and with the skill and expertise of long experience the Italian woman helped her to change and get rid of her greasepaint. She had seen something of the performance, and she congratulated the girl warmly on her part in it, but her mind was a long way away, and it was obvious that she hadn’t really taken very much of it in.
Lorenzo, acting quickly, had so organized things that all admirers and unwanted visitors were kept completely away from Candy’s dressing-room, and when the time came for her and the Contessa to set out two doormen and Lorenzo himself were on hand to see them through the crush outside the stage door. The Contessa had turned up the high collar of her coat and put a scarf over her hair in an effort to conceal her own identity, but just as she reached the car, ahead of Candy, a reporter in the tightly-jammed press of people recognized her, and the crowd’s interest in the two women doubled. It was almost a frightening moment, but somehow or other the doormen managed to get them safely into Anna’s sleek, cream-coloured Citroen, and immediately the chauffeur drove off, as rapidly as he dared, through a tidal wave of running press photographers, into the old busy heart of Florence.
Just as they started off, something had been hurriedly pushed through the window by Lorenzo, but it wasn’t until they were well on their way that Candy realized what it was. It was a bouquet of flowers—wonderful white roses—and automatically, without really thinking about it, she looked at the card that accompanied them. It was difficult to read, at first, for there was no light in the interior of the car, but in the glare of a passing street lamp she finally managed to make the words out. It said simply: ‘Congratulations’. And it was signed ‘Michele’.
They stopped, briefly, at the Hotel Michelangelo, to pick up Candy’s things, and then they were off again on their way to the airport. Candy, who was physically exhausted as well as worried and tense, talked very little, and her companion was just as silent. It wasn’t until they were sitting in the departure lounge, waiting to board their plane for Geneva—the Contessa had booked both seats in advance—that either of them made any attempt to break the silence. It was Candy who finally did so. She had just thought of something.
“Caterina...” she said tentatively. “Does she—does she know about Michele?”
The Contessa was leaning back in her chair. Slowly she turned her elegant dark head and looked at Candy ... thoughtfully and a little anxiously.
“I thought you would have guessed,” she said gently. “She has gone with him.”
“Oh!” said Candy. “Of course...” Somehow, until just now, she had almost forgotten Caterina. But naturally she would be with Michele. He would want her more than anyone—more than anything on earth just now. Her own sole excuse for going was the fact that Michele’s mother needed her. He would never know how much she, Candy, needed to be near him.
Their plane left just before midnight. With a handful of other passengers they walked out across the tarmac through a thin, cold drizzle, and by the time they got on board Candy’s hair was damp, and she was grateful for the steady, comforting warmth of the cabin. She was not nervous of flying, and as the stewardesses temporarily stopped fussing round them, and the aircraft rose like a huge, throbbing bird into the distant, cloudy night sky she felt, for the first time that evening, as if some of the tension that filled her eased a little. Whatever happened, she was on her way to Michele now. Every second that passed brought him nearer.
In her exhausted state the fantasy crept into her mind that if only she could reach him he would be all right. He must be all right. He must ... She struggled to keep awake, and for a time she managed it. But in the end her complete and utter emotional and physical weariness was something she could struggle against no longer.
By the time one of the stewardesses brought her the cup of coffee she had asked for she was fast asleep. She awoke about two hours later to find that they were still airborne, and outside the windows the blackness of the February night was intense. Most of her fellow-passengers were fast asleep, but when she glanced sideways at Anna Landi’s elegant profile she saw the long eyelashes quiver, and realized that although those spectacular dark eyes were completely hidden behind their carefully tinted lids their owner was definitely not asleep. A few seconds later, as if she had sensed that she was being watched, the Contessa opened her eyes and looked round.
“You’re awake,” she remarked..
“Yes,” said Candy. She was beginning to wish she hadn’t awakened so soon. The feeling of peace and relaxation that she had experienced just before she dropped off had vanished as if it had never been, and she felt cold and uneasy.
“Where is the clinic?” she asked. “Where Michele is?”
“Just over ten miles from Geneva. By the lake shore.”
“Shall we be going straight there?”
“Yes. The operation is the day after to-morrow, so there isn’t very much time.”
Candy noticed that the older woman had lost all her tendency to be hysterical, and in its place a kind of cold, heavy sadness had dropped over her like a mantle.
On impulse, Candy said something that she had no real reason to believe was strictly true. “You know, I think he admires you a lot.”
“Who? Michele?”
“Yes.”
“No, my dear, he doesn’t admire me. He despises me. For everything I have been, and for everything I have done, both to him and to his father.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No? Well, I will explain it to you. At times like this one can tell things that ... that normally one would never mention.” She made herself more comfortable in her seat, and lifted one of
her hands to study the blaze of rings that weighed it down. “I was married when I was very young ... just seventeen. I was already becoming a successful film actress—in Italy,” a little wryly, “we sometimes begin our careers very early in life. But then the rich Conte di Lucca wanted to marry me, and I thought ‘I shall be a great lady. I shall have a palazzo in Rome, and a villino near Genoa, and everyone will respect me.’ So I married him ... and two years later I had Michele.” Her voice grew rather harsh. “But I never loved my husband, and for a long time I didn’t think I even loved his child.”
“Did you ... love anyone?” Candy asked gently.
“Yes. I loved Marco, my husband’s brother. And he loved me. He never forgave me for marrying Giovanni—that was my husband’s name. And later, too, he came to hate me for what I became—a self-centred woman without a thought for either my husband or my child. As you know, he has never married, and when I feel a need to comfort myself I say that it is because he could not love anyone but me. But really—really I know it is because I showed him what a woman could become.”
Candy said nothing. So that was the truth about Marco di Lucca! That was the story behind his restless, unhappy life! The Contessa was speaking again.
“Even when he came to me, yesterday, to break the news to me that Michele was ill, I knew he had not forgiven me. I don’t suppose he ever will. I—” She broke off, her voice unsteady.
Candy looked at her, and understood something. The fabulous Anna Landi, the Contessa di Lucca the famous beauty who surrounded herself with more admiring men than almost any other woman in the glittering international set in which she moved—was after all these years still in love with her brother-in-law ... the jaded, disillusioned Marco di Lucca.
She understood, now, that men like John Ryland were, as far as the Contessa was concerned, only the merest passing whim. She didn’t think the Contessa knew that there had ever been anything serious between herself and John, and it didn’t matter now.
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