by JH Fletcher
CHAPTER NINETEEN
1
Lucia hoped Teresa Sciotto would fall ill, die, run away with a lover, but she did none of these things. She stayed and sang through every rehearsal, her voice as mellifluous as her fat body was inexpressive. Lucia hated it. What made things even worse, Teresa was so clearly loving every minute leading to what her admirers were already prophesying would be a triumph. She made sure Lucia knew all about it, too. Graciously she invited her to inspect the star dressing room that for the duration of the production was hers.
‘In case you never get to use it yourself.’
She listened to Lucia rehearsing and offered, with touching sweetness, to help her with some of the more awkward passages.
‘You seem to be having a bit of difficulty there. And there.’
She even suggested how Lucia might improve her acting.
Lucia bit her cheek until it bled. Perhaps, she thought, if the SS had reason to suspect Teresa of anti-German activities … It would need only a hint; with the war turning against them, the Nazis were growing more vicious by the day, but Lucia couldn’t think how she could arrange it without endangering herself. Not that she would have done it, of course, but it was nice to dream.
Her turn would come, she told herself. Yet the first night was only a week away and there was still no sign of the lightning bolt that each night she prayed, more or less seriously, might scorch Teresa Sciotto to a crisp.
Four days to go. Marta Bianci sent for her.
‘I’ve talked the theatre into putting on a special concert after Tosca’s finished. A dramatic presentation of opera highlights. It won’t be a full-scale opera, but…’ She shrugged.
Lucia, nerves worn to a frazzle by envy and frustration, was not in an accommodating mood. ‘And you want me to understudy Teresa, right?’
Marta stared at her reprovingly. ‘There’s temperament in all artists; they wouldn’t be artists without it. But you must learn to focus it on your art. Don’t waste it on people like Teresa Sciotto. I’ve told you already, she got the part of Tosca because she has a fine voice and has been at the opera house longer than you have. She deserves her chance; I’m sure she’ll give a good account of herself. You’ve the makings of a great artist and this concert I’m planning will be chiefly for your benefit. To make up, if you like, for not getting the lead in Tosca. If you don’t want it, I’m sure Teresa will be more than willing to take over from you.’ Which put her in her place and no mistake.
‘Oh please…’
Marta Bianci patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry. But don’t waste your energy on jealousy. You need it all for your art.’
It was good advice; following it was a lot more difficult and, in truth, she did not try very hard.
She attended the dress rehearsal in full make-up. It wasn’t the normal procedure but the producer, mindful of her inexperience, wanted her to do it as a training exercise. Even at this stage Lucia continued to hope but had few expectations. Had she been singing the part, nothing short of death would have caused her to pull out at this stage, and Teresa Sciotto was far from dead. She would never be able to act but she sang better than Lucia had ever heard her. She applauded with the rest, clenched teeth hidden behind her smile, while in her imagination she stuck pins in all Teresa’s most sensitive parts.
It was a successful rehearsal. Afterwards they were both gracious with each other.
Professor Menotti, standing with Marta Bianci, permitted his lubricious eyes to gloat upon the young women standing side by side in their identical costumes.
‘Such a pleasure to see they’re such good friends. Not a hint of rivalry in either of them.’
What a fool, Marta thought.
‘Of course not. Why should there be?’
2
On the evening of the première, Lucia arrived early at the theatre. There was no need for her to be there at all; she’d been told to be available in case she was needed, but no more was expected of her than that. She had decided to go, anyway, taking with her a single, late-flowering rose that she presented to Teresa when she arrived.
Teresa looked suspiciously at the offering but decided to accept it at its face value. ‘How delightful!’
‘I wanted you to be the first to know,’ Lucia said.
Renewed suspicion. ‘Know what?’
‘About the dramatic presentation next month.’
From her expression, Teresa had heard nothing of it. Mentally Lucia clapped gleeful hands and proceeded to tell her all about it.
‘A special presentation. A showcase for me.’
In the circumstances, Teresa Sciotto gave a good account of herself, as Marta had said she would. Undeniably, however, she had slipped a little from her performance at the dress rehearsal and the applause, no more than courteous, reflected that fact. Rivalry became hatred and there might have been a stand-up fight after the performance had not outside events overtaken them.
That night, the Germans launched a house-to-house search through the city for Jews and other undesirables, while for the first time the Allies dropped bombs on Italy, at Bianconese, not far from Montegallo. No-one knew when the next raid would come but the city seemed a likely target, so the after-show dinner was cancelled and everybody went straight home.
The next day Marta Bianci sent for Lucia. ‘Did you speak to Teresa before the performance last night?’
‘I gave her a rose for good luck.’
‘Did you say anything about the dramatic concert I told you about?’
‘I may have mentioned it.’
Marta sighed. ‘Sit down.’
Face flushed, Lucia was willing to defy even her teacher, but not for long.
‘Sit down!’
She did so. Defiance seeped away to be replaced by terror as Marta spoke to her in a tone harsher than she had ever heard before.
‘I have already told you I shall not tolerate this kind of behaviour. Any more of it and you won’t appear in the concert at all. I’ll give all the parts to other singers.’
‘But I’m the best!’
‘You are not the best. You have the potential, yes. But potential by itself means nothing. To realise it you must have discipline. Discipline over yourself, above all. Without that you’ll never be an artist. Unless you give me your word, this minute, that you’ll behave yourself in future, I shall wash my hands of you.’
That would be a true catastrophe. Lucia’s remorseful tears were only too genuine. ‘I’m sorry …’
‘Say it to Teresa, not me. We shall go and see her together. Now.’
The opera house had long been the grail of Lucia’s life, the focus of all her hopes and desires. Now, as they crossed the street under the watchful eyes of a German patrol, it loomed like the entrance into purgatory.
Teresa, ensconced in the star dressing room — I’ll bet the cow sleeps here — was inclined to be haughty, milking the moment for all the drama she could get out of it. And I’d always thought she couldn’t act, Lucia thought.
However, in the instant of seeking forgiveness, it was Lucia who held the stage and she was determined to make the most of it.
‘I saw how upset you were when I mentioned the dramatic presentation that Signora Bianci and the opera have planned for later in the season. Please believe that the last thing I had in mind was to distract you in any way from your performance. I know that a true artist would never permit herself to be put off so easily and I’d thought to share with you my happiness that I, too, shall have the chance to play a small role, so much less significant than your own, in the opera’s new season …’ Lucia warmed to her role of the innocent woman falsely accused and misunderstood, while the air about Teresa’s pork-fed form shimmered with the rage that, under Marta Bianci’s eye, she dared not express.
Lucia continued: ‘I know that in your generosity you’re glad for me. I know the news had no effect on your performance. Which I thought went really quite well. First night nerves, after all, anyone could have them. And I’m
sure —’
‘I think that’s enough,’ Marta intervened, scenting incipient slaughter.
Teresa was all teeth. ‘How kind of Signora Bianci to bring you to apologise. It was a foolish thing for you to have done, of course, but I can assure you it had absolutely no impact on my performance at all. Why, I’d forgotten all about it as soon as you’d left the dressing room. So there’s nothing to forgive.’
And she smiled like a howitzer, with bubbles of spit on her lips.
As an attempt to be gracious it was a pretty poor effort and Lucia felt reassured. The cow couldn’t act, after all.
They left, Lucia doing her best not to prance.
Marta Bianci gave her a sardonic look. ‘I’m surprised we didn’t have tears, to round things off.’
‘If you’d given me a few more minutes … But I did what you wanted. What we both wanted. I really did apologise to her, didn’t I? She understood my sincerity, surely?’ And endeavoured to seize her tutor’s hand, while Marta Bianci shook her head and tried not to laugh.
‘Don’t try your tricks on me.’
Later Lucia sang to herself the mad scene out of Lucia di Lammermoor, all glissandos and touching grief, and felt very pleased with herself.
While Teresa, rage like a dagger in her heart, made quite a mess of her second performance, too.
3
Perhaps to punish Lucia, or because of opera politics, Marta Bianci decided to include Teresa Sciotto in the dramatic presentation, after all. She expected Lucia to be furious but she was wrong. Lucia was delighted. It gave her the opportunity she’d wanted: a head-to-head confrontation, with an audience to watch.
It was planned as a gala performance and a full house was expected. The inhabitants of Parma had always been devoted to the opera and this gave them the chance to see a performance by the leading singers of the next generation. It served another purpose, too. Each day the war drew inexorably nearer. The gala performance gave everyone able to get a ticket the opportunity, if only for an evening, to escape the grim and uncertain realities of their lives.
The organisers went to a great deal of trouble over the programme, deciding to include a number of popular arias. In addition to the two sopranos, the evening would feature two tenors, a bass baritone and a mezzo.
Teresa was to conclude her appearance with an aria from Madama Butterfly. By contrast, Lucia’s finale would be not a solo appearance but a duet. With Alfredo Dante, the bass baritone, she would present the murder scene from Tosca, when the terrified Tosca stabs her tormentor to death. Marta had been dubious when Lucia had first suggested it, fearing it might seem too direct a challenge to Teresa Sciotto after her less than perfect appearance in the title role, but after she had heard the two young singers she was persuaded that the item must be included. As she confided to Professor Menotti, who had shared her doubts: ‘We’re supposed to be showcasing the best of our young talent and for those two artists it is the perfect vehicle.’
The day before the performance, German army headquarters informed the theatre that several senior officers would be present; seats would have to be found for them. It was a nuisance; the seating had to be reallocated to ensure that the officers had the best, but that was one of the hazards of present life and eventually everything was sorted out.
‘Let’s hope there aren’t any air raids.’
It was the one thing over which no-one had any control.
Helena came alone, which was a relief; Lucia had been afraid that Eduardo would take the opportunity to preen himself in his uniform as an officer in the Repubblichini, the officer training school of the newly reorganised Fascist Party. Fortunately he stayed away, the horrors of having to endure two hours of nonstop opera outweighing the pleasure of showing himself off before the most influential people in the city. Lucia thought that it might also be because he was growing tired of his mistress; she had seen him in the city in the company of a young woman with gaudy lips and a dress two sizes too small for her, all tits and bum, just Eduardo’s style. She hadn’t mentioned it to her mother and Eduardo still visited her regularly, but she thought that Helena must be aware — surely? — that everything was not right in their relationship.
In her place I would know, Lucia told herself, even though she had never slept with a man in her life. Yet her mother did not seem to be aware; Helena greeted her daughter cheerfully, without a shadow on her face.
‘Eduardo couldn’t make it?’ As though his absence were a great disappointment to her.
‘He’s on duty. He has great responsibilities. And of course he’s always been very conscientious.’
It made Lucia angry to see her mother so infatuated with a man like Eduardo. She felt protective of her, despite everything. She couldn’t bear to think of her being hurt but, one way or another, that was beginning to seem inevitable.
4
The auditorium was packed. The bombers stayed away. Orchestra and singers wove magic out of the darkness. For one evening there was no war, no allies or enemies. The darkness concealed the uniforms, black or grey. There remained only the music, and emotion.
Lucia did not watch any of the other performers. All of her attention was focused on herself: not on Lucia Visconti, who was utterly unimportant now, but on the dream of her own creation, the soul-torn woman coming through grief to the catharsis of rage, blood and ultimate redemption. This had become the true reality; it filled every fibre of her being with the tragedy from which she would rise, freed by music and the grandeur of her fate.
5
The darkness of the moment overwhelms her. She pleads before the man who moments before has attempted to rape her, whom she has rejected with all the loathing of her passionate heart.
Anguish forms a hard knot beneath her breast. She drinks from a wineglass and sees on the table a knife. She watches it as she drinks, its shape distorted by the glass. It is as though the knife calls to her. She knows that the man seated at the table is vile, cruel. She knows she cannot trust him, yet he has power over her; there is more than one manner of rape. The knife insinuates itself into her hand. She watches his gloating eyes, the air tainted by his lust, the unbearable thought of his triumph. He moves to gather her into his arms and her despair breaks forth. She stabs him. At the last, the exultation of vengeance achieved is replaced by her awareness of overwhelming catastrophe. She stares down at Scarpia’s corpse. E avanti a lui tremava tutta Roma! To think that all Rome trembled before this man! She places candles around his body and leaves him to death and whatever fate awaits him.
6
Lucia was caught in the darkness of the moment, the ecstasy of death and her own passionate redemption. Applause beat cruelly upon her. It was intrusive; it broke into the trance that held her, fracturing the inner light of revelation and truth.
Alfredo Dante was laughing, his face bright with triumph as he lifted her hand in his own to acknowledge the audience’s applause. She came back, but only a little way. She smiled, she bowed, she accepted flowers and the praise of those who sought to embrace her behind the stage. Alfredo Dante hugged her, kissing her full on the lips. It was too much. ‘Don’t!’
She spoke so angrily that he recoiled.
Her blood retreated, hiding within the innermost depths of her being. She would have joined it, if she could, would have shut herself away from the clamour that engulfed her.
‘A triumph! Magnificent!’
Marta Bianci was hugging her. She recognised her: just. She wept on her shoulder as all her meticulously constructed defences gave way.
Later there was a man who had waited patiently to be introduced. This was unusual; Colonel Strasser was not a patient man. His axe-blade face looked down at her. He was tall and thin with close-set blue eyes, and power was strong in him.
‘A remarkable performance, Signorina. A privilege to be present.’
Lucia, recovered by now, hid alarm beneath the frank and open smile of one professional to another. ‘The art is in the music’
�
��And in the performance, surely?’
‘It is kind of you to say so.’
That was all, but Lucia had the feeling it was not the end of it, and she was right.
CHAPTER TWENTY
1
The music critic of the Gazzetta di Parma could hardly have been more complimentary.
Not only did Visconti maintain the scene comfortably. In the brief extract from Puccini’s masterpiece that was all that the programme permitted, she conveyed the character’s anguish with such tenderness and fidelity that the audience was moved to tears.
About Teresa Sciotto’s solo from Madama Butterfly his comments were less kind: The part requires the singer to project both passion and fragility. Sciotto has a pleasing voice but her robust physique ensures that fragility remains an inaccessible dream to this artist, whose credibility was sorely tested in consequence.
‘Oh dear. Poor Teresa.’
Alfredo Dante was more forthright. ‘She looked more like a sumo wrestler on the hoof than a butterfly.’