by JH Fletcher
Lucia was delighted and took care to make much of her rival when next they met. Comfort and sympathy … What else were friends for? With her tutor’s blessing, Lucia took a few days off and went home to Montegallo, and to drama that made Tosca’s plight seem insignificant.
2
‘I am abandoned!’
Alternating between tears and rage, Helena poured out her woes to Lucia. She had not set eyes on Eduardo since the night before the concert.
‘As soon as he said he couldn’t come with me, I knew. He has another woman, you know.’
‘You’re imagining it.’
‘Someone as sensitive as I can always tell.’
And was once again in floods of tears.
Lucia would have thought she’d be only too pleased to see the back of him, if she really believed Eduardo was being unfaithful to her, but it was not so. She swore she was going to tear his eyes out, she would stab him to the heart, but Lucia knew that, if Eduardo ever came back, Helena would have him in bed before he could catch his breath.
The extremes of her mother’s temperament had always embarrassed her. She blamed her Australian father; only a full-blooded Italian could be expected to take all the melodrama seriously. As it was, it exhausted her. As soon as she decently could, she pleaded tiredness and scurried off to bed, leaving her mother bewailing not only her faithless lover but her daughter with a heart of stone.
The next morning a scruffy urchin brought a note to the house. It was addressed to Lucia; she turned it in her hands, puzzled. ‘Who gave it to you?’
‘A man.’
Fat lot of help that was.
Inside the house her mother waited, impatient for enlightenment. ‘Who’s it from?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Open it, then!’
She ran her eyes swiftly down the page. She looked up at Helena in astonishment. ‘It’s from that soldier …’
‘Which one?’
‘The German who came here. The one who stopped me on the road.’ What was his name? She checked his signature. Reinhardt Hoffmann, that was it. She remembered how he’d introduced himself with a bow and heel click, a flourish of trumpets the only thing lacking.
‘What does he want?’
‘To meet me.’
Helena, her own life hardly beyond reproach, was glad to make a meal out of such impertinence.
‘A German? Who does he think you are?’
It set Lucia’s teeth on edge. ‘Maybe he’s another Eduardo?’
This time Helena was equal to the challenge. ‘You were happy enough to let Eduardo help you when Professor Menotti tried to kick you out of the conservatorium! You’ve done all right out of him and don’t pretend you haven’t. At least he’s Italian!’
So he was, and would land them all in a heap of trouble if the Germans lost the war, which was looking increasingly likely. There was no point saying so; Helena had shut her mind to such considerations long ago.
‘You won’t see him, of course,’ Helena said.
‘I haven’t decided.’ She said it only to aggravate her mother. Of course she wouldn’t see him.
3
Passion in opera: the self-sacrifice of so many heroines, the righteous fury of Tosca. But in real life … At what age had Lucia first felt the drum beat of passion in her blood? She could not remember, only that it had existed before she joined the conservatorium. Just as well; lacking true experience, she had tried to draw parallels between the demands of art and what her body was telling her. Without such feelings, she would have been incapable of demonstrating passion.
She went out of the cottage and strolled pensively towards a fallen tree trunk that lay in the grass a hundred metres down the track. She sat on it and stared out at the rows of vines extending to the horizon. She remembered how it had been when she had felt the first stirrings of desire, that mixture of attraction and apprehension. The first time she’d been kissed — by one of the helpers at the conservatorium — she had trembled not only in her flesh but in her soul. The intensity of her response had confused her. She had wanted to flee, while at the same time being drawn onward. The mingling of heat and uncertainty had left her palpitant, desiring the next step, yet frightened of it.
She knew she had to concentrate on her artistic development. She had no wish for emotional distraction, yet the conflict between art and her body’s awareness of its own sexuality continued to trouble her.
She touched her lips with a fingertip. When Alfredo Dante had kissed her after the concert, she had recognised at once the sexuality implicit in the act. Again she had responded yet rejected it at the same time. She found it hard to admit that a man might find her desirable; it conveyed the threat of an involvement that she did not want.
There had been earlier episodes, of course, most of them so fleeting as to be almost imaginary: looks and glances, a whistle in the street, a hand caressing her momentarily in the tram. This was different. This time the approach had been made by someone she knew, and the experience remained as an unsettling memory. She looked at the note in her hand. When she had first met the German soldier, she had been conscious of her helplessness. She had been afraid, yet her sense of vulnerability had not been altogether unpleasant. She had thought him cruel, yet he had spared her. When she had met him at the cottage, she had liked him, had thought he liked her, too.
It was no longer impossible to visualise herself yielding to the right man.
She read the letter again. It gave no hint of why he wanted to see her. She felt a resurgence of heat. She decided she would meet him, after all. She told herself it was only to find out what he wanted.
4
The letter had suggested that it might be easier for Lucia if they met in the city. He wrote that there was a cafe near the Piazza Verdi, in a backstreet adjoining the cathedral; he would be there the following Tuesday, between four and half-past, if she was able to make it.
So Lucia’s first proper meeting with Reinhardt Hoffmann took place against a mellow peal of bells in a street of narrow houses, close shuttered and leaning towards each other, many of them looking as old as the cathedral itself. The atmosphere gave an air of fantasy to the meeting, making it easier for Lucia to deny the reality of what she was doing: meeting a man who, however friendly and charming, remained an enemy. Not that Reinhardt looked particularly dangerous, or even remarkable. Dressed in civilian clothes, with his jacket open and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he had the appearance of a student rather than a soldier. Lucia, by contrast, was as smartly dressed as circumstances permitted, her chestnut hair brushed until its red lights flickered like flame. She told herself she owed it to Italy not to appear too shabby before this member of the occupying forces.
Reinhardt was sitting facing the door at a table in the corner of the smoke-hazed cafe. When she went across to him, he gestured at the chair on the other side of the table. ‘Have a seat.’
‘I can’t stay long. Why did you want to see me?’
He blew a plume of smoke and grinned at her. ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you.’
She sat on the edge of the chair, eyeing him uneasily. He raised his hand to beckon to the woman behind the counter. While he waited for her to respond he said: ‘I thought it would be easier here, rather than in Montegallo.’
He was right but Lucia could not admit it without also admitting there was something wrong with their meeting at all. She said nothing. The woman brought two steaming cups, which she placed on the table between them. Without a word or smile, she turned her back and returned to her place behind the counter. Lucia frowned at the aroma rising from the cups. ‘Real coffee?’
‘They know me here.’ He spoke carelessly, as though the fact was unimportant. Lucia knew better than that; it had been over a year since she’d tasted real coffee. His Italian was really very good, she thought. She watched him light another cigarette from the first and drop the stub on the floor, grinding it out with his heel. ‘I can get you some, if you like.’
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br /> She did not acknowledge the offer, if that was what it was. ‘You still haven’t told me why you wanted to see me.’
He smiled at her, slit-eyed in the smoke. He lifted his cup and breathed in its aroma, while his eyes never left hers. ‘For the pleasure of your company, of course. What else?’
‘Make the most of it while you’ve got the chance. I can’t stay long.’ She sipped her own coffee delicately, as a bird sips, savouring each moment.
Reinhardt watched her with a knowing smile. ‘You’re an opera singer. You know Wagner?’
‘Of course.’
‘Now there’s a composer! A great German composer! He knows how to keep you waiting. I always thought he must’ve made a wonderful lover.’
Now his smile challenged her. She remembered their first meeting at the roadblock and how his smile had said he had her at his mercy. Well, she wasn’t at his mercy now.
‘No doubt Frau von Bülow would have agreed with you,’ she said, referring to the wife of Wagner’s conductor, supporter and friend, whom the composer had seduced. Now it was her turn to challenge. ‘I always thought that was despicable behaviour.’
‘Victory goes to the strong. And the woman.’
‘Not every woman.’
‘Perhaps.’
He smoked for a time, watching her silently, while Lucia tried to ignore him, concentrating on her enjoyment of the coffee. Again he dropped the stub on the floor.
‘That first time I met you …’
‘Remind me.’ She would not admit to remembering anything about it, or him.
He smiled tolerantly, willing to play the game she wanted. ‘You were cycling down the road, early in the morning.’
‘I’d gone for a ride, yes.’
‘So you said. You know what the SS are doing with food smugglers? They’re sticking them in concentration camps.’
‘That has nothing to do with me.’
‘I thought I’d warn you. Just in case.’
The bells of the cathedral clock struck five.
Lucia said, ‘I must go or I’ll miss my tram.’
They walked out of the cafe together.
‘Next time I’ll have some coffee for you.’
‘Will there be a next time?’
‘Of course. I’ve enjoyed our chat. Didn’t you?’
But Reinhardt walked away without waiting for a reply. Lucia watched his back. It was almost dark, evening settling early under the murky November skies. She saw him toss away his cigarette, the red sparks flying as the stub hit the ancient stones. Things hadn’t gone as she’d expected. His manner had been strange: friendly and knowing at the same time. He had said nothing, yet had been in control from the first. Nothing had happened, there had seemed no point to the meeting at all, yet he wanted to see her again. Perhaps he was one of those men who were awkward with women. Or perhaps, like Wagner, he liked to keep his audience waiting. Either way, she knew she had no real choice. He was a German soldier and could do what he liked. The thought displeased her, yet the idea of meeting him again seemed harmless enough. And the prospect of coffee was certainly an attraction.
One step at a time, she thought. The only way to go.
5
She got home, walking from the tram stop through the dark and rain-damp night, to find her mother all smiles.
‘What’s happened to you?’ Lucia asked.
She might have guessed; Eduardo was back. She looked around the room as though expecting to see him hiding under the table, but there was no sign of him.
‘Where is he, then?’
‘He had to go out again. Something to do with the war.’
Perhaps he’d tired of his latest, Lucia thought. Or maybe it wasn’t even that; perhaps he was only looking for a bed for the night and a woman to share it. Oh, mother, she grieved, why are you so blind? And again felt angry with her for letting herself be used in such a way. But Helena was not blind to everything. She took one look at Lucia and knew. Or thought she knew.
‘What have you been up to?’
Lucia would admit nothing. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t come the holy innocent with me! It’s a man, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know any men.’
Helena did not believe her. ‘Be careful, that’s all. You’ve your career to think about. You don’t have time for men.’
As if Lucia didn’t know. ‘What’s this war business Eduardo’s on?’ she asked.
‘He wouldn’t say.’ Yet Helena had a knowing look. Lucia suspected she knew more than she was telling. She would not give her mother the satisfaction of questioning her further. No doubt she would hear all about it very soon.
That night, climbing into bed, she found herself thinking once again about Reinhardt Hoffmann. Casual friends … Could that really be all there was to it? Or was he looking for something more? Her last thought before she slept was to wonder, uneasily, whether by seeing him again she might not be getting involved in something beyond her control. Not that it would stop her doing so, of course.
6
The next day Montegallo was sullen with hatred. The Germans, with Repubblichini support, had carried out a house-to-house search the previous night. An escaped American prisoner of war had been recaptured, several villagers arrested. One, an old man who lived alone and was never sober for more than an hour or two a day, had been killed. He had been slow to open his door to the stormtroopers, who had then kicked it in. He had come swaying towards them, bottle in hand, and they had shot him. To make matters worse, Eduardo had been with them. Lucia quickly discovered that the villagers’ hatred was not confined to the Germans. Signora Vertecchi, niece of the old soak who’d been killed, spat ostentatiously upon the cobblestones as Lucia passed. Lucia stopped in mid-stride and went back to her.
‘I was sorry to hear about your uncle.’
Signora Vertecchi stared at her. Her nostrils flared, her eyes were like spears, but she did not speak.
‘I hate all this as much as you do,’ Lucia added. ‘I’ve nothing to do with any of it.’
The eyes went on staring; she might have been talking to a stone.
‘Please …’
Signora Vertecchi turned and walked away. For the moment Lucia did not exist. After the war, of course, things would be different. After the war, the stiff shoulders said, there would be a reckoning.
Something to think about.
She went back to the cottage and had a blazing row with her mother.
‘Your Eduardo will get us killed before we’re through!’
Helena, desperate to hang on to whatever shreds of happiness she could find, was defiant. ‘Go back to the city, then, if you feel like that about it!’
‘Don’t think I won’t!’
And did so the next day. Lucia returned to the opera house where she discovered even more excitement.
Marta Bianci was full of it. ‘Colonel Strasser has been in touch with the administrator.’
In the world of the Parma Opera, Administrator Giorgio Valentino was god.
‘What about?’
‘He wants a special production of Fidelio.’
‘Fidelio?’ Lucia was flabbergasted.
‘It’s a German opera. Beethoven wrote it.’
‘I know that. But Fidelio is about freedom, the overthrow of tyranny. You say Colonel Strasser wants it? The SS? What kind of sick joke is that?’
‘Don’t laugh too hard. He wants you to sing Leonora.’
Which stopped her, sure enough. Leonora, the leading role in one of the greatest operas …
‘Do you think I’m ready for it?’
‘Yes. It’s not a difficult part. But I ask myself another question. Are you sure you want to sing for the SS?’
Lucia thought how Signora Vertecchi had looked at her. It was a difficulty, certainly, but she knew the answer without having to think about it.
‘I’ve no choice, have I?’
‘Of course you have a choice. You can say no.’
‘And end up in a concentration camp? I’m not interested in politics, anyway. None of that’s got anything to do with me.’
Marta remained uneasy. ‘I’m afraid politics affects us all, these days.’
‘Aren’t you pleased for me? To have had such an offer?’
‘I’d have preferred it to have come from another source.’
‘Well, it hasn’t. I’ll just have to make the most of it.’
‘Don’t decide now. Think about it overnight and let me know your decision in the morning.’
Lucia was leaving when Marta spoke to her again.
‘You know what it’ll mean, don’t you? It’ll remind people of something most of them have forgotten, that you were the girl who sang for Mussolini.’
‘I didn’t have any choice about that, either.’
‘I know. But I’m afraid the question of choice won’t come into it.’
7
There was no chance of anyone forgetting, with Teresa there to remind them.
In the dressing rooms that the cast shared, someone had scrawled a message in yellow chalk on the door of Lucia’s cupboard: TRAITOR!!!
Teresa came to her with a look of concern on her fat face. ‘Have you seen what someone’s written on your cupboard?’
‘I saw it.’
The full lips smiled; the dark eyes, sharp as pins, hoped to see pain, but Lucia would die before she gave her such satisfaction.
‘Are you going to wash it off?’
‘Let it stay. I don’t care what these fools say.’
All the same, that night Lucia’s nightmares reared like stallions against a blood-red sky.
I’m not interested in politics. What choice do I Traitor! have? Of course you have a choice. Traitor! She was the one who sang for Mussolini.
The pugnacious jaw, the booted feet and black shirt. The axe-blade head, blue eyes, the confidence as cold and unforgiving as ice. I’ll have some coffee for you, next time. Next time. Next … She was the one who sang for Mussolini.
Traitor, traitor, traitor …