by JH Fletcher
Now she studied herself carefully and for the first time in her life decided she might even be looking beautiful.
Jacques had noticed it, too.
‘I think playing housewife suits you!’
Perhaps it did.
2
The days passed, slow and idle under the Italian sun. Lucia had brought a number of scores with her. Missing the discipline of her normal life, she went over them, playing sections on the piano, working her voice into the music until it was impossible to tell where composer ended and artist began.
Jacques sat with her while she practised and she found that singing for them both gave her a good feeling, as though she were offering him the gift of herself. A second week passed. At the end of it they went back to the same restaurant, this time at night. They ate fish and watched the moon rising over the sea. Across the water the sleeping mountain cast rosy reflections upon the cloud of smoke about its summit.
As they were leaving the restaurant, Lucia saw a rack containing newspapers. On a whim she bought one to read later.
‘Might as well see what the world’s been up to.’
While Jacques made them a nightcap, she glanced through the paper. There was a general strike in France, an earthquake in Greece, political trouble of some sort in Iran. Jacques came in with the drinks.
‘Anything in the news?’
‘Same old thing. Trouble everywhere.’
She turned the page to the arts section. She saw a headline and took a sharp breath. Jacques glanced at her.
‘What’s the matter?’
She went to hand him the paper, remembered that he couldn’t understand Italian, then read aloud, translating as she went.
‘Teresa Sciotto, who has recently achieved considerable success in the United States, is to appear in Milan for the 1954 season, Opera Administrator Antonio Ghiringhelli announced here today …’ Her eyes raced down the column. ‘Traviata, Aïda, La Bohème …’
She sat, biting her lip and staring into space. ‘Damn, damn …’
Jacques tried to console her. ‘There are plenty of other opera houses.’
‘But only one La Scala!’
Ghiringhelli had always had a problem with her. Subservience had never been her greatest skill and the La Scala boss, like von Karajan, believed that opera singers should be kept in their place. She told herself she could have expected nothing else, but the prestige of the Milan Opera was like none other. What made it worse was that her agent, Monty Cardozo, had been putting out feelers and had told her they were in with a chance. Now Sciotto had got the job and Lucia was nowhere.
She was furious with herself. While she’d been fooling around here, Sciotto had been stealing a march. It was nonsense, of course; it was Monty’s job to arrange these things and three weeks’ holiday, the first for over a year, was hardly fooling around, yet telling herself so made her feel no better. She’d missed out, and to Teresa Sciotto, of all people. They went to bed. For the first time she rejected Jacques when he tried to make love to her, which made her feel mean and madder with herself than ever. She slept badly and the next day was no better.
She sat on the terrace and told herself she was a spoiled brat. It didn’t help. She looked down the valley at the distant curve of the light-filled bay. Everything was gold and blue, the golden flare of the sun, the blue resonance of the light. That didn’t help, either; for the moment the view did nothing but exasperate her. In the first wondrous days after their arrival the absence of a telephone had been a major attraction. They had been like castaways on a desert island. Now the charm had worn off. She had to phone Monty Cardozo in London, today. She must find out what was going on.
She went looking for Jacques, found him by the pool, nose buried in one of the few French language books in the house.
‘I’m going into town.’
He looked up at her. ‘Right.’
‘As soon as my back’s turned things go wrong. I need to find out what they’ve been up to.’ It was paranoia, pure and simple. Jacques had gone back to his book. She felt the need to shake him. ‘Okay?’
He glanced up briefly. ‘Will you be back for lunch?’
She could have screamed at him. Instead she took the keys and stamped off to the car. Behind her, Jacques’ voice only heightened her fury. ‘Drive carefully.’
Somehow she reached town in one piece. She went into a hotel, introduced herself to the manager — fame had its uses — and asked if she could borrow a phone. At once he was bowing and scraping.
‘A pleasure, Signorina Visconti. An honour, I assure you.’
He offered her the phone in his private office. She accepted graciously, caressing him with her trademark smile.
The things we do …
Monty Cardozo answered the phone.
‘What’s this about Sciotto and La Scala?’ she asked him.
Monty’s voice, cigar-rough, nevertheless soothed her. One of Monty’s most important skills was his ability to ride out the storms of her temperament.
‘Ghiringhelli hates your guts, you know that. But he’ll give in eventually; he’s got no choice. You just got to be patient, that’s all. And of course Teresa’s got a nice-sounding voice.’
She hadn’t phoned from Italy to discuss Teresa Sciotto’s voice.
‘What have you got for me?’
‘Something a lot better than La Scala. Walküre in Vienna, under — can you believe it? — von Karajan. Never say I’m not a magician, eh? From there to the States. Dallas, San Francisco, Chicago, Philadelphia …’
‘The Met?’
New York’s Metropolitan was the New World equivalent of La Scala.
‘You think I’d forget New York? Do me a favour …’
The Metropolitan was offering her Turandot, Tosca and a choice of Aïda or an English language Magic Flute.
It wasn’t La Scala but it was the next best thing. Indeed, in financial terms a tour of the United States was a good deal more profitable than a four-opera season in Milan.
‘I drove them, mind you. Know what they said? This woman wants more pay than the President of the United States!’
Lucia thought she deserved every cent he could get for her. ‘They think Dwight Eisenhower’s so great, let him sing for them.’ Monty’s news made her feel much better. She bought a bottle of good wine as a peace offering and drove back a lot more moderately than she’d come. When she reached the villa she wound contrite arms about Jacques’ neck. He extricated himself, laughing.
‘I gather you’ve sorted it out, then.’
‘Everything’s fine!’
For an hour or two it was; later she found she was as much on edge as ever. The desert island had become a prison. She had been so happy here; now she couldn’t wait to get away.
Jacques had always been sensitive to her moods. He said: ‘This business of Teresa Sciotto’s unsettled you.’
‘It’s not that. But the American tour’s important. Music drives me mad, yet without it I’m incomplete.’
He held her hands tight; she was afraid she was going to cry. He said: ‘I love you. You know that?’
Now she really did cry, holding him close, feeling the life pulsing through his body. Gently he broke free. He looked down at her. ‘When do you want to leave?’
‘I think tomorrow, if I can get a flight.’ She looked up at him, seeing his face blurred by her tears. ‘When we first got here I thought I’d want to stay for ever.’
He managed a sort-of smile. ‘The trouble with rental properties, you always have to leave. Will you write?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll have to send you my address later. Before I left Paris the paper was thinking of sending me to Indochina. The war against the Viet Minh is hotting up. There’s even talk that France may be forced to pull out altogether.’
His news might have made her feel even worse but did not. She had been filled with such guilt; now she remembered that Jacques, too, had a life to lead. Her dreams of permanence h
ad been no more than fairy palaces built on the quicksands of desire. Now reality was back.
3
The next morning they tidied the cottage, closed the shutters, switched off the power, did all the things that spelt an end to what they’d had, so briefly, together. They drove down the track on the first stage of their return to the realities of their separate lives, she to London, Jacques to Paris. Lucy told herself that this morning, once again blue and gold with sunlight reflecting off the waters of the bay, marked not an end but the beginning of an interlude in what had become their true lives. It must be so, she told herself. It was too important to accept any alternative, although how it would come about she didn’t know. She repeated what had become her mantra. One day at a time …
She made two calls from the airport. She left messages for Monty Cardozo and the recording studio, telling them she’d be back a week earlier than she’d expected. Her flight was delayed for several hours so Jacques left before she did, which was a painful business.
‘Send me your address. Don’t forget.’ The mixture of optimism and despair stayed with her all the way to her hotel in rainy London. As always, there were messages for her: the general manager of Covent Garden, one from Monty that was marked urgent. Lucia stared out at the grey expanse of London’s river and dialled his number.
Even over the phone she could imagine the reek of the cigar that, at least in his own office, lived like a permanent attachment to his lower lip.
‘Thank Christ! Your message said you were coming in this morning. Where the hell have you been?’
Monty Cardozo was not a man to defer to his clients, however famous they might be. It was one of the reasons so many used him; in a world of slime he pulled no punches, which was a comfort. Not that Lucia, back in fighting mode, was about to become a doormat for Monty Cardozo or anyone else.
‘The flight was delayed. If it’s any of your business.’
‘Then stay put for five minutes, okay? I’m on my way. We got problems.’ And he slammed down the phone.
True to his word, he was at the door before she’d had time to unpack. No-one could access the suites of this hotel without an authorisation. That was an iron-clad rule but Monty respected only those rules that suited him.
He stamped in — a fat man in a camel hair coat, the reek of cigar smoke and business — and accepted the glass of malt whisky that had become a ritual of their meetings.
He peeled off his coat and threw it over a chair. He was wearing an expensive mohair suit and looked sleek, as he always did. Then he sat down in an easy chair, stuck his highly polished shoes on a low table and pulled a piece of paper from his briefcase. ‘Read that.’
She did so. ‘Oh.’
He gulped his whisky. ‘Oh, she says. Oh. Who in hell is Anwar Bendurian?’
‘Someone I knew in Sydney. I’d forgotten all about him. I haven’t heard from him for years.’
‘You’ve heard from him now. I’ve spoken to Pixie Prentiss about it. She says, is it true?’
Pixie Prentiss, diamond-bright legal adviser to the stars, an inter-galactic traveller in the high-flying world of international law.
‘It’s true I signed an agreement with him before I left Australia. I thought I’d cancelled it.’
‘You thought? Don’t you know?’
Lucia, who had no idea, sparked. ‘That’s your job.’
‘How in hell am I supposed to do anything about it if I don’t know the bastard exists?’
He grabbed the letter again, scoured its contents with a bloodshot and angry eye.
‘Ten percent? Jesus Christ! We’re talking millions here!’ He bounced to his feet, waddled to the window and glared out at the river as though he’d like to strangle it. The Thames had no answers; he turned away in disgust, went to the side table and replenished his drink. ‘I’ve fixed up a meeting with Pixie tomorrow morning.’
Lucia thought of her arrangements with the studios. ‘I can’t manage it.’
‘You’ll have to manage it. Pixie’s leaving for Singapore in the afternoon; I had to kiss her backside to get her to fit you in at all.’ Pixie Prentiss was another who could afford to stand no nonsense from her clients. Monty drummed stubby fingers on the chair arm. ‘What’s the story about this Bendurian?’
‘I agreed to make him my agent before I left Australia. But he never did a thing for me. He sent me copies of letters he said he’d written to various managements, but that was all.’
‘Had he written them?’
‘Nothing came of them if he did.’
‘And for this he wants ten percent of your earnings? Ten percent of the gross? He’s got no chance.’
Pixie Prentiss, when they saw her the next day, was not so sure.
‘The letter from his lawyers is explicit.’ She scrutinised it through horn-rimmed glasses that had no doubt intimidated many in their time. She said with distaste: ‘Milton Embury don’t waste their time on lost causes. They must think they’ve got a case.’ She read out loud from the letter. ‘From the date of the agreement — that’s 1947 — their client is entitled to ten percent of all Madame Visconti’s gross earnings from operatic and concert performances and related activities, whether the engagements were negotiated by their client or not. That’s what is alleged.’
She raised her formidable eyebrows at Lucia, questioningly. ‘Is the allegation true? Did the agreement contain this clause or not?’
‘I didn’t read it.’
‘But you signed an agreement with this man?’
‘I believe I did.’
‘And never cancelled it?’
‘I thought I had but I suppose I might be mistaken.’
‘In which case it would still be valid.’
The lawyer transferred her attention to Monty Cardozo. ‘Assuming the agreement exists, they may have a case.’
Monty was stricken. ‘Ten percent? For what?’
‘I think we can forget ten percent. No doubt they’re looking for a negotiated settlement. But there may be grounds for some sort of claim. I’ll send them a letter to keep them quiet — we are reviewing the situation, the claim will be vigorously defended, that sort of thing — and we can arrange to get together when I’m back in London. Ask Griselda to slip you into the diary sometime in the next two or three weeks.’
When they were out the door, Lucia turned to Monty.
‘That man never did anything for me. I won’t pay him a cent.’
‘You may have to.’
4
Philadelphia, Dallas, San Francisco …
Triumph all the way. Then Chicago, and disaster.
She hadn’t heard any more from Monty Cardozo about Anwar Bendurian, had forgotten all about him, in fact. In Chicago he came back to life with a vengeance.
The Chicago season comprised two performances each of two very different operas. Norma, the passionate high priestess triumphant in death; Traviata, the tragic Violetta betrayed and in the end destroyed by love.
To sing either role demanded a great deal from the principal singer; to sing each twice within a fortnight bordered on the impossible. She did it. The rave reviews for her Norma were exceeded only by the same critics’ praise for her Violetta. Triumph or not, the wear and tear on Lucia’s nerves was enormous. She found it so difficult to come down from the heights after each performance that it was all she could do to reach her dressing room unaided. The critics praised her but what did the critics know? The endless search for perfection, for the ultimate expression of truth, continued unavailingly.
When the final curtain came down, there was cheering, smiles, a blizzard of flowers. There was a reeling blackness, an exhaustion that was almost palpable. She blundered, seeking the way to the dressing room that she knew so well. There was a man waiting, hat pulled low over his eyes. She did not recognise him; the state she was in, she barely registered his presence. She went to pass him and he thrust a paper into her hand. She stared at it, and at him. She was startled, uncomprehending.
> ‘County sheriff, lady. That there’s a summons.’
After all the trauma of the last two weeks, the emotional strain of the two contrasting operas, it was too much. She lost control of her tattered nerves. ‘How dare you?’
A battery of flash bulbs exploded. She had been ambushed not only by the sheriff but the press, too. The next day her face, contorted with fury, was on the front page of every newspaper.
Her performance was given rave notices once again but the critics’ praise was overwhelmed by the publicity of the backstage confrontation. VISCONTI THE TIGRESS, screamed the headlines.
In her hotel suite Lucia wept, a mingling of rage and despair. She would speak to no-one.
‘How could they? How could they?’
The claim was for half a million dollars. In London, Monty Cardozo laughed.
‘A nice round sum. The question is, what will he accept?’
‘Accept? I told you! Not a cent!’
‘It might be easier to pay him off.’
‘He’s never lifted a finger for me!’
‘You know that; I know it. But Joe Public doesn’t, and you can’t prove it. Joe Public knows there’s an agreement because Bendurian’s already leaked it to the media. What they see is a rich bitch trying to cheat a man who’s down on his luck. You sure you want that kind of publicity?’
‘It’s blackmail!’
‘Sure it is. The question I’m asking is, what’s it worth to you to shut him up?’
‘Not half a million.’
‘Of course not half a million. I was thinking more like five grand, maybe ten. The way your records keep selling, you make that sort of dough every couple of days.’
‘Will it truly get him off my back?’
‘Sure it will.’
‘Make certain it does.’
They settled for eight thousand dollars. Lucia was as mad as a cut snake about it but Monty said it was cheap at the price.