by Janet Pywell
My day passes slowly.
I begin my daily ritual. I vocalise. I spend several hours working my vocal cords and scales, regulating my pitch and tone, and I look through music scores. In the afternoon I play the piano but as the day goes on I become more restless. I must make my comeback. It has to be now. Michael would be proud of me. He would want me to focus on this.
Cesare has been patient and kind but also ruthless and unrelenting. The past years have been a struggle and the past few weeks have been exhausting. Daily rehearsals, practising, honing and working. He has been my companion and my rock.
I am Tosca. I will sing for Michael. It will be my way of saying thank you. After the years of neglect. I must make it up to him. He is with me. I carry him in my broken heart.
It is a tragedy that he will not see me revive my career. He would be pleased and proud of me. In the years of my decline, I did not return his calls and I am filled with sadness and deep regret that I did not speak to him and that I did not hear his voice one last time. He would have been here for my opening night. Perhaps if I had seen him again, one last time, we may have laid some ghosts to rest.
It is only a week ago that I was rehearsing in church when Seán telephoned. It seems an eternity but I cannot think of the Golden Icon. I am restless. I wander from the terrace to the living room and check that my bag is wedged beside the pedals of the piano. I am hoping Padre Paolo will have news for me soon and I can relax and rehearse in peace.
I wander onto the terrace and back again to the lounge. I imagine curtain calls, cheers of ‘bravo’ and ‘encore’ but I have to wait until late afternoon for the phone call.
And when my mobile does ring my heart skips.
A blackbird settles on the branches of the horse chestnut tree swaying in the breeze. He preens, in bright sunlight, pecking his chest with his yellow beak. He has a nest in the tree hidden by foliage. I take deep breath, savouring the moment of anticipation. My hand is shaking.
‘It’s not good news,’ Cesare says by way of greeting.
‘Glorietta?’
‘Yes, she got the part of Tosca. But it was a good audition, Josephine, you sang well.’
‘It was a sham.’ Disappointment swirls inside me and I have to sit down. I close my eyes to stop the tears.
‘Don’t be too disappointed. There are other opportunities.’
‘They wanted her. She manipulated them.’
‘They want the right woman.’
‘They wanted to humiliate me.’
‘You haven’t sung in public for over three years. You were a success yesterday,’ Cesare adds, ‘You must be proud of your performance.’
‘She invited them all to dinner. She influenced them. I didn’t stand a chance,’ I whisper.
‘There will be other performances.’
‘Not if Nico is the director.’
Cesare inhales a deeply. ‘We will not stop here, Josephine. This is just the start. I mentioned your name to Simone, and he wants you to record with the Philharmonic.’
Tears fall down my cheeks.
The blackbird flies away.
‘Dino wanted you. I think he will do something next year. He mentioned Bellini’s Norma. He likes you.’
I brush my hand across my face and pull a few strands of hair into the clip on my head. ‘And Andrei? Did he say anything?’
‘No.’
‘Is he having an affair with Glorietta?’
‘No. He’s married and has three children.’
‘Well, he will. He always sleeps with the leading lady.’ There is silence between us and I realise my confession.
Cesare coughs politely.
‘It was a long time ago,’ I say.
‘We must move on Josephine,’ he sighs dramatically. ‘Please. Let me come with you to Milan. Let’s go and meet Carlotta Spitarzi. She is very good. She has the press lined up to speak with you about your comeback and she can change the angle of the interviews.’
I sniff.
‘Josephine, don’t cry. I am here for you. Call me later if you need me.’
I turn off the phone and throw it onto the table. My tears taste bitter. The dream to revive my career is over. Shattered like a broken mirror. I am an ageing, fading opera singer who once owned the world. I grab a handful of sheet music and throw it across the floor where it lands in crumpled piles, pages bent and twisted against the terrace wall.
I sit for a long time with my head in my hands. Sometimes my mind is blank and at other times I am on stage in costume under the glow of the lights. I feel the expectant hush of the audience. At the end of the performance they call my name, or ‘bravo’, and I remember all the curtain calls in Mexico, Italy, China and Germany.
As darkness falls, yellow lights from the villages across the lake twinkle teasingly like spotlights on a stage, one that I will no longer tread.
When I gaze up at the night-sky stars glisten like diamonds set in purple velvet and I wonder if they are the eyes of the dead staring down on me.
I open a bottle of Prosecco and drink it on the terrace, toasting the silent stars, the dead twinkling eyes, and the teasing stage footlights. I raise my glass to them all, drinking until my face is blotchy and my eyes are swollen. My body is heavy and lethargic and pains in my shoulder and neck have given me a headache.
On impulse I open my laptop. Perhaps Cesare made a mistake and Dino has sent me an email offering me the role.
There is an email from William with the details of Seán’s funeral tomorrow. I think of the church in Ireland and of Michael’s coffin. Now it is Seán’s turn. He was once my husband and I think of how our lives could have turned out so differently. How things may have changed had we made other choices and how our paths lead us blindly into an abyss called the future.
I am filled with loss. All the people who mattered to me I have lost. This is my fate. It has turned on me. I am being repaid for my past mistake. For my secret. For my lies.
My fingers are too big for the keys. It takes time but I order a wreath of lilies to be sent to Monkstown church. I see Michael’s coffin before the altar and Seán standing at the golden lectern, his foot in plaster, speaking proudly of his father’s bravery during the war. How he saved lives. He never mentioned Michael was a thief.
Seán’s dead. Michael’s dead.
I think of Seán grabbing my throat when I tried to snatch my letter from him. Who, and how many, have read it since? Where is it? Then I think of Karl Blakey taunting me in the deserted Dublin street.
I imagine Glorietta’s sparkling smile and her opening night on stage at the Teatro Il Domo. Her round blue eyes twinkling. Television cameras, the President, the curtain calls. Clapping and cheering. Then she is backstage receiving congratulations, flowers and gifts. Journalists, television crews from around the world and music critics from Corriere della Sera all praising her performance.
‘Hail the new darling of the opera world,’ I say aloud. My voice is slurred. I imagine the journalist’s questions: What is it like to take the role from Josephine Lavelle? Will you and Raffaelle now get back together? Are you still in love with him?
I tap the computer keys and select a large and expensive bouquet of flowers. It is the right thing to do.
This is what matters now. It’s about doing the right thing for the Golden Icon, for Glorietta.
Add a note? The screen prompts. I type in.
Congratulations Tosca. Every man’s life is a fairy-tale written by God’s fingers.
‘Payment to your account?’ Suggests the website
My finger hovers over the key. I brush a strand of hair from my eyes. My head thumps; a dull and persistent ache and my throat feels sore. A strangled cry escapes my lips and I slam the lid closed.
6
Chapter 6
When thou hadst overcome the sharpness of death: thou didst open the Kingdom of Heaven to all believers. - Te Deum, Tosca
Two weeks later.
It is Monday afternoon and I am sittin
g on the deck of the slow ferry leaving Como enjoying the breeze against my skin. I can barely look at the majestic Teatro Il Domo as we pass. The crystal dome shimmers and reflects colourful lights into the soft blue sky and I imagine Glorietta and Andrei rehearsing for the opening night this Saturday. I believe I can even hear the orchestra playing Vissi de arte. I imagine Andrei’s impatience as he taps his baton irritably against the music stand, pushing his glasses on his nose, calling the orchestra to order, the heat of the stage lights, the smell of stage paint, and Glorietta’s radiant self-possessed smile.
She has been on every cover, of every important magazine. Her superior smile has followed me from bookstands to kiosks, to newsagents, and I have stopped watching television for fear of having to watch another report of her successful career.
The familiar villages along the lake, Moltrasio, Urio and Brienno, and on the far side, Torno, Careno and Nesso arouse in me my love for my adopted home and settle my sadness and anxiety. White clouds bubble over the Alps spreading wispy cirrus tails across the sky. Overhead a sea plane flies low before ascending high and over the forest-covered hills.
This is a world far away from private yachts, planes, chauffeurs and mansions, where I was cared for by softly trodden staff who, for fear of disturbing my rest, whispered in corridors. That was another life. A life filled with music; operas in Edinburgh, Florence, Barcelona and Athens. I was booked up to two years in advance; for Liù in Turandot, Cio-Cio San in Madame Butterfly, and Mimì in La bohème.
Now I am a nobody.
I spent the morning in Milan with Cesare and my new agent Carlotta, who isn’t nearly as enthusiastic as she was when she thought I would get the role of Tosca. Instead of feeling energised and optimistic I am resigned to my fate. Since I am no longer Tosca, I have diverted my energies to the ownership of the Golden Icon. I am determined to return it to its rightful owner and make amends for Michael’s actions.
After my meeting today, I spent a few unproductive hours searching for information on the Golden Icon in the Brera Art Gallery. What possessed me to go there I am not sure, probably because it is two streets from Carlotta’s office, and I wasn’t in a hurry to get home.
But it is like my visits to the library. Each time I arrive at a brick wall. There are no facts, no details and almost no knowledge of the valuable statue but it is listed as being lost or destroyed in the war.
I have spent valuable hours scouring the internet, and I fear that the Italian Art Squad dedicated to the recovery of stolen artwork may discover that it is in my possession.
Perhaps I should hand it over to the Comando Carabinieri per la Tutela del Patrimonio Culturale. The website of the Art Squad and modern day Monuments Men, informs me that they deal with ‘the theft and illicit trade in works of art,’ and ‘the illegal export of cultural property, and fakes,’ as well as monitoring ‘the activities of art and antique dealers, junk shops, and restorers,’ but I hold back, because deep down, I want it to belong to Michael. Perhaps it should belong to his heirs.
I am hoping that I will find evidence to suggest that he didn’t steal it. That he was the honourable man I knew, and that it has all been a terrible mistake.
But I am concerned. I keep reminding myself only two people know I have it: Dieter and Padre Paolo. I am terrified I will get caught with it in my possession and more dangerously, what if Maximilian goes in search of Dieter the only other man remaining alive out of the four young soldiers and finds out that it is in my possession?
Padre Paolo has been an enigma to me. I have visited or telephoned him constantly and each time he begs me to be patient. His good friend and assistant to the Cardinal, Padre Stefano has been posted abroad but he is due to arrive back in Rome this weekend. In precisely five days’ time.
Each day I scour the newspapers online in Ireland and Germany scanning websites to see if there is any news or developments on Seán’s murder. He instilled a fear in me that I know is unreasonable but the fact that Seán died so soon after his warning about Maximilian scared me. It made me fear for Dieter’s life and my own. I didn’t even return for his funeral. I also check to make sure there is no news of Dieter fate in Munich’s newspapers or if the Turner was announced as a fake.
The shade of the boat’s canopy provides welcome relief from the intense sun. I am exhausted and need a shower to revive my weary body.
It is late afternoon when I arrive in Comaso. The fountain in the square is spurting water and a few teenagers sit precariously on the edge. One boy splashes the dress of a girl. She flicks her blond hair and laughs before dipping her fingers into the water and splashing him back. He pulls her hand, dabs cold water on the tip of her nose before pressing his lips laughingly to hers.
I am absorbed with their youth and vitality. Their teasing humour is contagious, my heart feels lighter and my mouth spreads into a grin.
Carlo the manager of the small Alberge is clearing a table of debris. When he smiles he reveals crooked teeth. ‘Josephine? Come and have a glass of Prosecco.’
‘Another time, Carlo,’ I call out. ‘Milan has exhausted me. Perhaps tomorrow?’
‘You just missed Raffaelle,’ he calls.
I wave. I will telephone Raffaelle after a shower.
At the fountain the laughing boy has soft grey eyes, the teenage girl with the blond hair is Sandra, Santiago’s daughter, Glorietta’s niece. I know she recognises me. I smile but she turns quickly away.
Mario sits under the shade of a beige umbrella at the bodeguita. He is drinking coffee with Angelo the Mayor of Comaso and Santiago. Angelo and Mario raise their hands and smile. Santiago watches me and I feel his gaze on my legs. My heels clip across cobbles past crowded tables and from behind my sunglasses I give one last sweeping glance of the terrace and my heart misses a beat. My step falters. Karl Blakey looks out of place in this sun-filled village in a brown shirt and cotton jacket. He is hidden in a corner beside the wall. A shiver slides down my spine. I hurry past Georgio’s pizzeria, past the gelateria and run up the steps. I am almost sprinting. I reach the corner and hear my name.
‘Josephine! Josephine!’ Raffaelle’s voice is powerful and insistent. He is standing in the door way of the gelateria. He beckons me to him, and reluctantly I retrace my steps.
Karl doesn’t move.
Raffaelle is standing with a cone in his hand and he licks the melting ice cream running down his finger. Over his shoulder, Santiago sits motionless. His head is tilted in my direction.
‘There is chocolate on your moustache.’
‘Lick it off,’ he whispers.
I want to laugh. I want to play around like Sandra and the boy at the fountain but I remain rigid and cold. My hands are clammy and my blouse is sticking to my skin.
‘I came to meet you from the ferry. How was Milan? How was Carlotta?’ He kisses my cheek.
‘You’re not here for the ice cream?’ I tease. I am determined that neither Karl Blakey nor Santiago will see they have affected me.
‘Let me buy one for you.’ He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me into his arms. His moustache tickles my neck. Inside the gelateria I admire the ice creams neatly laid out in labelled tubs and I am pleased Raffaelle’s hand remains possessively on my hips. He makes me feel safe and secure.
‘So many flavours,’ I sigh.
‘You will have peppermint, cara, I know you will. You always have the same.’
I read the tags aloud, ‘Pistachio, mint, caramel…’
‘Try the lemon,’ suggests Nano, who stands with the scoop in one hand and a cone in the other.
‘Hurry, or I will want another one,’ Raffaelle jokes.
‘This is a serious business,’ I reply. ‘It takes careful selection.’
Nano nods in agreement.
I take my time. I am frightened to step back into the square.
‘Peppermint,’ I say, and I feign surprise when the two men burst out laughing. I take the cone wrapped in a small serviette and relish the cool mint on my
tongue.
I spend a few minutes chatting to Nano, delaying our exit, but when more customers arrive we head outside into the sunlight.
Karl Blakey has gone.
Perhaps I imagined him.
Sitting at his table in the shade are two foreign women dressed in skimpy vests with tanned skin.
I feel Santiago’s eyes watching me, as I walk arm in arm, with Raffaelle up the steps toward my apartment. It may have been a trick of the light. Perhaps it wasn’t Karl, I reason, but what if it was?
It is a steep climb. Raffaelle is panting as we arrive and I pat his stomach affectionately. ‘You should spend more time at my apartment. It would do you good.’
‘That is why I like you to come to my villa. It is beside the harbour, there are no hills, and I don’t waste valuable energy climbing all these steps.’ He winks. I check the postbox on the wall. There are four yellow boxes. I am hoping there may be a note from Padre Paolo but there is no mail for me. I unlock the communal door. It is heavy and secure. The entrance is decorated with flowers and the patio is filled with the sweet aroma of jasmine.
We walk up a short flight of steps, past a security grill which I never bother to lock and I open the door. My apartment is in darkness. The ground floor is littered with an assortment of shoes and sandals and hooks of jackets and coats. As I walk along the corridor I close the door to the laundry room, and we climb the narrow stairs to the living room where I throw open the shutters, welcoming the breeze that comes in across the water.
Raffaelle unpacks a grocery bag that he brought from his villa. He puts cheese in the fridge and takes out a chilled bottle of Prosecco.
‘I want to hear about Milan,’ he calls, as I head upstairs.
I strip and shower quickly, then with wet hair and a cotton gown covering my naked body I wander outside onto the terrace where Raffaelle sits listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.
I place my feet on the chair opposite me, the nail polish on my toes is chipped, and I think I will leave it until tomorrow to remove.