by Janet Pywell
I sit at the dressing table and add powder to my bruised cheek.
‘It is because you had faith in me, Cesare. After I had lost everything and everyone you still believed in me. I had nothing. But you came to Germany and found me. I was like a broken sparrow curled up in bed, sick and alone, abandoned by my friends, admirers and fans. It was you who encouraged me to come and live in Comaso. It was a health spa for me; fresh air, good food, rest, and good friends.’
He returns my smile in the mirror.
‘I will never be able to thank you enough, because not only did you help me regain my confidence and my singing techniques, you were my friend and you listened to me. You understood my need for music, my love of art and my desire to sing.’ I meet his gaze in the mirror. ‘Why did you do it?’
The door opens. ‘What will I do about this journalist? Let him backstage?’ asks Dario.
‘Who is he?’
He checks a piece of paper. ‘I think he said Charley Blake?’
My hand flies to my mouth. ‘It must be Karl Blakey. He is no friend of mine. Don’t let him anywhere near me, or the stage. Don’t let him in with the press. The man is dangerous.’
‘Keep an eye on him. Warn security that he wants to get too close to Signora Lavelle so that they keep an eye out for him,’ Cesare says. ‘Don’t let him into the theatre.’
‘Okay, will do.’ Dario backs out of the room.
I sigh.
‘He is very clever, Cesare. You don’t think he will get backstage?’
‘Not a chance.’
There is a knock on the door. ‘Makeup in two minutes,’ a voice calls.
On the wall beside me the plasma screen shows images of the audience arriving and taking their seats. I have the sound turned down. It will help when the opera starts and I am able to follow the performance and time my arrival on stage. My dressing room is barely a short walk to the stage, along a narrow corridor strewn with cables, busy stagehands, cast and crew.
‘So why did you persevere with me? When everyone else had lost faith in me.’
‘I like older women,’ he jokes, ‘they are easier to work with, and so….very, very grateful.’
I raise an eyebrow and smile. ‘I need to know.’
Cesare pushes curls from his eyes and fold his arms. ‘Guntar had no right to treat you as he did. I heard that he was jealous when you went to Olga Schomberg for training. He began to speak badly about you. I always assumed that you would have enough contacts to help you. I never realised for one minute that you were so alone and I didn’t know that you had become such a diva. Yes, bene, I had heard that you missed a few performances, and that you sometimes forgot a line, and there were rumours that you were out of control but–’
‘I was highly strung and exhausted. I had done back to back performances all around Europe; Madame Butterfly in Vienna, then Lucia di Lammermoor, La Traviata, Armida, La Sonnambula, Il Piratamedea and Anne Bolena in Saint Petersburg. I was exhausted. My agent, Antonio Marx was pushing me and my voice was changing. My tone was becoming dark and chesty so I cancelled a few dates in San Diego, the Met and another performance in Ghent.’
‘You cancelled eight; you cancelled in Florence, Edinburgh and Athens as well, and the producers were losing money.’
‘I couldn’t keep my pitch on register, Cesare. I was exhausted.’
‘You were replaced by an understudy more times than you sang.’
‘Antonio kept pushing me.’
‘Agents always maximise the potential of their client, it is their job.’
‘I couldn’t cope.’ We are watching each other through the mirror.
‘I know,’ he replies.
‘Is that why you rescued me?’
‘I knew you would recover on the Italian Lakes. I knew that you would rest and recuperate, and probably more importantly, you would live in peace in Comaso. I was hoping that you would begin to lead a normal life and understand–’
There is a knock on the door. Cesare opens it. ‘Another bouquet?’ he says, and two dozen red roses are placed beside several other vases of flowers on the crowded table.
‘Gina!’ Cesare calls down the corridor. ‘Do you have another vase?’ He hands me the accompanying card which I read aloud.
‘Wishing you all the success you deserve. From Nico.’ I am smiling. I am reassured and more confident.
My dresser arrives. ‘I have altered the panels,’ Nina says. ‘The dress should be more comfortable now.’
I stand, remove my dressing gown and step into the costume. Nina zips the back.
‘Hair and makeup,’ someone shouts. I am losing track of the names of the people who help me, laughing and fussing over me as I am dressing. I wear a thick, dark wig and makeup with heavy black eyeliner.
‘Nasty bruise,’ one says.
‘The lip has gone down since this morning,’ says another.
‘We can cover this graze here and no one will be any the wiser.’
‘Envelope for Signora Lavelle,’ shouts a young boy. He stands gawping in the doorway. Cesare pulls it from his hands and pushes him firmly back into the corridor.
‘It isn’t an embossed card like the others,’ he says. ‘It’s notepaper from our hotel, the Villa Il Domo.’
I take it from him.
‘Be still,’ Nina admonishes me. She stands with a thread and needle, sewing the ruffle at my waist.
The makeup girl is young. She is wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and a red heart tattoo covers her bicep. ‘Nearly done,’ she smiles.
I strain my eyes to read the entwined names drawn in ink on her arm. When she is finished she says, ‘My parents adore you. I shouldn’t say this but my father said that although Glorietta Bareldo is an excellent soprano, the role of Tosca is yours. It belongs to you. There is no-one in the world who has ever sung Tosca like you. Not even Maria Callas.’
I swallow hard, tears prick the back of my eyes. ‘Thank you. Please tell your father he is very kind.’
I read the note in my hand, written on hotel note paper from my hotel.
If I don’t have the Golden Icon by breakfast tomorrow, I will go to the press. Barbara.
Cesare is reading the note over my shoulder and I turn to look at him.
‘She gives you enough time to get over tonight’s performance and enough time for the reviews to be printed in the newspapers, and hopes that her revelations will be more sensational. If you perform like you have never performed before it will be even more effective. She wants to frighten you.’
‘The press will be like hyenas,’ I say.
‘Josephine, the audience and the press here tonight are only interested in your performance. They look beyond affairs of the heart that happened many years ago. They are not interested. Tell me, who in Italy has not had an affair?’ he laughs. ‘It was all a long time ago and there are very few people interested in these stories. Who has not been linked to a romantic liaison? Who has never made mistakes? You can rise above it. Ride the wave and see it out. The scandal will pale in comparison to your amazing performance.’
‘Oh, Cesare, thank you.’ I grip his hand. ‘If only I had the Golden Icon.’
‘If you did, would you give it to her?’
I turn back to the mirror. ‘I wouldn’t want to. I don’t like her, but do think that it is what Michael would have wanted. Now that Seán is dead it would protect his family from financial ruin. Barbara could live in peace with her children, after all, they are Michael’s heirs.’
‘But, you don’t have the icon, and you cannot stop her from printing Seán’s confessions. Look! Don’t think about the Golden Icon now. Focus on tonight’s performance and Tosca. Enjoy this moment…’
There is a sharp knock.
The door opens, a boy comes in carrying a bouquet of irises and lilies tied with a silver bow, he places them on the counter below the mirror. Cesare hands me the small card and I tear open the envelope.
Game Over. Your twenty-four hours has expired. MS.
‘What will I do with them?’
‘I don’t care. Give them to a hospital. Take them home to your mother or throw them away. Just get rid of them.’
When he leaves I turn to Cesare.
‘I have run out of time and I am running out of ideas. I have no idea where the Golden Icon can be. I trusted Raffaelle. He was the only person who knew where it was hidden but somehow I don’t think he would do that to me. I can’t believe that he would steal it. But why doesn’t he answer my calls? Why hasn’t he been in touch with me? I know I treated him badly. I slapped his face–’
‘Don’t think about all this now,’ Cesare urges. ‘Please Josephine, relax. Breathe deeply and stay calm.’
‘I don’t think Raffaelle would be willing to risk his life by stealing the Golden Icon. Dieter told me that there is a story attached to the icon that if anyone attempts to use the icon for their own use then something bad will happen to them; they will die or be killed but Raffaelle didn’t believe…’
‘Josephine, please. Relax, stop thinking about all this.’
Nina returns with an assistant and my costume for the first Act. This time Cesare leaves the room. As she modifies my dress we are interrupted constantly with messages of good luck from fans; flowers arrive from Dino Scrugli who I know is hosting a post party celebration in my honour in the revolving bar upstairs after the show. I receive a cuddly teddy bear from Massimo Mallamo, my tenor friend and leading man. Hector Barrantes and Géorgios Papandu the shows sponsors have spoilt me with perfume, diamond earrings and a necklace.
But there is nothing from Raffaelle.
Another knock on the door.
Andrei Ferretti stands on the threshold. His grey hair and beard are neatly trimmed. He pushes black heavy framed glasses onto his nose and regards me thoughtfully through the reflection of the mirror before speaking
‘Give me two minutes alone with Signora Lavelle.’ His voice holds no question of discussion, and Nina and her assistant leave, but not before voicing their opinion.
‘No more than two minutes, we haven’t got long.’ Nina is not intimidated.
‘We haven’t time…’ says the other.
‘You’ve time enough. Close the door,’ he tells them.
I stand and face him. Although I smile my hands are shaking.
We are the same height. He is a few years older than me, still slim, and still very attractive. ‘This is a very important night for us both,’ he says. ‘You did very well today in rehearsals. It is good to be working with you again, Josephine. You are still very talented and you have worked hard.’
‘This is high praise indeed from the maestro himself.’
He smiles. ‘You have been through a great deal and it is good to see you back. It has been a long time. I have missed you.’
‘It’s been four years. You didn’t bother to contact me.’
‘Cesare always said to leave you alone until you were well, until you were ready.’
‘You didn’t speak in my defence at the audition when Nico was so rude to me.’
‘I did afterwards. After you had left, but it fell on deaf ears, Nico was paranoid that you might do something to destroy his first performance here in the Teatro Il Domo.’
I take a deep breath. ‘I would never do that. I would die before I ruined a performance here.’
‘I know, but he is very nervous. Nico is very ambitious. It took him a long time to get Dino involved in this project, and fortunately Dino likes you.’
‘Yes, but you still favoured Glorietta. She was your first choice. You still thought her better than me, and she will be here tomorrow night.’ I sit down and face the mirror. He perches on the dressing table, beside me, one foot on the floor the other leg dangling in the air.
‘I had forgotten just how unmistakable your voice is. When I heard you this morning with the orchestra it was like,’ he smiles, ‘old times, in fact, I think you may even be better than before, if that is at all possible. Cesare has done a remarkable job and it will not go unnoticed. This is about you Josephine. You are still a very special and unique woman.’
‘Thank you Andrei, and you are still a talented and charming conductor,’ I reply and return his steady gaze.
He leans forward and briefly kisses my lips. It is a soft and gentle kiss. ‘Good luck,’ he whispers. ‘Let’s give them a night they will never forget.’
It is only after the door has closed behind him and Nina and her assistant are fussing with the hemline of my dress that I remember my letter to Michael and I wonder if he will still have the same respect for me when the truth comes out.
Nico knocks and enters.
‘Josephine? How are you?’ His dark eyebrows are creased like two fine moustaches. His tuxedo jacket covers a red waist coat and he wears a matching bow tie. ‘Andrei is pleased with the rehearsal. You won’t let me down, will you?’
‘So far, so good, Nico,’ I smile. ‘I’m still here, and I still have the wig on my head, and I haven’t stormed out yet.’
At my feet Nina, who is fixing my hem, smothers a giggle.
‘Ah? So it would seem that the talented soprano is back but not the diva. That is good news. Let us hope that this is a permanent character change and it’s not just a temporary respite from your tantrums. Good luck tonight Josephine, and please, no surprises,’ he says. Then he is gone leaving in his wake the faint smell of spicy aftershave.
I raise an eyebrow as the door closes. ‘Arsehole.’
The dressers splutter with laughter and Nina stands up smiling. ‘I think you are finished,’ she says.
‘Yes, that’s what Nico thought too.’
We laugh and she kisses me quickly. ‘Ignore them all. Be you, be Tosca, be yourself.’
They wish me good luck and almost collide with Cesare as he enters the room.
‘I’ve been outside watching the audience arrive. You have no idea of the big names here: Georgio Armani, Sophia Loren, George Clooney, and Brad Pitt are making a film in Milan and they are here too; Berlusconi is here with that actress…’
He gives me a running commentary on who is coming into the theatre, faces he recognises on the plasma screen at my elbow. Famous actors, fashion designers, directors and people from the government but I am not listening.
I sip water my throat is dry. I take a deep breath. I am born to perform.
He turns up the volume on the television. The orchestra are in the pit tuning up. Each time my dressing room door opens their strings, drums and horns reach my ears, and I experience a surge of elation, waves of excitement flow around me and my pulse begins racing.
I am dressed.
My co-star arrives. Massimo kisses me. He is playing the part of Cavaradossi, the lover of Tosca, a role he has played on many occasions all over the world.
‘It is like old times,’ he says. ‘You, me and Andrei. Do you remember all the fun we had together?’
‘I do Massimo. Just like it were yesterday.’
‘When did we last sing Tosca together?’
‘It must have been six years ago, in Barcelona?’
‘Ah yes, the Liceu. Eighteen curtain calls, I think you had.’
I laugh. ‘Fourteen, don’t exaggerate.’
‘Look.’ Cesare is pointing to the plasma screen. ‘Isn’t that the chief inspector, Santiago and his wife?’
‘You are drawing in a big crowd,’ says Massimo, frowning at the screen.
‘They were here for Glorietta. I am only the understudy. She will be here tomorrow and I am sure she will outshine me.’
There is a knock on the door and Massimo kisses me. ‘See you on stage. Let’s show them that we are still a magical team. You and me just as we always were.’
The door closes and I reach for my new mobile phone. I am dialling Raffaelle’s number. The same boy who brought Maximil
ian’s flowers stands on the threshold and Cesare goes to him.
Raffaelle’s mobile clicks to answer phone, so I speak and leave a message. ‘Raffaelle I am worried about you. Call me. I go on stage in a few minutes and this is not like you. I don’t care about the Golden Icon. I just want to know that you are all right.’
The boy is leaning into the room hesitant to enter. ‘Signora Lavelle, I’ve been asked to give you this.’
‘By whom?’
‘I must not give it to anyone else, only you.’ He holds it away from Cesare’s open palm.
I toss the phone onto the chair. I am reluctant to take it.
‘Who gave it to you?’ I ask.
‘Signora Bareldo.’ He holds out a small package. I take the small square gift box from his outstretched hand, thank him, and he leaves.
‘It’s from Glorietta? You must open it,’ Cesare says.
‘Why would she send me anything?’ I pull at the red ribbon and lift the top off a silver box. Inside staring up at me is a small replica of the Madonna. It does not look like the Golden Icon but it reminds me of her. It is a golden charm of the Virgin sitting alone; sad yet triumphant as if she knows she will lose her son but the world will gain a God. Serenity and acceptance is written on her face. Sacrifice, love, joy and expectation. It is so beautiful. I cannot speak.
‘She knows that this is your role. She has known all along that you are Tosca. That is why she specifically asked for you to replace her,’ Cesare says.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Glorietta, asked for me?’
‘She insisted. She told Nico and Dino that it must be you who took the part and no-one else. She was adamant.’
‘I don’t believe it. But why?’
‘Because she knows what Tosca means to you. She knows that you are the best Tosca in the world, and more importantly, she understands generosity of spirit. She is a good person and I think that had you not been rivals, you would have been the best of friends.’
I am staring at Cesare but thinking of Glorietta. I last saw her at the audition in the studio not far from where I now stand, when our paths crossed, and she had whispered to me. Now I remember the scene vividly and I know they had been words of good luck.