by Paul Bailey
The previous day, we had sat outside a trattoria in Salerno, admiring the blue-eyed transvestites parading past. The clickety-clack of their high heels on the cobbles sounded, Uncle Rudolf observed, like some improbable piece for solo xylophone. Despite the intense heat, many of the tall, broad-shouldered make-believe society ladies were draped in furs.
And then, on that abiding Saturday, we drove across the rough, barren countryside, stopping once to eat grilled swordfish and drink chilled red wine at a roadside shack. We reached Sapri at dusk and decided to pass the night in the tiny seaside town. To our astonishment, all the hotels were full, with the exception of one – the Vittoria – that offered us an attic with a double bed. It seemed there was a wedding in progress, and later that evening, as we strolled around the bay, we were invited to join in the celebrations. A table was set out and laid for us on the promenade, and soon we were the most cheerful of guests. A band was playing, and we noticed that many of the girls were dancing with each other, and that a few brave, but embarrassed, boys were doing the same.
—They are very strict Catholics here, Andrew. They aren’t married, you see. Oh, such sweet innocence.
My uncle danced with a plump, tightly-corseted widow who sat with us afterwards. She spoke no English and her Italian, Uncle Rudolf explained, was of the sawn-off Southern kind, with everyday words invariably sliced in half. He had mastered the language in Vienna, he told her, at the start of his singing career.
—You are a singer?
—I was.
She rose from the chair with the word Aspett’. Aspett’ she shrieked again and again as she ran between the dancers, one of whom she caused to fall over. She did not turn to apologize but continued running, her cries of Aspett’ increasing in volume. We did as she ordered, and waited. When she returned, breathless, it was in the company of the bride and bridegroom and their parents. They rushed to embrace Uncle Rudolf, to pat his back, to shake his hands. They implored him to sing. He replied that his voice was a shadow of its former self, and the bridegroom responded by saying that the gentleman’s shadow would be very welcome. My uncle, draining his glass, nodded assent.
I watched, entranced, as they dragged him over the dance floor to the smiling band. He had no means of escape. Somebody’s father – the bride’s or groom’s, I forget which – took hold of a microphone and asked for silence. The famous Signor Rudolfo from Vienna was going to sing for them. It was their great fortune he was visiting Sapri that evening. Sapri was not a place great singers came to, but here he was, in the flesh, and would they greet him?
The microphone was switched off, at my uncle’s request. He sang a few notes of Funiculi, funiculà before the pianist began to accompany him. He basked in the generous applause that followed. Then, elated, he broke into – literally, broke into – E lucevan le stelle from Puccini’s Tosca. He had never played Cavaradossi on stage, but here – in this remote seaport in Southern Italy – he was singing of stars brightly shining, as indeed they were at that very moment. He gave, unaccompanied, the most beautiful rendering of Dalla sua pace I’d ever heard in all the years he had been singing it for me, and then came the Romanian song about the Carpathian shepherd sighing for love of the dead girl in the snow. When he reached the end, the wedding guests were too moved to applaud immediately. Uncle Rudolf bowed and bowed and blew kisses to his unexpected audience and with a cry of Basta, grazie he stepped down from the dais.
He was weeping with joy while his ebullient admirers surrounded him. The bride, Giuliana, and the groom, Piero, thanked him fulsomely, and soon he was sitting between them at the head table, the absolute guest of honour. He had sung, in Sapri, the music he felt he should have sung in Paris, London and New York, and now he was being fêted by people who would not have heard his voice – his angel’s voice – in any of the great opera houses. He had achieved an absurd, but genuine, recognition. I saw that he glowed. He beckoned me to him with a flamboyant, drunken gesture, and introduced me, his handsome and clever nephew, to the new husband and wife. I listened as he talked of his time in Nice, understanding most of what he said, having heard it so often in English. He spoke without a trace of his usual sadness, making everyone near him laugh with his impersonation of Koko’s critical screech. The parents knew nothing of Jean de Reszke – Caruso, yes; Gigli, yes – so Uncle Rudolf described him, emphasizing the master’s delight in the word ‘belly’, and his habit of singing snatches from his greatest roles between cigars. La fleur que tu m’avais jetée sang my uncle, the Don José who never was, rising from his chair and swaying slightly. There was more applause, more backslapping, and yet more wine for Signor Rudolfo of Vienna to drink.
Who will ever read what I write next? Only my son, perhaps, before he burns or throws away these pages. In the early hours of that Sunday morning in the summer of 1960, I steered my uncle in the direction of the hotel. Our progress up the stairs leading to the attic was long and arduous, since he was now almost incapable of movement. I remember that I pulled him up the very last flight and dragged him into the room. I lifted him up from the floor and somehow got him on to the bed, where I undressed him. He was laughing an idiot’s laugh as I removed his shoes, socks and trousers.
—Allow me to take off my shirt, he mumbled and instantly fell asleep.
He was naked eventually, except for his underpants. Why did I lower him out of them? I suppose I was recalling those warm nights in my childhood when he held the shivering, frightened Andrei in his arms. He had worn nothing then. I was safe from the cruel world of blinding light, wrapped up as I was in his hairiness. I lay down beside him in the Vittoria, and realized that I had not slept alongside him for fifteen years.
He awoke for a second, muttering:
—Buona notte, carissimo.
He attempted to kiss me, I think, but then sleep overtook him.
I lay there, no longer the bewildered Andrei whose Mama and Tata would not turn to look at him. I was a man of thirty, not the little boy so desperately in need of protection. My protector was beside me, snoring loudly. And as I lay there, near to him, I thought of all those countless times I had touched him, expressing silent thanks for the care he had taken of me. I stroked his arm, softly, and realized with something close to terror that I was aching with desire for him. I wanted my uncle to do to me what he had done to Hilde Bernhard and the other women in his life. I wanted him to possess me. I wanted to be his.
I lay there, as still as if I were dead, with the knowledge that I was irreparably in love with Uncle Rudolf and that such a love could not be physically gratified. Not ever. It was doomed to be unrequited. Even so, I moved nearer to him, until our legs were meeting. I lifted the sheet from us, because the room was hot and we were both sweaty. I looked at that part of his body I had only looked at innocently before and saw that it was hard. Was he dreaming of one of his many conquests? I dared to brush it with my fingertips. When it stirred, I withdrew my hand, terrified by what I had done, or might go on doing. I remembered, as I stared at it, that he had once said I had my mother’s beauty, and the ache inside me returned with unbearable force. I lay there beside him, powerless. Then, as I went on staring, listening to his repertoire of drunken snores, I slowly and steadily eased myself. It was all I could do, I reasoned. Anything else was unthinkable.
I left the bed and went to the wash basin, where I gazed on his smiling face with the eyes of a hopeless lover.
I dressed and went out to watch the dawn rising over the bay. I felt radiant and abject by turns. In the first light of a new day, I was aware that I had a secret to keep from my truthful companion.
—Be kind to your uncle, Andrew darling. His head is spinning and his stomach is sending him the kind of alarming messages that are frowned on in polite company. You will have to drive us on to Naples.
—My pleasure, I said. That will be my pleasure.
—Tell me about the pirate.
—Which pirate would that be?
He knew exactly which pirate I meant.
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—The one in the photograph Tata gave the guard.
—Oh, him. That pirate. His name, if I have to remember it yet again, you scamp, was Shahar. He was the hero of The Balkan Buccaneer.
In the original libretto, my uncle said, the Balkan country of which the swashbuckling Shahar was heir to the throne was called Tragscabia.
—Let’s have a history lesson, Andrew. The ‘T’ is for Turkey, the ‘r’ for Romania, the ‘a’ Albania, the ‘g’ for Greece, the ‘s’ for Serbia, the ‘c’ Croatia and the ‘b’ for Bulgaria. We disposed of Tragscabia at the first rehearsal. Everyone agreed it sounded like a nasty skin disease. After much head-banging, we came up with Balkania as Shahar’s homeland.
—How did he know he was the heir to the throne, Uncle Rudolf?
—He didn’t.
—When did he find out?
—You know the answer. I’ve told you a dozen times at least.
—Tell me again, please.
—There was a sea battle on stage after the second interval, during the course of which I, Shahar, rescued the kidnapped Princess Melina from the clutches of my rival pirate, the wicked Dimitrios, and his evil-looking crew. His ship, The Firebrand, and mine, The Vengeance, collided mid-stage. There was a lot of smoke to disguise the fact that the singer playing Dimitrios was useless at fencing. He had to strike a blow which ripped open my shirt to expose the purple birthmark on my right shoulder. I usually did the ripping myself when the smoke was at its thickest.
—What happened then?
—Well, the Princess Melina, now safely aboard The Vengeance, saw the birthmark and cried out ‘My king! My long-lost king!’ before fainting away from the shock. I, Shahar, brought her back to life with a passionate kiss – which the audience applauded at every performance – and shouted ‘My gleaming cutlass has won the day and the love of Princess Melina!’ to the cheers of my fellow pirates. Is that enough for you, you scamp?
—Yes and no, Uncle Rudolf. I want to hear the silly song.
—Do you? Then you’re a glutton for punishment. Just this once. The Balkan Buccaneer ended, God help me, with your wretched uncle strutting down to the footlights with his bride-to-be and singing – wait for it, Andrew – and singing:
I was a pirate, but now I’m a king,
My ship has come to port –
It’s of freedom and peace and love I sing
As I go to greet my court
Melina will be my dearest wife
And I her carefree spouse –
The Balkanian throne will be ours for life
In that happiest royal house.
Hurrah for Melina, hurrah for me,
The one-time King of the Sea!
Now go to sleep, Andrew.
—Where was the water, Uncle Rudolf?
—Which water?
—The ocean. The sea. How did you get the sea on the stage?
—We didn’t. We had rippling waves on a blue backdrop. That was our Mediterranean. I’ll leave the door ajar, he promised, before kissing me goodnight.
I loved to hear the story of Shahar, the pirate who came to be king of Balkania. My uncle first told it to me when I was eight or nine and repeated it often, at my request, in the years leading up to my adolescence, when he decided that I was too old and too intelligent for it and he too weary to be bothered with the silly song. But that was not the end of The Balkan Buccaneer. On my uncle’s seventy-third birthday, he and I and Bogdan Rangu went to a performance of Bach’s Christmas Oratorio, and afterwards had dinner at a French restaurant in Soho. Uncle Rudolf had been gloomy all day, talking of wasted time and lost opportunities, but the music, the food, the wine and the cheerful company of Bogdan caused him to be happy in an especially lively way. He insisted on Bogdan returning to the house by the Thames for a nightcap. Very late in the evening, over his third or fourth Armagnac, Bogdan announced that of all the nonsensical pieces his dear friend had appeared in The Balkan Buccaneer was his particular favourite.
—Oh, I still chortle when I think of Rudi fighting that duel on the creaking ship. Oh, and that vivid – or do I mean livid? – birthmark.
—Both, Bogdan. It was both.
—And those crinkly waves. And those other pirates, with curtain rings in their ears. Your crew had shiny white teeth, I remember, Rudi, but the crew of your enemy—
—Dimitrios—
—Yes, Dimitrios. He was so fat. His crew had teeth that were black or gold or missing.
—That was to show they were villains.
—Naturally. Evidently. You should have seen it, Andrew. You should have been born a bit earlier so that you could have seen it.
—Uncle told me the story many times, Bogdan. I even know the words to the song he sang at the finale.
—You do? asked Bogdan.
—I bet you don’t.
—Shall we sing it together, Uncle?
—Oh, please, please, Bogdan entreated.
—I’m drunk enough to say yes.
We sang Shahar’s rousing farewell song to my uncle’s unsteady piano accompaniment. I have to say that I had a better command of the lyrics, because he faltered on the line about the Balkanian throne. When we had finished, Bogdan clapped loudly and demanded an encore – which we provided, wordperfect.
—You were wonderful, Andrew.
—And me, Bogdan?
—Hilarious, Rudi. As ever.
—You rogue.
—What a treat for an ancient surrealist. What an absurd and delightful treat.
Bogdan did not attend my uncle’s funeral two and a half years later. He sent me his fondest commiserations and promised faithfully that he would be available for his own cremation.
Of all my uncle’s friends, it was Bogdan I saw most of after his death. We always spoke in French.
—I tried to explain to Rudi that where operetta was concerned the Jews had the last laugh.
—What do you mean?
—Rudi was unhappy to sing that nationalistic trivia because it reminded him of the horrors it presaged. The irony is that the majority of the composers and librettists of operetta were Jewish. They were having fun at the expense of the very people who hated them. And ‘expense’ is the appropriate word. They made a huge amount of money, because operetta – however bad, like The Balkan Buccaneer of blessed memory – was immensely popular. This information, alas, did not ease the pain of your uncle’s old age.
Bogdan’s death, in his ninetieth year, received greater coverage in the newspapers than had Uncle Rudolf’s in 1975. He was hailed as one of the supreme surrealists – more serious, and seriously inventive, than Salvador Dali, and in some ways the equal of René Magritte. His funeral, at a London crematorium, was characteristically anarchic and inspired. The distinguished mourners – artists, writers, exiled poets and philosophers – were pleased to see what looked like television cameras recording the sad event as they entered the Chapel of Rest and took their places for the service. But there was no service, although an obviously drunken clergyman, his left elbow perched on the coffin, sat silent – apart from the odd belch – throughout. Bogdan had issued instructions that a film be shot of his final departure. It would be, he hoped, the crowning artistic achievement of his ridiculously long life.
As soon as the congregation was seated, the doors were shut and the non- or anti-service began. The spluttering laughter of a baby was heard, and this was followed by a boy and girl sharing an hysterical exchange – he saying ‘Don’t be silly’; she ‘Don’t make me laugh’ – which continued until they were both beyond words. The guffaws of some men in a bar or pub came next, above the much-repeated punchline of a dirty joke: ‘The genie thought I was asking for a twelve-inch pianist.’
Bogdan’s dying wish, it transpired, was that the friends, acquaintances and admirers gathered at Mortlake would be so infected by the taped laughter coming at them from every direction that they, too, would be convulsed. They were. The tape finished with a forceful raspberry executed by Bogdan himse
lf, and then the clergyman drained the whisky bottle in his right hand and seemed to pass out. The coffin disappeared to the strains of ‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay’, and everybody rose and cheered.
I hosted the wake in the house that was now mine. We drank surrealist cocktails, created by Bogdan, which the caterers were almost afraid to serve us. The clergyman appeared, completely sober, revealing that he was an actor and that the whisky he had consumed during the bizarre proceedings was cold tea. He now intended to get seriously plastered, and achieved his ambition with surprising speed, thanks to Bogdan’s Franco-Russian Fantasy, a mixture of claret, sparkling Saumur and vodka. I was approached at the buffet table by a young man who introduced himself as Mischa Smith, the founder and manager of Golden Age Records. It was an honour, he said, to be among so many souvenirs of the legendary Rudolf Peterson, whose voice he had first heard as a small boy. He was still entranced by it. He asked me, tremulously, if I was my uncle’s executor.
—I am.
—Would you give me permission to bring out a CD made up of his Vienna recordings?
—I can’t. He never recorded the music he really loved. He wanted his voice forgotten.
—It mustn’t be, Mr Peters. That would be criminal.
After seven months of persuasive phone calls, as well as lunches and visits to the opera, I relented.
—He has to be preserved for posterity. You know he has.
—Hand me the contract while I’m not having second thoughts.
I signed. We toasted the signing with Uncle Rudolf’s champagne.
—Forgive me, I mumbled, out of Mischa’s hearing. I was apologizing for my treachery.
Rudolf Peterson is famous again. No, that’s wrong. He is now celebrated by the discerning people who idolize Jussi Björling, Heddle Nash and Axel Schültz. He has joined the pantheon of lyric tenors. I have brought him home, against his wishes.