Golden Icon - The Prequel

by Janet Pywell

  ‘How long ago is it since I last saw you?’ He uncorks a bottle of wine.

  ‘When I was performing Violetta in Verdi’s La Traviata.’

  He has receding grey hair and his pink cheeks are ingrained with deep lines. His movements are quick and his eyes stray constantly to the window as if looking for something or someone.

  ‘That must have been the pinnacle of your career. You were travelling all over the world.’

  ‘It was one opera after the next; Puccini’s Turandot in Barcelona, Verdi’s Luisa Miller in Paris, Strauss’s Ariadne in New York.’

  ‘Weren’t you promoting a new album?’

  ‘Yes, and an operatic documentary on BBC television.’

  He pours a large measure of red wine into a crystal goblet.

  ‘I bumped into you in Covent Garden,’ he says, ‘and, I remember you wouldn’t sleep with me.’ He hobbles over leaning on the back of the chair for support.

  ‘You were drunk and we were divorced.’

  ‘Ah, yes, so we were although I’m surprised that would have mattered.’

  I ignore his jibe and take the glass he offers me.

  ‘And then you messed up. You started taking the naughty stuff.’

  ‘I was under a lot of pressure.’

  He wobbles and grabs the desk. ‘Feckin’ leg,’ he complains.

  ‘How did you do it?’ I ask, keen to change the subject.

  ‘Stupid accident. Two days ago. Tripped in the street. Nearly got hit by a car.’ He tugs his tie loose and unbuttons his shirt. ‘But you look good Josie, you’ve got better looking. Those weren’t flattering pictures of you in the papers a few years ago…’ He sits opposite me and takes a large gulp of wine. ‘I’ve tried coke myself but I like to be in control.’

  I stare out of the window.

  ‘You looked like an angel up there singing in the church today. The Da would have loved it.’ His eyes are tired and bloodshot. ‘You’ve still a fair talent Josie. You’re on great form. Must be the Italian air or is it an Italian lover? You were always a woman with a man in tow, and always a few more waiting in the wings. A pretty woman like you shouldn’t be on your own. You need stability,’ he yawns. ‘Did you never want to get married again? Did you never want children, Josie?’

  I cross my legs.

  A few guests have drifted into the garden to smoke. They have removed their jackets and their laughter comes in through the closed window. Inside the air is stale and heavy.

  ‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘It’s just life and the way things happen. Wrong man at the right time, right man at the wrong time.’ It’s a glib response and one that I had perfected over the years. My heart is beating quickly, I have a feeling he is leading up to something, and I am nervous.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing. Children give you so much happiness but they are a drain on your resources. They cost a fortune but then again,’ he laughs. ‘Then again, you know all about losing a fortune, don’t you?’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘You lost it all? Nothing left?’

  ‘Only fresh air and healthy living.’

  ‘And one last audition for Tosca. The Da always said you were born to play the part. He said you were Tosca. The Da loved you. Then again, you know that too. But we’ll come to that later. Do you remember the Ma? Do you remember Shona? She died soon after we were married.’ He begins to reminisce as if I am not in the room, one memory after another about how we met, our wedding, Shona’s illness, Michael and our life together in Dublin.

  ‘We had it all Josie. Why did you…’

  ‘We didn’t have it all! You wanted a trophy wife on your arm to entertain your clients. You married me for kudos and credibility. You drank heavily and you weren’t even kind–’ My body tenses and I regulate my breathing. I must be careful.

  He leans forward and lowers his voice. ‘The Da helped you. He got your career on track. He was there for you, but you didn’t have to screw him.’

  I feel my face flush.

  ‘The thing is, I’ve got terrible problems, Josie.’ His tone changes and he leans back.

  ‘You’re married to someone else. You should speak to Barbara.’

  ‘Barbara,’ he chuckles. ‘She would kill me if she knew half the truth.’

  ‘I don’t want to know. I have agreed to my part of the bargain. I sang at the funeral, now I want the letter and I want to go home.’

  ‘What’s the rush? You’ll never see me again so hear me out. You’re the only person in the world I can speak to Josie. You see, you’re the only person I trust.’

  ‘I doubt that–’

  He holds up his hand to silence me. ‘They all want something. They’re scavengers. You see, I’m bankrupt.’ He reaches over and replenishes his wine glass. A few drops spill onto the carpet. ‘I’m going to lose everything. All this.’ He waves his arms. ‘The house, the garden, the business, Barbara and the kids…’

  ‘Barbara and the kids?’

  ‘They won’t want to stay with me if I haven’t got money. Don’t get me wrong I’ll be pleased to see the back of Barbara. She’s a money grabbing bitch. She’s not like you Josie. Although you cheated on me you always had a good heart. Even when we separated you had the guts to look me in the eye, and as soon as we could get divorced in Ireland, you did it Josie. You did it, so that I could marry the bitch and make my children my heirs, but what’s it all for? She’ll turn the kids against me and poison them with her lies but I don’t want to lose them. Children are precious.’

  ‘Barbara is your wife.’

  ‘She’s ruthless. She hasn’t shed a single tear. She never got on with the Da.’

  I think of my own tears, I look away and swallow hard.

  He speaks in short staccato sentences. ‘I had it good for so long. I couldn’t build the houses fast enough. Cash in hand. Houses, apartments, rent or buy. You wouldn’t believe it, Josie. People were prosperous, happy and positive. Businesses were booming. Then it just stopped. I had loans like everyone else. I had to pay them back. Interest rates went up.’ The glass topples and wine spills onto his trousers. ‘Shite!’ He flicks the stain with his hand and licks his fingers.

  ‘Did Michael know?’

  He pulls his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Well, that’s the thing.’ Our eyes lock. ‘He always said everything would be all right when he died. There’s a family heirloom.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘So, problem solved,’ I say.

  ‘Well, no, there is a problem, this.’ He smacks the plaster on his leg. ‘I can’t go and get it.’

  ‘So? How long will it be until it’s taken off?’

  ‘Four weeks but I haven’t got that long. The banks are foreclosing on me on Monday.’

  ‘That’s the day of my audition.’ I want to open the window and feel fresh air on my face. It’s like my lungs are being squeezed by an iron fist.

  ‘I need you to go and get the heirloom. It’s in Germany. It’s being looked after by a friend of the Da’s.’

  I have no intention of doing anything else for Seán. ‘Why didn’t Michael give it to you beforehand if he knew you had financial problems?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know, but I do know, it will pay off all my debts.’

  I stare back at him.

  ‘You’ve got to help me, Josie.’

  ‘Me? No! I’m not going to Germany. Get William to go or one of your family–’

  ‘I haven’t told William about it. I can’t trust Barbara or the kids and there’s no-one else.’

  ‘No employee? What about that man I met outside? The Irish Consul?’

  ‘David?’ he laughs. ‘I couldn’t trust David with a thing like this.’

  ‘Why can’t Michael’s friend in Germany bring it here?’

  ‘He’s older than the Da. He’s ninety. I don’t trust anyone else. They would steal it from me.’

  ‘Steal? What is it?’

  ‘I think it’s a very valuable painting. When I w
ent through the Da’s things there were some documents in his desk and I phoned the man who’s looking after it–’

  ‘Even if you do have the painting by Monday you can hardly sell it that quickly to pay off your debts,’ I argue.

  ‘Reggie is the bank manager and if I have some collateral, like the painting, well that’ll give me some time and I can get the bank behind me and on my side while I get it valued.’

  ‘And how do you know it belongs to you?’

  ‘Because I do! Look, Josie, all I want you to do is to fly to Munich. There’s a flight at seven o’clock. I’ve booked you back to Dublin on the first flight in the morning and you can be on the four twenty, flight tomorrow afternoon, to Milan. I’ve got the address and everything.’

  ‘No, Seán. I came over here to sing at Michael’s funeral and to get the letter. You promised me–’

  ‘Ah, now there’s a point. I didn’t exactly promise you–’

  ‘I’m not going.’ I place my untouched wine glass on the table and stand up. ‘Give me the letter.’ I hold out my hand.

  Over his shoulder I see several guests in the garden drinking and smoking, and I recognise Barbara’s tanned suit. She is sipping champagne and I wonder, if he is bankrupt, then who is paying for it all.

  ‘Josie, come on. This is the last thing I’ll ever ask you to do for me. I promise.’ As he stands he grabs my arm. His breath is hot and sweet on my face. He stumbles, grabs my waist and pushes his body against me and his lips brush mine. I turn my head quickly shoving him away. Barbara is staring at us through the window her face is set like cold marble.

  He regains his balance and rests his hip against the desk. His eyes are like cement, hard and dull. ‘I didn’t want to have to do this.’

  He pulls an envelope from his pocket and I recognise my handwriting from thirty years ago. ‘My dearest darling Michael,’ he begins reading.

  ‘No!’ I shout.

  I glance at the window. Barbara is gone.

  He continues, ‘How I miss you. How I dream of your loving touch and your warm lips. Every moment I am separated from you feels like–’

  I lunge for the letter but his hand shoots out and he grabs my throat. ‘Try it, and you’ll never sing Tosca again,’ he hisses. ‘The press love a good story. Remember Karl Blakey? The reporter who stalked you and wrote about your drug habit, and the bust up you had with your German voice coach? Wait until he knows you’ve got the part of Tosca. When is your big comeback, this summer? Is your audition on Monday?’

  I pull from his grip. My eyes are welling with tears. My throat throbs. I swallow and rub my skin. I can’t let Cesare or Raffaelle know about this letter. Glorietta would be thrilled at my downfall, but Nico, Dino or Andrei would never cast me in the role of Tosca. It would ruin the reputation of the new Theatre Il Domo, and I would be finished, forever.

  ‘I’ll give it to Karl.’ He waves his hand in the air. ‘It will be front page news on Monday all around the world. Imagine the headline The Fading-Diva’s Come-back, and they will all read just how much you like cock.’

  I slap his face. ‘You haven’t changed. You’re still the same old slimeball.’

  I am lost. When I run from the house my eyes are blinded by my anger, fear and frustration. I hurry down one leafy lane and into another deserted road, each mansion more remote with high gates, expensive cars, and secluded gardens. I am cursing myself. My stupidity. My head aches and I am thirsty. Eventually my pace slows and I take stock of my situation but I can’t think. I must get the letter. As soon as I heard Seán read the first few words I remembered how graphic I had been in my writing. Thirty years later and I can still recall my love for Michael and the letter, that meant so much to me then, now seems crass and cheap.

  Now Michael is dead.

  I wipe my tears, grip my travel bag and cross the road.

  A car cruises alongside me and I am tempted to hail it, and ask for directions but where will I go?

  The shiny blue Ford, pulls ahead of me and the window comes down. I lean inside to ask the way.

  ‘Long time, no see.’ I recognise the familiar voice. It nudges unpleasant memories to the forefront of my mind and I move quickly away.

  ‘Pretending you don’t know me? Wouldn’t blame you,’ he calls.

  I am disoriented but before I can run Karl Blakey is out of the car and standing in front of me. He’s fatter than he was when I last saw him four years ago. His cheeks are blown out like a gerbil, his green eyes are pink rimmed and small.

  ‘You look good, Josephine. Getting back on your feet?’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you.’ I walk away.

  He follows me. ‘Seán said you were uptight. He tells me you’re making a comeback and there’s a story for me. Tosca is it? You were born to play that role. No-one sings it like you.’

  My throat is dry. ‘I’m not interested in your false compliments. You’ve done your worst. There’s nothing else you can write about me in your seedy magazines.’

  ‘That’s not what Seán says. Besides I’ve got a name for myself now, thanks to you. Whatever I write goes to the biggest newspapers all over the world. I believe Glorietta Bareldo is the new soprano. She’s taking your place. They say she’s a young Monserrat Caballe. Wasn’t she married to the famous artist Raffaelle Peverelli until you appeared in Lake Como?’

  ‘They weren’t married.’

  ‘Sex and drugs. They always sell a magazine. You should know that by now. Anyway, enough of us, Seán asked me to give you this.’ He holds out a package.

  Thinking it’s maybe the letter I glance inside but it’s a boarding card to Munich.

  ‘It’s only ten minutes if you walk that way, you can get the Aircoach to the airport. We all have to make money in the recession. A little story goes a long way. It snowballs as you know.’

  ‘You are an odious little prick,’ I say, and I hear his laughter echoing in my wake as I head in the direction he is pointing; toward the bus stop on the sea front.

  In the airport I phone Seán.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I say, ‘but I want the ginger haired boy who gave me the note at the church, to meet my flight tomorrow morning with the letter, and I will give him the painting. I never want to see you, or have anything to do with you, ever again. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, I promise. Josie I swear.’ I hear the elation in his voice and I hang up.

  If the painting that I am supposed to collect isn’t framed, I will roll it up and it should fit in my travel bag that I will carry onboard. At least I won’t miss the audition on Monday. I change into my summer trousers and blouse and when I go through passport control I notice I have a missed call from Cesare, so I dial his number.

  ‘Ciao, Josephine,’ he says. I imagine him sitting at his piano with glorious views of the Lake, and the curtains blowing in the early evening breeze.

  ‘Ciao, Cesare,’ I reply. ‘I must cancel my rehearsal tomorrow morning.’ And I explain that I must fly to Germany on a family errand.

  ‘But Josephine, we are supposed to practice. You will have no time. Your phrasing needs work, you need more time to sing in the role.’

  ‘I can rehearse on Sunday with you.’

  ‘You should rest your voice, besides Glorietta…’

  ‘Glorietta? What has this to do with her?’

  ‘You know that I coach her too. She is powerful now.’

  ‘So am I. Tosca is in my blood. You know the role is mine.’ My voice is getting louder and it isn’t because he is in Italy that I am shouting. A few people turn to stare. ‘Cesare, you know how much this means to me. I - am - Tosca.’

  ‘If this means so much to you, then you would not have gone to Ireland, would you? If you are not serious about this, then what do you expect? I cannot be at your beck and call. I have many opera singers who want me to be their mentor and who don’t let me down and fly off, pouff, around Europe, at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘It was a friend’s funeral.’

  �
��I know, but this is Tosca, in the new prestigious Teatro Il Domo. This is your big comeback. Carlotta has been on the phone. She wants to be your agent and she has lined up press interviews but Nico Vastano is not going to put up with your diva-like attitude in his theatre. You cannot upset him.’

  ‘I’m sorry Cesare, but I have to go to Germany.’

  ‘You said after leaving Germany the last time, you would never return.’

  ‘I know. Cesare, please, please be patient with me.’

  ‘Bene, call me when you are home and we will see. Ciao Josephine.’

  It takes a few minutes to walk to the boarding gate. Several people are looking at me and I realise tears are pouring down my cheeks. I would never part with the sapphire necklace that I touch at my neck. Michael’s last gift to me. Now he’s dead. Nothing matters. Only Tosca. I must get the role for him. I must sing it for him. For us.

  But I need reassurance. I need support. I have to speak to Raffaelle. I dial his number and imagine it ringing in his villa. When he picks up I hear music.

  ‘Caro,’ I say softly. ‘I miss you.’

  ‘Josephine? Is that you?’

  ‘Sì, I miss you,’ I repeat.

  ‘Sì? I am pleased to hear that.’

  ‘Were you sleeping?’

  I think I hear voices in the background.

  ‘I am painting.’

  ‘Oh?’ I want to ask if he is alone but I don’t. ‘I have to change my flight. I will be home tomorrow evening now.’

  ‘What about Tosca? I thought you were coming home tonight and you were rehearsing with Cesare tomorrow?’

  ‘I promised Seán I would collect something in Germany for him.’

  ‘Germany? You are going to Germany? That’s crazy! And Tosca? You’ve told me for the past two weeks you can’t do anything apart from rehearse. All I listen to is Tosca, Tosca and Tosca, and now Seán asks you to do something for him and you drop everything. I understand you want to sing at the funeral but going to Germany - it’s ridiculous.’