Golden Icon - The Prequel

by Janet Pywell

  I mark a note. A simple detail that I know will make a difference if I ever audition again, and a few seconds later my mobile rings again. I glare as it vibrates on the table its green light flashing. Dusk is falling. I flick on a lamp and answer it.

  ‘Josephine?’ She speaks as though we are good friends. ‘Would you open the door? I’m downstairs. I have to speak to you.’

  ‘Barbara?’ I reply. My hands are suddenly clammy and my voice is hoarse.

  ‘Just open the feckin’ door. I know you’re up there.’

  I move on automatic pilot. I walk from the terrace, through the lounge, downstairs and along the corridor, closing the laundry room door as I pass. At the front door I take a deep breath, pull the lock aside and push the handle down.

  Barbara wears a powder blue designer suit, her blond hair is tied in a clip on the back of her head and her dark eyes are unsmiling. Her teeth are whiter, her face browner, her body thinner.

  ‘How are ya?’ she says with a strong Irish accent, ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’

  I stand aside and she pushes past me.

  ‘Is it straight on?’

  ‘Yes, up the stairs.’ I lock the front door and follow her. She doesn’t wait and I find her standing on the terrace with her back to me.

  ‘Nice view.’ She whistles and picks up a handful of music scores. ‘You didn’t get Tosca did you? But you don’t give up, do you? You’d better get me a glass of something. I could do with a cold drink.’

  ‘Water?’

  ‘Anything alcoholic.’

  ‘Prosecco?’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  From my kitchen window I watch her on the terrace. She stands motionless. Her hands on the railings as she gazes across the lake watching the twinkling lights, just as I have done many, many times. I take my time. I wonder if she has the letter. Would I swap the letter for the Golden Icon?

  I clear away the music scores and place a chilled bottle, in an ice sleeve, on the table with two glasses. I empty green olives into a ceramic dish and salted almonds onto a plate, conscious that we don’t speak but she is watching me. She leans her back against the rails like a boxer waiting for the bell ready to lunge into the ring at her opponent.

  ‘Seán trusted you,’ she says.

  I pour the sparkling liquid and pass her a glass.

  It wasn’t a question so I don’t feel obliged to answer.

  ‘Slainte.’ She sips and leaves a smear of red lipstick along the fluted crystal. ‘He told you about our financial problems, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’ I sit down.

  ‘Seán was very ambitious, but then again, you know that. Sometimes I forget that you were married to him. How long were you together?’

  I shrug.

  ‘How long did your marriage last? A year? Was it a year or less before you ran off with that Romanian?’

  ‘Three years,’ I reply. She mustn’t know about Michael and I feel the tension easing from my body.

  ‘What was his name?’

  I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘The fella who sang with you in Carmen in Barcelona. What was his name?’

  ‘José…, José Raminov.’ I don’t add that he had comforted me after my affair with Michael was over and I was reeling with sadness and confusion.

  ‘Oh? He’s still going. I heard an interview with him on the radio a few months ago. Seán couldn’t stand the man.’ She raises her glass. ‘But then you didn’t care what Seán thought, did you? You haven’t been very lucky as far as men are concerned. You’ve never managed to keep one of your own, have you?’

  ‘I divorced Seán as soon as it was legally possible in Ireland so that you could marry him. You have two lovely children and I hardly think my life is relevant enough to come under such scrutiny. Move on Barbara, it’s all in the past.’

  ‘Ah?’ She pulls out a seat and sits across the table from me. Her eyes flash green like a speckled egg. ‘Michael was good to you too, wasn’t he?’

  My heart skips. ‘It’s no secret that he helped me.’

  ‘He paid your sponsorship to go to Frankfurt.’

  ‘Scholarship,’ I correct her.

  ‘If it wasn’t for Michael you wouldn’t be where you are today.’

  I remain silent.

  ‘Seán blamed him for breaking up your marriage. Michael encouraged you to sing.’

  ‘We married too quickly. We were young. Seán knew I was born to sing.’

  ‘He says you’d never had met that Raminov if you had stayed at home.’

  ‘Don’t make a big deal of the past Barbara, Seán didn’t. He quickly moved on and found you.’ I look directly into her eyes. ‘He had the integrity to keep the respect between us,’ I lie.

  She mustn’t have the letter or she would have used it against me by now. I feel my confidence growing.

  Her eyes are like shards of flint. ‘Well, that’s the thing, now Josephine, isn’t it? It’s your integrity that I am questioning. Seán hadn’t seen you for years but he did trust you. He asked you to do something for him and he trusted you to do it. Even though he’s dead you’ve let him down again. You’ve let us all down this time.’

  I raise my eyebrow.

  ‘I’m not stupid. I know what Seán asked you to do. So where is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The family heirloom. The one he asked you to get for him. You know? The reason you went to Munich. The reason he paid for your ticket. The real reason he wanted you to sing at Michaels’s funeral.’

  ‘He asked me to sing at Michael’s funeral because it meant so much.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘To him, to me - to Michael.’

  Her laugh is a grunt. ‘Michael loved you to the end. He never stopped listening to your music but you soon forgot him when you hit the big time. Jetting around the world, singing, socialising and hob-nobbing with the rich and famous in your coke-fuelled life. You never had time for him then, did you?’

  An image of Michael sitting listening to my music comes into my mind. He has a head of white curly hair, his grey eyes are closed and he has a half smile on his lips.

  ‘Is that why you think Seán asked you to come to Ireland,’ she insists, ‘to sing?’

  ‘He said it’s what Michael wanted and I think that he thought if I sang at the funeral it would add extra credit to his business circle.’

  Her laugh is sarcastic and it irks me. ‘Seán’s bankrupt. Do you really think that asking a has-been opera singer to sing at his father’s funeral would make a difference? No. As always you have delusions, Josephine. You’ve always had them. You think you’re better than you are.’

  I don’t move. I don’t flinch and I barely breathe.

  ‘So where is it?’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘Why do you think he asked you to go to Munich? Did you believe that he trusted you more than anyone; more than me, or his children? Did you not put two and two together or did your ego get in the way again? Josephine the superstar. The opera diva who thinks no-one can live without her. The world needs you, is that what you think? Seán needed you?’

  She reaches for the bottle and refills her glass. The bubbles rise quickly to the top and spill onto the table. ‘Seán’s leg was in plaster,’ she says. ‘He…’

  ‘He fell!’

  ‘He told you that and you believed him.’ She gulps Prosecco and her glass rattles when she smacks it down on the table. ‘It was a hit and run. They were after him. They had threatened Michael and then they came after Seán.’

  ‘Who?’ I inhale through my nose and out through my mouth; slowly and deeply.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘One of Michael’s old war friends, Maximilian Strong. Well, they were no longer friends. They all fell out after the war.’ She leans across the table. ‘Michael told Seán that they found the treasure, hidden in a barn, somewhere near Germany at the end of the war. Family heirlooms he called them
. Each time Seán needed money Michael managed to sell something to bail Seán out.’ She has manicured fingers and soft hands. ‘But this time Michael was frightened.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Whatever it was that Michael wanted to sell, Maximilian wanted it.’

  ‘So why didn’t Michael sell it to Maximilian?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think there was something in the past that happened and Maximilian threatened Michael’s family when the boys were young. I know William has a burn on his forehead as a result of a fire.’ She shrugs and frowns. ‘I think this piece of treasure is worth a fortune and Michael pretended he didn’t have it to save the family but when Seán got into financial difficulties Michael wanted to help.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have sold it through a third party?’ I am thinking of Dieter.

  ‘Presumably whatever it is, brings no-one any luck if they use it for their own gain, but Seán said it’s a scary rumour that someone invented to stop people using it for their own means.’ She gives a tight laugh. There are dark circles under her eyes. ‘But it can’t be worse than what I’ve been through already.’

  ‘How did Michael die?’ I ask.

  ‘It was a heart-attack but a neighbour told Seán an old man with a younger man had left his house earlier. Seán thought they had threatened Michael, put the fear of God into him. He had become quite frail.’

  ‘Did you tell the police?’

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’

  ‘But why now after all these years?’

  ‘Seán thought it was to do with him being bankrupt and needing the money. He couldn’t go himself because of the plaster on his leg, and he wouldn’t let me or the kids go. He said it was too dangerous. When Michael died and Seán was almost run over and killed, he decided he wasn’t going to involve any of the family. You were the only person he could think of who he could trust to go and get the family heirloom, and besides he said, you were dispensable.’

  I sit in silence. My demeanour must fool her. My back is straight and my facial muscles don’t move as the anger and fear rise in me. Her words are going around in my head travelling at chaotic speed, cascading in mini images: Seán in Dublin, Dieter in Munich, and the Golden Icon. I am dispensable.

  A motorbike buzzes past along the coast road and a horn honks, church bells toll across the ravine and it all seems a world away.

  ‘Seán was prepared to risk my life?’ When I look up Barbara is staring at me. There is no sympathy in her eyes.

  ‘So where is it?’ she says. ‘Our family heirloom. It belongs to me and our children.’

  ‘I don’t have it.’

  She picks up an olive. The colour matches her eyes and she places it between her lips. ‘I don’t believe you.’ She speaks with her mouthful. ‘Seán has left me in debt. We need the money. On the night of Michael’s funeral most people had gone home. Seán was upset and more than a little drunk. A young man with a shaved head arrived and they went into Seán’s study. He beat him before he shot him.’ Her eyes are filling with tears. ‘Have you ever lost anyone you love?’

  If only she knew.

  ‘Seán said, he didn’t trust you,’ I say.

  She stands turns her back on me and gazes across the lake. She is silent for a while and when she faces me I see the tears are dried and her eyes are black with anger.

  ‘If you don’t cooperate with me, things will get very rough for you. William suspects that there’s an heirloom or something valuable and he has hired a journalist, a friend of Seán’s to find out what it is.’ She steps toward me. ‘And do you remember Seán’s friend David Mallory?’

  I raise an eyebrow but say nothing.

  ‘He’s the Irish Consul in Milan. He was at Michael’s funeral. He’s working with the Gardaí and they have found documents of Michael’s when he was in the war, and also your flight ticket on Seán’s computer. They know Seán wanted you to go to Germany for him. They know you phoned him from Munich’

  ‘I didn’t know Seán was dead.’

  ‘Maybe you’re working with Maximilian Strong?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘David tells me that they are checking the flight register to see if you took that flight but I wasn’t going to wait. I know you did. Seán told me after you left. He was excited. You were bringing back the family heirloom and all our financial problems would be solved.’

  A trickle of perspiration runs down the spine of my back.

  ‘So let me tell you something. I know Dieter Guzman lives in Munich. He is an art collector and was a friend of Michael’s during the war and was looking after something valuable for Michael. Something we could sell to pay off our debts. I must have it Josephine. It is not yours. Give it to me. Let me take it home and save our house and Seán’s business. It is what Seán and Michael would have wanted. Let their hard work not all have gone to waste.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, ‘but I don’t have it.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Dieter has it.’ The lie falls from my mouth and I feel no sense of shame or guilt. Seán jeopardised my life and my entire career. It was because of his blackmail that I missed my rehearsals and flunked my audition. I am dispensable.

  ‘Dieter wouldn’t give it to you?’

  I shake my head. ‘He wanted to give it to me but I wouldn’t take it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t want to carry a stolen art treasure to Dublin.’

  ‘What is it? A painting?’

  ‘No, a statue.’

  ‘A statue,’ she says with surprise and then with distain. ‘A statue.’

  ‘A Golden Icon.’ I think of it lying in the earth.

  ‘You saw it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her eyes look haunted and tired. ‘I must have it.’

  ‘Then you must get it yourself.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Phone Dieter,’ I challenge, wondering why she hadn’t already.

  ‘He doesn’t answer his phone.’

  ‘That’s why I phoned Seán’s mobile the night he died. I had just left Dieter’s apartment and I wanted to tell Seán that I wasn’t carrying it through customs.’

  ‘So, you never flew back to Ireland?’

  ‘There was no point. That’s why I was ringing Seán, to tell him I was catching the train home to Italy.’

  ‘But you saw this statue? Dieter showed it to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So it does exist? There is a family heirloom.’

  ‘Yes.’ I barely hesitate.

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s a Golden Icon. It’s beautiful. It’s priceless. It is an icon of the Madonna and child sculptured with infinite detail. It is art in its purest form. It is the most amazing piece of treasure I have ever seen. It is based on Michaelangelo’s Madonna of Bruges. It is exquisite.’

  ‘My God,’ she gasps. Her green eyes sparkle, her hand flies to her mouth and in a revered voice she says, ‘It must be worth a feckin’ fortune. I must get it.’

  I shower quickly, dress in a cotton skirt and blouse and add lipstick to my pale face. Barbara’s visit has disturbed me and I have sent her to Munich for no reason. I stand arguing with my reflection in the mirror. ‘Stop looking at me like that. I need time.’ My eyes look tired. ‘Three days. That’s all I need,’ I say aloud.

  I don’t envy Barbara going to Dieter’s apartment.

  ‘You lied,’ I say.

  ‘I had to,’ I argue back.

  I brush my hair add drop-pearl earrings, and ten minutes later I am heading down the steep steps to the village square.

  Luigi’s restaurant is on the corner, on the bend of the main road. It is a blend of stone, oak wood and steel olive green shutters that are tied back to reveal long open windows with views of the pontoon and the lake.

  The terrace tables are full, and inside there are glowing candle lanterns, colourful dried sunflowers, rows of neatly laid wine bottles and a large wall clock.


  I am thirty minutes late.

  Raffaelle sits at our usual table in the corner. He stands and kisses me, pulls out my chair and I settle opposite. He wears a T-shirt and beige trousers, his hair is unruly and his eyes sparkle.

  ‘I was getting worried–’

  ‘You’ll never believe who was here - and who came to my apartment this afternoon,’ I interrupt. Fleetingly I wonder if Barbara left on the last ferry as I advised her to do and I glance around the busy tables to make sure she is not amongst the diners.

  ‘Prosecco?’ He frowns, and lifts the half empty bottle from an ice bucket and pours the clear bubbling liquid.

  We clink glasses. Soft samba music plays a tune I recognise, The Girl from Ipanema, and I smile back at him.

  ‘Let’s order first and then you can tell me. I hope you are hungry. I spoke to Luigi and as well as the usual pizzas he has fresh Salmerino and Alborello.'

  I reach for the menu and we are still discussing the merits of each dish when Luigi comes to our table.

  ‘You’re busy tonight?’ I say.

  ‘It will be worse at the weekend with the opening of the Theatro Il Domo. In Como it is very busy. Everywhere is full. There are television crews, reporters, film stars, everyone has come for the opening. There is no accommodation and all the restaurants are full.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Raffaelle doesn’t look at me. 'Tosca.'

  I study the menu.

  ‘It’s very exciting,’ Luigi continues. ‘Santiago is beside himself. He is so proud of his sister. We are all delighted for her.’

  ‘I’ll have the sun dried Missoltini,' I say.

  Raffaelle orders fresh Salmerino, as well as anti pasta, garlic bread and rocket salad.

  After Luigi leaves Raffaelle leans across the table and takes my hand. ‘There is something I must tell you,’ he says. ‘Things aren’t right.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘At the villa this afternoon, there was a man hanging around.’