Golden Icon - The Prequel

by Janet Pywell

  The audience is mine, as I am theirs. I am once again their Tosca. Scarpia and Cavaradossi grab my hands and we bow together.

  Then I am pushed into the spotlight as a young girl appears with a large bouquet of colourful flowers. I bow a low and deep curtsey, glancing toward the back of the stage. I frown. I think I glimpse Ian but that couldn’t be possible.

  ‘Where is Santiago?’ I shout.

  ‘Who?’ Massimo replies above the noise. ‘I think this is our record curtain call. Seventeen.’

  I run from the stage. In the wings Ian is inching menacingly toward Raffaelle. I call out a warning and Raffaelle turns. I pull the bag from his grip and grab the Golden Icon roughly by the Madonna’s neck.

  Ian lunges at me but I swing the icon and smack it against his head. He stumbles and blood begins dripping from an open wound on his temple.

  Instinctively I grab Raffaelle and push him in front of me onto the stage. We are greeted by a roar of approval and bright stage lights. I have a brief glance of Cesare, Nico and Santiago and I know that this is the right thing to do.

  I will let the world see the Golden Icon and never will she be hidden or denied her rightful place. I hold the Madonna above my head like an Olympic torch.

  ‘The Golden Icon,’ I shout.

  The crowd scream and thump their feet with delight, thinking it is part of the choreography. From the corner of my eye I see Ian, he reaches into his inside pocket and he takes out a gun.

  I pull Raffaelle behind me, so I am standing between him and Ian. There is flash and a loud bang, I turn. Then another, and another and the sound echoes and ricochets around the dome above my head. I glance up thinking the glass is going to shatter and rain down on us all. I cover my head and drop the icon.

  The applause is replaced by screams of fear, muddled noises roar in my head and Raffaelle’s mouth opens wide. Although he speaks I can’t hear his words; footsteps, running, pushing, and a searing pain seeps through my body. Perspiration runs between my breasts. My knees buckle. I am falling, falling, falling slowly until my head hits the floor.

  There is chaos around me but all I see is Raffaelle lying beside me.

  I gaze at him.

  Then I reach out to trace my finger along his cheek, remembering where I slapped him, and although his eyes are open, I know he doesn’t see me. A trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth. The bloody Golden Icon lies between us.

  I fumble for Glorietta’s gift and pull it from my bosom. My fingers are sticky and my body will not move. The lights dim. It gets darker and darker but calmness flows through me, voices recede, ebbing and flowing until it is Michael’s face that is leaning over me. Smiling, loving and welcoming me into his arms.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he says.

  Then the lights go out.

  14

  Chapter 14

  Concealed harmony of contrasting beauties! Floria, my ardent lover, is dark haired. And you, unknown beauty, crowned with blond hair, You have blue eyes, Tosca has black eyes. - Recondita armonia, Tosca

  I wake but my eyes remain closed. The sheets are cool on my skin. There is the sound of ragged breathing and I cough. It hurts. Something tight covers my nose and mouth. My throat is raw and I am reminded of another time and another place. It is easier to keep my eyes closed and my mind blank. I welcome the darkness and in it I search for Michael’s face, his reassurance and calm confidence.

  There are voices in the room beside my bed. ‘She is awake? Josephine?’

  I open my eyes. There are people in the room but it is only Cesare’s face I see. He smiles at me but there are dark circles under his eyes. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my fingers. His voice is husky with exhaustion.

  ‘You will be okay,’ he says. ‘You are going to be fine.’ His hair flops forward into his eyes and then he disappears into darkness and I succumb to an unconscious world.

  When I open my eyes Santiago is sitting in a chair beside the window. Blinds are drawn and I don’t know if it is night or day.

  I don’t care.

  When he sees me move he leans forward resting his arm on the mattress. His normally inquisitive eyes are dark and sad. His voice is softer than I remember. ‘Cesare needed to sleep. He has been with you for two days,’ he says.

  A nurse passes the foot of my bed. She is immaculate in a starched white and blue uniform. When she moves my arm her fingers are dry and cool against my skin. She concentrates on the monitors at my shoulder, readjusts my mask and writes on a clipboard before speaking to Santiago.

  ‘The doctor says two minutes.’ Her voice is deep. She ignores me and does not smile at him as she leaves the room.

  Santiago pulls the chair closer to me. His face is at my level and my eyes do not leave his face. He is sombre and, like Cesare, there are dark circles around his blue eyes and I am reminded of Glorietta’s vivaciousness, her full cheeks and her bright laughter.

  ‘Do you remember what happened?’ he asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘You will recover he says. You will get better but I have some bad news.’

  My eyes fill with tears. I swallow. My throat is dry.

  ‘Water?’

  I nod and very tenderly he removes the mask and places his hand behind me to support my neck. I sip gratefully from a small glass. It’s refreshing and cool and when I am finished I lean back against the pillow exhausted. He watches me silently and I push the mask from my face not taking my eyes from his.

  ‘Raffaelle is dead,’ he says softly.

  I close my eyes pulling the sheet to my mouth and I bite down onto it trying to ignore the memory pulsating in my mind. I see his face lying on the stage beside mine. His glazed eyes staring into death.

  Santiago takes my hand and I am surprised by his gentleness and grateful for his fingers and human contact and my eyes flick open.

  ‘I am sorry.’ He reaches for a tissue and gently dabs my cheek.

  I do not speak but I struggle to sit up.

  Seán is dead. Michael is dead. Raffaelle is dead.

  He pushes my shoulders gently back against the pillow.

  ‘What you did was a very brave thing.’

  My tears continue to fall and I have no idea what he is talking about.

  ‘Do you remember?’

  I move my head. ‘No.’

  ‘You shielded Raffaelle with your body. I have watched it back on camera many times. It was a very protective and selfless act of love.’

  He passes me another tissue.

  ‘Will I tell you what happened?’ His voice is soft.

  I nod my head. It is easier to close my eyes than to see the pain reflected in Santiago’s eyes as he speaks.

  ‘When you warned me that Maximilian Strong was in the theatre I called for reinforcements. We were watching them from the monitors backstage on the screens. ‘I suspected Maximilian had found Raffaelle and he was lying tied up somewhere or even dead. I had men at the lake searching for him. So, we were not prepared when Raffaelle arrived. We didn’t know that he telephoned Cesare and he let him inside the theatre by the stage door.

  ‘During the curtain calls, Ian and Maximilian headed to your dressing room. We thought perhaps they intended to kidnap you but then they saw Raffaelle waiting in the wings. When you came off the stage Ian saw the Golden Icon and he made a grab for it but you hit him. Before we could do anything you had taken the Golden Icon onto the stage and Ian pulled out a gun.’

  ‘I had to…. it is what she deserved.’ I am mumbling, thinking of the Madonna.

  ‘Panic broke out in the auditorium,’ he continues.

  ‘I thought the glass in the dome was shattering and falling down.’ My voice is barely a whisper.

  ‘After you hit Ian with the statue, my men arrived. They grabbed him but in the struggle the gun went off. You were hit and as you fell to the ground he fired again. You tried to protect Raffaelle but he died instantly.’

  He looks into the middle distance
before resuming his conversation. I am replaying the scene in my head, over and over. The curtain calls, the success and Raffaelle lying motionless beside me on the ground. I see his open eyes, his bloodied bushy moustache and his lifeless body.

  ‘We arrested Ian and then we caught Maximilian Strong leaving with the rest of the theatre goers in the chaos that followed.’

  I sink further into my pillow. ‘Thank God you caught them both. They are evil...’

  ‘They are now in prison awaiting trial and possible extradition. There are many crimes against them including the murders of Seán McGreevy and Dieter Guzman.’

  ‘And what about the Golden Icon? Do you have it? Is it safe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Raffaelle stole it but he brought it back to me,’ I say. ‘He did the right thing in the end. He didn’t deserve to die.’ I am thinking of the curse that Dieter told me about.

  ‘He didn’t steal it,’ Santiago whispers. ‘He went and found it.’

  I frown. It doesn’t make sense.

  ‘It was the shepherd boy, Alonso,’ he says.

  I shake my head but a memory stirs.

  ‘Luigi’s cousin has a son called Alonso who is a shepherd boy in the hills. He is a friend of my daughter, Sandra. He said that he met you and Raffaelle up near the Chiesa della Madonna dei miracoli last Tuesday morning, very early, and the next day the sheep were grazing nearby. There had been a storm and the rain had displaced the earth. That’s how he found it. Raffaelle worked out that there was only one person who went up there, so he went to find Alonso, who admitted that he had found it. He told Raffaelle that he was going to tell Sandra about it and he was going to give it to me.’

  ‘All those lost lives,’ I say. ‘If only I hadn’t been so stupid...’

  ‘Don’t think like that, Signora Lavelle. We cannot keep blaming ourselves. I am guilty too. If I had acted quicker, I might have saved Raffaelle and you might still be an opera singer…’ Santiago bows his head and doesn’t return my stare.

  We are silent for a few minutes.

  ‘Who does the Golden Icon belong to?’ I ask.

  ‘The Italian art squad have it now,’ he speaks slowly. ‘They will make the right enquiries and it will be put on show in a museum somewhere, or perhaps it may go on tour or be displayed for a while in Ireland. It will certainly not belong to a secret art collector like Dieter Guzman or used by Ian and Maximilian to pay for drugs and brothels, nor will it be used to pay off a man’s debts in Ireland.’

  ‘You know Barbara?’

  ‘I met her. After the shooting she was with David Mallory from the Irish Consul. Between them they told me the story of the Golden Icon and your trip to Munich. She still believes it belongs to her.’

  ‘What will happen?’

  He shrugs. ‘It is out of my hands. Although technically Michael stole it, I doubt anyone will feel sympathy for her or for her husband.’

  We sit in silence and I close my eyes. After a time when I think he is gone, I open my eyes but he is reading. The newspaper is turned toward the lamp beside my bed, his nose is sharp and his eyes are again inquisitive.

  ‘You had excellent reviews for your performance. Eighteen curtain calls,’ he says. ‘It beats your own record and there would have been more.’

  ‘And Glorietta? How is she?’

  ‘They reopened the theatre on Tuesday. Dino Scrugli and Nico Vastano put a lot of pressure on the right people. They were afraid of losing money and going bankrupt with their first opera.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘She had a tremendous amount of support but after the drama of your performance her reviews were not so good.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem fair.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘I appreciate your honesty.’ My eye lids are heavy.

  ‘She sang at Raffaelle’s funeral.’

  The pristine nurse with the starched uniform enters the room. ‘No more,’ she says. ‘Time’s up, Inspector.’

  I am pleased when she saves me and injects my arm with clear liquid.

  ‘Why did she do it?’ I mumble. ‘Why did she insist that I replace her as Tosca?’ My eyes close and I am encompassed by warm welcoming fog that is soft and comfortable. I think he says, ‘Get well soon, Signora Lavelle.’

  A punctured lung. A punctured lung. She will never sing again. Never sing again. Never sing again.

  These words go around in my head. ‘I will,’ I scream.

  A hand reaches out and clasps my fingers. I open my eyes.

  ‘You were dreaming.’ Cesare’s face is close to mine. He pushes curls from his eyes and smiles. ‘The night-shift is back,’ he says cheerfully.

  I move my body to get comfortable and a searing pain stabs through my chest.

  ‘How bad am I?’

  His eyes have dark flecks of green that I have never noticed before. ‘You are lucky to be alive, Josephine,’ he says sadly, ‘but you will not sing again. The bullet punctured your lung.’

  I turn my head aside so he can’t see the tears that fall from my eyes. They roll onto the pillow and tickle my sore cheek.

  ‘I will call the nurse for pain killers.’

  ‘Tablets or injections will never deaden the pain I feel.’

  ‘Everything takes time.’

  ‘Santiago was here,’ I tell him. ‘Raffaelle is dead.’ I wipe my eyes on the sheet.

  He takes my hands and leans his elbows on the bed. ‘Sí.’

  ‘He didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And how is Glorietta?’

  ‘Not good.’

  I sigh aloud and there is discomfort in my chest.

  ‘They loved each other. They should have stayed together. I should have taken the Golden Icon to Santiago. Raffaelle told me I was stubborn, but I wanted to do the right thing.’

  ‘You did do the right thing.’

  ‘I messed up.’

  ‘You are alive, Josephine. You have your life ahead of you and you can hold your head up high. You protected Raffaelle with your body. And had the police been quicker neither of you would have been hurt. Santiago is filled with guilt, but none of us can lead a life saying, what if this had happened, or what if I had done that. What’s done is done. The past cannot be changed.’

  ‘And Raffaelle? His children? And Glorietta?’ I am filled with despair.

  ‘Think about yourself now Josephine, and concentrate on getting well. Everyone is speaking about you; Nico, Dino, Andrei, Massimo and Carlotta your agent wants to speak to you. The press have hailed you as a hero. There are reporters and television crews outside the hospital. Many fans are keeping vigils outside the window, lighting candles and praying for your recovery. They can’t get enough of you.’

  ‘Poor Barbara, what will she do now she doesn’t have the Golden Icon?’

  ‘She will manage,’ he replies. ‘You have returned the Golden Icon to Italy but the Italian Art Squad are playing it all down. Santiago insists no-one speaks to the press until you are well. You must focus on yourself. You have been recognised in the opera world again. You are a true star - an opera diva - and your talent is assured. Your place in history has been guaranteed along with the greatest.’ He pats my hand. ‘Nico and Dino are even speaking about a bronze statue of you in the foyer of the Teatro Il Domo. Dino is insisting that you go in the hall of fame and you will be with the greatest names of all time. You are reinstated as an icon.’

  ‘It was my final performance.’

  ‘Yes, but your career is not over. You can still be a mentor. Young sopranos will benefit from your advice and experience. You will be able to pick and choose your students and demand your own price. You are famous again. Even the critics say that you are the true Tosca.’

  I turn my head, reach out to the bedside cabinet and pick up Glorietta’s golden charm. I wonder who washed away my blood. Under the still, silent and watchful eyes of the Madonna I am filled with seething anger and frustration.

  It is
dark when I wake and I am alone. I am thinking about the last and only time I was ever in hospital, in London, nearly thirty years ago.

  My mind is lost in the past, and it takes me some time to realise that someone is standing at the half open door staring at me. The shadow looks huge on the wall and it begins to move toward my bed. Although I know Maximilian and Ian are in prison fear sends a shiver through me and I reach for the call button, but I pause at the sound of clicking high heels.

  Glorietta is wrapped in a red pashmina over a simple silver dress, a single string of pearls hang at her neck, and sapphires glisten from her ears.

  ‘Josephine?’ she whispers.

  My voice croaks. ‘Sì, Glorietta.’

  ‘May I sit with you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Are you comfortable? Some water?’ From the bedside cabinet she pours fresh water into a glass and holds it to my lips. I sip gratefully, and lay my head back on the pillow, reminded of Santiago’s gentleness.

  ‘You look lovely,’ I whisper.

  ‘I wish I could say the same to you.’ She pulls the shawl around her shoulders and sits on the chair beside my bed. Her face is covered in the half light. Her hair is swept up in a loose chignon and she smells of fresh air and sweet scent. We share a sad smile and her eyes pierce through the dim light and I believe she can see my soul.

  ‘Tonight was the last night,’ she says. ‘It is all over now.’

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Less eventful than the opening night.’ There are small lines around her bright blue eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘for Tosca. I wish I had–’

  ‘Shush, nothing can be changed. Do not torture yourself.’

  ‘Raffaelle?’ I say. ‘I am so sorry. It was my fault.’

  She passes me a tissue. ‘He told me everything; that you had been blackmailed and you were forced to take possession of the Golden Icon. You had no choice.’

  ‘He loved you.’

  ‘After you left Comaso, he came to the villa. We were together again. You gave him back to me.’