It wouldn’t work this time, and with Tony now home, I didn’t want to talk about why I was so upset over some broken glass, no matter how beautiful and brightly coloured.
It had been nearly fourteen years earlier that I was lounging comfortably on a balcony overlooking one of Rome’s busier streets.
“Marta? Marta! Where are you?” Gerhard bellowed from the doorway of our rented flat.
“Out here,” I answered, putting down my book with a sigh. “It’s the first nice day in so long. I just wanted to enjoy the breeze and warm sunshine.”
We’d been in Rome for nearly two months as my mentor prepared a new production of Rossini’s Semiramide for the Rome Opera. Taking on too much as always, he had designed the sets — and practically built them himself if one took his complaining seriously — and had a big hand in the costume design, as well as, of course, the stage direction. Now he was in the middle of rehearsals and generally came home in a foul mood.
“Come in here please. I want to show you something.”
“Can’t it wait? I’m so comfortable.”
Irritation was clear in his answer. “Marta, please come in here now.”
It sounded as if his meeting that morning with the opera’s management had not gone well. Construction of the sets and costumes was over-budget and still not complete, and with the premiere barely two weeks away, the pressure was on everyone, but mostly on Gerhard. Once, in a moment of anger, when I’d called him an overbearing control freak, he’d looked at me blankly, as if asking, “Who? Me?” It was one of the frustrating anomalies about him, but there was no denying he was a genius at anything to do with opera or singing. I was learning so much from him that putting up with his foibles seemed a small price to pay.
I got off the chaise with one last sigh and walked into the rather dark living room. Gerhard was at the far end, arms behind him, beaming with the guileless expression of a child. He was up to something.
“What?” I asked, coming to a halt.
With a tilt of his head, he indicated I should look down at the marble-topped coffee table to my right just as he flicked on the overhead light via a wall switch behind his back.
The day before he’d had a workman in to change the fixture for something more modern and far brighter than I would have chosen. I’d been told at the time that it was because the room seemed dingy in the evening — even though we were seldom in it after dark.
The subterfuge was laid bare as I followed Gerhard’s eyes down to the surface of the table.
Under the hard light of the halogen bulbs stood a glass vase of such exquisite delicacy and beauty that it really did take my breath away.
The vase looked as if by some miracle the deep blues and greens of the Mediterranean had been magically transformed into glass, still kissed by the gold of sparkling sunshine. If a fish had suddenly leapt out of it, I wouldn’t have been in the least surprised.
I tore my eyes away from this wonder and looked across the room at Gerhard. Finding my voice, I said, “That is the most gorgeous thing I have ever seen.”
“Then it pleases you, ja?”
I’m sure my face screwed up in puzzlement, something he never liked, but this time his expression registered satisfaction.
“What do you mean ‘it pleases me’? Surely you can’t be suggesting —”
“Ja, ja, it is for you. I bought it for you.”
Still puzzled by his extreme largesse, I asked, “But why?”
“Surely I do not need a reason to buy you something beautiful, my dear.”
“But this … It must have cost a fortune.”
His face darkened. “Why cannot you just accept my gift without asking these questions? You do not like it?”
I walked across the room with all the dignity of movement that Gerhard had pounded into me, took his face in my hands, and gently kissed each cheek, punctuating each with a whispered, “Then thank you … thank you … and thank you!” The final kiss was on his mouth — and it was definitely con brio.
Lately Gerhard had become rather distant and cold, and I knew from past mistresses — from whom he never seemed to become completely estranged — that placing distance between himself and his current lover was always the precursor to severing relations. That had been very worrying — I felt I still had so much I could learn from him.
Did I ever love Gerhard enough to want to stay with him always? I still cannot say, even so many years later. When he had chosen me — and an unlikely choice everyone had thought it was, too — then whisked me off to places I’d always dreamed of visiting, it was like finishing school and graduate school rolled into one. He’d taken an unsophisticated Ottawa percussionist with a nice voice and turned her into a (semi) polished opera singer. Of course, we’d become lovers and he’d taught me much there, as well: how to give pleasure and how to take it in equal measure.
There was no denying the man could be infuriating. He might berate you in the harshest terms and five minutes later claim to have done no such thing. At first I thought it was artifice or embarrassment, but I came to realize that Gerhard lived completely in the moment, much like a child. Infuriating, but brilliant, and I wanted to learn all I could from him. In those days, I was on this roller coaster ride and I wanted to just keep going round and round, gaining huge amounts of knowledge. Deep down, I knew I’d be flung off at some point, but I was determined to hang on as long as I could.
We sat on the sofa to observe Gerhard’s lavish present more closely and I snuggled against him. If this was to be a parting gift, it was one to be cherished for a lifetime.
As we watched, Gerhard began undoing the knot holding my robe together. I turned my head so he could kiss me.
We made passionate love right there. Surprisingly, considering his recent horrible moods, Gerhard was very gentle and took his time. I don’t think it had ever been better for me.
Afterwards, laying in each other’s arms, we continued staring at my present.
“It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” I sighed. “What made you buy it?”
“You.”
“I should have stated that a bit better. I meant, why did you buy it for me now?”
He was silent for awhile and I scarcely dared to breathe, figuring I knew what was most likely coming.
“You,” he repeated.
Tony knelt on the floor next to me and smoothed my hair back. “Feeling any better, love?”
I nodded my head carefully. “A bit.”
“Perhaps we can find out who made the vase and they could do up another one for you.”
How do you tell your husband that your most precious possession was the gift of a previous lover, as well your fondest remembrance of him? Even if Tony came up with an exact duplicate of my shattered vase, it could never be the same.
I decided that lying around was not accomplishing anything and that I’d just wasted a good part of the afternoon mooning around over something that couldn’t be made better. Even though Lainey didn’t even hint in that direction, I could tell she was disappointed we hadn’t caught up on our lives since we’d last been together.
“I’m going to take a shower and get dressed. We’ll have to be on our way before too long.”
Lainey and Tony simultaneously said, “And your headache?”
“Still there,” I said over my shoulder. “I’ll take a couple more aspirin. Could someone have a glass of wine ready for me?”
Tony left for the kitchen. “I’ll bring it in to you.”
By the time we got to Tony’s nonna’s house near St. Clair and Dufferin, I was feeling more myself. I wanted this to be a wonderful evening for Lainey, so I pushed my blues into the background and gave Nonna Lusardi my biggest hug as we entered her simple house.
As usual, opera was on her stereo, a recording of Francesca da Rimini, a very un-Italian-sounding work because of its almost Wagnerian orchestration. Tony’s grandmother’s tastes were wide-ranging.
Conversation
around the table that evening was confined to English for Lainey’s sake. The only Italian she was familiar with was musical terms and food names.
And what food it was.
I had long been convinced there wasn’t a better Italian chef this side of the Atlantic, and that evening brought no change to my assessment. Every mouthful was a revelation. It was comical to see Lainey’s eyes roll up nearly every time she took a bite. After a sampling of homemade antipasto and salumi while we all got acquainted in the living room, there were bowls of wild mushroom consommé, followed by my favourite ravioli with rabbit, more mushrooms, and herbs. Then came vitello al limone, with a ragout of fall vegetables, and her feathery-light gnocchi. Dessert was simple: cheese and fruit, but the cheeses were lovely and the fruit at perfect ripeness, definitely bought per oggi.
The shock of the afternoon’s disaster at the condo had drifted to the horizon when Tony brought it crashing back by telling Nonna Lusardi what had happened.
Once more in the living room — all the plastic covers removed for honoured guests — I was seated in a chair next to her. Taking my hands, she said in Italian, “You poor dear! I have marvelled at that vase every time I’ve seen it. Such a tragedy for you, such a tragedy.”
Having once told her the vase’s provenance, and by the way she looked at me, I wondered how much of the “back-story” she’d guessed. I blushed and quickly turned away. I don’t think Tony noticed because of his side conversation with Lainey.
“Where do you perform next?” Nonna Lusardi asked.
“I have to be back in Rome on Monday. We’re in the middle of a run of Tosca, but there was that gala broadcast of Il Trovatore. It’s part of a series of Verdi operas being performed in the opera houses where each was premiered. It’s an interesting idea. I’m doing La Traviata in Venice later this month as the wrap-up to the series. It’s being broadcast throughout Europe.”
“So many Traviatas for you!”
I shrugged. “It seems to have become my party piece, hasn’t it? I’m excited they chose me for the role, considering all the outstanding Violettas running around these days.”
“Who is to be your Alfredo?”
“Ettore Lagorio.”
Nonna’s expression was carefully unreadable, but I knew what she was thinking. With the whole Lusardi family opera mad and with many singers among their number, she was well-connected to all the current backstage gossip.
Lagorio was a talent of the first water, and at thirty-two, just coming into his vocal prime. Problem was, he supposedly knew it, and correspondingly threw his weight around.
“Our conductor is a tough old German bastard. Ebler won’t let him get away with anything.”
“The butting of heads is never a good thing in a production,” was Nonna’s answer.
“One works with the hand one is dealt. There are a lot of tenors with Lagorio’s attitude.”
“Don’t think I didn’t hear that,” Tony said, also in Italian. “Sopranos can be just as difficult and they always seem to get their way, too.”
Lainey looked puzzled, so I translated for her, but into French which Tony didn’t understand.
She threw up her hands, saying, “Singers! You are all a pain in the neck.”
To keep the conversation from getting any more fractured, we all switched back to English and discussed innocuous topics like the latest political crisis in Ottawa, world debt, and global warming. Easy stuff.
As we took our leave a short time later, I bent down to hug Nonna and she whispered in my ear, “I am so sorry about your precious vase.”
I kissed her cheek, but couldn’t say a word.
The next morning, Tony had already left for work when I levered myself out of bed. During the night I’d had a very vivid dream about Gerhard, and while I couldn’t remember much of it, the emotional wash left behind was positive. I took it as meaning that I shouldn’t mourn over something so fleeting as a glass vase.
With a mug of coffee in my hand, I stood looking south out of the living room window at a tiny sliver of Lake Ontario still visible between the St. Lawrence Market and the new condo tower behind it.
I couldn’t decide what to do with my day off. They came so few and far between, it seemed stupid to waste even a moment. To keep my voice fresh and supple, I’d need to do at least some vocalizing a few times this week, but I was determined to do no more than necessary, even though I had the premiere of The Passage of Time staring me in the face not much more than a month off. My brain and body told me a bit of distance from singing would be a good thing at the moment. I’d been going full-tilt since the previous fall.
On my way to the kitchen for more coffee and maybe a slice or two of toast, I stopped in the dining room to look at the cleaned up disaster from the day before. Three of the shelves were gone, there was a huge dent on the top of the buffet where the soapstone bear had bounced off. I’d also lost a number of small knick-knacks, all very nice to be sure, but none nearly as precious to me as the vase. Tony and Lainey wanted me to file an insurance claim, but I didn’t see the point. Money was not the point. I wanted my vase.
I went over to examine the shelves. The original installation had been a pro job and the guy who’d custom made the series of short shelves had sworn up and down that the thick tempered glass and supports would hold weight up to one hundred pounds each. I picked up the dancing bear. He seemed to be around twenty pounds. Why the heck had the shelf underneath him given way after all this time?
In the far corner of the room was a box holding the wreckage of the accident. I found a dark tablecloth and spread it over the dining room table to protect the surface, then began removing chunks of the shelves out of the box.
Fifteen minutes later, the table was half-covered with litter. I couldn’t bear to have the dining room lights on because the brightest one showed the spot where Gerhard’s vase had stood, so I’d brought a floor lamp in from the living room. Its glare made the glass look stark and the edges dangerously sharp.
Most of the chunks were fairly large and it wasn’t difficult to begin fitting them together. By the end of a second cup of coffee, I had the remains of the shelves pretty well laid out.
One of the smaller pieces had something strange about it. A circular chunk of glass about the size of a quarter was missing from it. I hadn’t been able to find the piece that would have fit into it. It must have shattered.
To me it looked as if the glass had been struck with something hard, maybe a hammer. I got up and walked over to my bear — now missing a leg — and picked him up. Strange as it sounded, had somebody slammed one corner into the shelf to break it? If only he could tell me.
When I’d seen the wreckage, the very first thing that flashed through my mind had been the torn blossom on the most recent bouquet of roses I’d received. I knew it was silly, but somehow I’d gotten the feeling the two things were connected.
I shivered as if someone had just run an ice cube up the middle of my back.
Since Tony had planned his work week so we could get the maximum time together, he was home shortly after noon. Our plan was to drive out to the country, enjoy a nice lunch somewhere, maybe walk a bit. We’d both been looking forward to it.
He found me at the table still puzzling over the chunks of the broken shelves.
Picking up one of the larger sections, he said, “Glass is funny stuff. It can look perfectly normal but have a fatal flaw.”
I held up the suspect piece, the one with part of a round chunk missing. “What do you think of this?”
Tony examined it closely. “Looks as if it hit something on the way down.”
“I think it looks as if it was deliberately struck by something.”
“What are you talking about? Who would hit it? I didn’t. You didn’t. Then who?”
Taking a deep breath, I told Tony what I’d been thinking. When I finished, he shook his head.
“Marta, dearest, that’s just crazy. Some guy sends you bouquets and now he’s breakin
g into our condo and smashing things? That’s a huge leap to make. What do you base it on?”
“A feeling. Just a feeling.”
“Because one of the roses was damaged in the most recent bouquet?”
“Well … yes.”
Tony came behind me and put his arms on my shoulders. “Marta, you’ve had a tough few months. You’re overreacting. The shelf just gave way. That’s the start and finish of it.”
“No, Tony. I want to know for sure why the accident happened.”
“For the insurance?”
“No. For my peace of mind. If someone actually got into our apartment yesterday, wouldn’t you want to know?”
“Of course. But no one did.”
I got up from the table and faced him. “Well, I’m not sure!”
“Oh, so you want to be freaked out. Is that it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Marta, the shelf gave way. Drop it. The road you’re headed down leads right to paranoia.”
“Now you think I’m just being paranoid?”
Tony took a deep breath, but didn’t speak.
“Well, dear husband,” I said furiously, “you can just damn well go to hell!”
With that, I turned on my heel, went into our bedroom, and slammed the door, locking it for good measure. Maybe Tony was right, but I certainly wasn’t going to admit it.
Even so, there was a frisson of certainty every time I thought about that last bouquet.
Chapter Three
After twice trying to get me to unlock the door, Tony said one or two more unfortunate things before stomping out of the apartment. It wasn’t as if we’d never had a fight before. Fact was, Tony and I were both hotheads. But we also did really love each other. Sooner rather than later, one of us would hold out the olive branch and all would be forgiven.
He’d probably been right giving me the gears. My hardheadedness has got me into trouble, once to the point of nearly ending my life — Tony’s too.
Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle Page 31