he was not mistaken, steak au poivre.
God was in his heaven and on Air
France as well. Good Lord! Devereaux
vaguely calculated the hours since
he'd eaten: It was nearing thirty-six.
Unintelligible words droned over the
cabin loudspeakers, the 727 taxied out
onto the field. Two minutes later they
were airborne and the stewardesses
went about the business of
distributing the most meaningful
literature Sam could think of: menus.
His order took up more time than
anyone else in thecabin. This was
partially due to the fact that he
salivated and had to swallow as he
spoke. There followed an agonizing
hour. Normally it was not agonizing to
Sam, for it was taken up with
cocktails. But today he could not
drink. His stomach was too empty.
At length, dinner approached. The
stewardess went down the aisle
spreading the miniature tablecloths,
placing the napkin-enclosed
silverware, and reconfirming the
choice 155
of dinner wines. Sam could not help
himself, he kept craning his neck over
the edge of the seat. The scents from
the galley were driving him crazy.
Every odor was a banquet to his
nostrils; the juices ran down his
throat at each recognizable smell.
And naturally it had to happen.
The weird looking Sikh beside him
lunged from his seat and unraveled his
purple turban. Out of the cloth fell
a large, lethal revolver. It crashed
to the deck of the aircraft Rat Eyes
lunged down, retrieved it, and
screamed.
'Aigee! Aiyeel Aigee! Al Fatah! Al
Fatah! Aigee!"
It was the signal; a screeching
symphony of "Aiyees" and "Fatahs"
could be heard behind first class,
throughout the tube of the long
fuselage. From somewhere in his trou-
sers, Rat Eyes pulled out an extremely
long, murderous looking scimitar.
Sam stared numbly. In complete defeat.
So the man wasn't a Sikh. He was an
Arab. A goddamn Bucking Palestinian
Arab.
What else?
The stewardess now faced the
murderous blade, the barrel of the
huge pistol was jammed between her
breasts. She did her best, but the
terror could not be concealed.
"On the wires! On the wires to your
captain!" screeched the Palestinian.
"This aircraft will proceed to
Algeria. This is the wishes of Al
Fatah! To Algiers! Only Algiers! Or
you will all die. Die! Die!"
"Mais, out, monsieur," screamed the
stewardess. "The aircraft is
proceeding to Algiers! That is our
destination, monsieur!"
The Arab was crestfallen. His wild,
piercing eyes became temporary pools
of dull mud, the frustration conveyed
by the tiny dots of questioning chaos
in the center of the mud.
Then the eyes sprang back once more
to the vivid, cruel, violent
exuberance.
He slashed the air with the huge
scimitar and waved the pistol
maniacally.
His demonic, defiant screams were
worthy of shattering the high-altitude
glass, but fortunately did not.
"Aiyee! Aipee! Arafatt Hear the word
of Arafat! Jewish
156
dogs and Christian pigs! There will
be no food or water until we land!
That is the word of Arafat!"
Deep within the recesses of Sam's
subconscious a small voice
whispered: You're Ducked, babe.
157
CHAPItER FIFTEEN
The stage manager winced; two violins
and three horns went sour during the
crescendo of "Musetta's Waltz." The
act s finale was ruined. Again.
He made a note for the conductor who
he could see was smiling blissfully,
unaware of the grating dissonance. It
was understandable: the man's hearing
wasn't so good anymore.
As the stage manager looked out, he
saw that the spotlight operator had
dozed off again; or had gone to the
toilet. Again. The shaft of light was
angled down, immobile, into the pit on
a confused flautist instead of on
Mimi.
He made a note.
On the stage itself was another
problem. Two problems. The swinging
gates into the cafe had been hung
upside down, the pointed tops inverted
so that they vee'd up from the floor,
providing the audience a clear view
behind the scenery where numerous bare
feet were being rubbed and not a few
extras scratched themselves in
boredom. The second problem was the
step unit on stage left; it had become
unhinged so that Rodolfo's leg
plummeted down into the open space
causing his tights to rip up to his
crotch.
The stage manager sighed and made two
more notes.
Puccini's La Boherne was being given
its usual performance by the company.
Mannaggia!
As he finished putting three
exclamation points after his
twenty-sixth note of the evening, the
assistant box-office manager
approached his lectern and handed him
a message.
It was for Guido Frescobaldi, and
because any distrac158
tion was preferable to watching the
remainder of the act the stage manager
unfolded the paper and read it.
Instantly, involuntarily, he caught
his breath. Old Frescobaldi would have
a fit if it was possible for Guido to
have a fit. There was a newspaper
reporter in the audience who wanted to
meet with Frescobaldi after the
performance.
The stage manager shook his head
sadly, recalling vividly Guido's tears
and protestations when the last (and
only) newspaper reporter interviewed
him. There were two reporters
actually: a man from Rome and a silent
Chinese colleague. Both Communists.
It was not the interview that had
upset Frescobaldi, it was the article
that came out of it.
Impoverished Opera Artist Struggles
for Peoples' Culture as Cousin, the
Pope, Lives in Indolent Luxury off the
Honest Sweat of Oppressed Workers!
That had been for openers. The front
page headlined the story in the
Communist newspaper, Lo Popolo. The
article had gone on to say that
diligent investigative reporting on
the part of Lo Popolo's journalists
ever alert to the inequities of
capitalism's unholy alliance with
savage organized religion had
uncovered the crass injustice done to
this look-alike
relative of the
world's most powerful and despotic
religious leader. How one Guido
Frescobaldi sacrificed for his art
while his cousin, Pope Francesco,
stole everyone blind. How Guido
contributed his great talent for the
good of the masses, never seeking
material rewards, satisfied only that
his contributions uplifted the spirit
of the people. So different from his
cousin, the pontiff, who contributed
nothing but new methods to extract
money from the frightened poor. Guido
Frescobaldi was the earthly saint; his
cousin the subterranean villain no
doubt with orgies in the catacombs,
surrounded by treasures.
The stage manager did not know a
great deal about Guido's cousin, or
what he did in the catacombs, but he
did know Frescobaldi. And Lo Popolo's
reporter had etched a portrait that
was somewhat at variance to the Guido
they all knew. But it was this Guido
the world outside of Milan read about.
Lo Popolo stated in an editorial that
the 159
.~
l
shocking story was to be reprinted in
all the Socialist countries, including
China.
Oh, how Frescobaldi had screamed!
His roars had been the protestations
of a thoroughly embarrassed man. The
stage manager hoped that he could
catch Guido during the act change and
give him the message, but it was not
always easy to find Guido during an
act change. And it was useless to put
the note in his dressing room for he
would never see it.
For the role of Alcindoro was Guido
Frescobaldi's moment in the operatic
sun. It was his single triumph in a
lifetime devoted to his beloved
musica. It was proof that tenacity
really did overshadow talent.
Guido was usually so moved by the
events on stage as well as his own
performance that he waddled in a
trance behind the scenery until the
confusion of an act change was over,
his eyes invariably moist, his head
held high in the knowledge that he had
given his all for the audience of La
Scala Minuscolo, the fifth-string
company of the worldrenowned opera
house. It was both a training ground
and a musical cemetery, allowing the
inexperienced to flutter their vocal
wings and the over-the-hill to stay
occupied until the Great Conductor
summoned them to that glorious
festival in the sky.
The stage manager reread the note to
Guido. In the audience that night was
a lady journalist named Signora
Greenberg who wished to chat with
Frescobaldi. He had been recommended
to her by no less a distinguished
source than the United States Army
Information Seruizio. And the stage
manager knew why this Signora
Greenberg included the recommendation
in her note. Ever since the Communists
wrote that terrible article, Guido
refused to talk to anyone from the
newspapers. He had even grown a huge
walrus moustache and beard to lessen
the likeness between himself and the
pontiff.
The Communists were stupid. Lo
Popolo, through habit, was always
picking a fight with the Vatican, but
they soon learned what everyone else
knew: Pope Francesco was not a man to
vilify. He was simply too nice a
fellow.
Guido Frescobaldi was a nice fellow,
too, thought the 160
stage manager. Many a late night they
had divided bottles of wine together;
a middle-aged signaler of cues and the
elder character actor who had given
his life for music.
What a drama was in the real story
of Guido Frescobaldi! It was worthy of
Puccini, himself!
To begin with, he lived only for his
beloved opera; all else was
inconsequential, necessary solely to
keep body and musical soul together.
He had been married years ago. And six
years later his wife had left him,
taking their six children with her
back to her native village near Padua
and the security of her father's not
immodest farm. Though Frescobaldi's
circumstances, which by tradition
meant the circumstances of his family,
had not been destitute. And if his own
income was currently less than
adequate for him, it was by choice not
necessity. The Frescobaldis were
actually quite well off; their
cousins, the Bombalinis, had been
sufficiently wealthy to allow their
third son, Giovanni, to enter the
church, and God knew that took a
little money.
But Guido turned his back on all
things clerical mercantile, and
agricultural. He wanted only his
music, his opera. He badgered his
father and mother to send him to the
academy in Rome, where it was soon
discovered that Guido's passion far
outdistanced his talents.
Frescobaldi had the Latin fire and
the soul, perhaps, but he also
possessed a rotten musical ear. And
Papa Frescobaldi was getting nervous;
so many Guido associated with were non
sono stabile they wore funny clothes.
So at the age of twenty-two, Papa
told Guido to come home to the village
north of Padua. He had been studying
in Rome for eight years; no noticeable
progress had been made. No jobs at
least in music had been offered, no
musical future seemed to hold promise.
Guido did not care, however. It was
the total immersion in things musical
that counted. Papa could not under-
stand. But Papa would no longer pay,
so Guido came home.
The elder Frescobaldi told his son
to marry his nice village cousin, Rosa
Bombalini, who was having a little
trouble finding a husband, and Papa
would give Guido a 161
fonografo for a wedding present. Then
he could listen to all the music he
wished. Also, if he did not marry
Cousin Rosa, Papa would break his ass.
So for six years, while his cousin
and brother-in-law Father Giovanni
Bombalini, studied in the Vatican and
was sent to strange places, Guido
Frescobaldi endured a forced marriage
to the three-hundred-pound bundle of
selfindulgent hysteria named Rosa.
On the morning of his seventh
anniversary, he gave up. He awoke
screaming; he smashed windows, broke
furniture, threw pots of linguini
against the walls, and told Rosa that
she and her six children were the most
repulsive human bei
ngs he had ever
met.
Basta!
Enough was enough!
Rosa gathered the children together
and fled to the village farm; and
Guido walked downtown to his father's
pasta shop, picked up a bowl of tomato
sauce, heaved it in Papa's face and
left Padua forever. For Milan.
If the world would not let him be a
great operatic tenor, he at least
would be near great singers, great
music.
He would clean toilets, sweep
stages, sew costumes, carry spears.
Anything.
He would make his life at La Scala!
And so it had been for over forty
years with Frescobaldi. He had risen
slowly but happily from toilets to
brooms, from stitching to spears.
Finally he was awarded those first few
words on stage Not so much to sing,
Guido! More like talk, you seep and
the sheer openness of his emotion made
him an instant favorite of less
discriminating operagoers. Of La Scala
Minuscolo. Where the ticket scale was
lower.
In his way Frescobaldi became a
beloved fixture as well as a devoted
participant. He was always available
to help in rehearsals, to cue, to
stand in, to recite, and his knowledge
was formidable.
Only once in all the years did Guido
cause any trouble for anyone, and it
wasn't really his fault. That, of
course was the Lo Popolo attempt to
embarrass his cousin, the pope.
Luckily, the Communist writer had not
discovered Frescobaldi's early
marriage to the pontiffs sister. It
would 162
have been difficult for him, however,
because Rosa Bombalini had died of
overeating three decades ago.
Hurriedly, the stage manager made
his way to Frescobaldi's dressing
Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt Page 23