‘What is it you want to do?’ asked the Contessa encouragingly. She was patient and supportive, although she had more than enough to do herself, what with the looming rehearsal and a host of other things to prepare.
Earlier, the Contessa had reached her apartment in the amphitheatre, quite exhausted from the many activities of her day. Her anticipation of a light snack, yet another cup of restorative tea and half an hour with her feet in a soothing basin of hot water laced with lavender oil had been dashed when Elizabeth had met her at the front door.
‘Herself sounded in a right fix, so she did!’ she said as she opened the door for her mistress.
‘Which “herself” would we be talking about then?’ asked the Contessa, who, after all these years and a long day of organizing a concert and chatting to visitors to her beloved city, still found herself slightly irked by her maid’s wonderful ability to be so vague.
‘’Twould be the large one with the low voice. Muttering like an angry swan, so she was. Something about not being able to reverse tonight. So I told her yourself will be ringing her.’
‘You mean Maria not being able to attend tonight’s rehearsal?’ replied the Contessa, automatically correcting the maid’s malapropism.
Elizabeth grunted confirmation.
‘Oh dear…’ replied the Contessa, ‘not again,’ she said, and as usual with appalling timing, she thought. ‘Thank you, Elizabeth.’
The Contessa continued walking into the vestibule as the door was loudly banged shut behind her.
‘Will you be after trellifoaming her now then, before I bring the tea?’.
‘No, I think the tea will have to wait. I fear that I will have to go to Maria and speak to her in person. I had better go straight away.’
‘Of course, I want to sing…’ said Maria Santini softly, as she fidgeted nervously with the teaspoon in the saucer, ‘but I have such anger it causes me to not want to sing … at times,’ she muttered.
‘Then you must sing and beautifully, too,’ replied the Contessa softly, ‘as you always do, my dear. That will defeat the anger.’
‘I find it difficult … to’ – Maria seemed to be searching for the right words – ‘to … understand…’
‘To understand what?’ asked the Contessa, realising that Maria had slowly started to open herself up to the conversation. She knew exactly what was coming next, as an encounter with Maria and her insecurities was nothing new. The therapy of getting Maria back into her comfort zone and out onto the concert platform always took the same route.
Yet another silence engulfed the room and its occupants.
‘…to understand why I did not have the career everyone told me I would have. It is unfair that I should not have had one, when the others I knew did. I saw them again … in that…’ She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the torn remains of Gramophone, which lay on the floor in a tangled heap.
‘Which opera is it this time?’ asked the Contessa, who suddenly feared that the tone of her question leant itself more towards the bored enquiry of a regular occurrence, rather than towards an enquiry of legitimate concern.
‘Carmen … that one … again,’ muttered Maria, her eyes still on the cup that was now half empty, but which still emitted tiny wisps of steam.
She had taken the question at face value. The Contessa felt relieved as she did not want to make a difficult situation more so.
‘Maria, my dear, what happened in Barga was an unfortunate accident… It was nothing against you personally… It could have happened to anyone.’
‘But then why did it happen to me? I don’t understand.’
‘And perhaps you should not try to understand,’ replied the Contessa calmly. ‘Sometimes things happen for a reason which is not yet apparent, or which might never become apparent. It does us no good to look for the answer. If we are truly meant to know the reason why, it will be shown to us without our having to look for it.’
‘But they are not looking for the reason why they have their careers.’
‘My dear, are you taking this all far too much to heart? You do have a career … here in Lucca, with COGOL,’ said the Contessa, pausing. ‘The Istituto Musicale might not be La Scala or Teatro San Carlo,’ she continued, being careful not to include the name of La Fenice, with its painful memories of a blossoming career that never was, ‘but our audiences appreciate our efforts – your efforts and your talent – with the same appreciation and enjoyment. Would you not agree with me, my dear?’
Maria Santini shrugged slightly and slowly nodded her head, but she still stared down at the now empty cup. The two herons moved gently as she heaved an enormous sigh. It was the usual sign that the Contessa was winning the argument.
‘The important thing to remember is that you must live for the moment. You have only the one chance to perform at your best, then the opportunity is gone until the next time. That takes courage, determination and perseverance.’ The Contessa leaned nearer to Maria and continued. ‘The people you remember from an earlier time … the people in the recordings in that magazine … they can sing a piece as many times as it takes before they get a near-perfect performance. You do the same thing, my dear, but you create that near-perfect performance with just a single opportunity and that is the sign of a true artiste. I would suggest that those same loyal supporters of ours, who appreciate our musical talents, will be very disappointed if COGOL’s favourite mezzo-soprano is unable to perform for them tomorrow night.’
‘Do you really think so?’ asked Maria, looking up at the Contessa for the first time since her arrival at the apartment.
‘Of course I do, my dear, and I think you do as well. You do not have to sing in a major opera house to have your performance appreciated by the audience. Besides which, what would your friends in COGOL do tomorrow night if you do not sing? We all rely on each other and we are all just as important as each other. Perhaps they are your true friends … not the people you remember from a previous time.’
The Contessa smiled across the table at Maria, who seemed to be somewhat calmer.
‘Well, if that is what the Contessa truly thinks, perhaps it is important for me to sing tomorrow…’ As she spoke, she reached out and caressed the corner of a box of Carezze, which lay on the table at her elbow. The Contessa had quietly replaced the lid on the remains of its contents when she had sat down to face her troubled mezzo-soprano. Now, as she sat and quietly watched, she knew that, if Maria Santini decided to remove the lid then the case would not yet have been won and further persuasive talking would be necessary.
‘Perhaps I should perform,’ continued Maria, still running her fingers over the corner of the box, ‘if that is what the Contessa thinks is best.’
‘The important thing is what Maria thinks,’ replied the Contessa, ‘and I think that she already knows what the Contessa thinks.’
The room was once again filled with the insecurity of silence.
‘Very well, then,’ said Maria eventually. ‘I will sing for the sake of the concert,’ she said as she pushed the Carezze box just far enough away from her to make it almost unreachable.
The Contessa suppressed any outward signs of her relief. Trying to find a substitute mezzo-soprano who had the necessary repertoire at her fingertips in twenty-four hours would have been a next-to-impossible task.
‘I think you know it will be more for the sake of Maria Santini,’ smiled the Contessa as she stood up and took the cup and saucer to return it to the kitchen. ‘Although, of course, your friends will be very pleased that you can join them in the concert. And, of course, so will I.’
Maria Santini smiled up at the Contessa. The two herons suddenly seemed to be a lot more relaxed in the folds of her gown.
‘So … now I suggest that we prepare ourselves for tonight’s rehearsal,’ said the Contessa over her shoulder, as she made her way through to the kitchen. She felt a sense of achievement at having averted a possible crisis, but she also felt a sense of trepidation. Maria was prone to t
hese bouts of depression, although the Contessa wasn’t quite sure what the exact medical term was for them. What was obviously apparent was that they were occurring with more frequency than before. She had broached the topic with Luigi at one of their weekly suppers – not mentioning anyone specifically of course, but speaking in general terms. He had said that such a condition was usually the result of a mental attitude, rather than the result of anything purely medical. He had confirmed that there was a range of treatments available, depending on the severity of the individual case. It all depended on the mental state of the patient and, in some instances, whether the individual concerned had the ability or the will to realize that something was wrong and had the desire to be guided towards putting that condition right.
The Contessa stood in front of the sink, looking out of the window and down across the Piazza Napoleone. She wondered how long it might be before Maria Santini finally surrendered to her insecurities; either deliberately to get cured, or unintentionally and have the decision made for her.
31
Penelope, La Contessa di Capezzani-Batelli, sat propped up in bed against a pile of pillows, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, with Carlo Quinto snoring gently at the foot of the bed. The rehearsal had gone well enough, including one or two minor slips, thereby confirming the old theatrical maxim of a bad final dress rehearsal leading to a first-class opening night’s performance. The Contessa had thought that Gregorio Marinetti had been on edge – again. Not when he was singing – that had been as pleasurable to listen to as it always was – but when in conversation. He had been like that for the last couple of weeks. She had allowed herself a moment of improper contemplation and wondered if he was having trouble fulfilling the more base side of his nature again. She had heard of the yoga teacher and the course for which Gregorio had signed up, as well as of the disappointment of his thwarted desire; there wasn’t much that did not eventually filter back to the Contessa’s ears. At the rehearsal she had felt a momentary twinge of sympathy for him, although he did look a little better for the exercise.
Why can’t you just be yourself and be who you are? Whilst she could think this, the Contessa would never have dreamt of asking him about it. It was not the situation Maria Santini found herself in, where she exhibited the signs of actually wanting to be helped and those around her who cared could respond. No, Gregorio’s problem was a delicate matter and his sexual preference would have to remain personal and out of bounds. She suddenly thought of Maria’s and Gregorio’s situations in contrast to Renata di Senno and Riccardo Fossi. Subtlety is definitely not their strong point, she mused as she plugged the earpieces into her ears and switched on her Walkman. The strains of the slow movement of Shostakovich’s Second Piano Concerto floated softly into her brain. At bedtime, she preferred something a little more soothing than opera. It helped her to relax after the hectic activity of the day.
She reached out to her bedside table and picked up the book she was reading. As she did so the gold locket that she wore on a chain around her neck swung out from underneath her nightgown.
‘Dear Giacomo,’ she whispered softly over the strains of the music. She caressed the locket lovingly. ‘You would have been pleased with the angels this evening. I think that the concert will be one of our best ever. But, of course, you’ll be there with me and can hear that for yourself.’ She smiled, raised the locket to her lips, kissed it gently and then tucked it back into her nightgown. She then sighed as she thought of their life together – Giacomo’s and hers – how they had had so much to look forward to and had made so many plans together, before it was decreed that she would have to meet the achievement of their aspirations and dreams on her own – for both of them.
‘Good night, my darling one,’ she whispered, before propping the book against her knees and adjusting her glasses.
‘Oh, Elizabeth! You gave me quite a surprise!’ said the Contessa loudly as she suddenly caught sight of the hovering shape of her faithful maid out of the corner of her eye. ‘Did you knock?’
‘As if the very staff of Saint Peter himself was in me hand,’ came the acerbic reply.
‘What was that?’ replied the Contessa, who hadn’t heard clearly over the sound of the music. She removed the right-hand earpiece. ‘What about Saint Peter and his staff? Did Saint Peter have a staff?’
‘I was after saying that… Away with ye. ’Tis of no matter. Where will you be wantin’ this, then?’ she asked, holding out a cup and saucer of steaming liquid towards the Contessa. She shook if she had to carry something for a protracted period; that explained the cocoa in the saucer.
‘Oh, how kind. I’d forgotten all about the cocoa. I think on the bedside table will be quite in order, thank you. It smells appetising.’
‘And I found this in the music room,’ she said, holding up a gold lipstick case in her other hand.
‘What’s that?’ asked the Contessa.
‘’Tis a lipstick. “Whore’s Red” from the look of it. If y’ask me ’tis from the one who sings high – her with all the rings.’
‘You mean Renata?’ replied the Contessa.
Elizabeth made no reply, but stood shaking the cup and saucer in one hand and clutching the offending lipstick between two fingers of the other, as if she didn’t actually want to touch it at all. She had a knowing look in her eyes.
‘I wonder why she forgot to take it with her?’ asked the Contessa.
‘’Tis because she and that smarmy one is havin’ cardinal relations and they couldn’t wait to get out of here and on with it, so they are,’ replied the maid with a deadpan face. ‘’Tis blindingly obvious to those that can see.’
The Contessa was about to reproach her retainer for even suggesting such a thing when she was cut short.
‘On the bedside table, says yourself. Will you be after takin’ care of this thing, or will I be puttin’ it in with the cleaning things in the cupboard?’
The aged retainer shuffled around to the far side of the bed and deposited the cup and saucer with an alarming rattle of the fine bone china. As she did so, Carlo observed her suspiciously through one half-opened eye. The servant certainly did not enjoy the same level of trust and affection as did the mistress.
‘’Tis hot,’ said Elizabeth, stating the obvious in her own inimitable fashion, ‘so drink it now,’ she ordered as she shuffled back around the bed towards the door. ‘I’m now away to me bed,’ she continued, eyeing the Contessa with one raised eyebrow, ‘but not before I’m telling you, herself in the kitchen is going to need a seeing to.’
‘Why?’ asked the Contessa.
‘I’ll not be going into that now; ’tis late and I’m tired. I’m just after telling you for yourself’s information that herself will need a seeing to … and that’s the end of it.’
Elizabeth stood halfway between the door and the bed, a look of triumphant achievement on her face. The Contessa did not have the faintest idea what had seemingly upset her. Besides, it was late and the Contessa was also tired.
‘Very well, Elizabeth, we’ll discuss your concerns in the morning,’ she said, reasonably confident that by that time Elizabeth would have forgotten all about it.
‘I’m away off, then,’ replied the maid as she wheeled, unsteadily, on her heels and shuffled off towards the door.
‘Good night,’ called the Contessa, and plugged herself back into the right-hand earpiece of her Walkman. The Shostakovich had moved on into the final movement, with its uneven seven-in-a-bar beat pattern, which was far too vigorous for so late an hour. The Contessa fumbled with the controls and rewound the tape. Then she picked up her book once again and opened it.
‘Oh!’ she suddenly exclaimed as she was presented with a crumpled envelope held in a gnarled hand. For the second time in as many minutes, the book fell shut again and the earpiece was removed. ‘Yes?’ she asked, her voice tinged with the edge of uncharacteristic annoyance. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Afore I’m off to me bed, I’ll be giving you
this. It came with the post this morning. Yourself was out and about at the time, so I put it in me apron pocket and forgot to give it to ye. Now I’m giving it to ye; then I’m away to me bed. Good night.’ The whole speech was delivered in a single breath.
‘Thank you,’ replied the Contessa who, thanks to Elizabeth’s performance, was now more awake than asleep, ‘and a goo…’ She stopped in mid-sentence as a rather unpleasant aroma caught her nostrils, cancelling out the appealing attraction of the hot cocoa. She glanced down the bed at Carlo, who was snoring softly with both eyes firmly closed, now that the threat of contact with the aged maid had, for the time being, receded.
‘How odd,’ thought the Contessa, sniffing the air gingerly. ‘It certainly wasn’t me …. and if it wasn’t Carlo … Elizabeth?’
A loud click signalled the latter’s departure as the tongue of the heavy lock on the bedroom door shot home.
‘Oh,’ muttered the Contessa for the third time, ‘and she’s gone off with Renata’s lipstick.’
She replaced the earpiece, moved the book further down the bed, reached across to take the saucer in her hand and took a long draught of the still-hot liquid. It was strong, good-quality cocoa and it was sweet, not because the Contessa liked it that way, but because Elizabeth was becoming more and more forgetful when it came to simple matters such as remembering the number of teaspoons of sugar she had stirred into a drink.
‘Oh … well,’ muttered the Contessa for the fourth time, and replaced the cup on the table. She then turned her attention to the crumpled envelope, which had enjoyed most of the day in the confines of Elizabeth’s copious apron pocket. Tearing it open, she removed the contents. Then she flattened out the single sheet of paper, discovered a pair of tickets and started to read.
My Dear Contessa,
I do hope that you will forgive the directness of my approach, but I have always believed this to be the best policy. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Arthur Crowe and I am the founder and musical director of La Banda Inghiltalia. We are a group of keen amateur musicians based in the Pescia area and are about 50% Italian and 50% expatriates, mainly English. That explains our name, which is a contraction of Inghilterra and Italia. Some of our players are former military bandsmen or orchestral players, so our standard of performance is very high.
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