Errant Angels
Page 27
‘It is the hot blood of the Italians,’ replied Fossi.
And there must be quite a lot of it, to fill that, thought Yvonne. She was prevented from saying so out loud by the sudden appearance of the Contessa, who had safely deposited the two Australians in their seats. She was now ready to commence the second half of the programme.
‘Are we ready to start again? Gregorio, you’re first. Then you and Tito in the Bohème duet.’ She nodded at Tito Viale, who had just joined the group. ‘And are you ready for your debut, my dear?’ she continued, smiling encouragingly at the English Rose. ‘“O mio babino, caro” is one of their real favourites. They’ll love it … especially when it is sung by someone who looks as pretty as you do this evening,’ she continued, avoiding looking at the exposed cleavage.
Riccardo Fossi had managed to remove his hand before the Contessa could catch sight of it and was now busy clearing his throat.
‘If the Contessa is ready then I too am prepared,’ announced Gregorio Marinetti as he reached the little knot of COGOL artistes. He seemed to have grown a little and had a decided spring in his step.
‘Goodness … yes, then let us perform,’ she answered, somewhat taken aback by the sudden transformation in Marinetti’s demeanour and outlook. ‘I will play the introduction and then you are on … as usual,’ she said as she turned to resume her place at the piano.
‘Absolutely as usual,’ he replied, beaming.
The Contessa was about to leave the cover of the wings when she suddenly stopped, turned and retraced her steps. Fossi removed his hand from the English Rose’s appealing shoulder for the second time that evening and was, once again, clearing his throat.
‘I almost forgot to remind you about the change in our running order for this half … as we discussed at last night’s rehearsal,’ whispered the Contessa. ‘After the Bohème we perform the Cosi trio. Yvonne, my dear, that’s you, Julietta and Amilcare. Riccardo, you won’t forget to make sure that everyone is ready in the wings in good time, will you?’
‘Please consider the matter already accomplished,’ he replied gallantly. Yvonne Buckingham found both his close proximity and the sensation of being enfolded in the warmth of his voice not unpleasant.
‘Good, my angels, then let us proceed,’ concluded the Contessa as she once again turned and started to walk towards the stage. As she did so, her mind dwelt for a second on the words of the Trio from Mozart’s Cosi fan Tutte – ‘Soave sia il vento’: May the breeze blow gently and may everything be calm. She smiled to herself as she walked into the glare of the stage lights. That is not a bad wish to make, she savoured.
As the Contessa crossed to the front of the stage to descend the steps to floor level and resume her place behind the keyboard, she was greeted by a crescendo of applause from the appreciative audience. She was helped down the short flight of steps by Luigi, who was standing waiting for her. This was a tradition of many years standing and it had become a bond, which drew the two of them together. The Contessa knew that she could never share her son’s world of medical practice, but he was more than welcome to share in her precious world of music.
‘They will applaud even louder for your solo,’ whispered Fossi, his hand once again in the preamble-to-seduction position.
‘They are enjoying our efforts. Listen to that,’ whispered Marinetti, who was standing in front of Yvonne Buckingham, waiting to make his entrance. As he spoke, he smiled at Fossi and Buckingham. It occurred to the former that in the last few minutes, Marinetti had probably said more than he had in the past two weeks of rehearsals. The latter was trying very hard not to look down Marinetti’s front.
‘I feel that this performance is going to be one of my better ones.’
Neither Fossi nor Buckingham had any idea of just how powerful the presence of well over 250,000 euros, in tightly bound bundles of 500-euro notes, could be on a previously depressed and tormented soul, even if those bundles, in the interests of a secure hiding place, had been shoved into a trouser pocket for safekeeping.
42
‘You would have approved,’ said Penelope, La Contessa di Capezzani-Batelli. She was standing in the comfort of her music room looking up at the oil painting of her late husband. ‘I’m sure that you were there, listening.’ She reached up and gently touched the heavy gilded frame. For a split second, she thought that she saw the lips curve into a subtle smile under their captive layer of darkened varnish, but her reverie was interrupted by a soft growling. She turned around and bent down to pat the tussled head of Carlo Quinto, who was sitting on his favourite chair, propped up against a cushion.
‘Yes, I know you’ve been a good boy,’ she said softly, ‘and I’m sorry that I had to leave you with Elizabeth, but there was far too much to do and you would have become very bored.’
The real reason for leaving him at home had been far less charitable: previous attempts to include him in the activities surrounding her concert arrangements had ended in near disaster. People did not take kindly to a bad-tempered, growling dog getting in their way.
‘Anyway, I’m sure that Elizabeth looked after you very well,’ she continued, talking to him as if he were a child.
Carlo returned her gaze with one of deep affection, which, as sincere as it was, barely hid the feeling of rejection he had felt when he had realized that he and the belligerent domestic were destined to be at daggers – or, in his case, fangs – drawn for what seemed an eternity. He yapped twice and started wagging his tail against the cushion. With each swipe, the faintest suggestion of a cloud of dust rose gently into the air.
‘Mummy’s home now and is very tired after her concert … but not too tired to forget to bring you something.’ She crossed to the settee and picked up her sling bag, from which she retrieved a small bundle. ‘You’re going to like these,’ she continued as she unwrapped the paper napkins that contained several slices of salami. ‘These were left over and I knew someone who would like them.’
Carlo yapped again and wagged his tail more enthusiastically as his little nostrils filled with the delicious aroma.
‘And now Mummy is going to sit down and have a rest. It has been a tiring day, but everything went very well. All our efforts have been handsomely rewarded.’
From the comfort of the settee, she watched as Carlo noisily made short work of his treat, then he trotted over to her and climbed up, putting his forepaws on her knees. He seemed to be smiling, showing flecks of salami wedged between his teeth. She laughed and patted him again.
‘You silly boy,’ she whispered, smiling. But as she did so, she thought of something else – something of more profound significance. Just as the dog had shown how much he depended on her for love and affection, so she, herself, had become the virtual mother of her angels through their involvement in COGOL. She thought of Maria Santini, of Tito Viale and their unhappy existences, of Julietta Camore and the barely concealed antagonism that seemed to have suddenly blown up between her and Renata. She thought also of Gregorio Marinetti and his sudden recovery from the depression and gloom that seemed to have stalked him for the past few weeks. Then there was Yvonne Buckingham, who might well fall victim to the handsome Riccardo Fossi; Amilcare Luchetti and his ever-increasing girth. And her own Luigi – when would he find someone?
‘I’ve brought yourself the cherry…’ said Elizabeth, bursting into the music room, carrying a tray on which stood a cut crystal decanter and two sherry glasses. ‘If the conceit was a good one, yourself will be wantin’ the usual tipple to celebrate,’ she said, putting the tray down with a rattle of crystal on the low table, which stood in front of the settee. The Contessa patted the seat next to where she was sitting.
‘Dear Elizabeth … thoughtful, as ever,’ she replied. ‘Would you like to pour … and why don’t you pour one for yourself as well?’
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