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 Boheme 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 distraction 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 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 world-renowned 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 Servizio. 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 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 understand. 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 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 self-indulgent 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 beings 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 see?—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 pontiff’s sister. It would 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 room. He was too late. The lady speaking to Guido surely was the Signora Greenberg. She was very American and, indeed, very well endowed. Her Italian was a little strange, however. Her words were drawn out like yawns, but the lady did not appear sleepy.
“You see, Signore Frescobaldi, the purpose will be to counteract those nasty things the Communists wrote.”
“Oh, yes, please!” cried Guido imploringly. “They were infamous! There is no finer man in the world than my dear cousin, Il Papa. I weep for the embarrassment I caused!”
“I’m sure he doesn’t feel that way. He speaks so well of you.”
“Yes—yes, he would,” replied Frescobaldi, the moisture clouding his blinking eyes. “As children we would play in the fields together, when our families visited. Giovanni—excuse me, Pope Francesco—was the best of all the brothers and cousins. He was a good man even as a boy. Does that make sense? And brains!”
“He’ll be happy to see you again,” said the Signora. “We haven’t scheduled the exact time yet, but he hopes you’ll meet with him for the photographs.”
Guido Frescobaldi could not help himself. Although he lost not a dram of dignity, he wept—quietly, without a sound or a gesture. “He is such a kind man. Did you know that when that terrible magazine came out he sent me a note, in his own hand. He wrote to me: ‘Guido, my cousin and dear friend: Why have you hidden yourself all these years? When you come to Rome, please call on me. We will play some bocce. I put a course in the garden. Always, my blessing, Giovanni.’ ” Frescobaldi dabbed his eyes with the edge of the makeup towel. “Not a hint of anger or even displeasure. But of course I would never disturb so great a personage. Who am I?”
“He knew it wasn’t your fault. You understand that your cousin would rather not have it known that we’re planning this anti-Communist story. With politics the way they are—–”
“Not a word!” interrupted Guido. “I say nothing. I wait only to hear from you and I shall come to Rome. If need be—and I am scheduled to perform—I shall allow my understudy to take my place. The audiences may throw vegetables, but for Francesco, anything!”
“He’ll be touched.”
“Did you know,” said Frescobaldi, leaning forward in the chair, lowering his voice, “that under this moustache of mine, the face is very like my exalted cousin’s?”
“You mean you really look alike?”
“It was ever so since we were children.”
“It never would have crossed my mind. But now that you mention it, I do see a resemblance.”
The stage manager closed the door silently. It had been partially open; they had not seen him and there was no point in interrupting. Guido might be embarrassed; the dressing room was small. So Frescobaldi was going to see his cousin, the pope. Buonissimo! Perhaps he might beseech the pontiff to allocate some funds to La Scala Minuscolo. They could use the money.
The singing was really terrible.
“Aiyee! Al Fatah! Arafat!”
The screaming Palestinian revolutionaries dashed through the exit doors and down the steps to the concrete of Dar el Beida airport. They hugged and kissed each other and slashed at the night air with their blades. One unfortunate had his finger sliced off in the rejoicing, but it did not cause much conern. Under the leadership of Rat Eyes the group made a dash for the fence that surrounded the field.
No one tried to stop them. Indeed, the searchlights were swung in their direction to help them see their way over the fence. The authorities understood that it was desirable for the idiots to leave the field this way. If they walked into the terminal and out through the doors, a large degree of face would be lost. Besides, the quicker they left the better. They were doing nothing for the tourist trade.
The instant the final Palestinian raced out of the aircraft, Sam had lurched into the Air France galley. To no avail. In the midst of crisis, Air France had kept its head—and its financial acumen. The gleaming mental trays were in place for the next contingent of passengers.
“I paid for some goddamned food!” yelled Sam.
“I’m sorry,” said the stewardess, smiling blankly. “Regulations prohibit the serving of food after landing.”
“For God’s sake, we were hijacked!”
“Your ticket reads Algiers. We are in Algiers. On the ground. After landing. There can be no food.”
“That’s inhuman!”
“That is Air Frawnce, monsieur.”
Devereaux staggered through the Algerian customs. He held four American five-dollar bills in his hand, separated as though they were playing cards. Each of the four Algerian inspectors down the line took one, smiled, and passed him on to the next man. No luggage was opened; Sam grabbed his suitcase off the conveyor and looked frantically for the airport restaurant.
It was closed. For a religious holiday.
The taxi ride from the airport to the Aletti Hotel on Rue de l’Enur El Khettabi did nothing to calm his nerves or soothe his agonizingly empty stomach. The vehicle was ancient, the driver more so, and the road down into the city steep and filled with winding curves and hairpin turns.
“We’re terribly sorry, Monsieur Devereaux,” said the dark-skinned desk clerk in overly precise English. “All of Algiers is in a state of fasting until the sun rises in the morning. It is the will of Mohammed.”
Sam leaned over the marble counter and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Look, I respect everyone’s right to worship in his own way, but I haven’t eaten and I’ve got a little money—–”
“Monsieur!” The clerk’s eyes widened in Algerian shock as he interrupted and drew himself up to his full height of roughly five feet. “The will of Mohammed! The way of Allah!”
“Good Lord! I don’t believe my eyes!” The shout came from across the Aletti lobby. The light was dim, the ceiling high. The figure was obscured in shadows. The only thing Sam knew was that the voice was deep and feminine. And deeply feminine. Perhaps he had heard it before, he could not be sure. How could he be sure of anything—at that moment—in such an unlikely spot as an Algerian hotel lobby—during an Algerian religious holiday—in the last stages of starvation. All was beyond sureness.
And then the figure walked through the hazy pools of light, led by two enormous breasts that cleaved the air in majestic splendor.
Full and Round. Naturally; why did he even bother to act surprised? Ten million—thirty million, forty million dollars no longer shocked him. Why should the sight of Mrs. MacKenzie Hawkins, number two?
She pressed the cool, wet towel on his forehead; he lay back on the bed. Six hours ago she had taken off his shoes and socks and shirt and told him to lie back and stop shaking. In truth, she’d ordered him to stop shaking. And while he was at it, to stop babbling incoherently about crazy things like Nazis and chicken droppings and wild-eyed Arabs who wanted to blow up airplanes because they flew where they were supposed to fly. Such talk!
But that had been six hours ago. And during the interim she had taken his mind off food, and MacKenzi
e Hawkins, and some sheik named Azaz-Varak, and—oh my God!—the kidnapping of the pope!
She had reduced the dimensions of the whole insanity to the simpler proportions of a terrifying nightmare.
Her name was Madge; he had remembered that. And she had sat next to him on the bean bag in Regina Greenberg’s living room; and she had reached over to touch him every time she emphasized a point. He remembered that distinctly because each time she had leaned toward him, Full and Round seemed to burst out of her peasant blouse, as they seemed now about to burst out of the silk shirt she wore.
“Just a bit longer,” she said in her deep, somewhat breathless voice. “The desk clerk promised you’d be the first tray out of the kitchen. Now just relax.”
“Tell me again.”
“About the food?”
“No. About how come you’re here in Algiers. It’ll take my mind off the food.”
“Then you’ll just start babbling again. You simply won’t believe me.”
“Maybe I missed something—–”
“You’re teasing me,” said Madge, leaning over dangerously, adjusting the towel. “All right. Short and to the point. My late husband was the leading West Coast importer of African art. His gallery was the largest in California. When he died he had over $100,000 tied up in seventeenth-century Musso-Grossai statuary. What the hell am I going to do with five hundred statues of naked pigmies? I mean really! You’d do just what I’m doing. Try to stop the shipment and get your money back! Algiers is the clearing house for Musso-Grossai—–Now, damn it! There you go again!”
Devereaux could not help himself. Tears of laughter rolled down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s so much more inventive than a sudden London vacation from a philandering husband. Or a gourmet school in Berlin. My God, it’s beautiful! Five hundred naked pigmies! Did you think it up, or did Mac?”
“You’re too suspicious.” Madge smiled gently, knowingly, and lifted the towel from his forehead. “That’s no way to live. Here, I’ll soak this with some cool water. Breakfast should be here in fifteen or twenty minutes.” She rose from the bed and looked over at the window in silent thought. The orange rays of the new day were streaming through the window. “The sun’s up.”
The Road to Gandolfo Page 17