Rosanna followed her brother’s gaze and saw Giulio still sitting in the corner, watching morosely as his girlfriend laughed happily in Roberto’s arms. ‘No, he doesn’t,’ she agreed.
‘You would like to dance, piccolina?’ Luca asked.
Rosanna shook her head, ‘No, thank you. I can’t dance.’
‘Of course you can.’ Luca pulled her from her chair and into the crowd of guests who were dancing too.
‘Sing for me, Roberto, please,’ Rosanna heard Maria ask her son when the record stopped.
‘Yes, sing for us, sing for us,’ chanted the guests.
Roberto wiped his brow and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I will do my best, but it’s hard without accompaniment. I shall sing “Nessun dorma”.’
Silence descended as he began to sing.
Rosanna stood spellbound and listened to the magical sound of Roberto’s voice. As it ascended towards the climax and he stretched out his hands, he looked as if he were reaching towards her.
And that was the moment she knew she loved him.
There was thunderous applause, but Rosanna could not clap. She was too busy searching for her handkerchief to wipe away the involuntary tears that had trickled down her face.
‘Encore! Encore!’ everyone cried.
Roberto shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ‘Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, but I must save my voice.’ There was a murmur of disappointment in the room as he resumed his place by Carlotta’s side.
‘Then Rosanna shall sing “Ave Maria”,’ said Luca. ‘Come, piccolina.’
Rosanna shook her head violently and remained rooted to the spot, a look of horror on her face.
‘Yes!’ Maria clapped her hands. ‘Rosanna has such a sweet voice, and it would mean much to me to hear her sing my favourite prayer.’
‘No, please, I . . .’ But Rosanna was swept up in Luca’s arms and placed on a chair.
‘Sing as you always do for me,’ whispered Luca gently to her.
Rosanna looked at the sea of faces smiling indulgently up at her. She took a deep breath and automatically opened her mouth. At first, her voice was small, barely more than a whisper; but as she began to forget her nervousness and lose herself in the music, her voice grew stronger.
Roberto, whose eyes had been preoccupied with Carlotta’s ample cleavage, heard the voice and looked up in disbelief. Surely such a pure, perfect sound could not be coming from the skinny little girl in the dreadful pink dress? But as he watched Rosanna, he no longer saw her sallow skin, or the way she seemed to be all arms and legs. Instead, he saw her huge, expressive brown eyes and noticed a hint of colour appear in her cheeks as her exquisite voice soared to a crescendo.
Roberto knew he was not listening to a schoolgirl perform her party piece. The ease with which she assailed the notes, her natural control and her obvious musicality were gifts that couldn’t be taught.
‘Excuse me,’ he whispered to Carlotta, as applause rang round the room. He crossed the café to Rosanna, who had just emerged from Maria’s enthusiastic embrace.
‘Rosanna, come and sit over here with me. I wish to talk to you.’ He led her to a chair, then sat down opposite her and took her small hands in his.
‘Bravissima, little one. You sang that beautiful prayer perfectly. Are you taking lessons?’
Too overwhelmed to look at him, Rosanna stared at the floor and shook her head.
‘Then you should be. It’s never too early to start. Why, if I had begun earlier, then . . .’ Roberto shrugged. ‘I shall talk to your papa. There’s a teacher here in Naples who used to give me singing lessons. He is one of the best. You must go to him immediately.’
Rosanna raised her eyes sharply and met his gaze for the first time. She saw now that his eyes were a deep, dark blue and full of warmth. ‘You think I have a good voice?’ she whispered incredulously.
‘Yes, little one, better than good. And with lessons, your gift can be encouraged and nurtured. Then one day I can say proudly it was Roberto Rossini who discovered you.’ He smiled at her, then kissed her hand.
Rosanna felt as if she might faint with pleasure.
‘Her voice is so sweet, is it not, Roberto?’ said Maria, appearing behind Rosanna and placing her hand on her shoulder.
‘It’s more than sweet, Mamma, it . . .’ Roberto waved his hands expressively. ‘It is a gift from God, like my own.’
‘Thank you, Signor Rossini,’ was all Rosanna could manage.
‘Now,’ said Roberto, ‘I shall go and find your papa.’
Rosanna glanced up and saw that several guests were looking at her with the same warmth and admiration usually reserved for Carlotta.
A glow spread through her body. It was the first time in her life that anyone had told her she was special.
At half past ten, the party was still in full swing.
‘Rosanna, it’s time you went to your bed.’ Her mother appeared by her side. ‘Go say goodnight to Maria and Massimo.’
‘Yes, Mamma.’ Rosanna weaved her way carefully through the dancers. ‘Goodnight, Maria.’ Rosanna kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Thank you for singing for me, Rosanna. Roberto is still talking about your voice.’
‘Indeed I am.’ Roberto appeared behind Rosanna. ‘I’ve given the name and address of the singing teacher to both your papa and Luca. Luigi Vincenzi used to coach at La Scala and a few years ago he retired here to Naples. He’s one of the best teachers in Italy and still takes talented pupils. When you see him, say that I sent you.’
‘Thank you, Roberto.’ Rosanna blushed under his gaze.
‘You have a very special gift, Rosanna. You must take care to cherish it. Ciao, little one.’ Roberto took her hand to his mouth and kissed it. ‘We will meet again one day, I am sure of it.’
Upstairs in the bedroom she shared with Carlotta, Rosanna pulled her nightgown over her head, then reached under her mattress and pulled out her diary. Finding the pencil she kept in her underwear drawer, she climbed onto the bed and, brow furrowed in concentration, began to write.
‘16th August. Massimo and Maria’s party . . .’
Rosanna chewed the end of her pencil as she tried to remember the exact words Roberto had spoken to her. After carefully writing them down, she smiled in pleasure and closed the diary. Then she lay back on her pillow, listening to the sounds of music and laughter from downstairs.
A few minutes later, unable to sleep, she sat up. And, reopening her diary, picked up her pencil and added another sentence.
‘One day, I will marry Roberto Rossini.’
2
Rosanna awoke with a start, opened her eyes and saw it was almost light. She heard the rumbling of the dustcart approaching on its dawn round, then turned over and saw Carlotta sitting on the edge of her bed. Her sister was still wearing her lemon dress, but it was badly crumpled and her hair was hanging dishevelled around her shoulders.
‘What time is it?’ she asked Carlotta.
‘Shh, Rosanna! Go back to sleep. It’s still early and you’ll wake Mamma and Papa.’ Carlotta took off her shoes and unzipped her dress.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Nowhere,’ she shrugged.
‘But you must have been somewhere, because you’re just getting into bed and it’s almost morning,’ persisted Rosanna.
‘Will you hush!’ Carlotta looked angry and frightened as she threw her dress onto a chair, then pulled her nightgown down over her head. ‘If you tell Mamma and Papa I was in so late, I shall never speak to you again. You must promise me you won’t.’
‘Only if you tell me where you were.’
‘All right!’ Carlotta tiptoed across to Rosanna’s bed and sat down. ‘I was with Roberto.’
‘Oh.’ Rosanna was puzzled. ‘What were you doing?’
‘We were . . . walking, just walking.’
‘Why did you go for a walk in the middle of the night?’
‘You’ll understand when you get older, Rosanna,’ Carlotta answered
abruptly as she moved back to her own bed and climbed under the sheet. ‘Now, I’ve told you. Be quiet and go back to sleep.’
Everyone in the Menici household overslept. When Rosanna arrived downstairs for breakfast, Marco was nursing a terrible hangover at the kitchen table and Antonia was struggling to clear up the mess in the café.
‘Come and help, Rosanna, or we shall never be ready to open,’ Antonia demanded, as her daughter stood surveying the debris.
‘Can I have some breakfast?’
‘When we’ve tidied the café. Here, take this box of rubbish out to the backyard.’
‘Yes, Mamma.’ Rosanna took the box and carried it through to the kitchen, where her father, looking grey, was rolling pizza dough.
‘Papa, did Roberto talk to you about my singing lessons?’ she asked him. ‘He said he would.’
‘Yes, he did.’ Marco nodded wearily. ‘But Rosanna, he was only being kind. And if he thinks we have the money to send you to a singing teacher on the other side of Naples, then he is deluded.’
‘But Papa, he thought . . . I mean, he said I had a gift.’
‘Rosanna, you’re a little girl who’ll grow up to make a husband a good wife one day. You must learn the gifts of cooking and home-making, not waste your time on fantasy.’
‘But . . .’ Rosanna’s bottom lip trembled. ‘I want to be a singer like Roberto.’
‘Roberto is a man, Rosanna. He must work. One day, your sweet little voice will help soothe your babies to sleep. That is enough. Now, get that rubbish outside, then come back and help Luca wash the glasses.’
As Rosanna took the box to the dustbins in the yard behind the kitchen, a small tear rolled down her cheek. Nothing had changed. Everything was the same. Yesterday, the best day of her life – when she was somebody special – might as well not have happened.
‘Rosanna!’ Marco’s voice roared from the kitchen. ‘Hurry up!’
She wiped her nose on the back of her hand and went back inside, leaving her dreams in the yard with the rubbish.
Later that day, as Rosanna was slowly climbing the stairs to bed, exhausted by long hours of waiting on tables, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
‘Why do you look so glum tonight, piccolina?’
Rosanna turned and looked at Luca. ‘Maybe I’m just tired,’ she shrugged.
‘But Rosanna, you should be very happy. It’s not every young girl that reduces a room of people to tears when she sings.’
‘But Luca, I . . .’ Rosanna sat down abruptly at the top of the narrow stairs and her brother squeezed in next to her.
‘Tell me what it is, Rosanna.’
‘I asked Papa about the singing lessons this morning and he said Roberto was only being kind, that he didn’t really believe I could be a singer.’
‘Attch!’ Luca swore under his breath. ‘That isn’t true. Roberto told everyone what a beautiful voice you have. You must go to singing lessons with this teacher he suggested.’
‘I cannot, Luca. Papa says he hasn’t got the money for me to go. I think singing lessons must be very expensive.’
‘Oh piccolina.’ Luca put his arms round his sister’s shoulders. ‘Why is Papa so blind when it comes to you? Now, if that had been Carlotta, well . . .’ Luca sighed. ‘Listen, Rosanna, please don’t give up hope. Look.’ He fumbled in his trouser pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. ‘Roberto gave me the name and address of this teacher too. Never mind what Papa says. We will go and see him together, yes?’
‘But we have no money to pay, Luca, so there’s no point.’
‘Don’t worry about that yet. Leave it to your big brother.’ Luca kissed her on the forehead. ‘Sleep well, Rosanna.’
‘Goodnight, Luca.’
As Luca made his way down the stairs and through the café, he sighed at the thought of another long night in the kitchen. He knew he should only be grateful he had a more secure future than other young men in Naples, but he found little pleasure in his work. Entering the kitchen, he went over to the table and began chopping a pile of onions, his eyes stinging from the pungent fumes. As he scraped them into the frying pan, he thought about his father’s refusal to countenance singing lessons for his little sister. Rosanna had a gift and Luca would be damned if he was going to let her throw it away.
On Luca’s next afternoon off from the café, he and Rosanna took a bus up to the exclusive neighbourhood of Posillipo, perched on a hill overlooking the bay of Naples.
‘Luca, it’s beautiful here! There’s so much space! Such cool air!’ exclaimed Rosanna as they stepped off the bus. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
‘Yes, it’s very lovely,’ agreed Luca, as he paused to gaze out across the bay. The shimmering azure water was dotted with boats, some plying a trade, others resting in their moorings close to shore. Looking straight ahead, the island of Capri floated like a dream on the horizon. Following the curve of the bay to the left, he could see Mount Vesuvius brooding in the distance on the skyline.
‘This is really where Signor Vincenzi lives?’ Rosanna turned and looked up at the elegant white villas nestled on the hillside above them. ‘My goodness, he must be rich,’ she added as they started walking up the winding road.
‘I believe his house is one of these,’ Luca said as they walked past several grand entrances. He finally stopped in front of the last one.
‘Here we are – the Villa Torini. Come, Rosanna.’ Luca took his sister’s hand and led her up the drive to the bougainvillea-covered porch which housed the front door. Hesitating out of nervousness for a few seconds, he finally rang the bell.
The door eventually opened and a middle-aged maid peered out at them.
‘Sī? Cosa vuoi? What do you want?’
‘We have come to see Signor Vincenzi, signora. This is Rosanna Menici and I am her brother, Luca.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, I . . . but Roberto Rossini—’
‘Well, Signor Vincenzi sees no one without an appointment. Goodbye.’ The door was closed firmly in their faces.
‘Come, Luca, let’s go home.’ Rosanna pulled nervously at her brother’s arm. ‘We don’t belong here.’
From somewhere inside the villa, the sound of a piano drifted through the air. ‘No! We’ve come all this way and we won’t return without Signor Vincenzi hearing you sing. Follow me.’ Luca pulled his sister away from the front door.
‘Where are we going, Luca? I want to go home,’ she pleaded.
‘No, Rosanna. Please, trust me.’ Luca firmly took hold of Rosanna’s arm and followed the sound of the music, which led them around the side of the villa. They found themselves on the corner of a gracious terrace decorated with large clay pots filled with dusty-pink geraniums and deep-purple periwinkles.
‘Stay there,’ whispered Luca. He crouched down and crawled along the terrace until he came to a pair of French windows, which hung open to let in the afternoon breeze. He peered tentatively inside, then ducked back out of sight.
‘He’s in there,’ Luca whispered as he returned to Rosanna’s side. ‘Now, sing, Rosanna, sing!’
She stared at him in confusion. ‘What do you mean, Luca?’
‘Sing “Ave Maria” – quickly!’
‘I . . .’
‘Do it!’ he urged her.
Rosanna had never seen her gentle brother so adamant. So, she opened her mouth where she stood and did as he had asked.
Luigi Vincenzi had just picked up his pipe and was about to take his afternoon stroll in the gardens when he heard the voice. He shut his eyes and listened for a few seconds. Then slowly, unable to contain his curiosity, he walked across the room and out onto the terrace. In the corner of it stood a child of no more than ten or eleven, wearing a washed-out cotton dress.
The child stopped singing as soon as she saw him, fear crossing her face. A young man, obviously a relative of the child judging by his resemblance to her, was standing next to her.
Luigi Vincenzi put his hands together
and clapped slowly.
‘Thank you, my dear, for that charming serenade. But may I ask what the two of you are doing trespassing on my terrace?’
Rosanna slid slowly behind her brother.
‘Excuse me, signor, but your maid would not let us in,’ Luca explained. ‘I tried to tell her that Roberto Rossini asked my sister to call, but she closed the door on us.’
‘I see. May I know your names?’
‘This is Rosanna Menici, and I am her brother, Luca.’
‘Well, you’d better come inside,’ said Luigi.
‘Thank you, signor.’
Luca and Rosanna followed him in through the French windows. The spacious room was dominated by a white grand piano positioned in the centre of a gleaming grey marble floor. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed untidily with piles of sheet music. On the mantelpiece over the fireplace were numerous framed black-and-white photographs of Luigi in evening dress, his arms round the shoulders of people whose faces looked familiar from newspapers and magazines.
Luigi Vincenzi sat down on the piano stool. ‘So, why did Roberto Rossini send you to see me, Rosanna Menici?’
‘Because . . . because . . .’
‘Because he thought my sister should have proper singing lessons with you,’ answered Luca for her.
‘What other songs do you know, Signorina Menici?’ Luigi asked her.
‘I . . . not many. Mostly hymns I sing in church,’ Rosanna stuttered.
‘Why don’t we try “Ave Maria” again? You seem to know that very well.’ Luigi smiled, sitting down at the piano. ‘Come closer, child. I won’t bite, you know.’
Rosanna moved towards him and she saw that, although his moustache and curly grey hair made him seem very stern, his eyes sparkled warmly under his thick eyebrows.
‘So, you sing.’ Luigi sat down and began to play the opening chords of the hymn on the grand piano. The sound was so different from any other piano she’d ever heard that Rosanna forgot to come in at the right moment.
‘Have you a problem, Rosanna Menici?’
‘No, signor, I was just listening to the beautiful sound your piano makes.’
The Italian Girl Page 2