‘Very well. And please, call me Donatella.’
‘So’ – Paolo was in no mood for small talk – ‘what was it you wanted to discuss with me?’
‘I have a suggestion to put to you.’
‘I see,’ Paolo said warily. ‘Pray tell me.’
‘Recently I have come into a little money – a generous gift from my husband. And you know how I regard the scuola di musica as a vital part of the arts here in Milan.’
‘It is indeed a breeding ground for new talent and the opera company would be lost without it,’ Paolo nodded, wondering where the conversation was headed.
‘Exactly. So, I’m thinking of making a generous one-off donation to provide three scholarships for talented pupils whose parents can’t afford the fees. I know at present that you provide an occasional gifted pupil with funds, but that the school’s resources are limited.’
‘This is true. Exactly how much were you thinking of?’
Donatella named the figure.
‘I . . .’ Paolo was taken aback. ‘That’s an extremely large amount.’
‘Ah, here are our Bellinis.’ Donatella lifted her glass. ‘So, will you accept my offer?’
‘It really is a most generous gesture. And what would you . . . ?’
‘What would I want in return?’ asked Donatella. ‘Obviously for the scholarship to be named “Bianchi”, and’ – she paused, fingering the side of her glass – ‘for Roberto Rossini to open the new season at La Scala in a leading role.’
Paolo groaned inwardly. He’d known there would be a price. There always was with a woman like Donatella. ‘I see.’
‘I have followed his career for a number of years now, and I really do think his ability is underused. He has the makings of a star. All my girlfriends agree with me,’ Donatella underlined, as if that settled the matter.
‘And I too believe Roberto Rossini is a very talented performer. But sometimes, Donatella’ – Paolo chose his words carefully – ‘there are . . . things that can prevent certain singers from getting the roles their talent deserves. You are right. He does indeed have the vocal and physical ability to make his mark on the opera world, but his personality . . .’ Paolo sighed. ‘Well, let’s just say he doesn’t help himself.’
‘You mean, you don’t like him?’ Donatella asked him bluntly.
‘No, I assure you that isn’t the problem. I mean that I have issues with him as a member of the company. He’s unreliable, somewhat immature and, I have to say, selfish on stage. There are a lot of his fellow artistes who find him difficult to work with.’
‘But surely all performers can be temperamental? And I know, Paolo, that Roberto Rossini is destined for great things. If not with La Scala, then with some other company. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?’ Donatella eyed him speculatively.
‘I . . .’ Paolo tussled with his conscience. He understood the deal only too well. For this one concession, he’d be able to give three young singers the opportunity to be trained. Finally, he took a deep breath. ‘It just so happens I have scheduled Ernani to open the next season and, in spite of my personal feelings, I have to admit the man in question is perfect for the title role.’
‘There, you see, Paolo, it is fate,’ she encouraged.
‘All right, Donatella,’ he sighed. ‘Roberto Rossini will open the new season.’
‘Wonderful! I’m sure you won’t regret it.’ Donatella clapped her hands together in obvious delight. ‘Just one more thing. You must promise me that Roberto will never know this conversation took place.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Now, shall we order?’
Paolo left the restaurant an hour later. As he walked towards La Scala he wondered how long Roberto Rossini had been having an affair with Donatella Bianchi.
Donatella drove home with a satisfied smile playing on her lips. So, it had cost a great deal of money, but it was a small price to pay to keep Roberto in Milan.
Roberto was given a message that he was to see Paolo de Vito in his office after morning rehearsals. Wondering what it was he’d done wrong this time, but deciding he didn’t care any longer, he made his way up to the artistic director’s office and knocked on the door.
‘Come in.’
Roberto opened the door. ‘You wished to see me?’
Paolo sat behind his desk, his arms folded. He smiled at Roberto. ‘Take a seat, please.’
Roberto did so.
‘I’m thinking of casting you as the lead in Ernani. It will be the opening production of the season. Are you ready for the role, do you think?’
Roberto stared at Paolo in amazement. He was so shocked he couldn’t reply.
‘Well?’ Paolo looked at him expectantly.
‘I . . . why, of course! Since I was a student, it’s been my ambition to open the season here in a title role.’
‘I’m sure. And I’ve decided it’s time you were given your chance. I believe you have what it takes to become a tenor of the first magnitude.’
‘Thank you, Paolo.’ Roberto did his best to look humble, but was barely able to contain his mounting euphoria.
‘I’ve told you of my plan now because we still have four months of the old season left, then the summer sabbatical. This will give you time to study the role. In other words, you have seven months to prove to me I’m making the right decision.’
‘I swear, Paolo,’ Roberto reassured him earnestly, ‘I will work like a man possessed.’
‘But, Roberto, I must warn you, if you let me down, your future with us will be bleak. From now on, no arriving late, no silly antics on stage. Taking a lead role requires commitment at a level you’ve never experienced before. I want you to show me you have the maturity to do it. Do you understand me?’
‘Paolo, if you give me this opportunity, I promise I won’t let you down. Who will be my Elvira?’ Roberto enquired.
‘Anna Dupré.’
‘Magnifico! We work well together, I think.’
‘Only on stage, I hope.’ Paolo raised a warning eyebrow.
‘Of course.’ Roberto had the grace to blush. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m committed at present.’
‘Really?’ Paolo feigned surprise. ‘Let’s hope it stays that way, both personally and professionally. Remember, opening the season at La Scala is one of the biggest honours bestowed on any tenor. If you receive the attention you might when you make your debut as Ernani, I can only hope it won’t go to your head.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well then, that is all,’ he nodded.
Roberto stood up and reached across the table to shake Paolo’s hand vigorously. ‘Thank you, thank you. I shall reward your faith in me, I promise.’
‘Good.’ Paolo breathed a troubled sigh as Roberto left the room. Then he forced himself to remember that all three parties involved had got exactly what they wanted.
Seven months later, Paolo watched from his office window as the seemingly endless convoy of limousines glided across the Piazza della Scala towards the imposing triple arches that formed the grand entrance to the opera house. Uniformed attendants rushed to open the car doors. A fusillade of flashbulbs popped as the passengers stepped out, the female occupants wearing magnificent furs concealing heavy diamond, sapphire and emerald jewellery, their male escorts in immaculate dinner jackets, cummerbunded in richly coloured silk. Television cameras were there to record the most glittering event in the opera calendar, which also heralded the opening of the Milan social season. Police ringed the square, holding back several hundred Milanese all looking expectantly towards the theatre. Even though the December night was cold, with drizzle chilling their bones, at least the notorious fog that could descend on Milan in an instant, blanketing the city and paralysing it, had remained at bay.
Politicians, film stars, models and aristocracy – everyone who was anyone in Italy was here tonight. La Scala’s two thousand seats would be filled by the rich and powerful, and, of course, by the claque in the upper galleries.
The claque, Paolo hated to admit, still existed. It was a system whereby an entrepreneur bought blocks of the cheaper seats and got those to whom he gave them to scream applause at singers who’d paid him handsomely for the privilege, and boo those who hadn’t. Paolo was sure Roberto Rossini would have paid up. He just prayed that the rest of the audience would wish to applaud him of their own free will.
Since announcing Roberto as his Ernani, Paolo had watched the feeding frenzy in the media with trepidation. It was rare to have a talented young home-grown tenor who also looked the part of the handsome hero, and Roberto had undoubtedly added most of Milan’s female journalists to his fan club. He had to admit that Roberto had been a model of dedication and decorum since he’d been offered his big chance. Even Riccardo Beroli, La Scala’s famously temperamental conductor, had begun to warm to him.
Paolo straightened his bow tie and checked his watch. He just had time to see Roberto in his dressing room and wish him luck before the curtain went up.
‘Come in.’ Roberto paused in the middle of an arpeggio as the door opened and Paolo entered the room.
‘How are you?’
Roberto grinned. ‘My stomach, it feels a little strange, but I’m okay.’
Paolo’s eyes fell on a tasteful bouquet of white lilies on the table. ‘How lovely. Who are they from?’ he enquired.
‘Riccardo. He says I can have them on my grave after I’ve been crucified by the critics tomorrow morning.’ Roberto smiled wryly.
‘And the roses?’ Paolo indicated another far more extravagant bouquet taking up most of the small sofa.
‘From a friend,’ Roberto replied lightly.
‘So, I’m off to receive our honoured guests in the audience. If you fail tonight, you fail in front of the most important people in Italy.’
‘Thank you for that reassurance,’ said Roberto drily.
‘Be brilliant,’ Paolo entreated him. ‘Prove to me I was not insane to give you this chance.’
‘I’ll do my best not to let you down.’
‘Good. I’ll be back in the interval. In bocca al lupo, Roberto.’ Paolo gave him the traditional good-luck greeting.
‘Crepi il lupo,’ Roberto returned, rolling his eyes heavenwards.
Paolo nodded and left the dressing room.
Roberto put his head on his knuckles, closed his eyes and sent up a prayer.
‘Make me the best tonight, God, make me the best.’
The atmosphere of La Scala was never so thrilling as on opening night, reflected Paolo as he sat in the staff box, admiring the graceful tiers of gilded balconies that soared from the floor right up to the glorious curved ceiling with its single, elegant chandelier, the discordant sounds of instruments being tuned drifting up from the orchestra pit. He watched the last members of the star-studded audience flutter into the stalls and take their seats like exotic butterflies coming to rest in a flower garden. He looked to his right and saw Donatella Bianchi, resplendent in a low-cut black velvet gown and glistening diamonds, installed next to her husband in their box. There was a burst of applause as Riccardo Beroli took his place on the conductor’s rostrum, bowed to the audience and picked up his baton.
The lights dimmed, the theatre fell silent and the slow, haunting overture of Ernani began. Paolo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was out of his hands now.
By the interval, Paolo knew what he’d suspected for the past few weeks had been confirmed. The packed bar was buzzing with talk of Roberto, who was producing an astounding vocal performance. Even Paolo had relaxed as he’d watched him command the stage, his magnetism eclipsing the other members of the cast.
‘What did I tell you?’ Donatella appeared behind him. She was almost purring with satisfaction.
‘Yes, he’s certainly giving a very good performance.’
‘Ah, but it is more, is it not? He has a magnificent stage presence. You must be a happy man tonight, Paolo. We and La Scala have created a new star.’
At the end of the performance, as Paolo watched Roberto take curtain after curtain, bouquets raining down on him, the deafening applause reverberating around the auditorium, he wondered just what they had unleashed on the world.
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York
As you can imagine, Nico, the night Roberto Rossini sang Ernani was to be the turning point of his career. I still wish to this day that I’d seen him; those who did witness it still remember it. Of course, this propelled Roberto from little-known soloist to a star of the first degree. Over the next few years, every time I opened a newspaper or magazine, there was another photograph or interview with him. After his performances, the stage door was mobbed by his female fans. His private life was as well documented as his professional performances, but his seemingly effortless acquisition of beautiful women only appeared to add to his cachet and increase his appeal.
I followed his career with enormous interest. After his triumphant first night, I’d sent him a note to congratulate him, but he never replied. I understood, of course. I was a young student and he was on his way to becoming one of the greatest tenors of his generation. However, it did not stop me dreaming that one day we would sing the great love duets together. Abi and I would often buy tickets for the upper galleries to watch him. Those nights spurred me on to work harder in my singing classes at school.
I look back on the four years I studied in Milan with great affection. I dedicated myself wholeheartedly to my dream, wishing to justify the faith that had been shown in me by Luca, Luigi Vincenzi and Paolo de Vito. Luca was still involved in his church, watching as it was slowly and painstakingly restored to its former glory. In accordance with Abi’s suggestion, he’d re-formed the church choir and, true to her word, Abi had helped him to recruit and train new members. The two of them spent many hours together, working on and discussing their pet project. And I watched their friendship grow with interest. Luca had also taken a part-time job as a waiter in a café round the corner from our apartment, and many nights Abi and I would join him there to eat, drink wine and gossip about our days.
If I sometimes wondered what Luca wanted from his life, or sensed his restlessness, I never voiced my thoughts to him. Maybe I knew in my heart that his future plans might one day take him away from me and I hated to think of that.
During the summer holidays, both Luca and I returned to Naples. I must admit I found it harder and harder to go back home. For a few weeks every July and August, Luca and I lived in a time warp. He cooked in the kitchen and I waited on tables in the café with Carlotta. She rarely asked me about my new life in Milan and, not wishing to upset her, I in turn asked little about her. I could see she was unhappy, unfulfilled; that her life with Papa and Ella was not the one she’d once dreamt of when she was younger. And maybe I didn’t want her misery to infect my own positivity for the future. If Luca and I were honest, we were both glad when the summers were over and we were able to escape back to Milan and the life to which we both felt we now belonged.
I was twenty-one years old when I graduated from the scuola di musica. I won the gold medal for my year, the highest honour the school had to offer. My voice had become my life, and, while other girls of my age were falling in and out of love regularly, romantic interludes played no part in my daily routine. Maybe if they had . . . well, who knows? I was so very innocent, and totally unprepared for what was to happen to me, as you shall hear . . .
14
Milan, June 1976
‘Rosanna, thank you for coming to see me.’ Paolo smiled warmly as Rosanna walked into his office. ‘Please sit down.’
Rosanna did so.
‘Now, I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you to learn that I wish you to join the opera company.’
‘That’s wonderful news. Thank you, Paolo.’ Rosanna’s eyes glowed with pleasure.
‘Having won this year’s gold medal, you are no doubt aware that we at La Scala are hoping for great things from you. The problem is where to place you in the comp
any. Your voice deserves better than the chorus, but’ – Paolo shifted some papers around on his desk – ‘I’m loath to push you. You’re only just twenty-one, with a career ahead of you that might cover forty years. You must gain maturity and experience before we can put you into the roles your voice warrants. Do you understand what I’m saying, Rosanna?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Rosanna said, nodding.
‘I know you’ve been approached by other opera companies and I presume you’ve been offered roles with them?’
Rosanna blushed, wondering how Paolo had heard. ‘Yes. Covent Garden and the Metropolitan Opera House in New York have both expressed an interest.’
‘Of course, the decision is yours. But, Rosanna, if you stay here with us, Riccardo and I promise to build your future in the way we believe to be best for you. This is our suggestion: that we put you under contract as a solo artiste for the coming season. There are a number of small parts I have in mind for you to sing. But you will not be asked to perform more than two or three times a week. This will give you an opportunity to continue with your singing lessons without putting you or your voice under too much pressure. During this time, Riccardo has agreed to work with you once a week to build and improve your repertoire,’ Paolo explained. ‘I think it would also be a good idea for you to understudy some of the appropriate leading roles in the season. This will give you a chance to play the parts at cover rehearsals and enable you to get the feel of the stage. However,’ Paolo added, ‘it’s doubtful there will be an opportunity to play the roles for real, for, as you know, the process is to swap principal sopranos from within the company if another is sick. But I think the experience will benefit you enormously when, as I hope will happen shortly, you become a leading soloist. So, how does this sound?’ he asked her.
Rosanna couldn’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment at Paolo’s plans. The Metropolitan Opera House had sent her a recent letter offering her a season that included making her debut as Juliette in Roméo et Juliette and Covent Garden had offered equally tempting roles. But Rosanna knew that what Paolo was saying made sense. Besides, this was the man who’d supported her since she was seventeen.
The Italian Girl Page 11