Pliny's Warning

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  The four of them find their seats a few rows from the front, where the orchestra’s larger instruments—double basses, harps and percussion—are already placed around the stage. The theatre fills quickly and Frances looks around for Camilla. A few minutes later she walks down the aisle, arm in arm with the handsome man in the photo. She is wearing a white fur over a white floor-length dress and heads turn as she takes her seat in the front row.

  The lights dim and the musicians file onto the stage, the men in tuxedos and the women in black evening dresses or pants. The four of them are straining to see Pasquale, who is one of the last to walk on, taller than the others, his eyes seeming to search the audience. They clap loudly and he appears to be looking right at them.

  Satore squeezes Frances’ arm. ‘Not a bad debut for a boy from Caserta.’

  The musicians start tuning their instruments then stop and stand as the conductor, a woman in her early thirties, walks to the podium and bows deeply to the audience. Frances notes she is wearing impossibly high stilettos. Pasquale had told Frances the conductor was a tough taskmaster and an up-and-coming star, specializing in Bach. But she had warmed to him and chose him to join the much more experienced soloists.

  She flicks her long red hair, turns to the orchestra, raises her baton and the music starts. Two bars in and the audience erupts in wild applause and whistling. Frances nudges Satore. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Neapolitans love Rossini. He composed many of his operas in this theatre, including William Tell. The overture is a favourite.’

  The clapping subsides and Frances can hear Pasquale and four other cellists playing several slow passages, then the tempo suddenly quickens and the entire orchestra is playing furiously. The sound prompts more whistling and calling from the audience. There’s another lull as the English horn comes to the fore, doleful and haunting. The conductor raises the baton again and brings in all the musicians for the finale, trumpets, horns and percussion filling every crevice of the theatre. As the last notes sound, the audience clap and shout and cheer.

  ‘It’s a nightmare when the audience hates the performance,’ Poppaea says. ‘Then they boo and hiss.’

  Frances shrinks inside. Please don’t let that happen to Pasquale.

  Bach dominates the middle part of the programme and Frances recognizes the music Pasquale had played laboriously over many months in the apartment. Here it all comes alive, boosted by the opulence of the theatre, its pitch-perfect acoustics and a stageful of masterful musicians.

  ‘Finally tonight, I would like to introduce you to a young man who is making his solo debut.’ The conductor has turned to the audience and there’s a hush in the crowd.

  ‘He is a true son of Naples, with a brilliant future ahead of him. Please welcome cellist Pasquale Mazzone, who will be performing ‘The Swan’, the thirteenth movement of The Carnival of the Animals by Camille Saint-Saëns.’

  Applause fills the theatre once more and as it fades, two pianos start playing the first few bars. Poppaea has linked her arm in Frances’ and she can feel her breathing faster as the first notes of Pasquale’s cello soar and swim through the theatre. No one makes a sound as Pasquale becomes one with his magnificent cello, its red hue shining under the stage lights.

  Frances glances at Satore and sees his eyes are moist. She closes her eyes and remembers the first time she heard him playing ‘The Swan’ in the small apartment. The music sweeps her up, and again she pictures a perfect white swan, drifting in a flowing stream, and again she hears a tremendous sadness in the notes, a danger to the swan.

  She opens her eyes again. Pasquale’s eyes are glued to the instrument and he seems to be performing effortlessly. He plays the final notes and the last bars tinkle from the pianos.

  For a few seconds, the auditorium is utterly silent. Then there is an explosion of applause, the audience on its feet, cheering. ‘Bravo. Bravo, Pasquale!’

  The conductor raises her hand and urges him to stand. He walks to the front of the stage and bows deeply. As he does, Frances sees he is sweating profusely and his face is wet and pale.

  The clapping continues. Pasquale bows again. Then he collapses.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Pasquale wakes up in the dark and looks around, for a minute confused about where he is. His dreams had been vivid and stay with him as he sits up in the strange bed. He tries to grab on to them. He is a child again, running around his father with Poppaea chasing him. The images fade and he can’t get them back again however hard he tries. His head is spinning and he is sweating. It’s coming back. He’s fallen asleep at Satore’s place after hours and hours of practice. Too tired to go home, he accepted the invitation to stay for the last few hours until dawn.

  Dawn. He walks to the window and pushes open the shutter. Not quite here yet. A shadowy pall covers the rows of terraced apartments opposite and a garbage truck drives by, its lights flashing.

  So thirsty. He grips his throat and stumbles out of the bedroom into the tiny lounge where he finds the light and creeps past Satore’s bedroom into the kitchen.

  Blast! The tap creaks like an old brass bed as he fills a glass of water, echoing through the apartment. He swallows and almost gags, but at least it slakes his thirst, for now. He walks back into the lounge, turns the light off again and slumps into an armchair.

  Tonight is his night of nights. Before the next dawn, it will all be over, the debut he has craved will be completed. How will the audience react? Please, not booing or slow clapping. That would kill him.

  Why is he so exhausted? Months of tension and endless hours of playing in the build-up to this day could be the reason, but he feels constantly drained, scarely able to drag himself from one place to the next. And now he can’t stomach food he once wolfed down. No one else seems to have noticed, so his playing must be all right. The conductor doesn’t stand on ceremony—she would tell him if his performance was below par. He rubs the palms of his hands. They ache. So do his shoulders, knees, elbows. Shit, why now?

  He returns to the bed to sleep again but the sheets are so tangled he has to shake them out and remake it before he can climb between them and close his eyes. But he cannot sleep. He starts to play each piece of the concert music note by note in his head. Rossini, Bach, Saint-Saëns. Over and over, until he feels giddy, then worse, then nothing.

  He sits up again. Sun is streaming through the window. ‘Hey, sleepy head. You’re awake at last!’

  Satore is standing there, a cup of coffee in his hand. If only he knew.

  ‘Thanks,’ he mumbles, sipping the sickly sweet brew.

  ‘Come on, into the shower, now. You look as if you’ve been shipwrecked.’

  Pasquale turns the tap on hard and waits until the water is as hot as he can stand it. It prickles his skin and soaks into his sore joints. He could stay here for hours. He stoops to wash his thick hair and lets the lather pour down his face.

  Satore has brought him his best towel, large and white and fluffy.

  He mops himself dry, cursing when he sees the deep bruising on his arms and legs, then wraps the towel around himself and walks into the lounge.

  ‘Omelette and orange juice. I’ve made you some breakfast. You’ll need to be strong for tonight.’

  Pasquale dresses and sits with Satore at the table. He skipped dinner the night before, yet he is not hungry. He makes himself eat then stands to leave, cello at the ready.

  ‘Don’t worry about any more practising, you’re already playing brilliantly. Rest up and I’ll see you at the theatre later,’ Satore says, embracing him.

  The bus arrives and soon he is on Corso Vittorio Emanuele. Trailing wearily through the courtyard, he lifts his cello case and struggles up the stairs.

  He hears her footsteps first then Frances Nelson flies down the stairs and nearly knocks him over. How he envies her! So well and fit! He’s glad she’s coming tonight.

  Must rest. He sinks gratefully into his own bed and almost immediately falls into a deep, dreamles
s sleep.

  The alarm on his phone wakes him at four. He showers again and dresses carefully. His suit is freshly cleaned and pressed and Poppaea has bought him a crisp new white shirt and bowtie. He adds his fedora for effect and looks in the mirror—then again, maybe not. He tosses it onto the sofa, picks up his cello and heads for the theatre. Sharing the backseat of a taxi with a cello is becoming something of a habit. He smiles, never believing a musical instrument would constitute his most regular date.

  He decides to treat himself and wanders across to the Café Gambrinus, where he takes one of the favoured outdoor tables and orders a cappuccino and a cannolo. The late sun warms him and for the first time that day he relaxes. The waiter places the steaming hot coffee and tube-shaped pastry oozing mascarpone and pistachio nuts and he enjoys them both. Across the way he sees the Teatro San Carlo, where his dream is about to be realized. He can’t help himself. He salutes the statue of the woman on the roof of the theatre. By now other musicians are streaming towards the stage door and he joins them, an insider, no longer knocking on an unanswered door.

  The first concert of the season has all of them buzzing. Most of the musicians are permanently with the orchestra but he learns there are always a few ring-ins, visitors from Bologna or Barcelona or Basel or the like. The German conductor has imported a few from north of the border and yet she still gave him the tap on the shoulder. Heaven knows why! He just hopes he is worthy. It had happened so quickly. She had been listening to him practising the Bach suites and afterwards asked him what was his favourite piece. ‘The Swan’ was the first thing that came into his head. It was his lucky piece.

  ‘Five minutes, everyone!’ The last call has come quickly. He lines up at the back of the stage with the other cellists and suddenly the applause is starting and he’s walking onto the stage. The lights glare in his eyes and he can’t see the audience. He knows Poppaea and the others are out there. He thinks of his father for a few moments and sees his sad face, then thinks of his mother, but her face eludes him.

  The conductor prompts them. The William Tell Overture is so fast, it’s over in a flash. Then the Bach, one piece after another. And then…

  He hears his name, the clapping, the shouting. Is that Satore? The pianos start. He grips the cello, ever supple and compliant, raises his bow, counts the bars and launches himself. The music flows. He gives everything, every ounce of his being. He maintains the intensity to the very last note, as if he is wringing his own soul.

  The applause is deafening, louder than the loathsome experience of playing next to the percussion section in the orchestra pit. The conductor is calling him over. He walks towards her and faces the audience and bows. As he does he sees faces behind the footlights, smiling and cheering, and hands clapping. He feels hot and giddy, but he knows he must acknowledge them. He bows again and then everything goes black.

  He feels himself falling into a hole. Has he gone blind? First he hears nothing. Then he has the strangest sensation. A woman is cradling him in her arms.

  ‘This is my son. This is my son,’ she says.

  ‘Pasquale! Pasquale!’ The woman is calling his name, her voice anguished.

  He opens his eyes and looks into the face of a stranger.

  A small crowd is gathered around him on the stage where he is lying. The conductor is there, some of the musicians, Poppaea, Frances and Satore.

  And this woman in a white dress. She helps him to sit up and he sees the curtain has closed.

  ‘It’s OK, Pasquale,’ Poppaea says. ‘You fainted.’

  He looks at the woman. She’s talking to him but her words confound him. ‘I am your mother. My name is Camilla Corsi.’

  He cannot speak and dizziness overwhelms him again. The last thing he hears is a siren as he sinks into the woman’s arms and into blackness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Pasquale bows then keeps on falling until he is lying flat on the stage, motionless. As one, Frances, Poppae and Satore leap to their feet and struggle to get out of the middle of their row, past the crush of people.

  The conductor and other cello players rush to help the fallen musician. Ahead, Frances sees Camilla bolting up the stairs, holding her gown high. She looks distraught, tears streaming down her perfectly made-up face. The curtain falls before they reach the stage and the manager emerges to thank the audience and bid them goodnight.

  ‘Let us up! That’s my brother!’ Poppaea is screaming and Satore holds her arm as the manager lifts the curtain aside for them. She freezes when she sees Camilla holding Pasquale in her arms.

  She’s rocking him and weeping. ‘My baby. My baby.’

  ‘Who are you? What are you doing?’ Poppaea stands beside her, stunned.

  Camilla looks at her. ‘I am his mother.’

  ‘You’re crazy. Let go of him, he’s my brother!’

  Poppaea has dropped to the floor and is stroking Pasquale’s brow.

  ‘I promise you, I am his mother.’

  ‘We had the same mother and she is dead.’

  ‘Pasquale was my baby. Your mother adopted him.’

  Frances and Satore stand there, unsure whether to intervene. ‘I’ll check the ambulance is coming,’ Satore says and dashes away.

  Poppaea is shaking now, half in shock and half in anger.

  Pasquale’s hands move and he groans. He opens his eyes wide. Both women talk to him but he doesn’t seem to hear. Seconds later he drops back into unconsciousness.

  ‘Camilla,’ Frances says softly. ‘It’s time to let his sister take over. Let him rest.’

  Poppaea throws her a grateful glance. Camilla nods and eases his head onto a cushion and stands up. She spreads her white fur over him as Poppaea continues to stroke his brow.

  Camilla is quivering and Frances puts her arm around her. She feels strange comforting a woman who, just a day earlier, seemed invincible.

  ‘It was the eyes. I knew as soon as I saw him,’ Camilla tells her. ‘Someone else in my life had those cloudy green-blue eyes—his father. I was so young when I had him, I had to adopt Pasquale out when he was just a few days old. I have spent my life putting him out of my mind.’ She grips Frances’ hand. ‘Now I want nothing more than to have my son back.’

  ‘So it was you who paid for the cello?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Satore is back, leading three paramedics. They surround Pasquale, two men and a woman in blue uniforms and rubber gloves, checking his pulse and blood pressure and putting an oxygen mask on him. They remove the fur and put it on the floor. All colour has drained from his face, his damp hair is matted and, dressed in his evening suit, his thin, still body looks like a shop mannequin.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ Poppaea asks.

  ‘We’ll take him to hospital. It’s too early to know what the problem is.’

  They lift him onto a stretcher. Many of the musicians are lingering still, chatting together in concerned circles. They step aside as the paramedics wheel him across the stage.

  ‘I’m going with him.’ Poppaea moves after them.

  ‘I want to come too,’ Camilla adds.

  ‘I’m afraid there is only room for one, so immediate family only,’ one of the paramedics replies.

  Frances pulls Camilla back. ‘Not now. Let Poppaea go. You will be able to see him later.’

  Camilla relents, slumping like a ragdoll. As Frances helps her put her fur coat on, the man she brought to the concert walks across the stage to them.

  ‘Ah, Luigi. Can you take me home?’

  Without a word, he takes her arm and escorts her away.

  Frances walks back down into the rapidly emptying theatre, where the opulence now seems clownish and mocking. She looks around for Satore and Rufus but they have disappeared. A scattering of patrons are milling around the foyer, subdued after the unexpected finale. Outside, Frances hurries to a taxi rank. The night has cooled and she shivers as she waits on the kerb with a handful of others. For the twentieth time, she checks her phone but
there is no message from Marcello. She punches his number and again it rings out.

  Soon her taxi is whisking her home. Worry plagues her, Marcello’s disappearance and Pasquale’s illness vying for her attention. She pays the cab and alights on the pavement. The blonde-wigged prostitute is standing beneath the lamppost, cigarette glowing as usual. But as Frances walks the last few metres, the woman notices her and strides quickly away in the opposite direction.

  Frances looks down the lane to the courtyard. The lights are on and everything is quiet. Her own footsteps sound to her like a banging drum as she heads to her apartment building and fumbles in her bag for her keys.

  Suddenly, she feels herself pushed and pulled. Someone grabs her from behind, one arm around her neck, the other her waist. A second person gags her mouth. She chokes, staring ahead, unable to speak or see her assailants.

  A cold steel instrument is digging into the nape of her neck. Terrified and helpless she doesn’t struggle. She stares ahead towards the building, hoping and praying someone will come out.

  ‘Signorina Nelson,’ the man behind her hisses, his voice guttural and young. ‘Don’t go poking your nose where it’s not wanted, or you’ll end up like your boyfriend. This is your last warning, bitch.’

  Another band is wrapped around her eyes and all is now darkness. One of the men presses something into her hand and then releases her. She stands there shaking, not knowing if they are still there, the object falling from her frozen fingers. All is silent. Somehow she finds the courage to pull off her blindfold and spins around. Not a soul is there. She removes the gag and coughs and splutters, trying not to vomit as she stoops to pick up what she had dropped. The cream envelope is familiar. She turns it over and sees Marcello’s name on it. Inside is the ticket she had left for him at the box office.

  Frances unlocks the door and stumbles up the stairs. She taps on the Foglianos’ door. Their apartment is in darkness. She taps again. A minute or so later she hears soft footsteps behind the door.