Roman Song

by Brian Kennedy

  Fergal’s eyes widened. ‘Alfredo? What do you think?’

  Alfredo considered for a few moments. ‘I think providence is smiling on you once again. It’s a great idea. You could still work at Moretti’s part-time to give Arianna time to find someone else if she needs to, and we can increase your study during the day. Yes, I think that would work, with a bit of rescheduling. At night you can go to the theatre and immerse yourself in the performances, and see first-hand exactly what is required of a leading man. Giovanni, this is great news! And it couldn’t have come at a better time - providing, of course, that he gets the job.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Giovanni assured him. ‘I don’t think it’ll be a problem.’

  They refilled their glasses and toasted the future, but one worry was still niggling at Fergal - what would Arianna say? As if he could read Fergal’s mind, Alfredo told him, ‘Don’t worry, Fergal - leave my sister to me. We all knew this day would come. You can’t keep working at Moretti’s forever.’

  The dinner party lasted until well after midnight. As Giovanni and Luigi were leaving they offered Fergal a lift, but Alfredo said he needed to talk to him.

  As soon as they were gone, Alfredo returned to the table. ‘Fergal,’ he said, ‘I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I didn’t get a chance to mention it earlier, as we were talking about other things, but considering the possible changes that this job will bring, I want to offer you another change for the better.’

  Fergal tilted his head, giving Alfredo his full attention.

  ‘I want you to think about moving in here, into my spare room. Our lessons are going to become more and more intense, and with this new job on top of everything else, you’ll be very busy and very tired. I know it seems strange to move again, but then, when you eventually join an opera company, you’ll spend much of your life on the move. In our world, the only constant thing is change. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Fergal was too tired and too confused - so much had been happening - to even know how he felt about the offer. ‘Thank you, Alfredo.’

  ‘Think it over. It’s your decision, and you don’t have to answer right away, but I think it would be better. By the way, this has nothing to do with last night’s events.’ Alfredo smiled. ‘There are so many plans to be made, and so much incredible music to teach you. Don’t forget about your exam in a few days. We start again in earnest tomorrow, after your shift at the restaurant. Now, go to bed. Daniela has the spare room ready for you.’

  As Fergal floated up the stairs, he mentioned, ‘Father MacManus said he might come to visit sometime.’

  ‘Now that,’ Alfredo said, smiling, ‘is the icing on the cake.’

  12

  Fergal overslept the next morning, and Arianna was unusually unforgiving when he finally arrived at the restaurant ten minutes late, humming nervously. She’d been filled in by Alfredo the previous night. She had known that Fergal would have to go where his voice was leading him, but she felt like a mother whose first-born was leaving for university. At the same time, it stoked long-forgotten memories. Not long after she and Alfredo had lost their mother, he had started to travel for long periods with various opera companies and she had been left to run the family business. She had missed him and envied his freedom. In the same way, Arianna realised, she felt not only loss but a little jealous of Fergal.

  By the time Fergal finished for the day, her bad mood had evaporated and she brought him a cup of coffee exactly how he liked it: no milk and one brown sugar. She smoothed his hair while he stirred the cup and gave her a smile that she knew she would miss. It was at times like these that Arianna thought about children, and her lack of them. Men had been few and far between, and she was past the age of conceiving. When Fergal had arrived, she had decided that he needed her to mother him. She’d noticed how ragged he was around the edges, and, most of all, how he mentioned his mother only rarely and his father not at all. There was also something about him, something apart from his love of singing, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, that reminded her of her brother when he had been around the same age.

  Fergal, surrounded by the Italian culture, with its routine Sunday gatherings of generations of cousins and friends, was becoming more and more aware of how unusual it was to be so estranged from his family. It made him wonder how different his life could have been if he had got on better with his parents and brothers. If he hadn’t been so afraid of them most of the time, would he have been in such a hurry to get away from Belfast? What if sport had come more naturally to him and he had been able to immerse himself in the deep-rooted friendships that came out of playing team games every week, come rain, shine or riot? What if he hadn’t been gay? Where had that come from - and why to him, out of all the family?

  He had drunk gallons of water as he worked and daydreamed through the day, and when he tested his voice the next morning he found that the temporary hoarseness was gone. He and Alfredo, relieved that his night of drinking had done so little harm, threw themselves back into the carefully devised programme of study for Fergal’s coming exam.

  The few days before the exam felt like weeks. Alfredo lost his temper more frequently if Fergal made silly mistakes. He still felt that Fergal was holding something back emotionally. Some of his performances, although note-perfect, left Alfredo cold.

  ‘Fergal, you must give me more. I don’t believe you!’

  ‘I’m trying my best.’

  ‘No! You must try harder. I want to believe you, but...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You must get out of your own way. That’s the best way I can say it.’

  Fergal felt exasperated. He didn’t really know what Alfredo meant, and he was too scared to admit it.

  On the eve of the exam, Fergal stayed in the spare room again. He slept very badly. He thought his throat felt sore and he almost panicked, but as soon as he drank some water the soreness went away. He wondered whether Father Mac had phoned Alfredo about coming over, and whether he had changed, whether he would look any different, whether he would be cold towards him...His concentration was all over the place.

  And then, all of a sudden, Daniela was calling him for breakfast. In no time, he and Alfredo were parked outside an enormous building with a shining brass plaque that proclaimed ‘The Institute of Music’.

  Fergal had never felt more nervous in his life. As they walked up the marble steps, every person they met seemed to stop and talk to Alfredo with excited recognition and questions about his shy pupil. They passed through mirrored corridors and stopped at a heavy door with a light bulb on each side, one green and one red. The red one was lit.

  ‘They aren’t ready for us yet.’ Alfredo looked at his watch. ‘We have time for a last little warm-up. Come.’

  Fergal followed him down more corridors, and Alfredo opened a door. The room held only a grand piano and two seats under a stretch of windows that ran all the way along one wall, throwing light across the midnight-lake surface of the piano. Without a word, Alfredo struck the first chord of a familiar warm-up sequence and Fergal automatically took a deep breath and sent his voice into the stale air, searching the corners of the room for acceptance.

  The scales got faster and faster, then slower again, until they sounded as if someone had poured syrup amongst the ivory keys. As the last chord vanished, Alfredo looked up at Fergal and managed a smile. ‘We’re as ready as we can be.’

  Fergal wasn’t sure how to take that, and he was too nervous to ask.

  When they reached the first magnificent door again, the green bulb was glowing. Alfredo looked at Fergal and nodded. He pressed a button in the side panel. After a moment, the hinges began their slow grind and the door slid open, revealing the legendary examiner.

  At first, Fergal, disorientated, thought he was looking at a child, then he noticed the examiner’s white hair, combed obediently against his skull after a lifetime of grooming, and realised that he was a dwarf. He was skeletal and slightly stoop
ed, but when he smiled up at them his entire face was transformed. The tiny man stood there with all the calmness of a king. Alfredo stepped forward and they bowed respectfully to each other. Alfredo announced formally, ‘Signore Angelo Arnelli, may I present Fergal Flynn.’

  The examiner stretched out his minute, bony hand. Fergal took it, wondering whether he was expected to kiss it, but Signore Arnelli, instead of shaking it, led Fergal over to the most ornate piano he’d ever seen. It looked as if it had been carved from meringue, glistening like an altar seen through a sugary winter window. Signore Arnelli fished for a little black case and took out his spectacles. Then he smiled at Fergal and asked quietly, ‘Are you ready to begin?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fergal whispered. There was a decanter of water on a side table, so he took a sip.

  Signore Arnelli’s tiny hands leafed through a pile of manuscripts before settling on one. Then he nodded towards Alfredo, who took a seat at the piano and pushed the first rhythmic chords of the now-familiar ‘Cavalleria Rusticana’ into the warm room. The examiner settled himself on a chair with his arms folded solemnly. He watched as Fergal, his eyes shut tight, took a deep, silent breath, then the voice that had started this whole journey joined the music like a cold current of air, travelling around the room, pausing in every rehearsed place.

  His pronunciation was better than it had ever been before, and Alfredo recognised that Fergal was trying his best to rise above his fear and meet the challenge he had worked so hard to face. There were certain passages where the voice was the only instrument. Fergal had to have complete control over his breathing so that his tuning would be perfect when the piano eventually rejoined him. But the old voice of doubt was rising in his head: Who do you think you are, young fella? You’re not able for this. You’re nothing. Always were, always will be. He forgot to breathe properly and began to sing flat, which was noticeable the moment the piano re-entered. Fergal tried to sing louder, to drown out the voice, but this was exactly the moment where he should have been singing most softly.

  After six pieces of varying length, they took a break. Fergal went along the corridor and sat on the lid of the toilet, staring at his Granny Noreen’s remembrance card, which he had pinned to the inside of his jacket. He wanted her to be with him, no matter what happened. ‘I’m doing my best, Granny,’ he whispered to her. ‘I’m trying to make you proud.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Alfredo asked through the cubicle door.

  Fergal came out and washed his hands, saying nothing. Alfredo put his hands on his shoulders, helping them to relax a little. ‘Open your eyes more,’ he said gently. ‘Concentrate, and let him see that you mean it.’

  They entered the examination room again. In their absence, Signore Arnelli had lit a fragrant candle, and for a moment Fergal pictured Father Mac among the enormous wax columns of the Easter vigil mass. He took a deep breath and secretly dedicated the next piece to the first man, the only man, he had ever truly loved.

  It was a mournful piece, and Fergal unconsciously pressed a hand to his heart, where the tiny picture of his dead granny was pinned on for dear life. At the closing note, he couldn’t stop the tears from coming. He gave Alfredo a worried look, but Alfredo dismissed it with a quick shake of his head, signalling for him to take a deep breath and resume.

  Fergal glided through the last piece without any hesitation. Faces floated repeatedly through his mind - his mother, his older brother John shaking his fist at him - but for once they seemed far away, outside of him. He ended the piece with a proud oak tree of a note that made his entire chest vibrate. Without moving, he waited until the sustain of the piano strings came to a final standstill.

  Alfredo disengaged the pedal with one graceful movement of his whole body. Signore Arnelli removed his glasses and let the case snap shut, announcing the end of the exam. He stood up and crossed the polished floor, and Alfredo joined him at Fergal’s side.

  ‘I would like to speak to you alone,’ Signore Arnelli told Alfredo. ‘Thank you, Mr Flynn.’

  Alfredo nodded. ‘Wait in the car,’ he said to Fergal, giving him the keys.

  Fergal managed a ‘Thank you’, then he was heading back along the corridor and out into the street, away from the Institute of Music, as if he had never been there at all.

  Ten excruciating minutes went by, then fifteen. Fergal watched the second hand moving on the clock inside the car and tried to distract himself. Any time anyone came out of the Institute, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Exactly twenty-three minutes later, Alfredo’s solid frame descended the stone steps. He opened the driver’s door and got into the car, but he didn’t start the engine. Instead, he turned and looked at Fergal in a way that made him frown with worry.

  ‘So, Signor Flynn. How do you think you did?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know, Alfredo. I had a really hard time concentrating. I was dead nervous.’

  ‘Well, yes, I could see - and, indeed, hear - that.’

  ‘Oh God, I’ve failed, haven’t I? After all your hard work, too. Oh God, I’m sorry, Alfredo.’

  Fergal was beginning to panic, but Alfredo made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘Fergal, there’s no need to be such a bloody drama queen! You would have failed completely, yes, if it hadn’t been for those last two pieces.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Fergal, then and only then did you sing with your heart and soul - for about ten minutes of the whole exam. Your performances in the first half were, well, there’s no easy way to say this - they were boring and noncommittal.’

  ‘Boring and...what? What do you mean? I sang all the right notes—’

  ‘That’s my point exactly. That’s all you did. I didn’t believe a word of it, not one word, and neither did Signore Arnelli. By the way, you didn’t sing all the right notes, actually; your pitch went way off when the piano dropped out. You were flat, and you’ve never had that problem before. Your natural ear is normally extraordinary. What is going on with you?’

  Fergal was shell-shocked. He hadn’t realised he’d done quite so badly. He sank further into the passenger seat in silence, feeling like he’d just wasted the past year.

  Alfredo looked at his ashen-faced pupil. ‘You may as well know that you barely scraped a pass in your first preliminary exam.’ Fergal thought he was hearing things. ‘What? I thought you were saying I’d failed!’

  ‘No. Signore Arnelli is one of the most difficult examiners in Italy, but he is very fair. He admired your tone, and as I said, the last few minutes were very moving. This is why he awarded you a pass. I was hoping for a distinction, of course - I know you are more than capable of achieving that - but.. . I thought you were ready for this, but now I see I was a little hasty.’

  ‘I’m sorry - I’m so sorry. Oh God, I’ve let you down, Alfredo, and I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Fergal, will you stop saying that! I won’t pretend that I’m not disappointed, but you’ve only been here for a year, and you’re still so young. I still believe in you, but you must shake yourself out of this...place you are in. I feel like I can’t reach you, Fergal. What saved you was the fact that you gave Signore Arnelli the merest glimpse of how great you could be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Fergal, if he hadn’t seen something special in you, he wouldn’t have spent so long talking to me. He could hear your promise. He agrees with me that while there’s a lot of work ahead, it will be worth it in the end - only, and I mean only, if you are prepared to work harder than ever.’

  Fergal sat looking out the window for a moment. All kinds of scenes were playing themselves out in his head - going back to the airport with his return ticket, turning up on Father Mac’s doorstep in a million pieces...

  Alfredo started the engine. Fergal took a deep breath.

  ‘Alfredo?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know how you asked me to think about moving into the spare room in your house?’

  ‘Yes.’


  ‘Well, does that offer still stand?’

  ‘Of course, Fergal.’

  ‘Right, then - when can I move in?’

  Alfredo smiled at him. ‘The sooner the better.’

  By the time they reached the restaurant, a thick tear had begun to course down Fergal’s cheek, but he wiped it away as soon as he saw Arianna. When she saw Alfredo’s car pulling up, she signalled for their lunch to be brought out. She remembered how nervous Alfredo had been when he had started taking his exams, and after all of the birthday drama, she wanted good news for Fergal more than anything. When she saw his serious face, she hugged them both and began talking about the menu.

  ‘Fergal passed,’ Alfredo told her, ‘but we still have a few mountains to climb.’

  Arianna nodded, but she knew to play down her congratulations. She just ruffled Fergal’s hair and said, ‘I knew you would pass.’ After lunch, Alfredo insisted that Fergal should call Father Mac. Fergal’s heart sank. Even though it was good news of a sort, he felt like a complete failure. He went into Arianna’s office and dialled St Bridget’s House, fully expecting Father Mac to be out, but he picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Dermot? It’s me, Fergal. I passed the exam.’

  Father Mac knew by the sound of his voice that something wasn’t right. ‘Congratulations! Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t sound very happy.’

  ‘I know...’

  ‘And? What happened?’

  ‘I only just scraped a pass, Dermot. I was so nervous! And you should’ve seen the examiner, he was like something out of James Bond or something.’

  Father Mac laughed.

  ‘I’m serious. Do you remember that wee man from Fantasy Island - what was his name, Tattoo? He was as small as him, except he had white hair. I went to bits, Dermot. I don’t know what happened.’

  ‘You passed, Fergal. That’s what matters. Don’t forget, you’ve only been studying seriously for the guts of a year. Some people study their whole lives and never have your tone, or your ambition.’ Father Mac wanted to lift Fergal’s spirits, but he knew he had to tell him the bad news. ‘Fergal, I know the timing could be better, but I may as well tell you now.’