I wonder how many years have passed since we were in the same city, never mind the same company. Too many.
Tonight I stumbled across your pupil, Fergal Flynn, singing on the empty stage after the show. He has without doubt one of the most exquisite voices I’ve heard in years. What a strange coincidence that he’s assisting me and also studying with you. He has told me a good deal about how you met, and it is a credit to you that you recognised his potential and brought him all the way from Ireland.
And, somehow, seeing him tonight was the fuel I needed to make me put pen to paper. I realise your time must be heavily in demand, but if you have any free time at all, I would dearly love to see you. We could meet for lunch, or you could come to the show. There’s so much to catch up on.
Always your friend,
Brendan Fiscetti
Alfredo read and reread the note. Every handwritten word burned deeper and deeper into his head, rekindling the painful, carefully archived embers of their buried past, the reasons why he and Brendan hadn’t spoken in more than twenty years. Once the memories began, there was nothing he could do to stop himself from reliving them, even if he had wanted to.
15
Brendan Fiscetti was just twenty-four years old and Alfredo Moretti was a couple of months younger when they met for the first time. They had both secured lead roles in a new production of Puccini’s Tosca in Cologne - Alfredo as Scarpia, Brendan as Cavaradossi -and neither of them spoke a word of German. At the company’s introductory supper the evening before their first rehearsal, they were seated directly across from each other. The candlelight made the dining room feel very intimate, and Alfredo found he had to be careful not to stare too intently at his new co-star.
Brendan was London born. He had inherited his height - just over six feet - from his mother’s Irish family and his smooth olive complexion from his Italian father. He was innately confident and a natural flirt, but a gentleman with it. It was second nature for him to be warm and friendly to everybody, male or female. After a few glasses of wine, he told risque jokes and stories that he had learned from his legions of Irish uncles. The whole company was in stitches laughing, enraptured - especially Marla Davis, the soprano playing Tosca. She had made a pact with herself never to get involved with any cast member and until that moment she had been successful, but as she watched Brendan Fiscetti laughing in the candlelight, she realised that the little columns of wax weren’t the only ones holding a flame for him. She knew she was going to find it all but impossible to keep her vow.
Over the course of the rehearsals, the three young singers, Alfredo, Brendan and Marla, became inseparable. They gave little gatherings with all the cast crowded around the piano, singing their hearts out. They stayed up all night together, playing cards and sipping brandy. Before they went to bed, Marla always asked Brendan to sing her an Irish song, and through the cigar smoke that hung stubbornly in the air, he would sing the songs that his grandfather used to belt out after much coaxing and just the right amount of whiskey. But for two of the three, at least, their happiness was a thin veneer compared to the constant shadow of pain that lurked beneath the surface. Neither Alfredo nor Marla wanted to admit, even to themselves, that they were both falling in love with Brendan.
The critics pronounced Tosca a tour de force. They singled out Alfredo’s Baron Scarpia for his commanding voice and convincing cruelty, Marla’s Floria Tosca for her breathtaking combination of intensity and vulnerability, and Brendan’s Mario Cavaradossi for his perfect combination of strength and tenderness. Their personalities created an extraordinary cocktail of energy on stage. The audiences couldn’t buy their tickets fast enough.
After almost a year of successful performances across Germany, America and England, the production reached the Teatro la Fenice, in the floating city of Venice. They would have nearly three weeks of performances in the magnificent old opera house. Marla, Alfredo and Brendan were staying in a stunning three-storey house that looked right onto the Grand Canal. The owner was their local promoter and a huge opera fan, and he considered it an honour to have the three stars staying there. The rooms were ornate and beautifully kept, each with its own unique chandelier and a balcony that overlooked the water. Marla took the top floor, while Alfredo and Brendan shared the second. It had two huge en-suite rooms with a connecting door and the longest floor-to-ceiling windows they had ever seen. Brendan and Marla had never been in Venice and Alfredo had been there only once, years previously. When they walked into St Mark’s Square for the first time, they were overwhelmed by its ancient beauty. They found a table and sat sipping Prosecco while a fiddler and an accordion player sent their romantic soundtrack circling and spinning around their heads.
It wasn’t uncommon for the trio to receive flowers, gifts and invitations to gatherings held by rich patrons. They knew it was always good for business to attend, even if they were tired, and sometimes it was even fun. The Mayor of Venice came to see Tosca on the opening night and again on the next night, and the next. Then he announced he was giving a celebration in the cast’s honour at his official residence. It was there that all the trouble started.
By the time Countess Amelia Moore-Hampton was twenty-five, she was orphaned, widowed and childless. Her husband, Count Michael Moore-Hampton, had been twice her age and an old school friend of her father’s. She had known him all her life, and when she turned twenty-one he asked her to marry him as he stared out the window at a skittering pheasant. She had no idea whether she wanted to marry him or not, but she didn’t know how to say no.
They were married less than six months later. When Amelia arrived at Moore-Hampton House, the butler showed her to what she thought would be the marital bedroom, at the top of a winding walnut staircase. The lamps were lit and the natural evening light was retreating from the expansive surrounding land. She bathed, slid between the soft sheets and nervously awaited the moment when her new husband would come and visit her ‘lady garden’ and take her ‘flower’, as her grandmother had delicately but perplexingly put it.
But Count Moore-Hampton never came gardening, that night or any other. He and Amelia ate their meals together, she dutifully accompanied him on official engagements, as her position demanded, and he was always leaving her thoughtful gifts of one kind or another, but the subject of intimacy stayed firmly closed. She was like his mother, straightening his tie before he took the platform to make a speech, and in return he kissed her head gratefully, like a well-behaved child.
She grew accustomed to her new life simply because she had to. To the outside world she seemed to have it all, and she knew she was a very lucky woman indeed. She had heard horror stories about abusive husbands who beat their wives or treated them like sexual slaves. Although she felt something approaching love for her husband, she began to fall apart, very slowly, bursting into tears for no discernable reason in the middle of one stuffy dinner reception too many. The count was naturally concerned for her, but he was distracted by his governmental work. He spent the majority of his time travelling and had very little chance to realise what was happening to his wife.
Within three years, Amelia’s father died from a heart attack and was buried next to the mother she hardly remembered. Only a few months later, Count Michael Moore-Hampton was out hunting early one morning when he became separated from the pack and his saddle girth loosened mid-chase. His horse tried to throw him off. His ankle got tangled in the stirrup and he was dragged mercilessly for miles. Hours later they found his broken, lifeless body in a ditch, almost unrecognisable save for the signet pinkie ring that had belonged to his own father.
For Countess Amelia, it was the final brittle straw. For weeks she wandered the beautiful, silent, empty house, crying helplessly. It was months before she found the courage to face the lawyer who took her carefully through the late Count Moore-Hampton’s considerable will and testament. She could only stare at him over his desk, unblinking, as he told her that her husband - an only child, his parents long gone - had left he
r everything. She was richer than she could ever have imagined.
At that moment, something in Amelia changed. Like a starved, stunted sapling bought only for its beauty and with no thought for its welfare, now that she was free to grow and blossom she was turning tentatively, involuntarily, towards the light. Her life was beginning again, and on her own terms.
In the back of her favourite magazine, Amelia Moore-Hampton saw an advertisement for an expensive cruise around the world. She booked a place instantly, before she could change her mind. Her butler’s final job was to drive her to the port of Southampton and see her safely installed aboard the magnificent cruise liner. Amelia was terrified - was she mad to be heading off for months on her own? - but she was determined. She was going to go out into the world and have an adventure.
Once aboard, Amelia sat on the little sofa in her sizable cabin and tried to take it all in. She carefully looked around the quarters that were going to be her home for the next few months. There was a living room section, tastefully but sparsely furnished in bright, hopeful colours, that opened onto a balcony big enough for a little table and two chairs. The double bedroom was off the living room and there was a decent-sized bathroom just off that. After years in draughty old mansions, she was glad of the compact nature of her new surroundings and the lack of fuss. The portholes opened just enough for the sea breeze to fill the air and she looked forward to watching the stars at night from her balcony.
As the world drifted by outside, though, Amelia’s old restlessness began to resurface. There were some wonderful musical gatherings on board, the floating library was well stocked and she had met some nice people, but they all seemed to be married couples, and inevitably she began to feel out of place. She craved the company of someone who would challenge her, make her laugh, ignite a long-buried spark of passionate conversation. She wanted a friend.
The ship’s captain’s wife, Constance Westwater, had accompanied her husband on the journey, and she became increasingly drawn to Amelia’s solitary sophistication. Initially she had thought it eccentric and suspicious behaviour in one so young, but gradually she realised that the young countess was simply shy. Constance set aside her misgivings and made it her mission to befriend her. One day, when Amelia returned from her walk on deck, she found an invitation to tea from Constance. Amelia was reluctant, but she thought it only good manners to go.
They hit it off straight away. Amelia was pleasantly surprised at how easy she felt in Constance’s warm company, and Constance discovered to her delight that Amelia was highly intelligent and a great listener. The two women lost all track of time and talked the entire afternoon away. Amelia had found the friend she craved.
So when Captain Westwater told his wife of an exciting opportunity, she offered her new friend the chance to accompany a special party going off-ship to see a production of Tosca at the famous Teatro la Fenice. Amelia agreed in an instant. To add to the excitement, they had been invited to a post-performance party at the mayor’s residence, and the cast was expected to be in attendance.
‘This is more like it!’ Amelia laughed, clutching the official invitation to her breasts. ‘Oh, I can’t remember the last time I was at the opera - or at a good party.’
That afternoon, she searched through her trunk until she came to a box she had packed reluctantly but instinctively. It contained a dress she had chosen years previously, for her honeymoon, but had never actually worn; her late husband had always been too busy to take any time off. It was still in its original wrapping, enfolded in the frailest white tissue paper that had kept the delicate fabric’s pale green hue as fresh as the day it was finished. It fit her as if she had bought it that very afternoon.
The Venetian evening was a luscious, soft watercolour as the party - the Westwaters, Amelia, an elderly statesman and his nephew — descended the steps of the ship. The oarsman steered their river taxi forward with ease along the murky river, then they walked along narrow laneways and over miniature bridges until, in the fading light, they came to the Teatro.
As she ascended the steps, Amelia was glad that she had brought her grandmother’s black velvet shawl. She unwrapped it from about her shoulders, unveiling her second precious heirloom: a stunning constellation of smouldering sapphires, the same colour as her own bright eyes. Her curly red hair had been sculpted tightly into a bun at the crown of her head; a few corkscrew strands had special permission to hang down at the sides. On her right hand she wore a sapphire ring and bracelet that her husband had given her as a clumsy but sweet attempt to lift her spirits shortly after her father had died. She had only recently stopped wearing her wedding ring.
They were shown to a pale blue leather box at stage level, just big enough for the five of them. Two ice buckets held perfectly chilled bottles of champagne. The Teatro la Fenice was magnificent in every detail. Amelia’s eyes strayed to the ornately painted sky-blue ceiling, seemingly held up by its own audience of curious, frozen angels. Conversations buzzed as if they were inside a bees’ nest. As Amelia took her first nervous sip of bubbles, she was reminded of the last time she had been to the opera, with her late husband in Covent Garden, but every sad approaching memory was silenced by the orchestra’s booming opening chords, like a sudden thunderstorm. The curtain opened and the passionate, tragic story of Tosca began to unfold.
Amelia was entranced. She thought Marla Davis sounded like a nightingale - her voice pure and lonely one moment, inconsolable and angry the next - and looked like a lost Egyptian queen, with her heavily lined eyes and her regal splendour. She was amazed at the power and depth with which Alfredo Moretti sang the cruel Baron Scarpia. His voice, she thought, was like an oak tree. But from the moment Brendan Fiscetti came onstage, as the painter and republican Mario Cavaradossi, Amelia could hardly take her eyes off him. Their box was so near the stage that she could see every detail of his handsome, expressive face. His voice filled the theatre with ease, and for a moment Amelia let herself imagine that he was singing only to her. She thought her heart would burst.
The dark green velvet curtains announced the end of the second act and the lights came up. Amelia and Constance looked at each other with delight, but Amelia couldn’t concentrate on what Constance was saying and she couldn’t wait for the final act to begin. She was light-headed - from the music rather than from the champagne, which she had barely touched.
‘Are you all right?’ Constance asked. ‘You look pale.’
Amelia was indeed pale, but her face was radiant. ‘I’m having one of the best evenings of my life.’
In the ladies’ room, she splashed her face with a little cold water before fixing her light make-up. Amelia studied her reflection for a moment and wondered silently if she was pretty or not, then laughed at herself for being so foolish and fixed a loose curl that had escaped its clip. She pictured the beautiful Tosca and decided that the soprano and the lead tenor must surely be lovers - or maybe the soprano’s lover was the baritone who she had just stabbed to death onstage? They were all so talented, and they sang to each other every night... What a romantic way to spend one’s life, Amelia thought. They’re so lucky.
She found her seat again just as the curtains lifted like two enormous sleepy eyelids. As Cavaradossi, writing his last letter to Tosca, lost his nerve and broke down, Amelia stopped breathing. She fanned herself with her handkerchief. Little did she know that Brendan, seeing the white linen wafting like a dove taking flight in the corner of his eye, had just caught his first glimpse of her. He thought that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Tosca leaped to her death from the castle, and the curtains closed. The clapping was thunderous. Amelia could understand how Tosca’s loss had literally pushed her over the edge. There was only one thought in her mind at that moment: Mario Cavaradossi was definitely worth dying for. In all the time she had known her husband, she had never once felt as excited as she did when she looked at the handsome stranger, Brendan Fiscetti.
As the curtains opened again and the cast beg
an to take their bows, the audience jumped to their feet, cheering and calling for more, showering the singers with flowers. As Brendan took his final bow, he picked up one of the roses that had fallen at his feet and tossed it to the flame-haired young woman he had spotted earlier. It landed on the edge of the box.
Amelia thought her heart would surely stop. She looked around, almost expecting someone else to rush forward and claim the flower, but no one did. Brendan Fiscetti bowed ever so slightly, holding her gaze. Amelia picked up the long, barbed stem carefully and cupped its awakening petals as one would a baby’s head, inhaling the perfume and closing her eyes.
When she opened her eyes again, the tenor was gone from the stage and the audience had started to leave. ‘Well, well,’ Constance whispered, ‘it’s a good thing we have those invitations to the mayor’s party. That young tenor is obviously keen to make your acquaintance.’
The Lord Mayor of Venice was famous for his parties, and that night was one of the major events of the year. He’d invited just over one hundred guests, including the floating city’s most influential lawyers, judges and politicians, and he received the cast of Tosca like a visiting royal family. There was a champagne reception in the vast hallway followed by a magnificent dinner, but Brendan, who was normally starving after a performance, found that his mind was elsewhere and he could only play with his fork. Alfredo was the only one who had spotted Amelia as he joined the mayor’s entourage, but he had said nothing. He had seen the way Brendan had looked at her during the curtain call, and it had given him a deepened sense of unease.
It was only after the meal, as a string quartet began to play a waltz, that Brendan caught sight of Amelia. She had broken the long stem of the white rose and was trying to place the fragrant flower amongst the nest of bright curls on her head, where it would be safe. Their eyes met and locked. Brendan excused himself from the conversation, not caring whether he was rude or not, and set off across the ballroom floor as calmly and as quickly as possible.
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