As he drew closer to the Teatro that evening, Alfredo began to feel calmer. He was glad that he’d decided not to drive. He sat at a café opposite and waited until the last moment before he approached the box office. He bought a ticket and slipped into the back row just as the house lights were beginning to fade.
Even though more than a quarter of a century of silence had passed between the two men, Alfredo was unprepared for the well of feeling that awoke in the pit of his stomach when Brendan Fiscetti stepped from the dark into the spotlight. As soon as his voice entered the air, it was as if they had never been apart at all. Alfredo studied him from the safety of the darkness and saw that time had been kind to him. His hair was snow-white at the temples and his chest had grown even bigger, but if anything, he only looked more distinguished and handsome for it. Just before the intermission, Brendan paused before his closing song and said to the rapt audience, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I want to sing a song that I haven’t performed for longer than I care to remember. This is for two special men: firstly, a new friend, Fergal Flynn, an extraordinary singer who recently suffered a bereavement, and secondly, an old friend - a more local man. I received a note from someone with whom I had lost contact for far too many years. We first met, long ago, in a production of Puccini’s Tosca. I don’t sing this piece out of context very often, but tonight I want to dedicate it to Alfredo Moretti.’
The audience cheered and clapped, and for a second Alfredo thought that someone must have alerted Brendan to his presence, but his heart sank from his mouth as the moment passed and no spotlight singled him out. Brendan closed his eyes to sing, and the audience instinctively quieted again.
When Brendan started his lament from Tosca, Alfredo had to close his eyes too, but it wasn’t enough to stop the warm tears that trickled silently down his face. He was glad that he had sat right at the back, in the last seat. When Brendan finished and left the stage, Alfredo was able to dart out the side door as quickly and discreetly as he had entered.
He went back to the café and found a table in the corner, where he sat staring into his glass of water. He didn’t go back into the theatre for the second half of the performance; he knew that he couldn’t handle being there for a moment longer.'At last, after a long time, he headed back home.
Brendan Fiscetti had welcomed Fergal back with open arms and given him a beautiful condolence card. He had been very moved to hear that Alfredo had accompanied Fergal to Ireland at such short notice, dropping everything, so after rereading Alfredo’s note, he had decided to dedicate his lament to his old and new friends. Fergal had been watching from the wings, as always, and he couldn’t wait to get home to tell his teacher. When he did, Alfredo feigned ignorance. He said that naturally he was very flattered, as Fergal should be, and then changed the subject.
That night, when Brendan got back to his hotel room, he took his usual hot shower, poured a brandy and sat by the phone in his bathrobe. Alfredo’s note was folded neatly in the pocket of his jacket. He took it out and placed it on the table by the phone. He picked up the receiver, paused in thought for a second and then dialled the code for England.
Amelia’s phone rang just as she was getting ready to settle down for the night with a good book. She knew it was Brendan; no one else called her at this time.
‘Hello, my dearest. What news?’
She listened, in her careful way, as the line crackled and Brendan told her about Alfredo’s new note. ‘Well, my love,’ she offered eventually, ‘you must do what you think is right. And don’t forget to remember me to him, will you? My goodness.. . I wonder if he’s changed much.’
They said their goodnights. As always, Brendan waited until she hung up first, then he lay back on the bed, finally exhausted, and resolved to meet Alfredo.
Early the next morning, the phone rang in the Moretti household. Daniela answered: ‘Pronto?’
Brendan, thinking it might be Alfredo’s wife, asked a little awkwardly if her husband, Mr Moretti, was available. Daniela giggled and explained that she had been Mr Moretti’s housekeeper for many years, and that he had gone for his usual walk to buy the papers before breakfast. Brendan gave her the hotel’s phone number, and she assured him that her employer would return his call as soon as possible.
Sure enough, no sooner had she hung up than she heard Alfredo whistling as he opened the front door. When she told him he had just missed Signore Fiscetti’s call, she could tell he was annoyed. But he decided not to phone straight away. He needed time to think. He made up his mind to phone after his mid-morning lesson with Fergal. When the phone rang again, he thought it might be Brendan and he grabbed it, beating Daniela to it. He was disappointed, and a little relieved, when it wasn’t.
Fergal didn’t know whether it was his imagination, but Alfredo seemed to be much harder on him than usual in that morning’s lesson. They warmed up with scales and breathing exercises, but after that it was like an assault course. Fergal felt as if he had never been worked so hard, vocally, in all his life. Alfredo got him to sing the same phrases over and over again, and lost his temper wildly if he made a stupid mistake.
‘Come on, Mr Flynn! You can and you must do better than that!’
‘I’m doing my best.’
‘Well, today your best is not good enough. You’re relying on your natural ability too much. I need you to dig deeper. I know you have it in you, I’ve heard it more than once in the past week. That is the sound we’re after!’
On and on he pushed him, higher and higher. ‘More full voice!’ he shouted. ‘Less falsetto! You’re being lazy now, Mr Flynn. I will only accept chest voice for those notes!’
At the end of the lesson, the two men were exhausted. Alfredo knew he had pushed Fergal a little harder than he had meant to. He was nervous about phoning Brendan and he had taken it out on his young pupil. He relented and made a point of complimenting Fergal, saying that he had risen to the challenges like a true professional and that he was proud of him for not losing his nerve, but that his old habits were still circling and he had to prevent them from ever landing again. Sometimes Fergal didn’t really get Alfredo’s metaphors.
Alfredo climbed the two flights of stairs to the top of his house, where he could use the phone beside his bed in privacy. By the time he reached the top, he was breathless, nervous and angry at himself for being so childish. He grabbed the phone and dialled the number of Brendan’s hotel.
The receptionist connected him to Signore Fiscetti’s room, but the phone just rang and rang. Then, as Alfredo was about to give up, the receiver was picked up and a sleepy English accent said, ‘Hello?’ Alfredo started talking, nervously, at high speed. ‘My goodness, it’s so good to hear your voice again, after all this time! You sound so young—’
‘Hello? Who is this, please? I asked not to be disturbed.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry - it’s Alfredo, Alfredo Moretti. I’m sorry we kept missing each other, but, as you know, I was busy with Fergal and Ireland and so on. I didn’t mean to disturb your rest. I hope I didn’t wake you up?’
‘Well, actually, you did, but—’
‘Oh, Brendan, forgive me. I should have waited until later, but since you rang so early this morning, I thought—’
‘Hang on, hang on, hold your horses. I’m not Brendan. Who’s this again?’
Alfredo stopped babbling.
‘What? Not Brendan? But I specifically asked to be put through to Signore Fiscetti’s suite. Forgive me, sir, for—’
‘No, no, I’m Mr Fiscetti as well, but I think you want my father, Brendan. Who is this?’
Alfredo nearly dropped dead on the spot, but he dropped the phone instead. ‘Cazzo! Sorry - ah, sorry...’
When he managed to pick up the phone again, he tried to rein in his confusion. ‘Forgive me. This is Alfredo Moretti. I knew your father many years ago, and we were trying to arrange a meeting here in Rome before he goes home again. Are you really his son? What’s your name?’
‘Yes, I’m Fintan Fiscetti
. Look, forgive me if I sounded rude. I’ve just flown in and I’m exhausted, but my own room’s not ready, so my dad gave me his bed. Wait a minute, Alfredo - he did mention that you might phone, and I see a note here...yes, he wrote down where he was going, and he says I’m to ask you to meet him there.’
‘He did? I have a pen, go ahead.’
‘It’s a café called the Meeting Place - not far from this hotel, actually. You’ll find him there if you leave soon. He was very excited about seeing you, Mr Moretti, that much I do know.’
‘Thank you. I’ll let you get back to sleep. Goodbye - and I hope to meet you too, perhaps?’
‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll meet! Bye, then.’
Alfredo hung up and sat on the side of his bed, feeling as if someone had just slapped him hard across the face. He wasn’t sure whether he should go or not, but when he caught sight of himself in the mirror over his little fireplace, his reflection said, ‘Go and meet him, you imbecile.’
21
Alfredo left the house and walked at a fast pace, unable to believe that he had just talked to Brendan’s son. He wondered if Amelia was Fintan’s mother. He certainly sounded as if he had grown up in England. He reached the corner of the piazza and picked out the awning of the café. He’d driven past it a few times since it had opened - it had once been a bookshop, but the insatiable tourist industry meant that cafés had been multiplying - but he had yet to go inside. Indeed, family loyalty would have prevented him from ever eating there of his own choice. But he hadn’t chosen the venue for this meeting, and he was glad of the relative privacy.
A broad-shouldered man wearing a cap was sitting at a corner table with his back to the street, and as Alfredo got closer he saw that he was reading an English newspaper. Alfredo stopped for a moment and stared at the nape of his neck, where the hair, now turning white, dipped into a V shape. It was one of the details that he had first found attractive about Brendan.
Brendan Fiscetti turned around, tilting his head to make his reading glasses slide down his nose, then he stood up, dropping his paper.
‘Alfredo? Alfredo Moretti, is that you?’
Alfredo could only nod and smile. Brendan stepped towards him and pulled him to his chest like a long-lost brother. He stroked the back of his head, and the two men stood there, embracing silently, in the mild heat of the late morning.
Alfredo was overcome by how wonderful Brendan smelled. Memories came crashing back, unlocked by the secret key that could only be turned by fragrance. He was unable to stop the tears from blurring his sight as they finally let go of each other. Brendan reached for a tissue and wiped his own eyes unashamedly, simultaneously offering one to his old friend.
A waitress came over, and Alfredo was glad of the large laminated menu to hide behind for a second or two. They ordered omelettes, bruschetta and cappuccino. When the waitress was gone, Brendan was the first to speak.
‘So you talked to Fintan, then?’
‘I did. I thought he was you at first. I woke him up, I’m afraid.’
‘It’ll do that sleepy-head no harm to be woken up.’ Brendan tilted his head to look at Alfredo more closely. ‘You know, you haven’t changed a bit in all this time - still as handsome as the day we met! And no grey hair, unlike myself. It’s not fair.’ They broke into a shy duet of laughter as Brendan tugged at his white sideburns.
‘Brendan Fiscetti, I see you still have the - what do you call it? - the gift of the gab! You look very distinguished indeed. I think you may look even better than you did twenty-five years ago, though I never would have guessed that was possible. How could time be so untruthful?’
Brendan grinned. ‘I know one thing, Alfredo, my friend: I couldn’t be happier to see you again at last.’ He put his big hand over Alfredo’s and squeezed it tightly, as if to prove to himself that his mind wasn’t playing tricks.
As the day progressed, they talked easily and constantly. Alfredo felt that a great weight was lifting from his heart, a weight that he had never fully realised was there. He was so happy that he felt almost drunk, although they had sipped nothing but coffee and water.
When a little gap appeared in the conversation, Alfredo braced himself and said, ‘I have to say something, Brendan, before we go on any further.’
‘Of course. Go ahead.’
‘I never apologised to you or Amelia in person for leaving you without a best man. I hope you can accept my sincere apology now. I was young and selfish, and I didn’t see the bigger picture -you and your bride, and the whirlwind romance of it all. Can you forgive me for fleeing and not coming to your wedding?’
Brendan looked at his long-lost friend for a mute moment. ‘Alfredo, I’d be lying if I said we weren’t disappointed and upset. Everyone was. But it’s water long gone under a Venetian bridge. Of course I forgive you - and, indeed, thank you for being man enough to bring it up. I’m just happy that you’re here now.’
Their eyes filled up once more, and they sat silently. The traffic was beginning to build up on the nearby street. Someone was trying to park in a space that was much too small for his car, causing a cacophony of car horns and abuse.
Alfredo’s confidence was boosted enough to ask, ‘So how is Amelia these days? Did she not travel with you?’
Brendan cleared his throat. ‘Amelia is very well. She’s not here, no, but we speak on the phone every evening. Oh, Alfredo, where do I start? At the beginning, I suppose.’
They ordered more coffee. When they were alone again, Brendan began.
‘After we were married on the ship, we went back to England and found a wonderful house in Highgate village, in North London. That first year was bliss, Alfredo. We had the best time making the house into our home, trawling the markets for interesting furniture - Amelia has a wonderful eye for detail. We thought of you often. I almost went to Rome for work a few times, but it always fell through at the last moment and I ended up doing better in America or Germany - you know what our business can be like, so unpredictable. Time has that awful habit of slipping by when one’s back is turned. Amelia used to come everywhere with me at first, but then she became pregnant. Initially we were overjoyed.’
‘That’s when Fintan came along? I’m so looking forward to meeting him, Brendan.’
‘Well, no. Amelia isn’t strong, you know. She miscarried -twice, actually. But the third time was lucky: she managed to reach full term, and our beautiful son Fintan was born - a whopping eleven pounds, and I’m sure you remember how tiny Amelia is!’
‘My goodness, Brendan! The poor girl.’
‘Well, without going into too many details - otherwise we’d be here for weeks - she was very ill and had to stay in the hospital for quite a while after the birth. And when she finally came home, she couldn’t get Fintan to feed, and on top of that, he was a terrible sleeper - not like nowadays, when he can sleep standing up - and a real screamer. My God, what a pair of lungs he had on him. I always joked that he’d be a singer like his father. Anyway, Amelia’s health only got worse as the months went by. Of course, they didn’t call it post-natal depression then, but that was what it was.’ Alfredo shook his head.
‘And she did her utmost to hide it from me. She felt that she would hold back my career somehow if I was worried about her -which was ridiculous, of course. We were trying for a sister or brother for Fintan, but with no success. We had every test imaginable. Amelia was more despondent than ever. Alfredo, it was breaking my heart. Just when we thought things couldn’t get any worse, she suddenly got very sick. The end result was that we would never be able to have any more children. It was the cruellest possible blow, and that was the worst time in our lives. We talked about adopting, but because my job took me away so much, it was unlikely that we would have made good candidates. And, to be honest, she struggled enough with the one child we did have. No matter what we did, she just became more and more withdrawn.’
‘Oh Brendan, how awful! I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there for you - for both of you.’
&nb
sp; ‘As I said, water under the bridge.’ Brendan took a sip of cold coffee. ‘Anyway, I don’t know if you knew this, but Amelia’s first husband died tragically, not long before we all met her in Venice, and he left her a huge house in the countryside. The only time we saw Amelia smile properly was when she was in that garden, tending the flowers. We all went down there as often as we could. The difference that place made to her was like night and day. She regained some of her old confidence - for a while, at least - but as soon as she returned to London she would start to feel low again. So it made sense that she began to spend more and more time down there. And I had to base myself in London, because I was travelling so much.’
‘Brendan, I don’t know what to say.’
‘I was the thoroughly modern father and took Fintan away with me on trips, to give her a decent break. He was one of those children who are fiercely independent from the second they can walk, and he didn’t seem to mind all the upheaval. I suppose he really didn’t know anything else. When it came time for him to go to school, Amelia insisted he be enrolled in a private nursery near her, and I could hardly argue because I was away so much. She said she couldn’t live with herself if I ever stopped singing, so I just kept accepting work in the vain hope that she might get bored of being in the same place all the time and start travelling with me. I really thought we could get back on track, be together again, but the situation never changed. A few years ago, Amelia turned her first husband’s house into a convalescent home. She spends her time running it.’
Alfredo could hardly take it all in. ‘And what happened then? Did you divorce?’
‘Good God, no - heaven forbid! That was never an option. We’re still married. Like I said, we talk on the phone every night, and I see her as much as I can, especially at Christmas. It’s unconventional, I suppose, but it genuinely works for us. By the way, she knew we were going to be meeting, and she asked me to give you her fond regards.’
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