Alfredo didn’t know what to say. He tried to make sense of it all. It was so strange, hearing Brendan’s condensed life in fast-forward. Finally he found his tongue.
‘Brendan, I’m speechless. It’s so sad, but it touches me greatly that you feel you can trust me with such intimate details, of your life with Amelia. I want to ask you so many questions...’
‘Ask me anything you like, Alfredo. Our bridges were never burned.’
‘How old is your son now? And what does he do?’
‘Fintan’s nineteen. He’ll be twenty tomorrow, on my closing night in the Teatro. That’s why he came over.’
‘Does he look like you or like his mother?’
‘Oh, he’s a healthy mixture of us both. Wait till you meet him. He’s grown into a fine man, very bright, and very artistic too. He’s been studying painting in Paris for the last two years.’
‘That’s wonderful. And tell me, what about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Tell me if I’ve gone too far - but do you have a new partner now?’
‘No, no. I’ve had a few interesting offers over the years, but I could never act on them. Amelia and I are still married, and I’ve never loved anyone as much as I still love her.’
‘I understand. How could any of us forget how smitten you two were with each other, all those years ago in Venice? Will you please send my love to her when you talk tonight?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m so glad you two forgave me.’ Alfredo was lost in thought for a second. ‘Brendan, if you’ll permit me - and, indeed, if you and your son have no other plans - I would love the honour of giving both a closing-night supper for you and a birthday celebration for Fintan at my house. Nothing too fancy, not too many people. Please, say you’ll let me. To me, that would mean you’ve truly forgiven me. No pressure, of course!’
Brendan was surprised, but genuinely delighted. ‘That’s a fantastic idea! I would love it, and I’m sure Fintan would too. Are you sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble at such short notice?’
‘My housekeeper and I would relish the challenge.’
‘Oh, yes, your housekeeper. I must admit I was a little surprised when she answered the phone. I mistook her for your wife. And it’s my turn to ask you a personal question.’
‘Of course.’
‘I presume no wife ever materialised?’
Alfredo laughed and shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Well, then, tell me about you, Alfredo! You’ve been listening to me rattle on for ages, but I don’t know a thing about your life. Is there someone special to you, someone I’ll meet at this party at yours?’
Alfredo looked at him for a long moment. ‘Unfortunately, no one special just now, no. Brendan, I was crazy with jealousy when you and Amelia became engaged. I still wince when I think of it -how childish I was. I never gave her a chance, and her only crime was falling in love with you. I think that, when I settled back in Rome, I was too afraid of being so badly hurt again. I did go to London a few times to sing, and I hoped I might bump into you somewhere, but I was much too embarrassed to try and find you. To answer your question, there have certainly been a few dalliances over the years, but - like you, I suppose - I buried my heart in my work. Even after I was in a bad car accident, which is why I need my walking stick, I just ploughed on, so it never healed properly. I suppose I’m talking about my heart as much as my leg. I had to give up touring altogether, and slowly I replaced performing with teaching. But do you know what I think?’
‘What, my friend?’
‘I think those lonely days are at an end. Something extraordinary is at work here today. I can call you my friend again. Oh, Brendan—’
They clasped each other’s hands, and their eyes were wet again.
‘Alfredo, I knew our friendship would never be over for good. We just got lost. And I’m so glad to hear you feel the same way I do - friends again.’
They sat wordless for a few minutes as the last of their tears dried on their faces. Then Brendan looked at his watch and realised that they had been talking for most of the day, and he was due at the theatre in a little over an hour. They reluctantly parted, promising to make more concrete plans by phone the next day. Alfredo said he would definitely come and hear Brendan sing the following night, the last night of the run. Brendan hugged the breath out of him as they parted, and Alfredo was amazed that he was still so strong.
As he walked back home alone, Alfredo felt as light as a cloud.
In one day, two and a half decades of invisible heartbreak had been mended and he had his friend back. He was afraid that the anaesthetic of their reconciliation might gradually wear off and the dull ache might return, but it didn’t. He knew that Brendan could never have loved him as he had so badly wanted him to, but this knowledge no longer hurt. It was nothing short of a miracle.
24
When Fergal got to the theatre for his shift and knocked on the door of Brendan’s dressing room with their tea, he couldn’t believe how different Brendan was. He practically pulled the door off its hinges, helped Fergal put the tray down and hugged him tightly.
‘Fergal Flynn, it’s so good to see you! How are you feeling?’
‘I’m okay, I think; thanks. You know, one day at a time and all that.’
Brendan was humming away to himself, with his stage make-up already applied. Fergal wasn’t sure whether to ask him the reason for his high spirits - he thought they might be because the end of the run was near - but Brendan suddenly explained. ‘I’ve just spent the entire day with your elusive teacher, Alfredo Moretti. Did you know it had been twenty-five years since we last spoke?’
Fergal nodded.
‘I want to thank you for being instrumental - or should I say vocal? - in bringing us together again. If you hadn’t mentioned that he was your teacher, I probably would have finished this run and gone home, and that would have been that. The icing on the cake is that my son arrived from London this morning, so I couldn’t be happier.’
‘Your son?’
‘Why, yes, did I not mention him before? He’s not much older than you, and about the same height, I’d say - although I haven’t seen him for a while. It’s his birthday tomorrow, on my closing night, so it will be a double celebration - and Alfredo has offered to host a supper party at his house after the show.’
‘Right.’ Fergal was instantly curious about Brendan’s son. He thought of his own da. He couldn’t imagine how different it must be to have someone like Brendan for a father.
The half-hour call put an end to the conversation. That evening, Brendan seemed to take the music to new heights. By the end of the show, his last outfit was soaked through with sweat from working so hard. Before he had even finished holding the last note of the night, the audience was on its feet and calling for an encore. Fergal noticed that this time he didn’t run away from the stage door, but instead stood chatting and signing everything he was offered until the very last person was satisfied.
When Fergal got back home, he found Alfredo in a similar state of bliss. He was at the piano, surrounded by old sheet music and singing at the top of his voice, stopping only to drink from a glass of expensive wine that was balanced precariously on the edge of one of his rare books. When he saw Fergal, he jumped up and hugged him, proclaiming drunkenly, ‘I just want to say that the Lord works in mysterious ways. Don’t you think so, Fergal?’
‘I suppose so.’
Alfredo hiccupped. ‘When I first heard your voice in that damp old monastery, little did I know that you would be the one to lead me back to my old friend Brendan Fiscetti. I can’t begin to tell you what a miracle it is. How can I thank you?’
Fergal went bright red. ‘Alfredo, what do you mean? You and Father Mac saved my life - first him in Belfast, and now you here in Rome. I don’t know how I'll ever thank youse enough.’
Alfredo looked drunkenly touched. Suddenly he made for the record player, put on a record and grabbed Fergal to dance arou
nd the room, shouting, ‘We’re going to have a party, we’re going to have a party!’
Fergal was a bit taken aback, but Alfredo was laughing so hard that it became infectious as they spun around the room. It was sheer luck that they didn’t collide with anything priceless before the music finished and they stood still, sweating and gasping for breath.
Alfredo was exhausted after a day he would never forget, but he regained control of himself. ‘I almost forgot - Father MacManus phoned. Your mother’s passport is being worked on, and he hopes it will be ready in a few weeks.’
‘Oh? When did you talk to him?’
‘Earlier this evening. He called to see how you were, and I told him you had gone back to work, which he thought was probably a good idea.’
‘Right.’ Fergal felt a bit put out that he hadn’t spoken to Father Mac himself.
‘You do feel sure about being back at work, don’t you? You would say if it was too much?’
‘Yes, of course. I love being at the Teatro, and Brendan is so nice to me. Hey, did he tell you he has a son? My age?’
‘Yes, he did. Just when one thinks things can’t get any stranger... Are you sure you’re okay? You’re sure you want your mother to come? If you don’t, then just tell me.’
‘No, Alfredo, I do. I think she deserves to come and see how beautiful it is here.’
‘Well done, Fergal. It’s the right thing to do. I can’t tell you how much I’d love to see my own mother again. She’d have loved your voice, too.’
Fergal went red and thanked him, and they said goodnight. As Alfredo slipped into a deep sleep, he was already planning every detail of the imminent party.
The next morning, Fergal was in the middle of a dream when the doorbell rang. He turned over, hoping somebody else would answer it, but when it rang again, he reluctantly dragged himself from under the sheets.
‘I’ll get it,’ he called to no one as he pulled on his dressing gown and half-sulked down the stairs, rolling his eyes at the cornicing. When he unlocked the front door, he was just in time to catch Luigi cursing his way back down the path, hugging so many tall bunches of flowers that he looked like a peacock. Fergal shouted after him.
Luigi turned back, delighted at the sight of the sleepy young Irishman in only his loosely tied bathrobe. He begged forgiveness dramatically. ‘Oh, I didn’t want to wake you, my dear. I wasn’t due to make the delivery until a little later, but I ended up with another order in the next square, so I thought I’d try my luck.’ He pushed past Fergal and went straight to the kitchen. ‘I’d better get these into water, before we all wilt!’
Fergal couldn’t believe how many bunches of white orchids and lilies Luigi unloaded into the sink. ‘See you tonight, handsome,’ he called as he headed back to the front door. ‘Ciao!’
When Daniela got back, laden down with endless bags of shopping, and saw the sink full of flowers, she exclaimed, ‘Signore Moretti has gone crazy! Is the Pope himself coming to this party?’
The phone didn’t stop ringing all day with more and more preparations for the party, and Fergal was glad of the distraction of his Italian lesson with Signora Truvello. More than a few times, though, she had to tap her desk and demand his full concentration as he sat staring into space. He was glad she couldn’t read his thoughts - they were full of the rain-soaked graveyard, his dead father’s face in its ghoulish make-up, Father Mac’s nakedness and his rejection.
He returned to Alfredo’s just in time to meet Arianna, arriving in her little van with two of her kitchen staff. They unloaded the buffet equipment that Alfredo had asked for and Fergal helped them carry in armfuls of stainless steel receptacles. He hadn’t seen Arianna since returning from Belfast. She squeezed his arm and exclaimed, ‘Fergal, you are fast becoming a man! How are you doing, after...Ireland?’
He smiled weakly. ‘I’m doing okay. Thanks, Arianna.’ Then he flexed his arm, to break the moment. ‘Yeah, I’m getting muscles, arn’t I? It’s down to all the work I’m doing at the Teatro.’
As he said the word, he looked at his watch and realised he would be late if he didn’t leave right away. He kissed Arianna goodbye and ran off down the street. As she watched him go, she said to his wake, ‘Something is changing, but I don’t know what.’
Backstage, the theatre was packed with closing-night flowers, baskets of fruit and champagne, and the excitement was palpable in every room. Fergal clocked in and headed automatically towards the basement kitchen, but Giovanni shouted down the stairs, ‘Bring an extra cup to Signore Fiscetti’s dressing room - he has a visitor.’ Fergal knew it must be someone important - Brendan usually refused all demands on his time before the performance; his ritual was sacred. He wondered if it might be Alfredo.
When Fergal rapped on the door, he wasn’t prepared for the vision that opened it. There stood the handsomest red-haired young man he had ever seen. Brendan called out from the little bathroom, ‘Fintan, that’ll be Fergal Flynn. Remember I was telling you about him? Will you let him in?’
‘Of course, Dad. I already have,’ the young man answered in a soft English accent. He smiled and stepped aside to let Fergal put down the tray.
‘Hello,’ Fergal offered, a little shyly.
‘Hi. We meet at last!’ Fintan said warmly, and shook his hand.
Brendan came out of the bathroom and put his arm around his tall son. ‘Fergal, meet my son and heir, Fintan Fiscetti - born exactly twenty years ago today!’ He kissed his son’s forehead and ruffled his hair.
‘Dad, get off!’
Fergal wished Fintan a happy birthday and began to back out of the room, thinking they would want some privacy. ‘Where are you going?’ Brendan demanded.
‘I thought you might want to be on your own since you haven’t seen each other in a while, and it’s Fintan’s birthday and all.’
‘No, no, not at all, my dear boy! I’ve had the pleasure of being with my handsome son all day. And anyway, I’ve been telling him all about you, and I’m glad you’re finally getting to meet.’
So they poured tea, and Fergal listened wide-eyed to Fintan’s stories of trips to London and studies in Paris. As he talked, Fergal tried not to stare too obviously, but he couldn’t help taking in the details of this beautiful young man, the incredible green eyes that shone under his thick mop of dark-red curls. Fergal kept looking back and forth between father and son, trying to find physical similarities. At first he couldn’t see any, but gradually he began to see the resemblances in their mannerisms — the identical way they held their cups, the way they both threw their heads back and laughed, pushing each other and closing their eyes.
Fergal could only think of his own father, lying dead in the cemetery. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if they could be in the same room together. It struck him, harder than ever, that he would never get the chance to laugh with his father about anything. There had never been any joy between them; it simply hadn’t been allowed. The temperature in Fergal’s heart dropped and he felt intensely jealous of Fintan Fiscetti.
The half-hour call came too soon, and Brendan asked Fergal if he would bring Fintan up to the guest box closest to the front of the stage. Fergal was only too delighted, of course, and after Fintan kissed his father on the cheek, he led the way through a maze of corridors under the stage towards the box.
‘Are you coming to the supper party later?’ Fintan asked him. Fergal laughed. ‘Well, I hope so. It’s at Alfredo Moretti’s house, and that’s where I live too.’
They laughed together this time. Fergal opened the velvet door of the box and Alfredo stood up, hand outstretched to welcome Brendan’s son. ‘Signore Fiscetti Junior, I take it?’
‘Yes, how do you know my...Wait a minute, are you Mr Moretti, who I spoke to on the phone yesterday morning?’
‘I am, well done. I see you’ve met Fergal Flynn.’
‘Yes. My dad says he’s the best he’s heard in a very long time.’ Fergal blushed and Alfredo smiled, saying, ‘Your father is right abou
t that.’
Fergal left them to it and went backstage. That night’s show was completely sold out, and Brendan found he was unusually nervous. He laughed to himself when he realised it was because Alfredo was in the house. But he needn’t have worried. There was magic in the air, and the evening went perfectly.
At the interval, Alfredo and Fintan went to the little bar for a drink. ‘So, Fintan - that’s an unusual name for an English boy.’
‘Yes, I know, but Brendan and Amelia had this thing about Irish names, especially after they saw my little red head.’
‘Yes,’ Alfredo said, noticing that he called his parents by their first names. ‘Your father tells me you’re a brilliant painter.’
‘Does he now? Well, I’m still studying, of course, but I’ve come to the end of my term in Paris and I’m eager to move on, you know?’
‘Of course. For a young man like you, the world is your canvas. Where are you planning to go next? London again, perhaps?’
‘Oh God, no, Signore Moretti. I’ve spent so much of my life in England, and I do love it, of course, but I want to see the world. I think you and Fergal are so lucky to live here in Italy. I’m already blown away by what little architecture I’ve seen. So who knows?’
‘I must say I feel privileged to have been born here. Why don’t you think about Italy? Surely you could study here?’
‘I’d love to. That’s one of the reasons why I jumped at the chance to come and see Dad singing here. I have an obsession about Italian architecture, but there’s so much I need to see up close. Is the Sistine Chapel as beautiful as they say?’
‘You mean you’ve never seen it?’
‘Not yet, but ever since I started painting at boarding school I’ve been a particular fan of Michelangelo.’
‘Well, young man, your timing couldn’t be worse. The Cappella Sistina is closed for renovations, so you’ll just have to make a return visit when they officially unveil their cleaning work. The rumour is that they’re doing a stunning job, so it’ll be worth it, I’m sure.’
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