Roman Song

by Brian Kennedy

  He struck the first chord dramatically, then began to sing ‘You’ve Got a Friend’.

  The whole gathering became a choir, and when Alfredo finished there was hardly a dry eye in the room. Brendan went to hug him. When they turned to smile at Fergal, they were just in time to see Fintan rub his back and then quickly take his hand away.

  It was after two in the morning when the guests left and Fergal stood with Alfredo at the front door, waving off the last taxi. Brendan and Fintan, somewhat the worse for wear, were in the backseat.

  The Fiscettis weren’t due to fly back to London for another few days. Fintan wanted to soak up as much of the art and architecture as he could, and Brendan looked forward to having a bit of time with his son and to seeing the city at night instead of worrying about a performance. As Alfredo and Brendan agreed to have dinner in a day or so, Fintan had managed to slip Fergal a note with the hotel’s phone number and whisper, ‘Promise we’ll meet as soon as we can.’ Fergal was bowled over.

  As the taxi disappeared and before Alfredo had a chance to say anything, Fergal went upstairs as quickly as he could, which, of course, said everything. He closed his bedroom door, his heart flying. He looked out his window at the back garden and the swinging seat where he and Fintan had kissed. He closed his eyes for a second and let the moment replay in his mind, remembering how good his lips had tasted.

  As he got undressed, he couldn’t believe it had happened at all. Fintan was so handsome and tall and lovely. Fergal couldn’t help feeling paranoid as he wondered why someone like Fintan would be interested in him at all. What did he have to offer someone who was rich, someone who had grown up in the countryside and gone to boarding school? But he was too exhausted to worry for long. He fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. As he drifted off, it struck him again just how far he had travelled from his family - and not only in miles.

  24

  It was all Fergal could do to stay away from the Fiscettis’ hotel the next day. He thought about phoning Fintan, but whenever he even looked at the phone in the hall, Daniela seemed to be there, practising for the hoovering Olympics. He would have given anything for an excuse to visit Fintan.

  Instead, he went for a long walk before going into the theatre. He thought about his mother, and decided to ask Alfredo to invite her for the coming recital. She would be able to hear him sing then. Fergal realised that it was important to him that she should see how hard he was working to make something of himself.

  When he clocked in backstage, it was strange to find the place so empty. The next production was a few weeks away. Brendan’s dressing room was bereft of his belongings and his name had already been removed from the door, as if it had never been there.

  The tannoy clicked, and Fergal looked up at the speaker. ‘Telephone call for Fergal Flynn. Fergal Flynn, please pick up at the stage door extension.’

  Fergal had never heard his name over the tannoy before, and he ran to the stage door as fast as he could, thinking that it might be bad news of some kind. He needn’t have worried. When he took the receiver from the stage doorkeeper, a soft English voice asked, ‘Fergal, is that you? My Italian is crap, but obviously they understood me. I hope it’s all right to call you at work?’

  Fergal’s heart started doing somersaults. ‘Fintan? Yeah, it’s me. Of course it’s all right to call me here.’ He actually had no idea what the Teatro policy was on personal calls, but the stage doorkeeper just continued reading his paper, unconcerned. ‘Ah, how are you today? How’s Brendan?’

  ‘Oh, he’s fine. Look, I called you there because I didn’t want to ask him for Alfredo’s number. Alfredo did offer to show me around the city, but I kind of thought it might be more fun to see a bit of Rome with you. Are you doing anything after work tonight?’

  ‘Nothing, just heading home.’

  ‘Why don’t we get a drink somewhere? What do you say?’ Fergal could hardly breathe. ‘I’d love to. I’m off around ten, I think. Is that too late?’

  ‘Too late? That’s when I start to wake up! Where should we meet?’

  ‘How about the Café degli Artisti, just across from the stage door here?’

  ‘Right, see you then. Oh yeah - Fergal?’ Fintan lowered his voice. ‘You’re a great kisser. See you at ten.’

  As Fergal put the receiver down, Giovanni appeared from nowhere, saying archly, ‘Well, someone’s looking very pleased with himself, I must say!’ Fergal disappeared down to Wardrobe as fast as he could so Giovanni wouldn’t see his red, flustered face.

  As the chimes of the city clocks sounded ten, Fergal clocked out of the theatre and left by the stage door.

  Fintan was sitting at a table just outside the Café degli Artisti, with a lit candle and two beers in front of him. When he saw Fergal coming, he beamed. ‘Hey, Fergal! I got a couple of beers, is that okay?’

  ‘Yeah, great.’ Fergal hardly ever drank beer, but it was cold and refreshing after the heat of the Teatro, and he finished his too quickly.

  ‘You were thirsty, eh? Do you want another one?’

  ‘No, not right now. Jesus, it’s strong, isn’t it?’

  Fintan laughed, and Fergal wanted to kiss him then and there.

  They were both nervous in their different ways, but they managed to keep the conversation going. They decided to go for a walk. They left the main road for cobbled laneways and sleeping shops and turned into a quiet piazza, completely empty except for a young woman crouched on the ground, unpacking a plastic bag in the middle of the square. They watched as she took out a small battery-powered tape recorder and set it at her feet. She uncoiled her waist-length black hair and shook it out, opened her coat and did little stretches, then bent down and pushed the play button on her tape recorder. Suddenly, a familiar piano part began floating from the tiny speaker, and she took a deep breath and began to sing.

  ‘Ave Maria,graziaplena...’ floated into the evening air. She was magnificent. Fergal and Fintan couldn’t believe it. They leaned against a wall to listen. Slowly but surely, shutters began to open above their heads all the way around the square as the residents left whatever they had been doing and leaned out, arms folded, to listen to this young woman’s exquisite voice. It was like a dream.

  When she came to the end of the song, she took the applause as graciously as if she were on stage at the Teatro. Then she straightened her skirt, and the piano began again. This time she sang something unfamiliar to them, but no less beautiful. Fintan had moved into a shop doorway and lit a cigarette. Fergal squeezed in beside him and they pressed against each other, transfixed.

  The mysterious girl finished on a quiet, crystal-clear high note, bowed and then packed up as her elevated audience clapped. Some people threw down money. She picked it up as quickly as she could, grabbed her things and was gone before Fergal and Fintan could speak to her or give her anything. One by one, in their own rhythm, the shutters closed above them and silence was restored in the piazza.

  ‘Fintan, wasn’t that pure magic? Jesus, you wouldn’t see that in Belfast. People would’ve bounced shoes and bricks off her head, not coins.’

  Fintan nearly choked on his cigarette with laughter. ‘You’re not serious, are you?’

  ‘Well, not really - but almost. Wait till I tell Alfredo. I’m glad you’re here, or he might think I made it up.’

  Fintan nodded in agreement and then whispered into Fergal’s ear, ‘I’m dying to kiss you again. Will you let me?’

  ‘What? Here?’

  ‘Why not? There’s nobody about.’

  Fergal smiled slow, nervous permission, and Fintan dropped his cigarette as they tasted each other’s lips in the doorway of the closed shop. Fergal could feel himself thickening, and as they pressed against each other he was glad to feel that he wasn’t the only one. They stopped dead for a moment, convinced that someone was coming, but it only turned out to be an old lopsided dog. They whispered and kissed, and slowly grew braver. Fintan’s hand went to the front of Fergal’s trousers, fe
eling him through the material, and they tried not to groan too loudly.

  At last the piazza’s clock told them it was almost midnight. ‘Shit, look at the time!’ Fergal said. ‘I should get back. Alfredo waits up for me.’

  ‘Does he? He really cares about you, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, and I’d hate him to think I take it for granted.’

  ‘I know, I know...but I don’t want you to go. Flynn, what are you doing to me?’

  ‘Look who’s talking!’

  They unfurled themselves from the darkened corner and found a taxi rank. As they sat in the back seat of the car, Fergal looked at the side of Fintan’s face and thought it was the kindest he’d ever seen. Fintan turned and smiled. He took Fergal’s hand and held it as they drove the rest of the way.

  The taxi dropped Fergal at Alfredo’s before going on to Fintan’s hotel. Just as they arrived, Fintan leaned towards him. ‘Fergal, how about you come to my hotel after work another night? Is that too forward of me?’

  Fergal stared into his eyes. ‘No, it’s not. I’d love to.’

  They squeezed hands, and Fergal got out. He stayed there, watching the taxi, until it rounded the corner and disappeared.

  Alfredo was still up and in good form. The house was more or less back to normal after the previous night’s party, and he had started to put together a plan for Fergal’s recital. He had even found a possible venue, a music space on the other side of the city that was part of a Catholic seminary that boasted a wonderful choir, and the rector had given Alfredo the go-ahead to start making preparations.

  They took glasses of wine into the sitting room, and Alfredo told Fergal the good news. Then he could resist no longer. As casually as he could, he said, ‘Tell me, Fergal, what did you make of Brendan’s son, Fintan? You two seemed to be getting on very well. It must have been nice to have someone close to your own age to talk to for a change, instead of all us old men going on about the past.’

  Fergal was unprepared for the question, and he wondered if Alfredo had seen Fintan dropping him off in the taxi. ‘Ah, yeah, I thought he was a lovely fella, and really easy to talk to. He doesn’t look like Brendan, though, does he? I mean, he’s big and tall and all, but he’s got that red hair, and his da’s so dark.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. He has his mother’s colouring.’

  ‘Does he? Well, he’s really friendly. He asked me if I wanted to meet up and go see a museum or something.’ Fergal tried to make it sound as casual as possible, although his lips were still a little raw from Fintan’s kisses.

  ‘If you both want an experienced companion, then you have only to ask me. I know this city inside out. He’s only here for a little less than a week, no?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Well, that should give him enough time to make up his mind.’ Fergal was confused and a little panicked, but he wasn’t sure why.

  ‘Make up his mind about what?’

  ‘About Rome, of course. He tells me that his time in Paris is over and that he feels like moving on, and where better for a young aspiring artist to study than in Italy, the country that gave the world Da Vinci and Michelangelo? I think we should try and convince him to make Rome his next home for a while, don’t you agree? I mean, you love it here, don’t you?’

  Fergal’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, and it wasn’t lost on Alfredo. ‘Of course I love it here. In fact, I can’t imagine not being here. You know, it’s funny. I thought I might miss Belfast, but I don’t, especially not since my da’s funeral. I did miss seeing Der— I mean Father Mac, at the start, but not so much now.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. We must call him to see how the passport for your mother is coming along, and then we should set a date for your recital. I needn’t tell you how much work is ahead. I think you should have an hour’s repertoire - nothing too dark, but the kind of pieces that show your flexibility and range of tone.’

  Fergal swallowed hard at the thought.

  ‘Now, now, Fergal. Remember, we have only to locate that temperature in your voice that you revealed in Belfast. I’m not saying you have to go around heartbroken all the time, but, well, we need to find a way to unearth that sorrow. I can never say it enough - it’s one thing to have all the notes, but it’s quite another to move someone with them.’

  ‘I know, I know—’

  ‘Fergal, stop. People usually say “I know” when in fact they don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. It’s just...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I dream about the day when I can repay you. I think it’s great that you’re going to let my mother stay here, but I wish I could help her myself.’

  Alfredo smiled. ‘Fergal, you can repay me by giving me the best seat in the house at your opening night in a major production. This is the only debt you owe me. And we have an early and quite long lesson tomorrow, so I think we should say good night.’

  He leaned over and kissed Fergal on the head, noticing the faint cigarette smoke that still clung to his hair. ‘Fergal, you haven’t started smoking, have you? You reek of tobacco smoke.’

  ‘No, no.’ Fergal almost panicked. ‘That’s just from...from working beside Giovanni.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Goodnight, then.’

  Fergal gave him a little hug and almost ran up the stairs, rubbing his hair and smelling his fingers the whole way.

  25

  By the end of the lesson the next day, Fergal was exhausted. Alfredo was pleased that he had been able to keep up the fairly punishing pace, and he complimented his sight-reading and his natural ability to remember a difficult melody. But there was still that feeling that Fergal was holding back, and it drove Alfredo mad.

  ‘Fergal, you’re making me sound like a broken record. You’re trying too hard to sound emotional, do you understand? And it’s not moving at all. Just how badly do you want to become an international tenor?’

  ‘More than anything. I—’

  ‘It’s not enough. What you have learned is how to mimic sophistication, and it will not do. Do you hear? Where is your own soul? Stop trying to sound like an opera singer! I even hear a bit of Brendan Fiscetti in there. Of course one must have influences, but one day, if you work hard enough and find your own voice, people will say that such-and-such a singer is trying to sound like you! That’s how good you are. So stop this charade.’

  Fergal felt miserable. He understood what Alfredo was saying, but he just didn’t know how to put it into practice. He knew that if he apologised it would only anger Alfredo more, so he stayed tight-lipped and nodded his head to show that he understood.

  Alfredo finally calmed down enough to ask him, ‘Are you working late? Surely you and Giovanni can’t have too much to do, now that the show is down.’

  ‘I won’t be sure until I get there. We have to paint the entire set black for the new production, and I haven’t a clue how long that will take.’

  ‘If you finish early, give me a call and I’ll save you some food.’

  ‘Okay, but I think I’ll be late again. I don’t mind, and sure, I have that key you gave me just in case.’

  ‘You think you might be as late as that?’

  ‘Ah, well, I’m not sure. Fintan was talking about trying to meet for a drink, because Brendan’s going to bed early now that he doesn’t have the show.’

  ‘He’s obviously exhausted. Well, if you want me to come and join you two, you know where I’ll be.’

  Fergal smiled and nodded. Although he felt guilty for thinking it, he could think of nothing he wanted to do less than share his precious time with Fintan with anyone. Although he loved him, Alfredo could be overbearing, and Fergal wanted to get away from him for a while. He knew his teacher was trying to get the best out of him, but sometimes it all got a bit too much and he needed to talk to someone his own age.

  When Alfredo went upstairs, Fergal grabbed the phone and dialled Fintan’s room at the hotel.

  ‘Hey, can I come over after work and
see you?’

  ‘God, yes! Perfect.’

  Fergal took a warm bath and got ready carefully, making sure to shave his rough chin slowly. He ironed his clothes to perfection, even though Daniela was always telling him, ‘Are you trying to get me fired, Signor Flynn? I will do it! This is my work!’ He thought about his mother and all the washing and ironing she had always had to do - and was probably still doing. At least his father’s absence meant one less load of laundry.

  Fergal kept changing his mind about which shirt to wear, but finally he settled on a new light blue one that the woman in the shop had said matched his eyes. When he eventually came downstairs, Daniela looked up from her work and cried, ‘Whoa! Going somewhere special, Fergal?’

  Mortified, he mumbled something and was out the door before she could ask any more questions. Daniela gave Fergal’s back a wry look and wondered who the lucky girl was.

  At the theatre, Fergal hung up his clothes carefully in his locker and put on the painting overalls that Giovanni had left out for him. They painted the entire set black, finally stopping at half past nine. Fergal and Giovanni got on well, and they often had a cup of coffee in the basement after their shift. Giovanni brought in little treats, like chocolates, so he was surprised that night when Fergal refused them in his hurry to leave. He changed into his ordinary clothes and almost ran out the stage door.

  The hotel’s reception area was a blaze of lights and mirrors, and the biggest, most attention-seeking chandelier Fergal had ever seen hung from the ceiling. Jesus, I’m glad I don’t have to clean that, he thought as he approached the reception desk and asked for Fintan’s room. The receptionist looked sceptically at his paint-splashed hands, but he rang Fintan and then told Fergal to go up to the room.

  Fergal travelled up in the lift, nervously checking his hair in the mirror. Little did he know that Fintan was doing the same thing, trying to make his mop of red curls behave for at least a little while. He found the room - he couldn’t help checking up and down the corridor for any sign of Brendan making an unannounced visit - and knocked quietly, saying, ‘Room service!’