Fergal put his hand up to his face and said blankly, ‘Um, my mother, when I was a kid.’
‘What? How?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Fintan saw that his face had clouded over and he began to apologise for intruding, but Fergal suddenly stopped him.
‘She got me with her nails. I think her nerves were really bad that day, and I wouldn’t stop humming or something, I dunno, and I’d hidden the hose of the washing machine.’
‘Why? So she couldn’t do the washing or something?’
Fergal laughed, then stopped abruptly. ‘The washing? I can’t tell you how many times she beat me with that thing till I bled - across my legs, my back, anywhere. I think that day she couldn’t find it, so the next best thing was her nails.’
Fintan was horrified. ‘My God! What did your father say?’
‘My father? Jesus, he was worse. You didn’t get a warning with him. Anyway, let’s not talk about any of that. It’s in the past, where it belongs.’
‘Fergal, I’m so sorry. I just can’t imagine living like that. My dad wasn’t around as much as I’d have liked, but he was good at writing to me, and my mum, well, she was always somewhere in the distance. But they never, ever hit me, not once.’
He paused for a minute and then said, in a lower voice, ‘They beat you a lot, didn’t they?’
Fergal nodded. For a fraction of a second, he looked about six years old.
‘But what about your brothers? You said you have twin older ones and one younger one, right? Did they get beaten too? Did the older ones never try and help you?’
‘Oh God, Fintan...where do I start?’
‘Right at the beginning, that’s where.’
‘Look, if you must know, the twins enjoyed goading my ma into beating me. I used to talk like a...’ Fergal stopped.
‘Go on, Fergal. You can tell me anything. Please. You’ll feel better.’
‘I used to talk like a girl, apparently. My ma hit me in the mouth if she heard me saying girly words.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like “dear”. I know it sounds mad, but if I finished a sentence with “dear”, she would reach over and hit me in the mouth. She said it was for my own good, because it wasn’t normal for a boy to talk like that.’
‘Fergal, that’s - that’s insane.’
‘Who are you telling?’
‘Why would she single you out like that?’
‘She did go after the twins from time to time - never Ciaran. But I just wasn’t like the rest of them. And I was always in trouble in school.’
‘What kind of trouble? I’m sorry if this is all too much - it’s just that I want to know who you are, how you grew up. Forgive me if I’ve gone too far.’
‘No, no. Sure, I’ve asked you about your childhood, haven’t I? I got beaten up a lot at school, because I had a high speaking voice, my walk wasn’t manly enough and I couldn’t kick a football straight - in my school, that was the ultimate crime. One day I was queuing to get into the classroom, and a fella grabbed me from behind and slammed my head into the wall. The next thing I knew, I woke up in the headmaster’s office, with my ma beside me wringing her hands. I got murdered all the way home because she’d lost an afternoon’s wages, having to come and get me.’
‘That’s unbelievable.’
‘Things like that happened all the time. My da used to throw his scalding tea in my face if I challenged him about anything. I finally moved into my granny’s, to get away from them. But she got sick, and, well, that’s another story for another day.’
Fintan was speechless. Finally he said, ‘Fergal, how do you seem so together? How did you survive? I would never have guessed any of that was under your surface, and I’m sure it’s just the tip of the iceberg. You’re amazing, do you know that?’
‘Ah, now.’
‘No, you are. Do you speak to your family at all now?’
Fergal shrugged. ‘Well, they’re the only family I’ve got. I saw my brothers at Da’s funeral. Ciaran smiled at me, but the twins acted like they hardly knew me. My mother and I - we’re trying our best to start over. She’s actually coming over soon, to this recital that Alfredo’s organising. I wish you were going to be here for that.’
‘I know. I can’t wait to hear you perform, but I will soon...I hope.’
It was almost midnight when Fergal finished telling him the edited version of his life story. Fintan still couldn’t take it in. ‘Like I said earlier, it’s a miracle you’re alive to tell me the story. I can’t believe they used to hit you for your voice - of all things.’
‘That’s what Father Mac always used to say. Even some of the teachers at school used to make fun of the way I talked. And in the end it was my voice that saved me. It’s ironic, isn’t it?’
They finally kissed goodnight, and Fergal reluctantly got a taxi back to Alfredo’s. This time the house was in complete darkness, and he slipped in as quietly as he could and went straight to bed. Although he felt glad that he’d been able to tell Fintan about his life, he also wondered if he had told him too much and maybe put him off. It struck him that Father Mac had ultimately rejected him; his da had died, leaving no possibility of repairing their relationship; he couldn’t keep living at Alfredo’s forever; and now Fintan was going to leave too. Fergal felt more vulnerable than ever, and he wondered why it was that all the significant men in his life, be they good or bad, left him. Suddenly he wondered if Father Mac was all right, and he thought about getting up again to phone him, but all he really wanted to do was sleep and forget about Fintan leaving.
29
Alfredo was the first up the next morning, and he set about planning the menu for that evening’s feast in honour of Brendan and Fintan’s farewell. He had already persuaded Arianna to take the night off from Moretti’s and let him cook for her, for a change. The first thing he did was call on his pupil, Salvatore, to order the meat for the sauce and the starters. As the sauce was an old family recipe, Alfredo wanted to choose every ingredient personally. He could have easily gone somewhere more local, but the huge man increasingly intrigued him, and this errand made a good excuse to try and find out more about him.
Alfredo wasn’t prepared for the sight of Salvatore in his white apron. Daniela usually did the bulk of the shopping, and he had only seen the butcher for lessons. Salvatore was no oil painting, but he looked so unexpectedly handsome that Alfredo stared at him silently until the butcher looked up from the job in hand.
‘Signore Moretti!’ Salvatore cried, delighted but a little nervous - his singing lessons were a well-kept secret from his brother. ‘It is an honour to have you in my shop. How can I help you?’
‘I have some very important guests coming to dinner tonight, and I need your finest ground beef for the main course and a selection of salami for the starters.’
Purely out of habit, Salvatore began humming one of the ballads that Alfredo had been teaching him. He stopped selfconsciously, but Alfredo urged him to continue. He even joined in, and they stood there amongst the hanging dried meats, singing to each other across the counter. Salvatore’s younger brother thought he was hearing things and popped his head in from the back, where he had been cutting up new deliveries, so they stopped abruptly and said nothing until they were alone again.
‘Now, Signore Moretti, do you want the meat now, or shall I deliver it later - free of charge, of course, seeing as I know the address so well?’
‘I couldn’t ask you to go that trouble, Salvatore.’
‘It’s no trouble for our special customers, and I have to make another delivery not far from your road. Is half past four too late?’ ‘No, no, perfect. I have a list of shopping to do. See you at half past four.’
As Alfredo walked out the door, he looked back for a second and saw that Salvatore had begun humming again, with an enormous smile. He was glad that he’d called. Alfredo had to admit to himself that he had a sizeable crush on his sizeable pupil.
On he went, into the
city centre, for just the right kind of fresh pasta, herbs, bread and oil. His final stop was the winery, where he knew exactly what he wanted: six bottles of his favourite red wine and six of white, followed by two special dessert wines. As he shopped, Alfredo wondered if Salvatore’s inclinations in the ways of love were similar to his own. It was hard to tell. He did know that Salvatore was a confirmed bachelor. The week before, when they had taken a coffee break during their lesson, he had remarked that Salvatore seemed only to want to learn very romantic material, and that his wife was a very lucky woman. Salvatore had looked at his teacher - for a little longer than a heterosexual man would have, Alfredo thought - and then said that he was unmarried and would stay that way. Alfredo dearly wanted to find out whether Salvatore shared his preference and his interest, but he wasn’t entirely ready. He just needed a little sign - anything at all.
Brendan and Fintan spent the day walking slowly through the market squares in an attempt to find a present for Alfredo.
‘What do we get the man who has everything?’ Brendan wondered.
‘I don’t know, Dad - a large chocolate-coated husband, perhaps?’
They laughed. ‘Keep a lookout for that stall,’ Brendan said. ‘I’m serious, though. I don’t actually know too much about his tastes these days - and before you say something filthy, I meant something that Alfredo would love but wouldn’t buy for himself. You know, like.. .like..
‘Like a husband, Dad. Let’s face it, Alfredo does have everything else. All he needs is someone to share it with. Don’t you agree?’
‘I suppose you’re right. Does Fergal talk about him when you’re together? Has he mentioned seeing Alfredo with anyone?’
‘No. I mean, Alfredo’s quite private, and he’s very much the teacher and Fergal the student.’
They walked and walked all afternoon, but Fintan spent most of the time daydreaming about his new love. By the end of the day, he knew he had made up his mind. As they sat under the outdoor umbrella of a café, he asked his father, ‘Dad, what would you say if I told you I was thinking of spending a lot more time in Rome? I mean, look at this place! The architecture of that fountain alone is reason enough for anyone with an ounce of artistic intent to move here. I really feel drawn to this city.’
Brendan raised his eyebrows. ‘Now, Fintan, this wouldn’t have anything to do with Fergal, would it?’
‘Look, Brendan.’ He always called his father by his first name when he was really serious. ‘I won’t deny that my feelings for Fergal are very powerful, and that the idea of seeing him regularly is appealing, but I need to leave Paris and expand my horizons.’
‘Yes, that you do. But—’
‘Dad, I’ve really thought about it. I’ll need you to help, until I become internationally rich and famous, but I could get a job teaching English, maybe. I’ve heard about people doing it, and my Italian doesn’t have to be that great to begin with. I’ve also rung the institute of art here, and they asked me to submit an application and my portfolio by the end of the month.’
‘My word, you’ve been a busy boy.’
‘What do you think, seriously? Do you think I’m mad or what?’
‘I think you should do what your heart tells you. Certainly there’s no denying the wealth of artistic possibility here. Why not? If you hate it, you can always leave - although preferably after you’ve finished the course, to which I see your mother and I are going to contribute heavily. Which, of course, is our pleasure and duty.’ Fintan smiled broadly, but Brendan raised his index finger. ‘There’s only one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That I can come and stay with you when I visit. We might even coax your mum into joining us, seeing as I now have two excuses to come back to Rome.’
Fintan threw his head back, laughing. ‘I know one voice teacher who’s going to be delighted with that news.’
‘And I know one future opera star who won’t exactly be complaining either.’
They hugged and had an Irish coffee to celebrate. Just as they were leaving the square, they saw a vintage wine shop, and Brendan bought a very expensive magnum of champagne. He turned to his son and said, ‘When all else fails, bring bubbles and plenty of them. We have a lot to toast tonight.’
Fergal woke late and had to rush to his Italian lesson. He had agreed with Giovanni that he would start a few hours early at the theatre that day so that he could leave early. They climbed into their overalls again and set about giving one of the dressing rooms a fresh coat of paint. Fergal was distracted by the fear that Fintan would wake up and think twice about getting involved with him after what he had told him about his childhood. As he coated every crack and bump with white paint, he wished he could give his past a similar fresh covering.
Giovanni had heard about Fergal’s phone calls from the stage doorkeeper, and he couldn’t help asking about Fintan. ‘So,’ he began, ‘you seemed to get on well with Brendan Fiscetti.’
‘Yeah. He was incredible, wasn’t he?’
‘Indeed. Tell me, though, what did you think of the son -Finnan or something, wasn’t it?’
‘Fintan, you mean. I think he’s great.’ Fergal’s voice trailed off for a second as a little film of their lovemaking ran through his head. ‘He’s...lovely, yeah.’
Giovanni forgot himself for a moment. ‘Well, I’d definitely get the knees of my jeans dirty for that one! Not sure about the red hair, though - he might have to dye it!’
‘What do you mean? I think his hair is beautiful.’
‘Yes, but can you imagine the pubes?’ Giovanni covered his mouth in mock shock.
Fergal went a pronounced deep red, heightened by the crisp white of the room, and Giovanni realised he’d gone a bit too far. He changed the subject quickly. They finished the job earlier than they had expected to, so Giovanni kindly sent Fergal home, wishing him a great evening, then giggled to himself the second the stage door closed behind him.
The Moretti household was so clean that it looked like they were expecting the pontiff himself. Daniela was famous for her tiramisu, and in true Italian style, she had made more than enough. Alfredo had been perfecting the sauce all day, and the kitchen had been out of bounds to even her until he was certain it tasted just right. He hummed approval at every room as he inspected it. ‘You’re sure you don’t mind staying late, Daniela?’
Daniela was decanting the first of the many bottles of wine that had just arrived. ‘Signore, I’ve been looking forward to this night all week. Do you think Signore Fiscetti or you or Fergal might sing?’
‘Who knows? I can’t put any pressure on Signore Fiscetti to perform - as you know, he’s just finished an exhausting run at the Teatro - but you never know what magic the exquisite wine and food will work.’
That was enough to make her grin.
Just then, the doorbell rang. It was exactly half past four, and Salvatore was delivering the meat like clockwork. He handed Alfredo a beautifully wrapped white paper package, tied with string. ‘I’ve added a few extra portions, free of charge,’ he said, ‘just in case of emergencies.’ Then he smiled, pointing to his teacher’s sauce-stained apron. ‘It’s nice to see you wearing one of those, for a change!’
Alfredo held his gaze for a moment. ‘Do you have time for a quick glass of wine?’ he asked.
Salvatore’s smile broadened, but he shook his head. ‘Thank you, Alfredo, but I can see you’re busy, and I still have a few more orders to deliver.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ll tell you what.’ Salvatore leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘If you ask me another day, I’ll definitely say yes.’
Then he turned around, not waiting for an answer, and left Alfredo holding the parcel in the doorway, lost for words but sure of exactly what he wanted to do next. He was going to bite the bullet and ask Salvatore out on a proper date.
Once Alfredo had calmed down and the meat was sorted out -in the sauce, at a very low heat, under the watchful eye of Daniela - he was free
to go and lounge in a lavender and rosemary bath at the top of the house. He couldn’t help imagining all of the romantic possibilities with the butcher. He even allowed himself to picture what Salvatore might look like naked, and to wonder whether he would be a good kisser...
Soon there was singing coming from his room, and from Fergal’s room, and even Daniela found herself making up a melody that seemed to fit in with what was coming from the upper floors as she mixed the salad dressing.
Brendan and Fintan arrived at Alfredo’s gate at exactly eight o’clock, but before they got a chance to ring the bell, the man of the house flung the front door open in a cloud of lime and lavender cologne. They joined Fergal in the sitting room, where Brendan presented Alfredo with the magnum of champagne and Daniela brought in a tray of welcoming Kir Royales. This time the doorbell did get a chance to ring, and Fergal opened the door to a delighted Arianna, who was carrying an enormous box of chocolates from her favourite shop. Fergal loved the way everyone kissed so warmly - especially when he and Fintan did it.
Daniela handed round the snipes, and Alfredo raised his glass.
‘My family and friends, let us drink to what I hope will be the first of many wonderful gatherings!’
A chorus of ‘Hear, hear! Salute!' filled the room, and they took their seats for the first course. The table was meticulously set for five, and Fergal noted with delight that there was a little place card in front of every setting. He was next to Fintan, and Alfredo sat at the head of the table, with Brendan to his left and Fintan to his right. Arianna was next to Brendan, facing Fergal, and Alfredo noticed how uncharacteristically coquettish she had become in the assembled company. Brendan was asking her questions about growing up with Alfredo and listening to her answers as if his life depended on them.
Fergal was straightening his napkin on his lap when he felt Fintan’s fingers tickle the back of his hand. He smiled nervously and stared straight ahead, stroking Fintan’s hand in return and squeezing it under the canopy of the crisp linen, until the first layer of plates was removed and the sorbet palate-cleanser allowed them a little break before the drama of the main course.
Roman Song Page 29