‘Ah, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.’
‘If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay, but don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re obviously not. Do you think I don’t know when you’re upset? I thought we could tell each other anything.’
Fergal sighed. ‘You’re right.’
He spent the next twenty minutes telling Father Mac how down he had felt when he came back from Ireland, and all about meeting Fintan. He told him how quickly they had fallen for each other and how, just when things seemed to be going brilliantly, they had turned sour. ‘And now,’ he finished, ‘I don’t know what to think.’
Father Mac had listened carefully. ‘Try not to dwell on it too much,’ he said gently. ‘Maybe things will be better when Fintan comes back.’
‘Yeah, if he comes back. I think I’ve scared him off.’
‘Look, Fergal, you’ve got a lot of work ahead for the recital. Concentrate on that, and then see what happens. Don’t think everything is so permanent all the time. It’s good to fall out sometimes. Making up again can be really special, and it can bring you closer in the long run. I can’t say it enough - you need to learn more about forgiveness. Even if you’re completely in the right, you have something to learn from this. By the way, your mother wanted to phone you later, from here. Will you be in?’
‘Really? What for?’
‘I think she’s just excited about coming to Rome and I’d say my hallway is the only place she can get any privacy. Every phone box on the road is busted. Maybe she wants to talk about your da. You know, she’s probably reliving all kinds of memories in her head and maybe she feels she can talk to you. You are a good listener, that much I know.’
‘I’ll be here, but I’m working tonight, so around dinnertime would be good.’ Fergal still didn’t completely trust his mother, but there was a part of him that was looking forward to seeing her on her own and it made him feel good that she might think of him as someone she could talk to now that they were a bit older.
When they hung up he felt a tiny bit better, but he still thought Fintan might have at least phoned before he left for London.
Poor Brendan Fiscetti. His son was in a huff the whole way home, and when they reached their house in Highgate he went straight to bed. Brendan tried to talk to him, but Fintan ignored him. Some of what Fergal had said had really made him think, but he was too furious even to consider talking to him - at least, not yet. As he lay in the room that had been his from birth, he wondered whether he really wanted to get involved with a singer who, like his father, would probably end up being away a lot of the time. But in his quieter moments, he allowed himself to picture Fergal’s face, and his heart melted just a little.
That evening, before Fergal went to work at the Teatro, the phone rang. It was Father Mac again, with Angela beside him. Fergal felt strange talking to his mother, knowing that she stood in the very hallway where he and Father Mac had practically ripped the clothes off each other in a fit of lust one night, when they couldn’t wait to get up the stairs.
‘Hello, Fergal? It’s me.’
‘Hello, Mammy. How are you?’
‘Ach, you know - taking it a day at a time. I miss your da, for all his shenanigans.’
‘I suppose it must be strange being on your own again, seeing as you were married for so long.’
‘Oh, it is. I sometimes think he’s coming in the door but it’s only a neighbour over to say hello. I even made his dinner the other night and sure I had to throw it out.’
She didn’t tell him that she’d also found an old pair of his socks under the bed when she was cleaning and although she’d laughed at first she ended up crying into them and then putting them under her pillow.
‘Mammy, you’re going to have a great time over here. I promise you’ll love it.’
‘Sure, a change is as good as a rest, isn’t that what they say, son?’
Fergal always felt a bit awkward when she called him ‘son’, but deep down he was pleased too.
‘You know I’m doing a wee concert while you’re here?’
‘Yes, Father MacManus was telling me.’
‘It won’t be long till you’re here and we can talk properly then. I’m away to work now, so I have to go. See you, okay?’
‘See you, son.’
As Fergal was leaving for work, Alfredo asked, ‘How was it, talking to your mother?’
‘It was good. But a bit strange, too.’
‘Whatever it is that’s making you so upset, I hope it gets resolved before too long.’
‘Thanks, but it’s not so easy.’
‘It’s about Fintan, isn’t it? Or is it about your mother?’
‘No, it’s not her at all - for once. I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘It’s your business. But remember, I was once in love with a Fiscetti, although, mind you, we were never lovers like you and his son. Fergal, whatever has happened has happened. With a bit of time and distance, it won’t seem nearly as bad as it feels right now. Just try and cheer up.’
Fergal felt like nobody understood him, but all he could do was say, ‘I will’ as he pulled on his coat.
After Daniela went home, Alfredo had a shower and a shave - his second that day - and then tried to find something to wear that wouldn’t make him sweat too much. When the doorbell rang, he breathed into his own cupped hand and smelled his breath one last time before he opened the door. His gentle giant of a pupil, equally nervous, stood at the top of the steps, holding a bottle of Prosecco and a little bag of meat, which he’d had to bring because his brother had heard him mention it.
Salvatore Santamaria was almost fifty and had lived with his younger brother Ciro above the family butcher shop since the day he was born. He treasured music above all else and had always dreamed of singing on stage to a packed house instead of to his hanging audience of headless carcasses, but because he was the first born, he was expected to follow in his father’s sawdust footsteps, and he had inherited the shop when his parents died.
‘I thought we might sit in the garden?’ Alfredo said. ‘The weather isn’t bad, and you might be glad to be outdoors after a day in your shop?’
‘Yes, good idea.’
When Alfredo went to get drinks, Salvatore smelled his hands, afraid for a moment that he hadn’t been able to get rid of the raw-meat odour that often accompanied him. Alfredo returned with the tray of beer and glasses and caught him, and Salvatore laughed. ‘I just wanted to make sure I don’t still smell of the shop. It’s hard to tell.’
‘Here, give me your hand.’
The butcher nervously stretched out his palm, and Alfredo inhaled the clean skin at the base of his thick fingers. Then he shook his head. ‘No, they smell...great.’
They sat across from each other on the terrace and talked easily about their changing city.
‘Your house is incredible, Signore Moretti. Do you live here all by yourself?’
‘I did for many years, but now my Irish pupil Fergal Flynn lives here too, while he’s studying with me. And an old friend’s son will be coming to stay for a while. He’s a painter called Fintan, Brendan Fiscetti’s son.’
‘You mean that incredible tenor who was just here at the opera house?’
‘Why, yes. Did you go?’ Alfredo loved looking at Salvatore up close, taking in the details of his blunt, handsome face.
‘I did. I love to hear that kind of singing.’
Salvatore told Alfredo about his family, and that he shared the apartment above the shop with his brother. ‘I thought you were married when I first came for lessons,’ he said.
‘Oh, you mean Daniela? She’s been my housekeeper for a very long time. I don’t know what I’d do without her. I thought you were married, too.’
Salvatore smiled. ‘The only time I’ll ever walk down the aisle is on Sundays to get Holy Communion.’
‘Does your brother know?’ Alfredo asked carefully. ‘About you?’
‘You mean that I.. .that I’m attr
acted to men? Good God, no. He’s very old-fashioned, even though he’s younger than me.’
Alfredo exhaled in relief. ‘Oh, Salvatore, I’m glad you said it! I’m not barking up the wrong tree after all, then?’
‘No, you’re not.’ They smiled at each other, and both of their hearts beat faster.
The two men talked on into the evening, gradually unwrapping their individual stories. When they got hungry, Alfredo unloaded the groaning fridge and found a couple of bottles of wine left over from the party.
Eventually they moved down to the hanging sofa, in the most secluded part of the garden, beside the magnolia tree. As soon as Salvatore sat his bulk down on it, it nearly touched the ground. He tried to stand up again, stumbled and had to reach for Alfredo’s offered hand. But instead of pulling himself up, he pulled Alfredo down on top of him. They both laughed, then, without another word, their lips touched - once, then twice, and then they were kissing as if they had never been kissed before.
Alfredo felt faint as Salvatore held him in his firm grip. They opened their eyes at the same time, to prove to themselves that it was really happening. Salvatore whispered, ‘I’ve been dying to do that for a long time, Alfredo.’
Alfredo leaned against him, and they held hands as the night air gossiped about them. Alfredo was dizzy, and he knew that it wasn’t from the wine. Finally he said, ‘Where did you come from?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve been coming to my house for so long, and I never saw you for who you are. I wonder why?’
‘I’ve spent a lifetime covering up. But I was here all along, holding a little candle for you, but far too shy to let you see it.’
‘Oh Salvatore, if only I’d known. But I suppose I wasn’t ready to see.’
Before Alfredo finished speaking, he knew why he had been so blind. He had never really recovered from Brendan Fiscetti. Only when Fergal had reconnected him to his past had he been able to let go of it and let someone else in. The truth of it hit him in that moment, and he was speechless.
Salvatore looked at Alfredo and saw his eyes filling up. He raised his eyebrows, then kissed Alfredo again and again, on his lips and on his closed, damp eyes.
They didn’t hear Fergal’s key in the front door. Fergal was in mildly better form, even though he had spent the whole evening thinking about Fintan. Every time he passed the stage door he had glared at the phone, willing it to ring, but it had never happened.
When he saw that the house was dark, he decided he couldn’t be bothered to eat and went straight up to his room to read in bed. The last thing he expected to see as he went to close his window was his teacher and the butcher on the swinging sofa, snogging for all they were worth. Fergal couldn’t believe it. He thought of the first time he and Fintan had kissed, on that same sofa, and felt more depressed than ever. He lay on the bed and said to the ceiling, ‘God, if that sofa could talk...’
It was after midnight when Alfredo and Salvatore reluctantly said goodnight. Although sex was very definitely on the menu, and although neither of them wanted the evening to end, they decided to take it slowly. They were from the same generation, old-fashioned in their own way, and it was only the first date, after all. They agreed to meet again very soon. Salvatore slipped out of the front door. When he was sure the street was empty, he blew a little kiss to his new love, who was waiting in the moonlit window.
Alfredo blew a kiss back. When he moved away from the window, his legs nearly gave way. In spite of his considerable bulk, he felt as light as air.
He looked at himself in the hall mirror, to see if he could see any difference now that he had allowed himself to be kissed properly by another man. His reflection’s eyes sparkled with hope. He floated off to bed, unable to believe that his whole life had turned around in only a day, and that love had been so patiently close the whole time.
31
The next morning, as Fergal finally slumped into his seat at the breakfast table, Alfredo was humming and singing and practically dancing around the kitchen.
‘Isn’t it a gorgeous morning, Fergal?’
‘If you say so.’
Alfredo screwed up his face at his pupil and poured him some orange juice. ‘We have a very busy time ahead. You’re going to need all the vitamin C you can get.’
Fergal wondered if he should mention the fact that he had seen Alfredo and the butcher at the bottom of the garden, but he thought better of it. Fintan’s presence was like a fog in his head. It was hard to see anything clearly through it.
As the days passed with no word from England, Fergal dropped further and further into himself. He stopped shaving for a whole week, and even he was surprised at the thick, reddish beard that grew - in apparent tribute to Fintan. Alfredo told him it suited him perfectly, although it did make him look older.
Fergal felt powerless. He didn’t know which way to turn. They had both said some hurtful things, but now it was all muddled up in his head, and he felt as if he had painted himself into some kind of a corner. It was bad enough that they were apart, but he realised it would be a lot worse if Fintan came back to live at Alfredo’s and they were still not speaking. Alfredo went so far as to suggest that Fergal should just bite the bullet and phone Fintan instead of wasting precious time, but Fergal could be stubborn when he wanted to - and he wanted to.
The recital was only a few weeks away, and their preparatory work grew more and more intense. They had decided on a forty-five minute set of songs, to include an Irish selection, seeing as the recital was to be held at the Catholic seminary’s music space, which was run by a Mayo man called Sean. Sean was on the phone every other day to discuss preparations, and the tickets were selling fast. Fergal had his photo taken by a friend of Giovanni’s and Alfredo had posters made with the photo of Fergal and a tiny picture of himself, advertising the fact that he would be accompanying his protégé on piano. That alone was enough to draw the right attention to the event. Even some of the leading dignitaries of the Irish embassy had reserved tickets and said they were looking forward to the evening with great interest.
Brendan and Alfredo talked often, at night. Alfredo had broken the news that he was seeing someone, and Brendan was delighted and wanted to know everything about Salvatore. He also said that he had mentioned Fergal’s name to his agent and that the agent was very keen to hear, him, especially since Alfredo was teaching him.
‘Really? Brendan, that’s wonderful news. Maybe I should record the recital. It wouldn’t be that hard, and I may not even tell Fergal. He doesn’t need the extra pressure.’
‘Good idea. If it turns out well, and you think it would make a good introduction, then we’ll play it to my agent. I know it’s all a bit soon, but you have a rare gem there in Fergal - not that I need to tell you.’
Alfredo told him that Fergal was definitely getting there, but there was still something not quite right. ‘Brendan, I worry about him. Once he gets into one of his moods, it’s like talking to fog. He’s working hard, but I’d just love to see him smile more - like he did when Fintan was here.’
They talked about Fintan too. He was drinking too much and, according to Brendan, appeared to have forgotten the route to the shower. They agreed that something had to happen, but they didn’t know what.
Brendan sighed. ‘What are we like, Alfredo, worrying about our boys? I’m not sure we can do anything except ride it out and be there for them. We’ve no other choice.’
Salvatore had started dropping off little presents for Alfredo - packets of meat with romantic notes stuffed inside - whenever he was passing with a delivery. Suddenly these two men approaching fifty felt like teenagers.
With each week that passed, their language got braver. They talked to each other on the phone every night, in the privacy of their bedrooms. Salvatore had to be careful because his brother was nosy and their flat was small, but Ciro usually spent the evenings drinking beer and watching TV with the sound up too loud, so Salvatore was safe. Alfredo was dying for him
to come and spend the night, and he said he would love to, but he wasn’t sure when. The truth was that he was incredibly shy about his body. Even though he wanted Alfredo, he was going to need a lot of encouragement. Little did he know that Alfredo felt exactly the same way.
Salvatore had come over for a drink a couple of times, and Fergal liked him, even though he was jealous that his teacher was in the first throes of romance and that he no longer had Alfredo’s exclusive attention. He knew he was being selfish, but he couldn’t help it. He was heartbroken. Whenever he thought about Fintan, the ache was ten times worse than any hangover. Brendan had spoken to him on the phone a few times, trying to cheer him up, but he could hear the loneliness in his voice. He was beginning to regret ever introducing the two young men.
Fintan couldn’t take it any longer. He got drunk and phoned the Teatro, but Fergal wasn’t working that night, and Fintan was so rude to the stage doorkeeper that he never gave Fergal the message. When Fergal didn’t phone back, Fintan thought it was because he wanted nothing to do with him.
Father Mac rang again, to check that Alfredo had all the right flight information. Angela was all ready to fly over that coming Friday. Her future daughters-in-law had even clubbed together to buy her a new dress, and she was genuinely touched. She would be staying until the following Monday. The recital was on Saturday night, and there were posters strategically placed around the city centre and at the Institute of Music. Daniela had transformed the spare bedroom that would be Fintan’s, if he ever arrived. Angela was going to be using it for her first weekend in Rome, to visit her son who was studying to be an opera singer -as she told the immigration officers while they tried to decipher her accent.
Alfredo and a very nervous Fergal stood in the arrivals hall. They both spotted Angela, wheeling her little trolley and looking in every direction but theirs, at the same time. Fergal thought she’d lost weight since he’d last seen her, and she thought the same about him when he called to her across the hall. They hugged each other, a little awkwardly. Angela was clearly exhausted by the first international flight of her life. Fergal still couldn’t get over how tiny she was.
Roman Song Page 31