by Ngaio Marsh
He shook hands and said how glad he was to receive them; to Troy he added that it was an honor and a privilege to welcome her. There were, perhaps, American overtones in his speech, but on the whole his voice, like the rest of him, seemed neutral. He introduced the Alleyns formally to everybody. To the raconteur, who was Signor Beppo Lattienzo and who kissed Troy’s hand. To a rotund gentleman who looked like an operatic tenor and turned out to be one: the celebrated Roberto Rodolfo. To Mr. Ben Ruby, who was jocular and said they all knew Troy would do better than that: indicating a vast academic portrait of La Sommita’s gown topped up by her mask. Then came a young man of startling physical beauty who looked apprehensive — Rupert Bartholomew — a pretty girl whose name Troy, easily baffled by mass introductions, didn’t catch, and a largish lady on a sofa, who was called Miss Hilda Dancy and had a deep voice. Finally there loomed up a gentleman with an even deeper voice and a jolly brown face, who proclaimed himself a New Zealander and was called Mr. Eru Johnstone.
Having discharged his introductory duties, Mr. Reece retained his hold on Alleyn, supervised his drink, led him a little apart, and, as Troy could see by the sort of attentive shutter that came over her husband’s face, engaged him in serious conversation.
“You have had a very long day, Mrs. Alleyn,” said Signor Lattienzo, who spoke with a marked Italian accent. “Do you feel as if all your time signals had become”—he rotated plump hands rapidly round each other—“jumbled together?”
“Exactly like that,” said Troy. “Jet hangover, I think.”
“It will be nice to retire?”
“Gosh, yes!” she breathed, surprised into ardent agreement.
“Come and sit down,” he said and led her to a sofa removed from that occupied by Miss Dancy.
“You must not begin to paint before you are ready,” he said. “Do not permit them to bully you.”
“Oh, I’ll be ready, I hope, tomorrow.”
“I doubt it and I doubt even more if your subject will be available.”
“Why?” asked Troy quickly. “Is anything the matter? I mean—”
“The matter? That depends on one’s attitude.” He looked fixedly at her. He had very bright eyes. “You have not heard evidently of the great event,” he said. “No? Ah. Then I must tell you that the night after next we are to be audience at the first performance on any stage of a brand-new one-act opera. A world premiere, in fact,” said Signor Lattienzo, and his tone was exceedingly dry. “What do you think about that?”
“I’m flabbergasted,” said Troy.
“You will be even more so when you have heard it. You do not know who I am, of course.”
“I’m afraid I only know that your name is Lattienzo.”
“Ah-ha.”
“I expect I ought to have exclaimed. ‘No! Not the Lattienzo?’”
“Not at all. I am that obscure creature, a vocal pedagogue. I take the voice and teach it to know itself.”
“And — did you—?”
“Yes. I took to pieces the most remarkable vocal instrument of these times and put it together again and gave it back to its owner. I worked her like a horse for three years and I am probably the only living person to whom she pays the slightest professional attention. I am commanded here because she wishes me to fall into a rapture over this opera.”
“Have you seen it? Or should one say ‘read it’?”
He cast up his eyes and made a gesture of despair.
“Oh dear,” said Troy.
“Alas, alas,” agreed Signor Lattienzo. Troy wondered if he was habitually so unguarded with complete strangers.
“You have, of course,” he said, “noticed the fair young man with the appearance of a quattrocento angel and the expression of a soul in torment?”
“I have indeed. It’s a remarkable head.”
“What devil, one asks oneself, inserted into it the notion that it could concoct an opera. And yet,” said Signor Lattienzo, looking thoughtfully at Rupert Bartholomew, “I fancy the first-night horrors the poor child undoubtedly suffers are not of the usual kind.”
“No?”
“No. I fancy he has discovered his mistake and feels deadly sick.”
“But this is dreadful,” Troy said. “It’s the worst that can happen.”
“Can it happen to painters, then?”
“I think painters know while they are still at it, if the thing they are doing is no good. I know I do,” said Troy. “There isn’t perhaps the time lag that authors and, from what you tell me, musicians can go through before they come to the awful moment of truth. Is the opera really so bad?”
“Yes. It is bad. Nevertheless, here and there, perhaps three times, one hears little signs that make one regret he is being spoilt. Nothing is to be spared him. He is to conduct.”
“Have you spoken to him? About it being wrong?”
“Not yet. First I shall let him hear it.”
“Oh,” Troy protested, “but why! Why let him go through with it? Why not tell him and advise him to cancel the performance?”
“First of all, because she would pay no attention.”
“But if he refused?”
“She has devoured him, poor dear. He would not refuse. She has made him her secretary-accompanist-composer, but beyond all that and most destructively, she has taken him for her lover and gobbled him up. It is very sad,” said Signor Lattienzo, and his eyes were bright as coal nuggets. “But you see,” he added, “what I mean when I say that La Sommita will be too much engagée to pose for you until all is over. And then she may be too furious to sit still for thirty seconds. The first dress rehearsal was yesterday. Tomorrow will be occupied in alternately resting and making scenes and attending a second dress rehearsal. And the next night — the performance! Shall I tell you of their first meeting and how it has all come about?”
“Please.”
“But first I must fortify you with a drink.”
He did tell her, making a good story of it. “Imagine! Their first encounter. All the ingredients of the soap opera. A strange young man, pale as death, beautiful as Adonis, with burning eyes and water pouring off the end of his nose, gazes hungrily at his goddess at one a.m. during a deluge. She summons him to the window of her car. She is kind and before long she is even kinder. And again, kinder. He shows her his opera — it is called The Alien Corn, it is dedicated to her, and since the role of Ruth is virtually the entire score and has scarcely finished ravishing the audience with one coloratura embellishment before another sets in, she is favorably impressed. You know, of course, of her celebrated A above high C.”
“I’m afraid not!”
“No? It’s second only to the achievement recorded in the Guinness Book of Records. This besotted young man has been careful to provide for it in her aria. I must tell you by the way that while she sings like the Queen of Heaven, musically speaking this splendid creature is as stupid as an owl.”
“Oh, come!”
“Believe me. It is the truth. You see before you the assembled company engaged at vast cost for this charade. The basso: a New Zealander and a worthy successor to Inia te Wiata. He is the Boaz and, believe me, finds himself knee-deep in corn for which ‘alien’ is all too inadequate a description. The dear Hilda Dancy on the sofa is the Naomi, who escapes with a duet, a handful of recitatives, and the contralto part in an enfeebled pastiche of ‘Bella figlia dell’ amore.’ There she is joined by a mezzo-soprano (the little Sylvia Parry, now talking to the composer). She is, so to speak, Signora Boaz. Next comes the romantic element, in the person of Roberto Rodolfo, who is the head gleaner and adores the Ruth at first sight. She, I need not tell you, dominates the quartet. You find me unsympathetic, perhaps?” said Signor Lattienzo.
“I find you very funny,” said Troy.
“But spiteful? Yes?”
“Well — ruthless, perhaps.”
“Would we were all.”
“What?”
“‘Ruth’-less, my dear.”
“Oh, real
ly!” said Troy and burst out laughing.
“I am very hungry. She is twenty minutes late as usual and our good Monty consults his watch. Ah! We are to be given the full performance — the Delayed Entrance. Listen.”
A musical whooping could at that moment be heard rapidly increasing in volume.
“The celestial fire engine,” said Signor Lattienzo, “approaches.” He said this loudly to Alleyn, who had joined them.
The door into the hall was flung wide, Isabella Sommita stood on the threshold, and Troy thought: “This is it. O, praise the Lord all ye Lands, this is it.”
The first thing to be noticed about the Sommita was her eyes. They were enormous, black, and baleful and set slantwise in her magnolia face. They were topped by two jetty arcs, thin as a camel-hair brush, but one knew that if left to themselves they would bristle and meet angrily above her nose. Her underlip was full, her teeth slightly protuberant with the little gap at the front which is said to denote an amorous disposition.
She wore green velvet and diamonds, and her celebrated bosom, sumptuously displayed, shone like marble.
Everyone who had been sitting rose. Alleyn thought: A bit more of this and the ladies would fall to the ground in curtseys.
He looked at Troy and recognized the quickened attention, the impersonal scrutiny that meant his wife was hooked.
“Dar-leengs!” sang La Sommita. “So late! Forgive, forgive.” She directed her remarkably searching gaze upon them all, and let it travel slowly, rather, Alleyn thought, in the manner of a lighthouse, until it rested upon him, and then upon Troy. An expression of astonishment and rapture dawned. She advanced upon them both with outstretched arms and cries of excitement, seized their hands, giving them firm little shakes as if she was congratulating them on their union and found her joy in doing so too great for words.
“But you have come!” she cried at last and appealed to everyone else. “Isn’t it wonderful!” she demanded. “They have come!” She displayed them, like trophies, to her politely responsive audience.
Alleyn said “Hell” inaudibly and as a way of releasing himself kissed the receptive hand.
There followed cascades of welcome. Troy was gripped by the shoulders and gazed at searchingly and asked if she (the Sommita) would “do” and told that already she knew they were en rapport and that she (the Sommita) always “knew.” Didn’t Troy always know? Alleyn was appealed to: “Didn’t she?”
“Oh,” Alleyn said, “she’s as cunning as a bagload of monkeys, Madame. You’ve no idea.”
Further melodious hoots, this time of laughter, greeted the far from brilliant sally. Alleyn was playfully chided.
They were checked by the entry at the far end of the room of another steward-like personage, who announced dinner. He carried a salver with what was no doubt the mail that had come with the Alleyns and took it to the straw-colored secretary, who said: “On my desk.” The man made some inaudible reply and seemed to indicate a newspaper on his salver. The secretary looked extremely perturbed and repeated, loudly enough for Alleyn to hear, “No, no. I’ll attend to it. In the drawer of my desk. Take it away.”
The man bowed slightly and returned to the doors.
The guests were already in motion and the scene now resembled the close of the first act of an Edwardian comedy, voices pitched rather high, movements studied, the sense, even, of some approach to a climax which would develop in the next act.
It developed, however, there and then. The bass, Mr. Era Johnstone, said in his enormous voice: “Do I see the evening paper? It will have the results of the Spring Cup, won’t it?”
“I should imagine so,” said Mr. Reece. “Why?”
“We had a sweep on Top Note. It seemed a clear indication,” and he boomed up the room. “Everybody! The Cup!”
The procession halted. They all chattered in great excitement but were, as actors say, “topped” by the Sommita, demanding to see the paper there and then. Alleyn saw the secretary, who looked agitated, trying to reach the servant, but the Sommita had already seized the newspaper and flapped it open.
The scene that followed bore for three or four seconds a farfetched resemblance to an abortive ruck in Rugby football. The guests, still talking eagerly, surged round the prima donna. And then, suddenly, fell silent, backed away, and left her isolated, speechless and crosseyed, holding out the open newspaper as if she intended to drop-kick it to eternity. Alleyn said afterward that he could have sworn she foamed at the mouth.
Across the front page of the paper a banner headline was splashed:
“Sommita says NO FALSIES.”
And underneath:
“Signed statement: by famous prima donna. Her curves are all her own. But are they????”
Boxed in a heavy outline, at the center of the page, were about nine lines of typescript and beneath them the enormous signature,
“Isabella Sommita.”
iii
Dinner had been catastrophic, a one-man show by the Sommita. To say she had run through the gamut of the passions would be a rank understatement: she began where the gamut left off and bursts of hysteria were as passages of rest in the performance. Occasionally she would come to an abrupt halt and wolf up great mouthfuls of the food that had been set before her, for she was a greedy lady. Her discomforted guests would seize the opportunity to join her, in a more conservative manner, in taking refreshment. The dinner was superb.
Her professional associates were less discomforted, the Alleyns afterward agreed, than a lay audience would have been and indeed seemed more or less to take her passion in their stride, occasionally contributing inflammatory remarks while Signor Rodolfo, who was on her left, made wide ineffable gestures and, when he managed to get hold of it, kissed her hand. Alleyn was on her right. He was frequently appealed to and came in for one or two excruciating prods in the ribs as she drove home her points. He was conscious that Troy had her eyes on him and, when he got the chance, made a lightning grimace of terror at her. He saw she was on the threshold of giggles.
Troy was on Mr. Reece’s right. He seemed to think that in the midst of this din he was under an obligation to make conversation and remarked upon the lack of journalistic probity in Australia. The offending newspaper, it seemed, was an Australian weekly with a wide circulation in New Zealand.
When the port had been put before him and his dear one had passed for the time being into a baleful silence, he suggested tonelessly that the ladies perhaps wished to withdraw.
The Sommita made no immediate response, and a tricky hiatus occurred during which she glowered at the table. Troy thought, Oh, to hell with all this, and stood up. Hilda Dancy followed with alacrity and so after a moment’s hesitation did wide-eyed Sylvia Parry. The men got to their feet.
The Sommita rose, assumed the posture of a Cassandra about to give tongue, appeared to change her mind, and said she was going to bed.
About twenty minutes later Alleyn found himself closeted in a room that looked like the setting for a science-fiction film but was Mr. Reece’s study. With him were Mr. Reece himself, Mr. Ben Ruby, Rupert Bartholomew, and the straw-colored secretary, whose name turned out to be Hanley.
The infamous sheet of newsprint was laid out on a table around which the men had gathered. They read the typewritten letter reproduced in the central box.
To The Editor
The Watchman
Sir: I wish, through your column, to repudiate utterly an outrageous calumny which is circulating in this country. I wish to state, categorically, that I have no need of, and therefore have never resorted to, cosmetic surgery or to artificial embellishment of any kind whatsoever. I am, and I present myself to my public, as God made me. Thank you.
Isabella Sommita.
(Picture on page 30)
“And you tell me,” Alleyn said, “that the whole thing is a forgery?”
“You bet it’s a forgery,” said Ben Ruby. “Would she ever help herself to a plateful of poisonous publicity! My God, this is going to make
her the big laugh of a lifetime over in Aussie. And it’ll spread overseas, you better believe it.”
“Have there in fact been any rumors, any gossip of this sort?”
“Not that we have knowledge of,” said Mr. Reece. “And if it had been at all widespread, we certainly would have heard. Wouldn’t we, Ben?”
“Well, face it, old boy, anyone that’s seen her would know it was silly. I meantersay, look at her cleavage? Speaks for itself.” Mr. Ruby turned to Alleyn. “You’ve seen. You couldn’t miss it. She’s got the best twin set you’re likely to meet in a lifetime. Beautiful! Here! Take a look at this picture.”
He turned to page 30 and flattened it out. The “picture” was a photograph of the Sommita in profile with her head thrown back, her hands behind her resting on a table and taking the weight. She was in character as Carmen, and an artificial rose was clenched between her teeth. She was powerfully décolletée and although at first glance there seemed to be no doubt of the authenticity of the poitrine, on closer examination there were certain curious little marks in that region suggestive of surgical scars. The legend beneath read, “Seeing’s believing!”
“She never liked that picture,” Mr. Ruby said moodily. “Never. But the press did, so we kept it in the handouts. Here!” he exclaimed, jamming a forefinger at it. “Here take a look at this, will you? This has been interfered with. This has been touched up. This has been tinkered with. Those scars are phony.”
Alleyn examined it. “I think you’re right,” he said and turned back to the front page.
“Mr. Hanley,” he said, “do you think that typewriter could have been one belonging to anybody in Madame Sommita’s immediate circle? Can you tell that?”
“Oh? Oh!” said the secretary and stooped over the paper.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “it wasn’t typed on my machine.” He laughed uncomfortably. “I can promise you that much,” he said. “I wouldn’t know about hers. How about it, Rupert?”