by John Boyne
‘Excuse me,’ I said quickly.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, reaching down and scratching herself in a most unladylike way as I held my hat humbly before her. ‘Are you Ricardo?’
‘I am not,’ I admitted.
‘Petro then?’
I shrugged and looked over her shoulder towards her companion, who was small and round with dark hair greased to his head from a sharp centre parting, and who scurried towards me excitedly as I acknowledged his existence.
‘Cara, please,’ he said, pushing her slightly aside as he came into the doorway, and it surprised me a little how she deferred to him now that there was a stranger present. She shrunk back a few steps in her bright red dress and allowed him to do the talking. ‘How may I help you?’ he asked, his face sporting a broad smile, delighted no doubt that someone had appeared who had stopped the shrieking woman from continuing with her tirade against him.
‘I’m sorry to intrude -’ I began, before he cut me off by waving his arms in the air dramatically.
‘No intrusion!’ he shouted, clapping them together now. ‘We are delighted to see you. You are Ricardo of course.’
‘Neither Ricardo nor Petro,’ I admitted with a shrug of my shoulders. ‘I am looking for -’
‘You are sent by one of them then,’ he asked and I shook my head.
‘I am new to the city,’ I replied. ‘I’m looking for the offices of a Signor Alfredo Carlati. Are you him?’ I hoped he was not.
‘There is no Carlati here,’ he said dismissively, the smile leaving his face completely now that I was neither Ricardo nor Petro, his missing associates. ‘You are wrong.’
‘But this is the address, surely,’ I said, extending my letter to him and he glanced at it briefly before pointing towards the stairs.
‘Those offices are the next flight up. I know no Carlati but he may well be up there.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, edging away as he closed the door sharply and the woman took up her screaming chorus once again from within. Already, I disliked Rome.
The next floor up had a brass plaque outside the door with the word Officialdom inscribed on it beside a neat, silver bell, which I pulled once as I smoothed my hair with my left hand. This time, a tall, thin man, with grey hair and a beak for a nose, opened the door and stared at me with nothing short of pure distress on his face. The effort which it took for him to say ‘Can I help you?’ seemed almost too much for a moment and I feared that he would collapse under the strain of speaking.
‘Signor Carlati?’ I inquired, forcing my voice to be at its most polite and sincere.
‘That is me,’ he sighed, his eyes filling with tears as he stroked his temples.
‘I am Matthieu Zéla,’ I said. ‘We have communicated through letter regarding -’
‘Why, Signor Zéla,’ he said, his face lighting up now as he clasped my arms and hugged me to his body, kissing first my left cheek and then my right, and then my left again with his dry, chapped lips, ‘of course it is you. I am so pleased you are here.’
‘You were difficult to locate,’ I said, stepping inside as he ushered me through to his office. ‘I didn’t expect such -’ I wanted to say ‘squalor’ but settled instead on the phrase ‘an informal setting’.
‘You mean you expected a lavish government building, replete with servants and wine and beautiful music being played by a string orchestra chained together in one corner?’ he asked bitterly.
‘Well, no,’ I began. ‘That’s not -’
‘For all that the world appears to think of us, Signor Zéla, Rome is not a wealthy city. What funds the government has within its control to disperse it chooses not to waste on ridiculous ornamentation for its public servants. Most of the government buildings are currently situated in small dwellings such as this one around the city. It is not perfect but our minds are more concentrated on our work than on our surroundings.’
‘Quite so,’ I said, feeling suitably humbled by the philanthropy of his sentiment. ‘I meant no offence, you understand.’
‘You will have a glass of wine?’ he inquired, clearly ready to move on from his diatribe as I settled in an easy chair opposite his desk, where a Tower of Pisa in paperwork stood ominously before me. I indicated that I would have whatever he was having and he poured me a glass with a shaky hand, more than a few dropfuls landing on the tray upon which the bottle stood. I accepted the glass with a smile and he sat opposite me, putting his glasses on and off as he peered at me, clearly unsure whether he liked what he saw or not.
‘Strange,’ he said eventually, settling back with a shake of his head. T expected someone older.’
‘I’m older than I look,’ I admitted.
‘From what I heard of your work, you sounded like a most distinguished man.’ I moved to protest but he shook his hand in the air dismissively. ‘I don’t mean that in an offensive way,’ he said. ‘I just meant that your reputation suggested a man who had spent a lifetime learning about the arts. How old are you anyway, forty? Forty-one?’
‘I wish,’ I said with a smile. ‘But I’ve crammed a lot of experience into my life, I promise you that.’
‘I think you should know’, said Signor Carlati, ‘that it was not my idea to invite you to Rome.’
‘Right ...’ I said slowly, nodding my head.
‘Personally I am of the belief that the administration of the arts within Italy should be undertaken by Italians and that the disbursement of government funding within Rome should be overseen by a Roman.’
‘Such as yourself?’ I asked politely.
‘Actually, I am from Geneva,’ he said, sitting up straight and pulling his jacket down slightly.
‘Not even Italian then?’
‘That does not mean I cannot believe in a principle. I would feel the same way about a foreigner making government decisions within my own country as I feel about this one. Have you read Borsieri?’
I shook my head. ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Maybe a little here and there, nothing substantial.’
‘Borsieri suggests that the Italians should put aside their own artistic bents and look to the literature and artistic creations of other nations and adapt them for this country.’
‘I’m not sure that’s exactly it,’ I said doubtfully, considering that Carlati was simplifying Borsieri’s statements significantly.
‘He seeks to make us a nation of translators, Signor Zéla,’ continued Carlati with a look of pure disbelief. ‘Italy. The country which produced Michelangelo, Leonardo, the great Renaissance writers and artists. He seeks that we should put aside all our national characteristics and look to simply import ideas from the rest of the world. Madame de Stael too,’ he added, spitting on the floor as he said her name, an action which made me jump back in surprise. ‘L’Avventure Letterarie di un Giorno,’ he shouted. ‘You, signor, are the natural embodiment of that piece. That is why you are here. To deprive us of our culture and introduce your own. It is part of a continuing process to denigrate the Italian and rid him of his self-confidence and natural talents. Rome is to be a little Paris.’
I thought about it for a moment and wondered whether I should point out the obvious flaw in his argument. He was, after all, a perfect embodiment of that which he disapproved of. He was Swiss, not Italian. His argument – while theoretically debatable – did not merit such passion on his part, as the enforcement of his convictions would surely have led him back across the Alps and into a career in clock-making or conducting the local chapter of the Swiss Yodelling Society. I considered pointing this out to him in ungentlemanly language but decided against it. He did not like me. We had just met but he did not like me, of that I was sure.
‘I would be keen to find out more about my responsibilities,’ I said eventually, hoping to move the conversation on a little. ‘The duties you mentioned in your letter, while fascinating, remain a little vague. I suspect there is a lot more that you can tell me about them. For instance, to whom do I report? Who will offer me instruction? Whose
plans am I here to fulfil?’
Signor Carlati sat back in his chair and smiled bitterly at me, his fingertips creating a temple before his nose. He waited before answering and watched for my amazed expression as he told me who had desired my appointment to the Roman government and from whom I could expect to receive my instructions.
‘You are here’, he said clearly, ‘under the direct will and desire of II Papa himself. You are to meet with him tomorrow afternoon in his apartments in the Vatican. It seems that your reputation has spread even to his ears. How very fortunate for you.’
He took me so much by surprise that I burst out laughing, a reaction which I can assume only from his disgusted expression he considered to be typical of an ignorant French immigrant such as myself.
Sabella Donato was thirty-two years old when I met her. She had dark brown hair, pulled back fiercely from the sides of her head into a bunch behind, and wide, green eyes, which were her most captivating feature. She had a habit of looking at you from their corners, her face turned slightly to one side as she observed your every movement, and was widely considered to be one of the three most beautiful women in Rome at that time. Her skin was not quite so dark as those Italians who worked out of doors all the time, and she exuded an air of worldliness, of European mystique, despite the fact that she had grown up the daughter of a fisherman in Sicily.
She was introduced to me at a reception given by the Comte de Jorve and his wife, where their daughter Isobel was to sing a selection from Tancredi. I had met the Comte a few weeks earlier at one of the many official lunches I had to attend in my new role and had been drawn to him immediately. A round faced fellow whose whole body betrayed a love of fine food and wine, he had come to speak to me about the opera house which he had heard I was designing.
‘It’s true then, isn’t it, Signor Zéla? It is to be the finest opera house in Italy, I believe. Set to rival La Scala?’
‘I don’t know where you are receiving your information from, Comte,’ I replied with a smile, swirling a glass of port in my hand. ‘As you know, no announcement has yet been made as to where the major funds are to be distributed.’
‘Come, come, signor. All of Rome knows that His Holiness is intending for it to be built. His obsession with outclassing Lombardy dates back to before his elevation, you know. Some say he sees his relationship with you as resonant of that between Leonardo and -’
‘Really, Comte,’ I said, amused but flattered. ‘That is ridiculous. I am a mere civil servant, that is all. Even if we were planning an opera house, I would not be the designer, merely the man who sees that all the funds are dispersed in a sensible manner. The artistic creations I am bound to leave to other, more talented people than myself.’
He laughed some more and poked my ribs with a chubby index finger. ‘I can’t get you to let loose any secrets then?’ he asked, his face growing purple with curiosity as I shook my head.
‘Afraid not,’ I replied. Of course, it was not long afterwards that the announcement was made and from then on I was fair game for anyone in the city to corner with their ideas of how the building should be constructed, how large the stage should be, how deep the pit, the very design for the drop curtains. But it was the Comte whose views I listened to the most at the time, for we became friends quickly and I learned that I could trust him to keep our conversations to himself. I was only sorry that his daughter was not a better singer, for I had hoped to be able to repay my debt of friendship to him by offering some assistance to Isobel, who was twenty-five, plain, unmarried and without a future.
‘She’s dreadful, isn’t she?’ asked Sabella, approaching me for the first time just as Isobel finished her third excerpt and we were finally allowed to disperse for some much needed refreshments.
‘With training, there is some hope,’ I muttered charitably, immediately attracted to the smiling vision beside me, but unwilling to be disloyal to my friend simply in order to ingratiate myself with a woman. ‘She handled the second movement skilfully, I thought.’
‘She sounded like she needed to have a movement herself,’ said Sabella lightly, picking up a cracker and inspecting its burden suspiciously before popping it inside her mouth. ‘But she’s a lovely girl all the same. I spoke to her earlier and she told me not to expect much from her singing.’ I smiled. ‘Sabella Donato,’ she said after a moment and extended a gloved hand towards me. I took it and kissed it gently, the satin warm beneath my lips.
‘Matthieu Zéla,’ I said, bowing a little as I stood back up.
‘The great arts administrator,’ she replied with an intake of breath, looking me up and down as if she had been waiting to meet me all day. ‘So much is expected of you, signor. The city is talking of your plans day and night. I hear there is to be an opera house somewhere in our future.’
‘Nothing has been confirmed as yet,’ I muttered.
‘It will be good for the city,’ she said, ignoring my half-denial, ‘although your friend the Comte should not expect his daughter to be singing there on opening night. She is more likely to end up gracing one of the many boxes in the audience.’
‘And you, Madame Donato,’ I began.
‘Sabella, please.’
‘You will be singing if such a great achievement was to come into place? Your reputation precedes even my own, you know. I hear it sometimes gets its own invitation to parties.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t come cheap, you know,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you could afford me?’
‘The Holy Father has a very large purse.’
‘Which he keeps very tight control over, I believe.’ I opened my hands a little to indicate that I had no comment on that matter and she laughed. ‘You are very discreet, Signor Zéla,’ she said. ‘That’s an admirable trait in a man these days. I think I would like to know you better. All I ever hear are rumours and, while such things do have an unpleasant habit of being true, it is foolish to rely upon them.’
‘And I you,’ I said, ‘although the stories I have heard concern your talent and beauty, both of which are undeniable. I know not what you have heard of me.’
‘Charm is not everything,’ she answered, looking suddenly irritated. ‘Do you know, wherever I go, from morning till night, people flatter me? Or try to anyway. They tell me how my voice is God’s own instrument, how my beauty is incomparable, how this, how that, how everything in the world is wonderful because of my presence in it. They think this will make me happy. They think it will make me like them. Do you think it works?’
‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘A confident person knows their own talents and doesn’t need to have them reinforced by being assured that they are there. And you seem to me confident already.’
‘So how would you seek to flatter me then? What would you do to impress me?’
I shrugged lightly. ‘I don’t try to impress people, Sabella,’ I said. ‘That’s not in my nature. The older I get, the less interested I am in being popular. I don’t wish to be actively disliked, you understand, I just find that I don’t care so much about the opinions of others. My own opinion is what matters. That I respect myself. Which I do.’
‘So you wouldn’t try to impress me at all?’ she asked, smiling, flirting with me as we stood there. I felt powerfully drawn to her and wanted to take her somewhere we could talk in private, but grew weary of this slightly forced repartee, the language of two people who are trying to make a good impression on each other, something which despite my assertions to the contrary I was clearly attempting to do.
‘I think I would point out your flaws,’ I said, moving away slightly and putting my glass down on a table. ‘I’d tell you where your voice lets you down, why your beauty will some day fade, and why none of it really matters a jot. I’d talk about the things that other people never talk about.’
‘If you were trying to impress me, you mean.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, then, I look forward to hearing about all my flaws,’ she said, stepping away now and looking b
ack with a smile, ‘when you feel brave enough to point them out to me.’
I watched her disappear back into the crowd and would have followed her immediately had not Isobel begun another movement with a surprisingly flawless B flat which forced me to stay where I was out of respect for the best part of fifteen minutes, by which time the famous singer and beauty had already disappeared.
All this talk of opera houses related back to the afternoon following my stormy meeting with Signor Carlati. By the time I gratefully left his shabby office that day he had given me instructions on how to conduct myself throughout my appointment with Giovanni Maria Mastai-Feretti, the Vicar of Rome, Pope Pius IX, my new employer.
