The Curtain Rises

by Mary Burchell

  She would have recalled the words if she could, the moment she saw the furious, stricken look on his face. But there was nothing she could do but stare at him in dismay as he slowly whitened and a bleak, frozen expres­sion came into his eyes.

  With a hand that shook slightly he reached into an inner pocket, while she wondered what on earth he was going to do. Then, before her shocked and astounded gaze, he brought out her photograph, tore it slowly in half and, having put the two pieces on the hall table, he walked out of the flat.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The brutal finality of Julian Evett's gesture was such that for minutes after he had gone Nicola stood there in the hall, staring down at the torn photograph and experiencing a chilling sense of utter rejection. It was as though, in tearing her photograph across, he had torn her out of his life.

  Not that she cared, of course, she assured herself quickly. His opinion of her, good or bad, meant nothing to her. But—she shivered slightly and, putting out her hand, she slowly gathered up the torn pieces.

  At one time he had been so obstinately—obsessively—determined to keep that photograph. Now, in the fierce deliberation with which he had destroyed it, she seemed to sense that some deep feeling had been turned back upon itself. Inexplicable but undeniable.

  Half frightened, she thrust the pieces of card into the pocket of her suit and went back into the room where her aunt was still talking animatedly with Dermot Deane.

  Madame Torelli looked up and surveyed her with a certain degree of critical sympathy.

  'Well, Nicola,' she said, 'are you feeling better now?'

  'Yes, thank you.'

  'You shouldn't let these things upset you so much. We're all very grieved about poor Brian Coverdale, of course, and I know it is specially painful for you, but—'

  'It's over.' Nicola spoke quickly, unwilling to have her private affairs discussed before a third person. 'I shouldn't have got so excited. But it seemed such a shame to do Michele Laraut out of her chance when—'

  'Who says she's going to be done out of her chance?' interrupted Torelli calmly.

  'Well, it was decided, wasn't it? Julian Evett said he wouldn't even consider her.'

  'Oh—' Torelli laughed indulgently—'that's not the beginning and end of it. If I choose to have her for my Pamina, I shall have her. There are always ways of arranging these things.' She smiled in a manner which seemed to make Dermot Deane slightly uneasy. 'But I must hear her again, of course. I have been talking to Dermot about it. He can arrange for her to come through Paris towards the end of next week. You and I shall be there then.'

  'Shall we?' So surprised and intrigued was Nicola by this totally unexpected announcement that she almost forgot Michele Laraut for the moment. 'I had no idea you—we were going.'

  'I have only just made up my mind about it,' was the cool reply. 'But I see no reason to kick my heels in London until the first rehearsals for "Macbeth" begin at the Garden. Oscar won't be here for two weeks at least, and there are one or two things I can usefully settle in Paris meanwhile. You would like to come with me, I take it?'

  'I should adore to!'

  'Dear child,' said Torelli, who liked to have her plans approved, even though she never considered altering them for anyone. 'You are fond of Paris, then?'

  'I've never been there,' Nicola told her.

  'Never been there? Then it's high time you did. Every­one loves Paris in the spring. Or if not they might as well be dead. Well, Dermot—' she turned to her manager— 'that is settled, then. You will arrange for this girl to come and see me at my Paris apartment on Thursday of next week.'

  'I'll phone her tonight and see if she can fit it into her itinerary,' he promised.

  'She had better,' Torelli said coldly. 'Such a chance does not come twice in a lifetime.'

  'Well—' said the manager, and then he went his way. While Nicola regarded her aunt, not for the first time, with something like awe. The fact that she obviously felt her­self perfectly capable of setting aside any opposition of Julian Evett's, however determined, seemed to make his scorn and anger just a little less wounding. And of this Nicola was glad.

  But several times during the next few days that scene in the hall came back to her, and each time with a sensa­tion of shock and chill which she had never before associated with the single gesture of anyone.

  The arrangements for the departure to Paris, however, precluded anything in the nature of brooding. It was true that Lisette, with the streamlined efficiency of long practice, attended to all the personal packing and con­veying of luggage. But Nicola also came in for a good deal of correspondence and general running to and fro.

  'I like to provide for every eventuality,' was a favourite saying of Torelli's. And if in the process she made a great deal of work for everyone around her this merely gave her the pleasing sensation of being the centre of a busy scene.

  By the time they left both Nicola and Lisette were slightly limp, but Torelli was in splendid form. She was charming to one or two newspaper representatives at the airport and, with her singular gift for remembering faces, she asked with genuine interest after the personal affairs of the stewardess on the plane.

  'But, Madame, how did you remember I was engaged to an electrical engineer in Sydney?' enquired the astonished and gratified girl.

  'You looked after me—very well, I might say—when I flew to London a month or two ago. I remarked on your pretty engagement ring and you told me about your fiancé. Don't you remember?'

  'Yes, of course. But then it's my business to remember things in my job.'

  'It's my business to remember things in my job too,' replied Torelli graciously. 'I always remember anything interesting about people who are nice to me. Also about people who are nasty to me, of course. But that is an entirely different matter.'

  Then she settled down to her book, contentedly aware of the fact that she had made a devoted slave.

  At Orly there were no newspaper representatives. But two charming teenagers asked for her autograph, which she gave with unfeigned pleasure, though she said after­wards to Nicola, 'It's a bore, of course. But none of us really wish to be left alone. It would be a poor day when one had to say, "Thank heaven no one noticed me".'

  And when they arrived at the Torelli apartment, just off the Champs Elysées, Nicola thought it was, quite simply, the most beautiful place she had ever seen. It was large and spacious, with that singular combination of elegance and homeliness that one sees only in Parisian apartments built in a gracious age.

  In addition to Lisette there were a middle-aged couple who, as far as Nicola could see, attended to every domes­tic duty one could require, if not with smiling eagerness at least with respectful efficiency. They took Nicola in their stride, though without displaying any special pleas­ure in her arrival.

  It was obvious to Nicola that her aunt was very much at home now and, since she chose to see several people either on business or socially, Nicola was left to her own resources for a good deal of the time. This meant that she was free to indulge in one of the most entrancing pursuits known to man—or woman. She walked the broad avenues and narrow streets of Paris in spring sunshine or warm evening air; she sat and drank coffee at pavement cafes and fascinatedly watched the passing crowds; she explored the Left Bank, wandered through the old city, and climbed the hill to Montmartre. And the fact that she was alone disturbed her not at all.

  Once or twice she thought with a slight pang how wonderful it would have been if Brian could have been with her. But seen through the golden haze of present delight, even the nostalgic past lost most of its power to hurt.

  She was alone in the apartment on the Wednesday even­ing when Lisette came to tell her that there was a lady on the telephone who wanted to speak to Madame's secretary.

  'To me?' Nicola was surprised, until she recalled that it was almost certainly someone who had not quite the confidence to ask for Torelli herself, and she went to take the call.

  'It's about an appoin
tment for tomorrow afternoon,' explained a young and charming voice, with a slightly un-English intonation. 'My name is Michele Laraut and—'

  'Of course!' The discreetly impersonal tone which Nicola usually reserved for unknown callers changed immediately. 'You're coming to audi—I mean Madame Torelli wants to see you. Mr. Dermot Deane got in touch with you, didn't he?'

  'Yes. He said Madame Torelli wanted to hear me sing, for some reason or other. Can you tell me what it is she wants?'

  'I expect she would rather talk to you about that her­self,' replied Nicola, discretion returning to her. 'But I know she heard you in Montreal and—'

  'At my concert there? Did she?' There was no mis­taking the gratification of that. 'Is that why she wants to see me?'

  'I think,' said Nicola, suddenly deciding there was no harm in at least putting Brian's protégée on the right lines, 'I think she was greatly interested in the way you sang the Pamina aria. You do sing the whole role, don't you?'

  'Yes, certainly. In the original German, and in English and French too if necessary.'

  'Well, I should be prepared to sing a good deal of Pamina's role if I were you.'

  'Thanks for the tip.' The girl's voice sounded genuinely grateful. 'What is your name, by the way?'

  'Denby. Nicola Denby.'

  'Nicola Denby!' Something in the tone changed subtly. 'You knew Brian Coverdale very well, didn't you?'

  'Yes, indeed! How did you come to remember that?'

  'He talked about you a lot. I—met him in Montreal and saw a good deal of him before—'

  'I know. He wrote about you.'

  'Wrote about me?' She sounded astonished and, in some strange way, guarded. 'When?'

  'In a letter that went astray. I received it only a week or so ago. He said he met you at a party, and that he greatly admired your performance of Antonia in "The Tales of Hoffman".'

  'Oh, I see. Well, thank you again for the information about Pamina. I'll be there in good time tomorrow. Shall I see you?'

  'I expect so. I shall almost certainly be around. And perhaps afterwards we might—'

  But the receiver had been replaced at the other end. Which was just as well, Nicola supposed on reflection, for her aunt was very much averse to her making casual connections in the musical world. If the girl proved to be what Torelli wanted there would be plenty of opportu­nities for talking to her. If not, then no useful purpose would be served by seeing her further, however tempting it might be to talk to someone else about Brian.

  'May I also come in and listen to Michele Laraut?' Nicola asked her aunt the next day.

  'Yes, of course. It's always a good idea to have another opinion. Even an uninformed one,' said Torelli, realisti­cally rather than offensively.

  So Nicola was there in the big music room when Lisette ushered in the girl Brian had described as 'not quite beautiful, but in some way riveting'. She saw immediately what he had meant. Michele Laraut had one of those pale, 'secret' faces that can look absolutely noth­ing or almost startlingly lovely. Her only outstanding features were her eyes—which were long, superbly lashed and of that curious shade which is sometimes hazel and sometimes green—and her truly magnificent red hair.

  She smiled nervously as Nicola came forward to greet her, and her handclasp was cool and strangely impersonal.

  'Madame Torelli will be here in a few minutes,' Nicola explained. 'Won't you sit down and relax?'

  'Does one relax before the prospect of singing to Gina Torelli?' The other girl laughed slightly. 'I feel as nervous as a cat.'

  The moment she said the word 'cat', Nicola thought, ''That's what she is! Faintly feline.' Then the eyes became a beautiful hazel in colour and very appealing, and Nicola was slightly ashamed of the unbidden thought which had crossed her mind.

  'It's no good telling you not to be nervous, of course,' Nicola said sympathetically, 'because one is bound to be if one wants to make a good impression. But I can tell you that Madame Torelli already has some idea of your quality and found it good.'

  'Thank you. That's kind of you. But Brian said you were kind,' replied the girl. Then before she could elabo­rate on that the door opened and Torelli came in.

  She was pleasant, bracing and entirely professional, asking her visitor just enough about herself to indicate interest, but not enough to give her any inflated ideas about her own importance. And, having found out all she wanted to know, she then said, 'Now I should like you to sing for me.'

  'I didn't bring an accompanist. Should I have done so?'

  'No. I shall play for you,' replied Torelli coolly. 'Stand there, where I can see you, and give me the best idea you can of Pamina's first entry.'

  With the exacting precision of a first-class coach she took Michele Laraut through the most testing parts of the role, not allowing her at any time to rely entirely on the sheer beauty of tone which she obviously produced with singular ease.

  Once the girl said rebelliously, 'Don't you want me to finish that and show you what I can do with—'

  'No,' interrupted Torelli. 'I know exactly what you can do with it. That is the easiest part for anyone with your naturally pure lyric tone. I want to know what you can do with what does not come naturally to you. Take the end of that scene.'

  Michele did what she was told and was rewarded with a satisfied nod.

  'Now the scene between us,' Torelli said, and her own splendid voice rolled out with such authority that most lesser artists would have been intimidated. Michele, Nicola noted with interest, was not. Impressed—yes. But not overwhelmed. And the fact that she held her own obviously pleased Torelli.

  At the end, the diva got up from the piano and said, 'Come and sit here. I want to talk to you.'

  Michele came obediently and sat beside her on the wide sofa.

  'There is nothing I can absolutely promise you, you understand. But they are reviving "The Magic Flute" at Covent Garden in June. I shall be singing the Queen of the Night and I should like you to do Pamina.'

  'I thought Rosemary Donkin did Pamina there,' Michele said doubtfully.

  'I believe she does.' Torelli's tone indicated that this was totally irrelevant. 'I should prefer to have you should the chance arise—as it well might. Where will you be at that time? And would you be able to step in at a moment's notice, with very little rehearsal, if necessary?'

  'Yes.' The reply came without hesitation. 'During June I expect to be in Brittany on holiday and—'

  'Excellent. Leave me your address.'

  'So far as stepping in at a moment's notice is con­cerned, I would be prepared to do that. Who would be conducting, incidentally?'

  'Julian Evett.'

  'O-oh.' All at once there was an obvious check. 'I'm not sure—I don't like—'

  'Your likes and dislikes don't enter into it,' Torelli informed her. 'If this chance did come it would be a great thing for you. You would be a fool to hesitate.'

  'Well—' for a moment or two longer the girl's face looked undecided. Then suddenly she smiled with almost breathtaking loveliness, so that Nicola caught her breath and even Torelli looked surprised. 'I shouldn't hesitate, Madame, if such a chance came. I should take it with both hands—and thank you with all my heart.'

  'Sensible girl,' said Torelli. And then—'You have a singularly expressive face. If you project well you should be good on a stage.'

  'I am,' replied Michele Laraut simply, and the older woman laughed approvingly. In her view, an unaffected assessment of one's own worth was better than any false modesty.

  'Well, as I said, I promise nothing. But I should like you to be ready if the chance arose. Leave your address with my secretary as you go out.'

  Dismissal was implicit in this. Michele Laraut rose, said a properly respectful farewell and went out into the hall with Nicola. She scribbled down her Brittany address on a slip of paper and, as she handed it over, Nicola said impulsively,

  'Are you staying in Paris for a day or two?'

  'Only until tomorrow evening.'
>
  'You wouldn't care to have coffee with me some time tomorrow? at Fouquet's—or anywhere else you like to suggest.'

  'It would be nice.' Michele smiled, although there was something measuring about her glance, as though she did not know quite what to make of Nicola. 'Would three o'clock do?'

  'Admirably. Provided Madame Torelli doesn't sud­denly want me for something. Would you like to leave a telephone number, just in case I had to cancel?'

  'It isn't necessary,' Michele told her as she drew on her gloves. 'I'll be there anyway. If you turn up we'll—talk. If not I shall know you couldn't make it.'

  'The same goes for me,' Nicola said. Then she bade Michele Laraut good-bye and, having let her out of the flat, went back into the music room.

  'She's good,' observed Torelli. 'Good enough, that is, and not too good.'

  'Not too good?' Nicola looked enquiring.

  'We don't arrange for someone else to steal the lime­light, dear,' Torelli pointed out a trifle impatiently. 'At the same time, it is a mistake not to have colleagues worthy of one's mettle.'

  'I wonder why she didn't want to sing under Julian Evett,' Nicola said musingly. 'He didn't want to work with her either, did he? I suppose they quarrelled over something.'

  'More likely he made passes at her and she snubbed him,' retorted Torelli.

  'Oh, do you think so?' For some reason the idea was both surprising and displeasing. 'I shouldn't think he is at all inclined to make passes at people.'

  'All men make passes at that type of girl,' replied Torelli knowledgeably. 'She's a natural honey-pot.'

  Nicola laughed and looked curiously at her aunt.

  'What makes you say that?'

  'Long experience in a highly competitive world,' was the unhesitating reply. 'Women who look nothing most of the time and startlingly beautiful occasionally are much more dangerous than those who are straightforward beauties. Besides, she has a way of looking out of the corners of her eyes that is far more provocative than any swinging hips or plunging necklines. Depend upon it, she gave Julian that "come-hither" glance. And when he came she snubbed him.'