Voice of Destiny

by JH Fletcher

  She could have bruised herself with clenched fists for her stupidity. She did so, striking her thigh once with all her force. The pain defined the flesh and bone that otherwise would have been unreal.

  She walked, welcoming the lingering ache. Anger overwhelmed sorrow, despair. Medea knelt upon the palace steps, within the shadow of the walls of carved stone that supported not only roof but universe. Lucia raised the clenched fist that moments earlier had bruised her thigh. Denzil Ryan had sacrificed her to his true and only love. Himself. God of love, hasten my vengeance. She sat upon a bench. The sky, the trees, the clean wind pressed upon her. Gods of the inferno, aid me now.

  She remembered Anwar Bendurian, breathing scotch and a spurious charm over the dinner table, and Denzil’s reluctant explanations: he’s got important contacts in the Middle East. Denzil was Trade Minister; he too was bound to have contacts in any number of places. Yet the way the two men had behaved made it obvious they were not concerned with government business. Anwar was a creature for the back alleys of commerce, not for ministries. Gods of the inferno …

  The Prime Minister wouldn’t want to see her but would, nonetheless. As Denzil had said, there was an election coming. Imagine what the media, no friends of the government, would make of such a story, if she went public.

  Lucia got up. A flight of ducks landed, churning the surface of the lake. She walked purposefully towards the Prime Minister’s offices.

  I go now to hell, where I shall meet with you again.

  9

  Anger lingered. It did not help that Denzil Ryan had resigned from the government. That was justice but she remained furious at being spurned by a man who had proved so unworthy.

  For the first time in her life Lucia felt old.

  As always, emotion affected the quality of her voice. She went on tour. She sang well below her best. She blamed herself for allowing herself to be distracted. It made no difference to the audience’s response and the critics remained kind. Only she was unhappy, but that was what mattered.

  At the end of the tour, she gave a concert in Marseilles. It was a disaster, her top register like broken glass. Now it was not only she who was unhappy. The next day a review of the concert was dismissive, brutal. She is past her best, the author said. Her voice is not what it was. At fifty-six? Is it to be wondered at? That, she might have accepted, but the author had not stopped there. It was a right-wing paper; now it had the chance to put its boot into the woman who five years ago had dared sing for the Hanoi terrorists. Her looks, he said. That once-regal beauty … The beauty of her youth: ravaged. Laid waste. The fact that it was a political judgement did not console her. These people knew nothing of her, her music, her youth. Nothing. There had been little beauty in her childhood, yet from it had come everything that was good and bad in her life. She had been born with talent but talent alone was nothing. It was what you did with it that counted. At whatever cost, because to compel your talent, force it to the ultimate and beyond, was to break bones. Your own, and the bones of others.

  Now all they could say was that she had lost her looks with her voice.

  She was angry with herself for being wounded by such stupidity. She decided that the time had come for her to think seriously about her future. But what would it be?

  Still she did not know and the unknown frightened her.

  In her hotel suite, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She knew some older women who could not bring themselves to do so, but her mirror had always been her co-conspirator, giving her the confidence to face a world that she feared, always, might one day cease to love her.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I read the review. It was disgusting.’

  She had not heard his voice for so long, yet she recognised it at once. ‘It was right.’

  Jacques corrected her sharply. ‘No, it was wrong. Your voice wasn’t at its best but the other remarks … Unforgivable.’

  ‘How would you know? After all this time?’

  ‘I was there.’

  His answer shocked her. That he should have attended one of her recitals, after so many years … That he had been there and she had not known, her instincts dormant … She didn’t know what to say to him. After Denzil she had told herself she was through with men. She still thought so, but perhaps with less conviction.

  He said: ‘I know a place where you can get genuine bouillabaisse.’

  They had been there, done that.

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

  ‘Just for lunch. No strings, no commitments.’

  ‘It would be asking for trouble.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘It’s not you I’m worried about.’

  But she knew already she would go.

  10

  It was what she had heard called a greasy spoon restaurant, in an area near the docks where walking alone at night would probably spell trouble. The proprietor didn’t bother with orders but brought them two plates of the steaming fish stew, chunks of coarse bread on the side. He served a rough red in tumblers. He obviously knew Jacques well, slapping his shoulder and laughing with him before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Jacques cracked the shell of a langoustine between his teeth.

  ‘I ate here regularly once. I was investigating an international company that was exploiting the local workforce.’

  Lucia had been determined to mention Jacques’ wife as soon as possible; now she could.

  ‘How does your wife like you being away so much?’

  ‘Ex-wife. We divorced three years ago. We were only happy apart. With me stuck in Paris, life became impossible.’

  She could think of nothing to say. The closeness of their past made things difficult; it would have been easier to exchange confidences with a complete stranger. She said: ‘I’m thinking of retiring. The sooner the better, the way I sang last night.’

  ‘That was an exception.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I always said I’d get out at the top.’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘That’s the trouble. I don’t know. It frightens me.’

  ‘Directing?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I feel I should try something outside music, but what? I don’t know anything else. Do I wrap myself in a shawl and wither away? Read improving books? I’ll die if I do that. I know I’ve got something to contribute but I don’t know what it is. I wake in the middle of the night, thinking about it. Sometimes I’m so scared I find myself saying, if only Marta were alive.’

  ‘I’m here, for what that’s worth. If you want me. You can always talk to me, rely on me for support. I’ve drawn such courage from your kindness. Perhaps it’s my turn, now.’

  Outside, a freighter blew its whistle, the sound booming between the warehouses as it edged its way towards the sea. She thought of all those she had lacerated when they had provoked her through obtuseness or envy.

  ‘Kindness? Is that how you think of me? As a kind person?’

  He looked at her. His hair was grey but his features still retained some of the bony hardness of his youth.

  ‘To me, you will always be the woman closest to my heart.’

  She reached out and took his hand in hers. ‘Frère Jacques, we are too old for passion.’

  ‘Of the flesh, perhaps, although even there I doubt it. But of the spirit? Never, while life lasts.’

  11

  She went to see her mother in Parma. They sat up late and she told Helena she had decided to retire from the stage.

  Helena approved. ‘You’re nearly fifty-seven, after all.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe. After all these years …’ She stretched out her hand to her mother, like the little girl she thought sometimes she had never been. ‘I’m frightened of what lies behind that final curtain. Where shall I turn, then, for fulfilment?’

  Helena, eighty years old now, might have grown frail in body but her mind was still alert. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk�
�s talons, impaled Lucia.

  ‘You’ve been one of the most noteworthy women of your generation. Even people who have no interest in opera know your name.’

  ‘Is that the point of it all? To make money? To be known?’

  ‘You’ve done much more than that. You’ve painted the name of woman upon the sky so that others, looking up at what you’ve achieved, take pride from knowing that they, too, are women. You’ve shown there are no limits to what’s possible.’

  Lucia was moved, yet dismissive. ‘Words …’

  ‘No. You have held out a light to others. Men, as well as women, know the impossible is within reach, because one woman has done it. I know you better than you do yourself and I tell you there is no limit to what you can do, or will do when you find what you’re looking for.’

  Lucia was deeply moved now. ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘I? What have I done?’

  ‘You said I’d be an opera singer and made sure I was.’

  ‘I said you’d be the greatest opera singer in the world and you’re that, too, but through your efforts, not mine.’

  ‘I worked, certainly. I’ve never stopped working! But if you hadn’t driven me at the beginning, it wouldn’t have happened. The success I’ve had — the records, memories, even my name and reputation — is your success, too. I’m going to sing my final opera in Sydney. I want you to be there when the curtain comes down.’

  Helena pondered, said: ‘No.’

  Lucia was hurt. Her father had died the previous year; she had flown to Australia to attend the funeral. Now, if her mother didn’t come, she would have no-one of her family there at all. ‘Please! I’ll charter a private plane, if you like. I’ll fly over to get you. We’ll arrive together.’

  But Helena had made up her mind. ‘It’s not the journey, and I don’t care about the curtain falling. It’s what happens afterwards that matters.’

  ‘I don’t know what will happen afterwards. That’s the trouble. It terrifies me!’

  ‘Fear is natural. Whenever we want to cross new boundaries or do something we haven’t tried before, we fear failure, sometimes even success. When I pushed you into becoming an opera singer, I was afraid of what it would mean if you failed. But I knew, if you succeeded, I’d lose you.’

  Lucia remembered her mother sleeping, exhausted by terror and grief, after the partisans had dragged Eduardo from her bed. She had looked so vulnerable …

  ‘You never lost me. Even in the worst days …’

  At last it was possible to say it, and mean it.

  ‘I thank God for it.’

  ‘And I can’t persuade you to come to Sydney?’

  ‘I’ll be there the day you start your new venture, whatever it is. New beginnings are what we should celebrate, not endings.’

  ‘Even if it’s in Australia?’

  ‘Even if it’s on Mars.’

  Part Four

  BEYOND THE CURTAIN

  1980

  CHAPTER FORTY

  1

  Lucia awoke to sunlight.

  She lay still, conscious that everything in her life had changed. ‘Free at last!’

  The trouble was it didn’t feel like freedom.

  Memories came jostling: a thousand nights and one night, an Arabian feast of triumphs and glory, of mornings spent with coffee and the newspapers, reading the reviews of critics euphoric or spiteful, of a lifetime spent in the endless battle to project art through the medium of her voice.

  She opened her eyes — those famous sapphire eyes, their intensity a little faded now — and stared up at the light from the harbour shifting on the ceiling. She wondered: ‘Freedom?’

  Neither the ceiling nor the light replied but the sound of her voice must have carried because, moments later, there was a soft knock on the bedroom door.

  ‘Madame, are you awake?’

  Lucia squinted at the clock on the bedside table. Ten o’clock. In a world of late nights it had always been her normal time for waking up. She raised her voice in reply. ‘Come, Benedetta.’

  The door opened. Benedetta brought in a stack of newspapers.

  ‘You’re all over the front pages.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  She spread the papers across the bed. Benedetta had been right; the front pages were plastered with pictures and inch-high headlines.

  SEE YA, MATE

  EMOTIONAL SCENES AS VISCONTI FAREWELLS SYDNEY

  VISCONTI’S PARTING TRIUMPH

  It was like reading about a stranger. She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

  ‘You want coffee now? Or your bath?’ Benedetta asked.

  She’d had a bath before going to bed but perhaps the steam would help ease the kinks from mind as well as body.

  ‘A bath, I think. You can bring me a cup of coffee while I’m having it and read me what the papers have to say about me.’

  Benedetta disappeared into the bathroom; there was the sound of jetting water. In seconds she was back. ‘Ready.’

  Lucia swung her long legs out of bed and walked into the bathroom’s scented steam. She examined her reflection. The chestnut hair had grey in it now, the red lights tarnished by the years to copper. She had never tried to hide it; age was graciousness and inevitable. She stripped off, lay naked on the tiled floor and began the exercises without which, retired or not, her morning would have felt incomplete. Ten minutes later she screwed her hair into a knot, slipped into the bath and lay back with the warm water lapping just beneath her chin. She examined her body with care. Once she’d been as fat as a hog but she’d beaten that, as she had beaten so many problems in her life. People had said she’d swallowed a tapeworm to aid her dieting. The idea was disgusting but she had learned that the public would believe whatever nonsense it liked, so she’d never bothered to deny it. For those who made their living from public performance, legends were always useful.

  No need for tapeworms now. She could let herself go, say to hell with the diet she had followed so religiously for so long. She could indulge in a blizzard of chocolate cakes if she wanted. She laughed; her life had changed, indeed, but some things were best left as they were. For a woman of fifty-seven she still stuck out in the right places. It was more than most singers of her age could claim. Some a good deal younger, come to that. Only the other day she’d seen the portrait of an up-and-coming soprano — the poor girl had been out to here all over. A fine Butterfly she would make. What had Alfredo Dante said about Teresa Sciotto, all those years ago? Like a sumo wrestler on the hoof. No, you needed more than a voice. You needed a body and will to match. You needed an instinctive awareness of drama and of art. Above all, you needed passion.

  Where would she direct her passion, now she could no longer sing?

  Benedetta brought in a tray: coffee in a silver pot, milk, even croissants. She would save those until later; crumbs in the bath she did not need.

  While she drank her coffee, Benedetta read her the reports of last night’s performance.

  ‘Never mind all that nonsense about the farewells. What do they say about Traviata?’

  There were two reviews. Complimentary, in the main, although one had been unable to resist commenting, yet again, on what the critic described as the harshness of Visconti’s upper register.

  ‘If they’d wanted a nightingale they’d have hired one!’

  ‘He also says you’re the greatest diva Sydney has ever seen.’

  ‘Did he, really? Show me.’

  Benedetta proffered the page, finger pointing to the paragraph.

  She was right. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad, after all.

  She really had to grow up, she scolded herself. At fifty-seven it was time, heaven knew. Yet she had little hope she would. Dressed in cotton slacks and white T-shirt, trademark hair pinned back, Lucia sat with the phone beside her and went through the messages that, Benedetta said, had been pouring in all morning.

  Painstakingly she worked her way down the list. Most of the messages were from adm
irers, wishing her well, thanking her for bringing beauty to their lives. She marked these with an asterisk; later Otto would prepare brief letters of thanks for her signature.

  There’d been a call from Charmaine Gold, her Australian agent, to discuss a new recording deal from EMI. Even on a Sunday Charmaine never stopped. That one she would handle herself. Tomorrow.

  There was a message from the French Ambassador. Presumably about the Paris trip, but she’d better check. She dialled the embassy and was put through at once.

  ‘Permit me to congratulate you on last night’s performance, Madame. And of course on the whole of your illustrious career. You will be flying to Paris, as we agreed?’

  ‘On Tuesday, yes. It’s all arranged.’

  ‘Air France?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I am sure they will look after you very well.’

  They’d better, she thought. First-class seats weren’t cheap.

  ‘Our President is looking forward very much to meeting you again.’

  ‘I am honoured.’

  ‘May I ask where you will be staying?’

  Both the Italian and Australian embassies had offered but Lucia had always valued her freedom of movement.

  ‘The George V.’

  ‘Ah. Very suitable. The Elysee Palace will contact you there, then.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  She sighed as she put down the phone; she found the courtesies involved in talking to ambassadors and heads of state more wearying than the performances themselves. She remembered one United States president; she’d thought she’d have to fight him off with a hatchet. Walküre would have been a doddle, by comparison. Of course, that had been long ago. Superstar or not, no United States president would be likely to acknowledge her existence now.

  She reached the last name on the list; another one for Otto. She ate a croissant — so much for chocolate cake — and drank a final cup of coffee. With time on her hands, she went out, took a taxi to the art gallery. She wandered through rooms dedicated to Nolan, Olsen, Drysdale, Aboriginal art. Pigments shone like flames within the shaded rooms. Lucia looked with no more than half an eye and mind. The void still surrounded her. It was as bad as being on holiday, inventing ways to pass the time. All her life, leisure had been a bad taste in her mouth. Now she would have to come to terms with it. The challenge of freedom, she thought. What an extraordinary idea.