by Eric Dupont
“In December 1975, I asked Madeleine to meet me at a Montreal hotel. She came alone. I asked to see the boys. Do you know what she said? ‘I’m managing alone like you told me to, and I’m doing just fine.’ She’d changed a lot. She was wearing the clothes of the nouveau riche. She told me if I wanted to see the boys, I’d have to leave the Church and be their father in a real family. It was that or nothing. Madeleine was like her mother: she didn’t do things by halves! That was impossible, I told her. I begged, but she replied with nonsense like ‘You’ll traumatize them’ or ‘How will you explain it to the bishops?’ That wasn’t her problem at all. Truth is, she was taking her revenge because I’d abandoned her. Because I hadn’t believed her, hadn’t loved her. That’s what it was. She knew perfectly well that admitting I was the father would have brought an end to my life as a priest. All I wanted was to see them from time to time. She wouldn’t even have to tell them I was their father. When I told her that, she got a gleam in her eye, like her mother used to. A week later, she ordered me to go to the Church of the Holy Spirit in Rosemont, on Rue Masson. Father Huot, the priest there, explained that Madeleine had promised to make a generous donation to the church if I agreed to come two or three times a year, at a time of her choosing, to hear her sons’ confessions. I was furious. I almost went straight to her restaurant to strangle her with my own hands, and that’s what I should have done. Two weeks later, curiosity and the desire to see my sons got the better of me.
“At no time was I allowed to reveal my identity to the boys. That would have meant an end to our encounters. I’d also begun working as a priest at Hôtel-Dieu Hospital, so that I could stay in Montreal. I’d set aside my dreams of Europe. Restoring works of art in Quebec? What works of art? Between extreme unctions and confessions, I put in fifteen years at the hospital. Three times a year, I would slip in through the side door of the Church of the Holy Spirit. Always on a Sunday evening. Imagine hearing the confessions of two young boys back in those days! They must have thought their mother was out of her mind.
“I’d sit in the confessional and wait. Michel was always first. He wanted to please his mother. He’d tell me he’d been nasty to Solange. He and his brother used to call her Suzuki. Strange, isn’t it? What’s that you say? Motorbikes? Ah! That explains it! I thought they meant Suzuki from Madame Butterfly! At the start, I didn’t know who they were talking about. Then one day I got it. As a child, Michel would describe how he used to torment his poor brother. Michel’s every bit as clever as his mom. Perhaps even a little more. You’ll be happy to hear that, Anamaria, or perhaps not. When he was a teenager, Michel told me he’d met a girl, a girl who sang like an angel. He admitted many times to having impure thoughts about her. He’d tell me at every confession, until I realized, when he was around seventeen, that the angel had given in to his advances! Ssh! Don’t laugh so loud! He was right. I’m very proud of him. You’re sublime. But you must really, really love him. Otherwise he’d be unbearable. Let’s sit on this bench. Now, look as though you’re gazing in awe at all these beautiful paintings and wipe that smile off your face! There we go! Aha! Now I can see the artist in you! You really are wonderful, Anamaria. I cried in the balcony when I heard you sing Vissi d’arte at the Montreal Opera. I’d always go hear Michel sing. Not on opening night so as not to run into his mother, but I always went. Every time. You have to explain to him that Puccini isn’t his thing. He should be singing Bach! His grandfather loved Bach. And speaking of his grandfather: Gabriel.
“Do you believe in reincarnation, Anamaria? Some say you’re the new Leontyne Price, which is a little on the premature side considering she’s not even dead yet! No, I mean real reincarnation. The kind the Church still refuses to admit. Well, if I weren’t a true believer, I’d say Gabriel was the reincarnation of his grandfather Louis Lamontagne. There’s absolutely nothing of his mother in him, nor of me. It’s as though The Horse picked himself up after getting run over by the train and chose the little guy to continue his life on this earth. Gabriel was recalcitrant, very recalcitrant at confession. For the first two years, he didn’t say a word. He just sat there, stoic and proud. Once I even saw him rearranging his package, like nothing could be more natural. At about age nine, he began to talk. He asked me if it was bad if his brother came into his bed at night to snuggle up against him. I told him no. I couldn’t very well say, ‘Your uncles did the same thing. Why not you too?’ I knew there was no harm. They were very attached to each other, that was all. And, knowing Madeleine, she was bound to have kept them away from other children. They had their own little world. One day, Gabriel told me: ‘Father, I think Michel’s angry because I won’t let him come into my bed anymore.’ What should I have said? Then, at age twelve, Gabriel hit adolescence, big time. Without beating about the bush, he told me: ‘Father, the English assistant at school sucked me off in the library and I loved it! All I want to do now is read!’ Pure provocation. Pure Louis. The next time, he’d slept with his teacher! By the time he was seventeen, he was up to fifty-nine lovers and, thank God, you weren’t one of them, Anamaria. He remembered every one of their names. And do you know what? His only regret, the only thing he feared was that he might be a kleptomaniac since he stole a book from each of the girls after . . . after . . . well, you know what I mean. ‘I just hope I’m normal,’ he said. The poor boy. I had to pinch myself so hard to stop myself laughing. Ah, Gabriel! You know what he’s like. I suspect he’s not the brightest, I think he probably needs things explained to him two or three times before he understands, but I consider him better than everyone else, with that beautiful body of his and his naïveté. He’s fragile, a vulnerable Hercules, just like his grandfather. You’d follow Gabriel right up to his dying day, to protect him, because you know he’s too dim-witted to protect himself. Not crazy enough to set the place on fire, but in no rush to put it out either. That’s what they used to say about his uncles in Rivière-du-Loup. A colorful image, don’t you agree?
“When he turned eighteen, he told me: ‘Father, I’m an adult now. I don’t need to be busting my balls coming here. Mom can say what she likes. Nothing personal. You’ve been very patient listening to me all these years. But I’ve one last thing to tell you. About Suzuki, she was the one who wanted it. More than me. But it’s over. Mom’s mad as hell. She suspects something’s going on. Michel too. There you have it.’ Even Solange! I almost had to pick myself up off the floor. I was tempted to run out of the confessional and throw it right in Madeleine’s face! As it happens, Michel had mentioned it first, but I hadn’t believed him. He would often confess his brother’s sins, things he’d made up from start to finish. I don’t think Madeleine ever really knew, about Gabriel and Solange, I mean. But you suspected something? What’s that, Anamaria? The secrets of the confessional? You’re so sweet . . . Pfff! Let’s just say revenge is a dish best served cold.
“Gabriel always thought I was Father Huot, who stood in for me. The boys would leave, go back to their mother. She’d be sitting on a pew you couldn’t see the confessional from, then Father Huot would come over and say good-bye, as though it had been him who’d heard the boys’ confessions. What a rigmarole. I had to put my career on hold for fifteen years, but during that time I learned all about my sons: their fears, their sins (or whatever puerile thing they considered to be a sin), their hopes and dreams. They told me almost everything. But of everything they told me, I can only recall a few things. Michel is hopelessly in love with you. He loves you more than singing, more than music. And Gabriel, the poor devil, I don’t even know where he is. In Germany? That’s appropriate! So once I was no longer seeing the boys, I no longer had any reason to stay in Montreal. I managed to get sent to Rome when I was in my fifties, to study theology. I stayed. No more paintings, no more touching up Madonnas. I wasn’t particularly talented anyway. Once a week, I hear confessions here at St. Peter’s where you found me. Apart from that, I’m still involved with a hospital. It’s very close to where you’re filming, by Castel Sant’Angelo
. I saw you both going in there with D’Ambrosio.
“When I read in the newspapers that Michel was in Rome filming Tosca with you, I thought it was a miracle. But I said to myself, ‘No, I must keep my promise.’ Though once God set you down in my confessional a few hours ago, I realized that Providence had decided to stop whispering advice and to start shouting it in my ear instead! I must confess, Anamaria, that one night I sat down outside a restaurant at Piazza del Grillo, right below the tower where you’re staying. I knew you were there. A dog collar is like an antenna in this city. You end up knowing everything. Even the cost of luxury apartments and who’s staying in them. So one evening I sat there. You both walked out of the side street. You still had all your kilos; you were eating an ice cream. He had his arm around your waist. Before going in, you stopped for a minute to gaze at the Imperial Forum. Then you pointed at a flock of swifts spiralling over the Piazza Venezia at sunset. And you went back up into the tower, without ever suspecting I’d been watching.
“Now you know more or less everything. Let’s find the exit. Now, before we leave, take one last look at Da Panicale’s Death of the Virgin. Did you know the experts all say there used to be another Entombment of Mary in the Pinacoteca’s collection? Napoleon’s troops are said to have taken it back to Paris. No trace of it was ever found. It’s also thought to have been a Da Panicale, but a little larger and a little more polished. That’s all we know. It’s no more than a rumor, if you ask me. If the painting were ever found, the owner would only have one thing to worry about: keeping the taxman’s hands off his money. This way, Sister.”
The afternoon of December 31 was about to breathe its last on the Viale Vaticano just as Father Lecavalier and Anamaria di Napoli emerged from the Vatican Museum. They crossed the road to walk down the quieter side streets where there were fewer prying eyes. Anamaria’s hotel wasn’t far. She didn’t speak. Then, just as she was about to go her way, she grabbed Father Lecavalier by the arm.
“Father, you never told me how I can work my way out of this. What should I do? I can’t go back. It’s against every belief I hold as a singer. ‘Sing what you believe and believe what you sing, Anamaria.’ That’s what Madame Lenoir would always say. I can’t demean myself to the point of agreeing with D’Ambrosio’s definition of singing.”
“I know, Anamaria, but I have an answer to your problem. It’s quite simple.”
“And what is it?”
“Promise me two things and I’ll give you the key that, like Angelotti, will help you escape from Castel Sant’Angelo. Believe me, no Scarpia will ever get his hands on you.”
“Speak, Father. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“First, you must promise never to tell anyone we met. Especially not Michel. Promise me that. What? Why the hesitation?”
“I . . . No. I promise. I swear.”
“This time with conviction, Sister.”
“I swear on Michel’s head.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I swear on my mother’s head.”
“Please. A little effort.”
“I swear on the head of the child I’ve been carrying for two months,” she sobbed.
“There we go. That’s what I thought. No woman goes to confession for no particular reason. Which brings me to my second promise. Dry your tears. I’m going to be a grandfather, this is a happy day. Listen! The angelus!”
He took her by the shoulders. “Yes!”
“There! You’re smiling. Now promise me that if it’s a boy you’ll call him Louis.”
“Louis?”
“Yes, Louis. Louis Lamontagne. Come up with whatever reason you like. You’re the actress. Then I can die in peace.”
“But Madeleine will nev—”
“You must promise me!”
Anamaria nodded, like someone who’s just learned of some terrible catastrophe. Then she began to smile at the thought of her child bearing the name of a forgotten demigod.
“I promise! I swear on the head of little Louis Lamontagne! I like that name. It’s fit for a king!”
“You’re a fast learner. My son’s a lucky man. Now, as for your problem, it’s quite simple.”
“I’m all ears.”
“You’ll go back up into the tower, apologize to D’Ambrosio and say your nerves got the better of you. Tell him you were dazzled by his intelligence, but now you’re starting to make out the new world that the light of his genius has revealed to you.”
“That’s it?”
“No! No!”
“What else?”
“Keep your good news for later. Don’t show your hand . . . Then you’ll ask Michel for his mother’s personal phone number. Tell him you want to wish her a happy new year. Call her tomorrow night.”
“Okay.”
“Once you have her on the line, tell her this . . .”
Father Lecavalier’s words were swallowed up by the deafening backfiring of a Vespa as a priest drove by, cigarette dangling from his lips, and waved at Father Lecavalier.
“Our cover’s been blown! That’s Father Tajuelo. He hears the Spanish confessions. He’s a real gossip! Apparently he heard the confession of the Queen of Spain last week. Imagine that. Hours of fun. Anyway. If your problem hasn’t been settled by Madeleine Lamontagne herself within twenty-four hours, then throw me to the lions right here at the Coliseum!”
“You . . . You’re quite sure?”
“Believe me, Anamaria. This particular piece of advice is as infallible as my boss,” he said, pointing heavenwards.
Anamaria went upstairs to her room, got undressed, and fell asleep. On the morning of January 1, roused by the shouts of some reveler or other, she put her nun’s outfit back on, just for laughs, settled the bill, and went for a stroll around Rome on the first day of the new century. When she was tired of walking, she hailed a taxi on the Via della Conciliazione. She couldn’t believe her luck; cabs in Rome rarely stop to pick up passengers. The driver was charming; he charged her nothing for the ride and wished her a happy new year.
At Palazzo del Grillo, Michel fell at her feet as soon as he saw her and cried for a long time. D’Ambrosio was agitated but distant. He accepted her apologies and told her in the same breath that the movie’s final scenes would be filmed the following morning on the Castel Sant’Angelo terrace. The director then retired to his room with his little chihuahua, Wotan.
That evening, Anamaria put her plan into action and phoned Madeleine, interrupting her conversation with Rachel Beck. She slept with abandon, feeling she’d risked it all. Father Lecavalier’s words resonated in her head. They were so innocuous that she wondered how such banal remarks would ever undo such a critical situation. She had a bad dream that night. Father Lecavalier had fooled her, like Scarpia fooled Tosca, and Michel fell from the terrace of Castel Sant’Angelo into the void below.
Three minutes after Anamaria’s unexpected return, Bruno-Karl D’Ambrosio was on the phone. He knew how things worked: the journalists found out about the happy turn of events even before the stage manager. And as soon as the latter got wind of the news, things moved very quickly. With filming having fallen a month behind schedule, Bruno-Karl D’Ambrosio had only one thought on his mind: to finish the damned thing. They weren’t able to shoot the next morning: the orchestra needed more time. And so the RAI orchestra was summoned for the morning of January 3, which would give the crew more time to prepare the set that had been abandoned just after Michel had sung E lucevan le stelle at dawn on December 26. But was that really Michel? Having lost thirty-five kilos, he had a mad glint in his eye and a nervous system that had been brought to its knees by all the garbage D’Ambrosio had made him swallow. The tenor was no more than skin and bones, a singing, emaciated nag. In any event, January 2 would be taken up with rehearsals for the last few scenes.
“Rehearsals tomorrow, then we shoot in one take on the third at dawn.”
To shoot the final scene, D’Ambrosio was counting on the dawn light to reveal Rome in all its
glory. Filming at that hour would also ensure relative silence. At least the production delays had given them one thing, he thought: Rome would be at its calmest. Otherwise the noise of the traffic and the planes flying all across the city skies ruled out any attempts at filming. D’Ambrosio insisted on rehearsing the scene at exactly the same time it would be filmed the following day. And so, at four o’clock in the morning, as Madeleine and Solange were flying over France, the director dragged Anamaria and Michel from their beds for the final day of rehearsals at Castel Sant’Angelo.
They would pick up right after the tenor’s big aria, just as Tosca joins Cavaradossi on the terrace, where he is about to be executed. She is clutching the safe conduct she’s just pried from the late Scarpia’s still-warm hands. A joyous scene follows. Free at last! We’re free! The firing squad will shoot blanks, Tosca reassures Cavaradossi: All he has to do is pretend to fall down dead after the first round of fire, wait for the men to leave, then he can flee with Tosca. They’ll make it as far as the nearest port, Civitavecchia, and head to new shores. But Scarpia hasn’t said his last word. The bullets are real, and Cavaradossi dies with Tosca looking on, convinced it’s all just an act. Tosca walks up to him as he lies on the now-deserted terrace. Presto, su! Mario! Hurry! Get up, it’s time to go! Her hand touches the bloody body. Dead. Mad with grief, Tosca holds her lover’s body in her arms. In the meantime, Scarpia’s death has been discovered at Palazzo Farnese. Voices ring out from inside the castle. They’re looking for the murderer! Spoletta, Scarpia’s henchman, appears on the terrace. Tosca realizes she doesn’t stand a chance and, rather than be captured, jumps into the void, crying: ‘Ah Scarpia, avanti a dio!’ Scarpia, I’ll see you again before God! The opera that began the previous day in the castle D’Angelotti had escaped from ends in the same place, with Cavaradossi executed and Tosca having committed suicide.
According to the initial filming schedule, the final castle scenes should have been shot before the second act, but Kroll’s unexpected departure and the commitments of his Polish stand-in had forced D’Ambrosio to reconsider. And so the film crew had taken over Castel Sant’Angelo on that January 2 morning. D’Ambrosio was insisting that Tosca actually jump from the terrace, that no trickery be involved to fool the audience. But to make sure the grandiose ending didn’t spell the end for the soprano too, the crew had had to find a way to catch Anamaria. The solution lay in the fact that Castel Sant’Angelo is a fortress built on several levels. Anyone leaping from the terrace wouldn’t end up on the cobblestones below, let alone in the Tiber, but on one of the lower terraces, depending on where they’d jumped from. Standing on the terrace, the director explained to Anamaria that she was to jump from the side looking out over St. Peter’s.
