by Janet Pywell
I say nothing as he storms from the bedroom banging the door, and I am still standing motionless as the front door slams downstairs. That is when I release my emotion. I let go and tears begin trickling down my cheeks.
I telephone Cesare from the airport. His voice is terse and accusatory.
‘You are going to Ireland? Are you mad? The final audition is on Monday. Apart from the germs on the plane that are so bad for your throat, this is the most ridiculous idea. It’s your last audition. I have promised Nico Vastrano and Dino Scrugli that you have changed and that you won’t let them down, and if you are not here on Monday your career will be over before it starts. Are you crazy? I don’t understand you–’
‘I’m sorry. I must sing at Michael’s funeral.’
‘It’s absolute madness.’ I imagine him shaking his long curls like an angry mane, his eyes blazing. ‘With your history with Andrei, you cannot afford to take this risk. He agreed to your audition because I promised him your voice was on form again. I pleaded with them. I told them you are not the diva you once were but now you run off to Ireland a few days before the audition. Glorietta will–’
‘I’ll be back after the funeral. It’s only for twenty-four hours. We can…’
‘You are throwing away your last chance. You will not–’
‘I have no choice, Cesare. I must go.’
‘The world is full of choices, Josephine. This one is yours and yours alone. You will only have yourself to blame.’
I cannot tell him that my secret. It would ruin us all. I cannot share with him my past mistakes, and I cannot begin to explain my fear, and the damage it would do if the truth came out. The lives it would affect. Instead, I turn off my phone and board the plane to go to the last place I ever wanted to return.
I concentrate on blocking out the memories of the past that are surging and swirling inside my head, gathering speed like the jet engine’s motors as we hurl down the runway, and the feeling of fear that begins infiltrating the core of my soul. I know how dangerous my ex husband can be.
2
Chapter 2
I lived for art, I lived for love, I never did harm to a living soul! - Vissi d’arte, Tosca
My plane lands in Dublin at midday and I ask the taxi driver to take me to Monkstown.
‘It’s unusually hot,’ he lisps, ‘for July.’
I place my travel bag on the seat beside me. I have brought cotton trousers and a blouse to change into for the journey home. ‘I never remember it being this hot,’ I reply. I open the window and warm air from the Irish Sea rushes in.
We are leaving the airport and joining the motorway. ‘Do you know Dublin?’ he asks.
‘It’s years since I was last here.’
‘There’s a tunnel now which makes the journey quicker or do you want me to drive you through the city?’ His blue eyes look at me in the rear view mirror.
‘Through the city.’
He speaks quickly as the car glides through traffic and I have to concentrate on his unfamiliar accent. Have I been on the Dart to Howth? Did I know the Luas goes to the O2? Did I ever guess the docklands would be transformed?
We wait at traffic lights near O’Connell Street then cross the bridge and I have my first glance of the River Liffey.
‘All the young ones are emigrating.’ He rests his tattooed arm out of the window. ‘I can’t say I blame them. There’s no jobs, businesses have gone bust, shops have closed, restaurants are empty. The Celtic tiger is dead.’
Outside a pub, a few guys sit bare chested on wooden benches their skin turning pink in the sunshine. They are drinking pints of Guinness, and elegant girls in skimpy tops, sip chilled white wine poured from bottles wedged in ice buckets. I see busy streets, expensive cars and hundreds of tourists.
‘It is different to the Dublin I left.’
‘When was that?’
‘Thirty years ago.’
‘Sure it is.’ Our eyes meet in the mirror.
I’d arrived a fresh faced, twenty-two year old from Kansas; young and excited to be in Ireland and to sing La Bohème in The Gaiety Theatre. The opening night was cold, snow had turned to slush and the February night was filled with tiny stars in a black sky.
Seán McGreevy had invited his parents to the theatre for their wedding anniversary Through friends they had been invited backstage and he had smiled at me like I was the only person in the room. Michael, his father, gushed praise but when I asked Seán if he had enjoyed the performance he replied, ‘I’m a bit tired. I tried to sleep but your singing kept me awake so I only managed a quick nap.’
I laughed and allowed him to buy me a drink.
We began to meet after each performance and between rehearsals. Time was precious. It created an urgency with everything we did, shopping in Grafton Street, walking through St. Stephen’s Green or drinking cocktails in the Shelbourne Hotel. Seán was starting his own construction business. He was trying to get a loan from the bank to finance a small housing development in the suburbs. He was enthusiastic, optimistic, and it was exciting to be in Ireland where there were new opportunities. It was all so different to Kansas, New York and Russia.
When the show finished, it was time for the Opera to move on; England, Germany, Holland and finally France. I thought I would forget Seán but I didn’t.
When the tour finished in Paris eight weeks later, Seán insisted I return to Ireland for a holiday, and we were married six months later.
Seán’s mother, Shona, died the following month after a short illness and so Michael began to spend most of his time with us. He financed Seán’s business and over the coming months he witnessed my slowly diminishing confidence. He saw how I missed singing, and the opera and the stage. He encouraged me to perform in local productions but that wasn’t enough. I needed opera. Four months later there was an opportunity for me to audition for the role of Michaela in Carmen at La Scala.
‘You must go,’ he had insisted. ‘This will be your lucky break. You are destined to become a star. You will be the next Maria Callas.’
Michael paid for my flight. He told me to follow my dream. After all, he reasoned with Seán, it would only be for a month or so. He valued my voice and gave me the support that my husband never seemed to think I needed.
‘This is Merrion Square.’ The taxi driver interrupts my recollections. ‘We’re going toward Ballsbridge.’
‘And Blackrock?’ I ask, thinking of where I spent my married life.
‘We’ll take the coast road to Booterstown. Blackrock town is on the left after the park.’ He points with his finger and lisps, ‘It’s straight on into Monkstown.’
It has changed or I don’t remember any of it.
We arrive at the church. I pay the driver and tip him well. On the pavement I stand looking around to get my bearings. There’s the Protestant church on the corner in the fork of the road, an off-license, a newsagent and a few restaurants. It looks more prosperous than I remember.
I carry my bag and pull my shawl over my pearl-grey dress. I touch the sapphire necklace reassuringly at the base of my throat, walk up the steps and I am reminded of the time I last walked over its threshold on my wedding day. I pause and close my eyes.
I see my mother’s face lined with worry. She always said that she didn’t gain a son-in-law but lost her daughter to an Irishman. I was twenty-two. My wedding dress had tapered out like a mermaid’s tail and I wore a simple white lace veil. My blond hair was thicker and longer and it tumbled around my shoulders in a simple and unadorned fashion that had taken hours of preparation.
‘Are you all right?’
I open my eyes. Beside me is a small, rotund man with a bald head.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I smile. ‘I was just thinking…’
‘Ah! You’re not from around here then. I wasn’t sure if you were visiting the church or er… here for the er…’
‘The funeral.’
‘Ah, you’re from America. The East coast?’
‘Kansas.�
�� I hope he doesn’t start talking about America. Even though I still have an accent, I hardly know the country. I’ve lived so long in Europe.
There are small, broken veins across the top of his nose and along his cheeks.
‘I’m here to sing for Michael…Michael McGreevy,’ I say.
‘Ah yes, you must be Josie Lafelle.’ He offers me his hand to shake.
‘Josephine Lavelle,’ I correct him.
‘Father Doyle.’ His handshake is limp and he grips only the tips of my fingers. ‘I’ll introduce you to our organist when he arrives. Gregory is quite punctual, not to worry.’ He barks a laugh and takes my elbow guiding me inside. ‘I believe you’d like to practice before, um, before the family arrive?’
The church is cool and I shiver.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Once,’ I reply. ‘Many years ago.’
He rubs his nose and waits but I don’t elaborate.
‘Michael’s body was peacefully at home with the family last night,’ he says. ‘Now, I’ll just go and get ready myself and see where Gregory has got to.’ He hurries off on short legs and I wonder if there’s a back entrance to the local pub.
The church is smaller and the curved gothic walls are whiter than I remember. I pause at the marble statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and my footsteps echo as I visit the Stations of the Cross. I stop beside the altar in front of the statue of the Madonna and light a candle, and I am reminded of the Madonna in the church Santa Anna di Comaso, of my rehearsal, the day I spoke to Seán. I remember Cesare’s anger and disappointment and I think of Tosca. It’s my last chance.
I am Tosca.
But Cesare is right. Raffaelle is right. It is madness to be here. Who would ever understand?
I turn at the sound of footsteps.
‘Sorry to interrupt your silent prayers. This is our organist Gregory Might.’ Father Doyle has changed into his vestments. Beside him, the contrast couldn’t have been greater, Gregory Might is under thirty, tall and good-looking.
I stand in the gallery at the back of the church. Behind me is the wooden organ and sunlight floods in through a round stained glass window above my head. Thankfully Seán hasn’t insisted that I stand near the coffin. It would be too emotional for me to see the faces of the family and friends, and besides the acoustics are better up here. The sound travels up toward the ceiling over the heads of the congregation and echoes softly around the church.
As the pall bearers bring the mahogany coffin down the aisle I sing, Vissi d’arte. I remember Michael. I hear his laughter and see the smile in his eyes. I can feel his love, kindness and understanding but I know that to survive the emotion of his funeral, I must block out my feelings as I have for thirty years. They must remain locked and hidden away. I know that the truth would be harder to bear than the grief that sustains me today.
I am filled with mixed emotions and I am blessed that I am a soprano. My voice is heavy and rich in colour but I must be careful. I am here to add music to a sad ceremony not to perform. I must pull back from a stage performance. It is the beauty of tone that will add respectful meaning to Michael’s funeral.
At the sound of my voice some people turn their heads toward the gallery. It is not my usual audience but I am delighted to sing again in public and my lungs swell with each note. I am filled with pride, with hope and with something much deeper and so precious to me, that few would understand. It is my destiny to sing and to give pleasure.
I hope this will not affect my audition on Monday.
It’s a Catholic Service and I am led into each hymn in the liturgy by Gregory who is a talented and considerate musician. Then Seán rises. His foot is in a plaster cast and he hobbles to stand beside the coffin at the golden lectern. He has put on weight and now has grey hair. He coughs and clears his throat.
‘Michael McGreevy is - was - my father, and I am proud to be his son. He was a kind man, a loving man and above all a warm and generous human being,’ he begins. ‘At the end of World War Two he was a medic in the British Army, saving lives on the Front, in France with the Allies….’ He talks about Michael’s bravery during the war and the risks he took to save fellow soldiers. ‘He was a doctor and fellow at the Royal College of Surgeons and he was a man to be respected and admired…’ He speaks of his dedication to his patients in Ireland, and friends and family. It’s a touching tribute and I am lost in the past. This could have been my family. They were my family.
‘For those of you who remember our beloved mother, Shona, our father will be buried alongside her in Glasnevin.’
I barely remember Shona. She had died so soon after our wedding I hardly knew her. The grief of her death cast a shadow over our happiness, an omen for the future, a headstone to our grave marriage.
Seán’s voice is low and strong, and he smiles. ‘The best thing about a wake is that it is a celebration of life and, it is better than going to a birthday party, you get invited to a few drinks and a meal if you’re lucky, you don’t have to bring a present and you don’t have to send a thank you card afterwards.’
There is a ripple of laughter in the congregation and he invites them to join his family and his brother William, for refreshments at his home, at four o’clock. I check my watch. My flight is at eight o’clock to Milan. I will have time to collect the letter and I will be home just after midnight.
The procession leaves the church. The family follow the casket, and I focus on the stained glass window above the altar, but when I sing Gounod’s Ave Maria a single tear slides down my cheek. I hold my hand to the sapphire necklace, a gift from Michael thirty years ago.
Seán is limping. In one hand he holds a crutch and with the other he hangs onto Barbara’s arm. Behind them two teenage children walk with their heads bowed. Seán looks up and his eyes stay focused on me until he passes underneath the gallery.
In the congregation, amid the many faces of strangers, a man turns and nods at me, as if I am his best friend.
It is Karl Blakey.
I do not go to Glasnevin. I have no desire to see where Michael will lay with his wife for all eternity. Instead, I stand on the church steps in the shadows, avoiding friends and family, and Karl Blakey who has fortunately disappeared. I am watching the funeral cortege when a ginger haired boy with freckles approaches me and holds out his hand.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ he says, ‘from Seán.’
My heart flips. It’s the letter. Now I don’t have to go to his home. I can go straight to the airport. I smile gratefully.
‘Thank you.’
But it isn’t a letter. It’s a folded piece of paper with Seán’s handwriting.
If you want the letter, meet me at four o’clock at home, Seán.
My hopes fade. The thought of speaking with Seán face to face fills me with dread. I know how manipulative he can be. I cannot trust him. What else does he want?
I find a coffee shop, eat a sandwich and kill time.
Seán’s house is wedged between two imposing Victorian houses which makes his look inferior and cheap. It is near the sea but his views are obstructed by a large hedge that borders a gravel drive. I am ushered, through the front door, into the busy house by a man who looks vaguely like Seán and seems familiar.
‘You remember my brother William?’ Seán says, slapping his brother’s back.
‘Of course.’ I hold out my hand.
‘Josephine, how delightful–’ William leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. There is an ugly scar across his forehead that I remember was the result of a fire at the family home when the boys were young.
‘And this is a family friend David Mallory. He works for the Irish Consul and he’s based in Milan.’
I raise an eyebrow at the sandy-haired man. He wears a black suit and mourning tie.
‘I believe you left Germany and you live on Lake Como now.’ David Mallory shakes my hand.
‘Seán told you?’
‘As if Seán could keep a secret.’ Hi
s eyes are like grey clouds.
Seán laughs and I smell alcohol on his breath. ‘Take no notice, take no notice of him at all. Of course I can keep a secret, can’t I, Josie?’
‘You sang magnificently in the church. I was always a fan of yours,’ David Mallory says.
‘The Da always played your music too,’ William adds. ‘He played it at full volume, non-stop. His favourite was Tosca and that piece you sang today.’
'Vissa d’arte,' I say. ‘It is very special.’
How many times had I sung that for Michael?
We all smile. Then Seán’s hand is in the middle of my back propelling me down a corridor. ‘Excuse us gentlemen, I’ve a few things to discuss with Josie but I may get her to sing for us before she leaves.’
‘That would be lovely.’ William’s eyes widen in delight.
I am about to protest but Seán’s grip on my arm is strong and he pushes me through a timber door and into an oak panelled room that reminds me of a formal lawyer’s office. Shelves of hardback reference books are along one wall. There is a large desk with an austere lamp, two framed photographs of Barbara and the children, a swivel chair and in front of the fireplace two deep seated leather armchairs.
On the wall is a familiar painting and I lean closer to inspect it.
‘The Fighting Temeraire,’ he says nodding at the artwork. ‘On its way to its final resting place to be broken up. Turner painted the original in 1839 but this unfortunately, is only a copy. The original is in the National Gallery in London.’
‘A copy?’ I sit in a chair beside the unlit hearth. ‘Or a forgery?’
‘Same difference.’
‘Is it?’
‘Unless you try and sell it,’ he laughs.
I imagine him in this house in winter, lashing rain outside, a roaring fire, and a loyal dog at his feet. But today it is hot. The room is oppressive and I want to fling open the patio glass doors. My chest is tight, my throat is dry.
