Golden Icon_The Prequel

by Janet Pywell

  The new Teatro Il Domo rises from the depths of the lake like a glorious shining orb radiating and reflecting the colours of the rainbow across the water. The recycled glass dome, not unlike the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral in London, is especially designed to withstand the outside glare and heat from the sun. Inside, the theatre is constructed to offer acoustics with a quality unmatched by any other opera venue in the world.

  In television reports and press releases, Theatre Director, Niccolo Vastano has emphasised that staging and productions will be minimalist, thereby relying on the talent of the actors, musicians and orchestras. Dino Scrugli’s production of Tosca will be the first performance to verify this, and conductor Andrei Ferretti also testifies to the importance of these principles and standards. They are all at the top of their game and I want to be with them.

  From my vantage point at the railing, there is a flurry of early morning activity along the quay and the wooden floating pontoon. I absorb each detail. White vans delivering goods; trucks with machinery and laden with electrical equipment, cables, lights and furniture. The theatre has a main auditorium, a studio for rehearsals and auditions, a restaurant and a panoramic revolving bar that provides a three hundred and sixty-five degree view of the surrounding land. The pure aesthetic pleasure of the building is cooed over by the foreigners beside me clicking cameras and mobile phones.

  Lake Como has the shape of an inverted Y. The round glass dome looks north toward the Alps where, in the winter, the mountains are covered in snow. As we sail past on the ferry we pass the reception where there are bronze statues that I find hard to identify, standing against the window.

  Built by Antonio Giordiano, a pupil of Frank Gehry, he finished the commission to world acclaim and it is as revered by the opera world, as the Guggenheim museums are to the art world. Its originality and uniqueness stand like a beacon of beauty on one of Europe’s most beautiful lakes against a backdrop of the Italian Alps.

  I stand and marvel at its allure. This engineering feat and cost of completing this project is ambitious when most of Europe and America are suffering a recession. It has been built with money from sponsors, industrialists and investors, and rumour has it, with money from Eastern Europe.

  On Monday morning my audition takes place there.

  It is almost twenty-seven hours since I left Comaso. I left at six in the morning yesterday for my flight to Dublin, now it is nine o’clock on Saturday morning. I have been travelling all night. My head is fuzzy and disoriented with fatigue. My body is shaking with tiredness. I did not sleep on the train from Munich to Zurich, or on the train from Zurich to Como. Instead, I watched the dark countryside race past, the carriage flying through the night passing flat fields, hotels on busy motorways, churches lit like yellow beacons, and mountain villages illuminated with white lights. The same six words were reverberating rhythmically in my head: Seán is dead. Michael is dead. Seán is dead. Michael is dead.

  The sun rises over the jagged Alps casting a warm pink glow across Lake Como and I am relieved to be on the ferry heading home. I lean against the wooden bench. It is hard against my back. I cover my mouth and yawn. My eyes water. They are red and sore with sadness. I sit watching the Teatro Il Domo fade out of sight and concentrate on the pattern left in the wake of the water. I have to block my mind from its overdrive.

  I inhale large gulps of the Tivano wind that blows in the early morning from the Valtellina in the north-east, which is usually a sign of good weather, and I cast my face up toward the sun. As the boat turns north the red and white canopy provides me with shade, but as on the train, each time I close my eyes I see Seán’s tired face. He had thought I would collect his family heirloom, a painting and return it to him, solve all his financial problems and he would live happily with his family.

  I had only focused on getting to Dublin and retrieving my letter. Now I was numb. The shock of the events in Munich and the murder of Seán is overwhelming. I am concerned about the letter. What if the police find it? Or Barbara reads it? Or William - Michael was his father too.

  A Japanese man gestures to his wife to smile and she poses, twisting her body at right angles toward the mobile phone he holds above his head. They wear colourful, comfortable clothes and have eager eyes and enthusiastic smiles. Over her shoulder I see the image he is snapping, and I admire the beauty of the village behind her. Like most of the villages on the lake, they are a multitude of subdued colours; terracotta, burnished yellow, shades of red, blue and okra, and they overlook a small harbour or church.

  Bells for Mass chime across the water and when a German calls to his wife I instinctively tighten my grip on my bag between my feet.

  The Golden Icon was the secret of four men; Michael, Maximilian, Dieter and Terry. Two are dead, and now Seán is dead. I am the keeper of their secret.

  I drink water from a bottle. My throat is tight. How will I sing at my audition on Monday? I call Cesare, there is no answer, so I leave a message on his phone to tell him I am home.

  The Japanese man redirects his wife. He snaps a shot and she looks over his shoulder at the finished result, nodding and smiling; a happy couple.

  I look around at the other passengers and I focus on the man sitting on the opposite bench. He has gerbil cheeks and is the same build as Karl Blakey. I feel a welling of contempt for this stranger whom I have never met. Tiredness makes me want to shout at him, or push him overboard but when his wife returns with two hot cappuccinos, he smiles graciously, and I am ashamed.

  The Comaso pontoon draws close. I am gladdened by the sight of deep red geraniums hanging in baskets at the Alberge Luigi, and at the ticket office and hanging outside the lake-view cafe. The old stone village stretches up to the woods, its narrow roads are like tentacles in the hillside, and on the far side of the wooded ravine I watch the orange cable car bump over green pylons and descend to the village.

  The ferry slows.

  In front of the Santa Anna di Comaso church, rented boats in the harbour are lined up ready for hire; colourful fishing boats bob up and down; cars and scooters whine as they negotiate the lakeside road, and church bells toll across the sleepy village.

  I sigh. I am home.

  I lift my bag, conscious of the burden I carry.

  The crew lower the plank to the pontoon and stand aside to let passengers disembark, before going up the lake, to the more well-known villages of Lenno or Bellagio.

  I move with more agility than I feel. Sunglasses hide my red and tired eyes, but I stumble and one of the crew reaches for my arm.

  ‘Grazie,’ I say, but my voice is tired and he doesn’t hear me.

  I walk through the passengers waiting to embark with my head bowed. I don’t want to be recognised. My footsteps resound on the cobbled pavement. I avoid the fountain square where Luigi and Maria are opening their restaurant, pass the ticket office, and the cafe where tourists sit eating breakfast. The fresh aroma of dark, rich coffee causes my stomach to rumble, and Madonna sings from the radio, I was born this way but I don’t join in. A waitress leans over the table, fresh orange juice balanced on her tray and an ink tattoo of a butterfly rises up her arm.

  In the harbour boats are tossed on the waves caused by the departing ferry, I dodge the cars, and a bus groans up the hillside. I skip across the road and open a half-hidden gate tucked beside a large laurel tree.

  The okra-coloured villa has green metal shutters that are half closed. Its walls are adorned with rampant pink and purple bougainvillea and pots of azaleas stand like sentries on the steps to the back door.

  The latch gate clicks closed and I secure it before walking up the grassy pathway. The hammock is hooked up and sways in the shade between two pine trees as if rocking an invisible body. The old stone well, covered with a plank of wood, is cluttered with a multitude of ceramic pots: red and pink geraniums, rhododendrons, camellias and magnolias. All are untrimmed and untidy, as is, the sweet smelling wild jasmine trailing up and over the door.

  Branches of a gn
arled wisteria provide a sheltered alcove for a bistro table and two chairs. On its surface are the remnants of burnt candles, the remains of the night before; two brandy glasses and an overflowing ashtray.

  I ring the bell and wait.

  Raffaelle smells faintly of tobacco and brandy.

  ‘Amore mia,’ he says. He takes me in his arms and in that instance all doubts are swept from my mind. His strength reassures me, his fingers make my skin tingle and I am alive again. My fear recedes and my sadness ebbs. My tears fall. He murmurs soothing words but they are not important. It is the tone of his soft deep voice and his lips that kiss my wet cheeks that make me feel I have lived a nightmare. He takes his time, he caresses and undresses me in the shuttered sleepiness of his bedroom and I succumb to a need that overwhelms me. A need to feel alive and a need to feel loved.

  It is gone midday when I wake alone in the bed. I check my watch. I have slept for two hours.

  I pull on a cotton robe and wander bare foot into the garden. The two brandy glasses have been removed and there is no trace of the ashtray.

  ‘I thought you had given up smoking?’ I call out. I sit in the shade at the rickety table and watch Raffaelle moving around the kitchen through the open windows.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And brandy?’

  ‘No, never brandy,’ he laughs. ‘Relax, amore. I am bringing coffee and fresh bread from the bakery.’ He waves a ciabatta through the window and I am flattered he is going to so much trouble.

  ‘I thought you would be in your studio painting.’

  ‘Not this morning.’ I wait hoping he will say it is because I am back and he missed me but all I hear is the hum of traffic; motorbikes and convertible cars and the occasional squeal of breaks or tooting of a horn. It reassures me of a normal life. I know that most drivers are from Milan seeking refuge from the scorching heat of the city, coming in search of beauty, the mountains, or motor cyclists seeking the challenging thrill as they lean into hairpin bends.

  From a field above the villa a donkey brays and across the valley a dog barks. I am home.

  Raffaelle wears boxer shorts and a blue T-shirt. He reaches for my hand and kisses my fingers. ‘Good morning, amore,’ he says. ‘You had better tell me what has happened. You were very tired and upset when you arrived home this morning. I wasn’t expecting you. I thought you were going to Germany?’ He pours coffee and slices bread.

  I admire the feast on the table; fresh oranges, grapes, bread and honey and as we eat I begin to tell him what happened. I start with Michael’s funeral and then Seán begging me to go to Germany to save him from bankruptcy.

  ‘Seán said he can’t trust his brother, his employees or the children. There was no-one else.’

  ‘Not even his wife?’ Raffaelle wipes crumbs from his moustache with a napkin.

  ‘No, not even Barbara. He insisted I am the only one he can trust. He is desperate,’ I correct myself, ‘he was desperate.’

  I do not mention my letter written to Michael thirty years ago. I do not tell him I was blackmailed. I do not mention Karl Blakey. Not that he would know Karl Blakey; Karl belongs to my past in Germany before I arrived in Comaso, before I met Raffaelle, and before I began to work and rebuild my career with Cesare Serratore.

  His dark eyes watch me carefully and he tugs on his moustache.

  I continue speaking and emphasise my unwillingness to go. ‘You hardly think I would have gone to Munich if I didn’t have to. You know how important Tosca is to me. Seán said they were foreclosing on his business on Monday and he believed that if he had the family heirloom it would pay off all his debts.’

  The coffee is rich and thick and I sip it slowly. My voice is soft. My throat, that I should be resting, is tight with emotion. I describe Dieter and the filth and squalor of his home and the surprise of the treasures in his fetid apartment.

  I stumble over my words explaining about the four young British soldiers in the black and white photograph. ‘There was Dieter, Michael, Terry who died, and Maximilian who shot him.’ I tick them off my fingers and when I look up Raffaelle is studying me with the scrutiny of an artist, and of a disbeliever.

  I could go to the bedroom and get the photograph from my bag but I don’t, and when I reach the part of the story of the hidden room with the treasures, his brown eyes widen.

  ‘Did you recognise any of them? Who were the artists? Were they in a good condition? Framed?’

  ‘Some, I don’t know. I can’t remember, Degas? Vermeer? There was one I think, it was a Cézanne, and a boy with a vest.’ I take a grape and crush it in my mouth savouring the juice as it trickles down my throat.

  'Boy in a Red Waistcoat? It was stolen a few years ago in Zurich.’

  ‘He told me it was a forgery, done by someone in Spain.’ I am trying to recall the details of Dieter’s apartment. ‘There was a Vermeer, The Concert. He said, he sold the original - it was a copy, and a few sketches by Leonardo da Vinci.’

  ‘Sold the original?’ his voice is incredulous. ‘What sort of sketches?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake Raffaelle, how should I know? I am not an artist.’

  ‘I know, but you should recognise…’

  ‘No! I don’t.’

  ‘Okay, don’t shout at me.’

  ‘I’m not shouting,’ I sigh. ‘There were so many of them.’

  ‘How many?’

  I cast my hands wide. ‘Six or seven?’

  ‘And paintings?’

  ‘Maybe fifteen.’

  ‘Fifteen?’ he whistles.

  ‘Twenty-five?’ I say.

  He throws his arms into the air.

  ‘There were other things too; a marble bust, a tiara with snakes and rubies, and a gilt-edged book.’

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t remember more details.’

  ‘Dieter spoke a lot about art and treasures but I couldn’t take it all in,’ I say. ‘I was frightened and at the end when he touched me, ugh! It was disgusting. It’s been a shock Raffaelle. So much has happened. Then with the burglary and Seán shot dead. I just can’t believe it has all happened.’

  Raffaelle pats my hand. ‘You must rest. Try not to think too much about all this. Concentrate on Tosca. I know how much it means to you.’ He stands and clears the table and I am left in the garden sitting under the gnarled wisteria branches lost in my thoughts. Perhaps I should show him the photograph and the Golden Icon. I trace the outline of the table with my finger and think of the overflowing ashtray and two brandy glasses.

  Raffaelle is clinking mugs and scraping plates.

  ‘Who was here with you last night?’ I call out.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Drinking brandy with you?’

  ‘Oh that. You saw the glasses? Er–, Angelo popped in.’

  Angelo is the Mayor of the village. He has been friends with Raffaelle since they were children. Their families had grown up together until Raffaelle’s wife left him fifteen years ago. Angelo is a diplomat. He is popular and supportive of all the town’s fetes and fiestas and I have shared several dinners in their home. His wife is friendly and completely supportive of her husband but her complete submission to his needs makes me feel uncomfortable. She neglects herself. It is as though she exists only to serve him and I think of her as a Stepford Wife. I remember on my last visit to their home, a few months ago, Angelo had had a health scare and was worried about his heart. He said he wasn’t drinking alcohol anymore.

  Raffaelle reappears in the garden with a chilled bottle of Prosecco and two glasses. It starts as a small chuckle but gradually his laughter turns louder and deeper, his eyes fill up and he can barely speak, then he sits back in his chair and his chest heaves with suppressed laughter. ‘But cara,’ he says, ‘this is a wonderful story you have made up. Are you sure you are not overdoing everything? You have been rehearsing very hard the past few weeks for your audition. You have driven yourself relentlessly. You have been stressed and
hardly slept. The pressure is enormous. You are exhausted, no?’

  ‘Made up? You don’t believe me?’

  He stretches his arms above his head. He is a man at peace with himself, comfortable and relaxed and I resent him. I am angry with his complacency and lack of understanding.

  ‘It is not that I don’t believe you, cara.’ His arms settle behind his head. ‘It’s just that you do not need to make up stories for my benefit.’

  ‘You think I have made this all up?’

  He shrugs. ‘Maybe you stayed on and you and Seán had a little something for old time’s sake, but you have an important audition on Monday. Are you forgetting how important this role is for you? For your career?’

  'Tosca is important but for heaven’s sake Raffaelle so much has happened in the past two days. Seán is dead. He was murdered.’

  ‘I know, I know. I am sorry about that.’ He stands up, gathering crumbs between his thick fingers which he flicks onto a blue plate before carrying it like a waiter into the kitchen.

  I sit alone. I could prove my story. The evidence lies on the floor in his bedroom still in my bag but I don’t move.

  ‘You think I haven’t taken you seriously.’ Raffaelle returns. ‘I am sorry. Perhaps you want to tell me more? Is there anything else?’

  I shrug. I am angry with him. I know that I have done the right thing in not telling him about my love for Michael and my letter. I would never have his understanding let alone his support.

  ‘Come on, cara,’ he cajoles. ‘Don’t look so miserable.’

  ‘Dieter went to the safe and I thought he might give me a fake painting but he didn’t. He gave me a box, like a shoe box, and when I unwrapped it, there was the most beautiful Golden Icon. He tells me it was made by the Vatican to fund an Irish rebellion against the British, as they wanted the Catholics to support them.’

  Raffaelle smiles.

  I stop.

  His smirk disappears and I continue.

  ‘He told me that anyone who tries to possess it or use it for their own needs dies or is killed quickly.’

  ‘Ah, so it wasn’t a painting you had to collect but a priceless statue that had originally belonged to Michael.’