by Janet Pywell
‘Perhaps…’
‘Padre I have an audition tomorrow and then, after that there will be rehearsals. It will only be three weeks until the opening night at the beginning of August, so I do not have much time.’
‘Ah yes.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘Yes, you must focus on that,’ he says. ‘It is very important for you. You seem so much better now Josephine, than you were when you first arrived in Comaso. It seems a long time ago now, when did you come here?’
‘Three years ago, and I am Padre, much better thanks to you and to the church. You have been very supportive and given me the spiritual guidance I needed.’
‘It was difficult when you first came here. They were dark days for you. The church is always here for you. So too, am I.’
‘Thank you, Padre. Perhaps the church could help me now. Perhaps you might find the time in your busy schedule to make some enquiries for me?’
‘I will do all I can to help you.’
‘That would be wonderful, Padre, grazzi. You are very kind.’
‘I do have a good friend. I could ask Padre Stefano. He is in the Vatican and the assistant to Cardinal…’
‘That would be excellent.’
‘Can you give me more information?’ He sits with his hands folded in his lap. ‘Do you have a description?’ His eyes are soft and enquiring.
The marble Madonna is gazing down at me with curious eyes. Reaching down, I unzip the travel bag at my feet, remove the box and place it on my lap. The lid is torn and I hand it to Padre Paolo.
He weighs it in his hands, as I did. The linen cloth is tied loosely with the frayed string as it was in Munich, and when it falls away to reveal the Golden Icon, his expression doesn’t change. He stares for a considerable time at the Madonna and at the young Jesus leaning on her legs. Then he holds the statue up toward the light and turns it in the palm of his hand. His eyes narrow as he studies the seal. A shaft of fading sunlight shines through the stained glass.
‘Where did you get this?’ His voice echoes between the strobes of moving rays.
‘It belongs to a friend. He wants to know about its origins.’
‘There are museums, curators and professionals. Why bring it to me?’
‘Because you are a man of the cloth, Padre, I can trust you.’
In the silence of the church and the reflected awe of the statue I turn suddenly at the sound of quick heavy footsteps. Striding down the centre aisle toward us is the chief of police, Inspector Santiago Bareldo.
I grab the Golden Icon, wrap it irreverently, and thrust it into the box and into my bag, just as Santiago draws level with us. His face is long and narrow, his shoulders hunched. He has the same blue dolls eyes like his sister, Glorietta. He is her older brother.
My hands are shaking.
When I look up Santiago is staring at me.
‘Dona Lavelle,’ he says respectfully. ‘I am surprised you are here. Should you not be resting?’ His greeting is accompanied by a small bow. He is well aware of my rivalry with his sister both for the role of Tosca and for Raffaelle’s affections.
‘I am leaving now.’ The bag is heavy on my arm as I negotiate my way from the pew into the aisle. ‘Can I trust you, Padre?’ I pause deliberately, ‘to help me? Can I leave this matter in your confidence?’
‘You have my complete trust. It is my pleasure Signora to be of assistance,’ he replies.
Santiago looks from me, to him, and then to my bag. His eyes are watchful and I am not fooled by his half amused smile and his nonchalant stance.
Padre Paolo holds out a hand and when I offer him mine he raises it to his lips. Then he turns to Santiago. ‘I suppose you are here to discuss the events of the procession next week, Inspector?’
I say farewell to them both and feel the heat of their eyes on my back but when I am half way to the door, Santiago’s voice rings out.
‘Good luck with your audition tomorrow, Dona Lavelle.’
‘Thank you.’ I continue walking. I do not turn around.
Outside on the church step I gaze across the lake. Dieter knew my name. He knew I was an opera singer. Padre Paolo is the second person to know I have the Golden Icon. It is a risk but one that I had to take. I won’t have much time once the police go through Seán’s documents and find out that he paid for my flight to Munich. They will also find my letter.
Assuming that it was Maximilian, or his nephew who killed Seán I wonder how long it will take them to realise the Turner painting is a fake. What will they do next? Visit Dieter?
As I stand gazing at the scenic beauty before me, an awful realisation dawns, Karl Blakey knew I was going to Munich. He must wonder why.
5
Chapter 5
The noble army of marytrs: praise thee. The holy church throughout all the world: doth acknowledge thee; - Te Deum, Tosca
I am early for my audition. I am wearing a turquoise print dress, a gold necklace and pearl earrings. My hair is swept up in a chignon and I have added makeup to the shadows under my eyes.
Today is the day. I am excited, tense, nervous and my body is rushing with adrenaline.
In the majestic reception of the Teatro Il Domo, the life-size bronze statues that I saw from the ferry, along the edge of the glass foyer, are of operatic and music legends; Maria Callas, Plácido Domingo, José Carreras, Montserrat Caballé, Alfredo Kraus, Anne Sofie von Otter; there must be over fifty in total and although I was once amongst the best, I am not with them now.
Cesare is standing between a replica of Rudolf Moralt, and a young looking Keith Lockhart. When he sees me, he smiles, and pushes hair from his eyes. He walks quickly and I am reminded of a graceful gazelle with a long mane; his arms are outstretched, his eyebrows knotted together over dark eyes.
‘Josephine.’ He takes me by the shoulders and kisses both cheeks. ‘Thank goodness.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘The auditions are in the rehearsal studio.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘What is troubling you?’
He links his arm through mine but says nothing.
‘Who is here?’ I ask.
‘Niccolo Vastano the theatre director; Dino Scrugli the producer, and Andrei Ferretti has just arrived.’
We walk as we talk. It is noisy, work men are making finishing touches to the building, carrying boxes, furniture, tool bags; singing, whistling and laughing. The opening night is one month away. Tosca opens on the third of August.
‘Andrei has to be here.’ My laugh sounds hollow. ‘He is the conductor.’
‘Yes, but he arrived with Glorietta.’
‘I did not realise they were such good friends,’ I say, feeling a surge of concern.
‘They were invited to Glorietta’s villa for lunch last week.’ He looks sheepishly at me.
‘I know, and she sang on her terrace for them,’ I say. ‘Raffaelle was there. She has tried to manipulate them all. Let’s hope she hasn’t succeeded.’
Cesare looks at me sideways and I squeeze his arm. The encouragement is as much for him as it is for me. Glorietta is determined to outshine me. In the past few years, since my decline, she has taken more pivotal roles and has become more revered for her performances in the theatre and also as an actor. Her vivacious character makes her popular and she is sought after by theatres, directors, conductors and producers.
I do not tell Cesare that her photograph was on the front pages of every major magazine at the airport kiosks in Germany and Ireland, instead I block everything from my mind and focus.
I am Tosca. The role is mine. I will sing again for Michael.
We reach the door to the studio and I take a deep breath. I control my breathing, pushing my stomach down, and I lift my chest, my chin and square my shoulders.
Cesare stands aside to let me enter the room before him. ‘Courage Josephine,’ he whispers. ‘Imagine in a few weeks when it is the opening night. Focus on that. Concentrate on your comeback.’
Insi
de the room a few people turn to stare at us.
‘This audition process is demeaning,’ I say to him, ‘until four years ago they would have courted me like a patient young lover, persuading me to star in their productions, now I’m like a novice forced to sing in an audition pretending it is a matter of procedure.’
‘Josephine?’ A familiar voice greets me.
‘Massimo, how delightful to see you,’ I say happily.
Massimo Mallamo’s hair is dyed. Once blond he is now reddish grey like a squirrel. We hug and kiss. My affection for him is genuine. We have shared many operas and many successes.
‘How many times have we sung together?’ he asks.
‘I’ve lost count. Many, many times. The Paris Opera, the MET when I was the leading soprano in New York, and I think the last time was in Buenos Aires in the Teatro Colon.
‘Yes, you are right, wasn’t it Puccini’s Turandot?’ We stand smiling at each other and his hand remains on my waist as he greets Cesare and they shake hands.
‘I also have to audition,’ he whispers and shakes his head. ‘This great tenor auditioning for the role of Mario Cavaradossi.’
‘It has gone to Nico’s head,’ I reply. ‘He’s on a power drive.’
‘Shush!’ Cesare warns me.
Massimo laughs. ‘It’s good to see you Josephine. It’s been too long.’
‘I agree.’ I am wondering if he will mention the unmentionable; my career demise and my breakdown on stage, and then as if reading my thoughts, he asks.
‘Are you fully recovered?’
‘What a lovely way to put it,’ I smile. ‘Yes, thank you. I am better. How is Mirium? And the children?’
‘Good. Mirium grows plumper every day and the children are now adults. Stefano married last year.’
‘Don’t tell me you are a grandfather all ready?’
‘Soon, very soon, in another few months.’
We both laugh.
‘You look well,’ he says.
His sincerity fills me with gratitude and I place my hand on his arm. ‘Thank you.’
‘The Italian air must suit you better than the German air?’
‘I like the German air,’ I reply. ‘It was Guntar I had to get rid of. He became very controlling and demanding.’
‘I hear he is like that with Angelina now.’
‘His new protégé?’
‘They say she will not last long with him.’
‘He became insecure and bitter, and very jealous.’
‘You went through a great deal. The press were very unfair to you. There was one particular reporter who stalked you–’
‘Karl Blakey.’
‘That’s him. He was particularly brutal.’
‘Yes, he’s a weasel. I called the police and he never forgot that. He’s a vengeful man.’
A door opens to the studio and I have a quick glimpse of a stage and then I hear the unmistakable voice of Glorietta singing, Una voce poco fa, Rosina’s aria from the Barber of Seville.
She is note perfect.
When my name is called Massimo hugs me. ‘You are still Tosca,’ he whispers. ‘No-one sings like you. Just remember that.’
‘Thank you.’
As we enter the rehearsal studio Glorietta is stepping down from the stage. She is as dark as I am fair. Her blue eyes twinkle mischievously. I am pleased to say she is a heavier build than me, her hips are broad and her bust is large. Even though I am ten years her senior I am in better shape, and so I draw back my shoulders and stand taller.
Although we are rivals to the core. We remain civil and polite. She walks gracefully swinging her hips provocatively, and as she passes me, she whispers something but I don’t hear her words. Instead I focus on the stage, the grand piano to the right and the audition panel who occupy the middle of the third row of seats.
Niccolo Vastano the theatre director has a trimmed beard. Dino Scrugli the producer is still small and fat, and Andrei Ferretti the conductor has long and grey hair and he wears black, square glasses.
They all ignore me.
Cesare takes his place.
I remove copies of sheet music for the arias from my leather case. Casta Diva from Norma and Vissi d’arte from Tosca, and pass the music scores to Cesare.
Determined to take my time and control the audition, I walk slowly, gaining confidence as I stride to my place, at the centre of the stage. I like the familiarity that flows through me, my confidence soars and my heart races. I am where I belong. This is me. I am Tosca.
I have been singing in these roles with various orchestras and with different arrangements around the world. My vocal score is leather bound and marked with pencil. It was a present from Guntar, given to me when we first met, when I was awarded my scholarship in Frankfurt. It was a scholarship that Michael had arranged for me, one that Michael had paid for, and thinking of him, my concentration wavers.
‘Still acting the diva,’ Andrei Ferretti calls out.
I look up from my music score and smile back. ‘It’s hard to change all one’s habits.’ My voice rings out clear and confident and I smile.
‘Have you changed at all?’ asks Nico.
‘But of course,’ I reply. ‘Only my voice is the same.’
Dino laughs.
‘And if you decide you didn’t like our production, or the wig we wanted you to wear, would you storm out?’ Nico continues.
I look over at Cesare. He shakes his head and I turn back to the audition panel.
‘That only happened on one occasion and it wasn’t a wig. They wanted me to wear a ridiculous mini skirt.’
‘It was a modern production,’ Nico replies.
‘I didn’t feel it was suitable for the role of Carmen.’
‘And if you don’t think our production is suitable?’ Nico asks.
‘I’m sure I will.’
‘You also broke your contract.’
‘My agent negotiated a way out with a clause in the contract.’
‘He bribed the lawyers.’ Nico folds his arms.
My mouth is dry. I pause and take a deep breath. ‘It was a long time ago. Antonio Marx is no longer my agent.’
‘Do you have an agent now?’
‘For God’s sake, is all this necessary? Let the lady sing.’ An American accent cuts through our conversation. It is Dino Scrugli’s production of Tosca and although he is almost sixty he looks nearer to forty. His hair is neatly cropped and his designer jacket casually scruffy.
‘Go on then.’ Nico waves his arm.
I smile at Dino, pleased to have his support. I have worked with him many times. We have been to receptions, galas, sponsored concerts, and private parties. Once we sailed on a yacht together around the Caribbean. There was a group of thirty on board and it had been a happy time in my life. I was famous and single. It was before my fall.
‘Bene,’ Cesare calls to me.
I compose myself, inhaling, pushing my lungs out and my stomach down, and my chest swells. My voice grows in confidence. Casta diva is a mezzo soprano. I am comfortable. My dramatic training is stirred. It is as if I have never left the stage. I sing as if I am making my debut at the Royal Opera House with an adoring audience where I once received twelve curtain calls. I am aware of my gestures and filled with pleasure as I release the power of my voice. God’s gift to me. I am soaring above them all. I am the voice. I am the airwaves. I am floating.
There is no applause.
My second aria, Vissi d’arte belongs to Tosca. It belongs to me. I expand my lungs and draw in air and lose myself. I am Tosca. I live the part; my lover Mario has been dragged to prison and I fight off the sexual advances of his captor, Baron Scarpia, the chief of police. When my lover is shot, I protest my fate to God. Having dedicated my life to art and love, tears fill my eyes. There is only one solution. I will kill myself. My final note expires.
Silence greets me.
I look toward Cesare and he nods back at me.
‘Thank you, Signora Lavelle. We w
ill be in touch.’ Nico speaks but he doesn’t look up.
Cesare holds my elbow and walks me down the steps. ‘What was all that about?’
‘Don’t worry. It’s just Nico being a prick!’ I whisper. ‘This new position has gone to his head.’
As we leave the stage Dino leans forward in his seat. He smiles and blows me a cheeky kiss. He was always an incorrigible flirt.
The following day I wake early. I drink herbal tea on the terrace and make a list of things I must do. I have slept well knowing my audition is over and I can do no more. Cesare believes they will decide quickly and notify us today. The rehearsals will begin immediately.
The opening night is under four weeks away. My diary is cleared to accommodate the rehearsals and press interviews. My agent, Carlotta Spitarzi has already telephoned. She is eager for me to meet her in Milan to discuss raising my image and profile, and to include pre-press interviews, magazine shoots and television appearances.
It reminds me of the past. When I was at my height of fame and I was in demand. Constantly busy. Always working. It prevented me from thinking. It stopped me dwelling on my past and the mistakes I made.
I write my list. I must contact Paulino the beauty therapist, shop for clothes, new shoes, makeup, hair appointment. The list is endless, and one that I haven’t had to consider for a long time.
Before, in my previous life, I had a secretary, and a private chef in my home in Cologne. Now when I look around my apartment, I think that I may move from here, to somewhere more appropriate to entertain as I did before.
I make a list of guests I would like to invite.
Dino is first on my list. Andrei the conductor only asked if I was still acting the diva, after that, he didn’t speak to me at all at the audition. We always worked well together but perhaps he is sceptical of my comeback. I wonder if he is courting Glorietta. Maybe she has manipulated him with her vivacious charm.
There are other names on my list; film stars, celebrities, actors, producers and conductors who I am keen to contact again. It has been too long. I have spent enough time in the wilderness. It is time for me to return with style, grace, humour and charm.
