Golden Icon_The Prequel

by Janet Pywell

  Air explodes from my chest, sitting on the stone wall gazing out at the lake, as if waiting for me, is Karl Blakey. His legs are crossed at the ankles and his stomach hangs over baggy jeans.

  ‘I was hoping to bump into you. I rang your bell a few times but you didn’t answer the door.’ His chin wobbles when he speaks. His gerbil eyes are hidden behind square sunglasses, and his pudgy hands hold an expensive-looking camera.

  ‘Get lost,’ I reply. I walk around him toward the church.

  ‘I’ve got a message from William.’

  ‘So you’re working for him now?’

  He smiles. ‘He knows that you can’t be trusted.’

  I continue walking.

  ‘I told him you were probably back on the coke.’

  I stop, remove my sunglasses and stare hard at him. ‘If you print any lies I will go for you. My lawyer will sue you for everything you have, and–’

  ‘You don’t have a lawyer. You couldn’t afford to pay the last one.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘Unless you’ve come into some money recently, have you?’ He speaks quickly. ‘William seems to think there’s a family heirloom and you’ve stolen it. Of course, I defended you. I told him that wasn’t your style. I did say that you normally only steal other women’s husbands, but he insists that you have something belonging to him. Something that’s very valuable.’

  ‘My friend here, is the local chief of police, and if you harass me I’ll get a court order and make your life difficult like the last time.’

  Karl stands. He is as tall as my shoulder. ‘He wants it back,’ he says, ‘and I’ve promised to help him, and you know how good I am about keeping my promises.’

  I turn and walk away.

  ‘I know you went to Munich,’ he calls. ‘I know Seán was blackmailing you, and I’m going to find out about your secret Josephine. I promise you.’

  My back is hot but it isn’t from the relentless July sunshine. Now it is from invisible trackers who are watching, monitoring and closing in on me. Karl Blakey is, once again, my shadow. He stirs unpleasant memories of my past life, but much worse, he threatens the safety of my future. His presence in my village that has been far removed and remote from prying journalists, inquisitive public and demanding agents now makes me feel threatened.

  I walk quickly to the church where I take refuge. Sitting in the shadows in the back pew I concentrate on breathing, pushing my stomach down, raising my lungs, regulating my erratic heartbeat. My hands are still shaking as a result of my encounter with Karl.

  Who has my letter?

  I gaze at the Madonna with the son in her arms. She is serene. I envy her peace and solitude. I say a prayer, thinking of the Golden Icon buried in the earth on the hill behind the village, hoping for a miracle.

  A retired foreign couple are studying the church paintings, taking photographs and whispering quietly. Behind me the door opens and the stone floor is bathed in sunlight. A young couple wearing cut-off shorts and creased T-shirts stand at the top of the aisle then begin to walk silently down the aisle as if it were their wedding day. I am attracted to them by their vivacity and youth. Seán and I must have been that age when we married.

  The wooden pew is hard against my back.

  Michael had understood me better than Seán. He was an avid opera fan. He recognised my talent and knew the opportunity I had at my fingertips, and although I was married to his son, he encouraged me to fulfil my destiny, he guided me. He nurtured me and he loved me.

  After I sang in Covent Garden I was regaled as the new opera star destined to be as famous as Maria Callas. My performance of Tosca altered my life and my destiny. Until then I would have sacrificed everything for Michael.

  As I lean forward in the pew, and lay my face in the palm of my hands, I hear Michael’s voice, Life never works out how you plan it. Different things are important to you at different stages of your life. You will thank me one day for what I am about to do.

  I raise my eyes and look up at the Virgin.

  Pure serenity.

  I want her to understand. I want to explain to her. Divorce wasn’t possible then. Rural Ireland wasn’t like the seventies in England or in America. There was no divorce. No contraception. No abortion. I was an American. These constraints were like chains around my throat. I was a caged animal. I was living in foreign territory, a land that no longer welcomed my funny American mannerisms and my cute accent. It was a country that stifled my art, my creativity and my passion. Only Michael had understood.

  The young couple stop to take a photograph of my Madonna.

  It had been Michael who had travelled with me to London for the first audition. Not Seán. Michael had taken a few days off and we had flown over the Irish Sea and enjoyed afternoon tea in the Savoy to celebrate my success. I look up at the Madonna pleading for her to understand. I have lost the two men I once loved, I say silently to her.

  An old man wearing a yellow corduroy jacket shuffles into the church. He settles nosily in a pew then bows his head as if apologising for disturbing my thoughts. He stands and walks with his shoulders hunched and head bent to the back of the church. He rattles loose change in his pocket.

  Raffaelle’s words from last night still echo in my head.

  You lost Tosca. You’re stubborn. You’re selfish. We could start a new life together.

  Padre Paolo appears from the vestry. The door closes quietly behind him. He treads softly and quickly, his cassock swirling against his legs and a large jewel encrusted cross hanging around his neck. In his haste he almost passes me by. If I had not hailed him, things may have all worked out differently, but he stops at my bequest, halting mid stride. His brown eyes are filled with anticipated excitement but when he sees me in the pew his enthusiasm is replaced with one of guarded wariness.

  ‘Ah, Josephine.’ He holds out a hand. ‘What a delightful surprise. One I wasn’t expecting.’

  ‘I need to talk to you Padre.’ My voice is soft. I want to indicate to him that I am serious and that I need help. ‘It’s urgent. You haven’t returned my calls.’

  ‘I have been busy.’ He looks over his shoulder and around the church as if searching for someone. The retired tourists, the young couple and the old man have disappeared.

  Reluctantly Padre Paolo sits beside me and the wood groans under our weight as it has creaked for years though masses, funerals, weddings and baptisms.

  ‘Santiago was here,’ he says. ‘We are preparing for the September fiesta and discussing the route of the procession this year and who will head it. Angelo is very keen to take an active part and you know how insistent the Mayor can be.’ He spreads his hands apart. ‘I am hoping the Arch Bishop will be here, but–’ he pauses and sighs as if this is a weighty problem that only he alone can solve. ‘We will have to see. Has Angelo asked you to sing this year?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘Not yet, Padre.’ I don’t say, I don’t care about the procession.

  ‘I know you didn’t get Tosca but you are still popular in the village. You have a good voice. Do not be discouraged that Glorietta’s voice is better than yours. She is younger and she has a career ahead of her. This is a fantastic opportunity for her to be recognised around the world.’

  ‘Padre, do you have any news for me?’

  I sense him choosing his words. ‘I am waiting.’ He looks at me and folds his fingers together as if in prayer.

  ‘Waiting for what, Padre?’ My head is screaming at him.

  ‘The Cardinal doesn’t return to the Vatican until Friday. I have told you this Josephine. I am unable to do more.’

  ‘I thought you were waiting for Padre Stefano?’

  ‘He is with the Cardinal.’

  I am impatient and I speak quickly. ‘I think my life is in danger, Padre,’ I say. ‘I believe that there are people who want the Golden Icon and they are willing to kill to get it.’

  Opera and drama are my art and my passion, and he smiles at me as he would smile at a ch
ild in the street with a gelato.

  I explain slowly, ‘My ex-husband Seán is dead. His father Michael is dead. Someone wants the Golden Icon and they are prepared to murder for it. I need to know if you will be able to find any information for me. I may not be able to keep it for much longer.’

  He replies carefully ‘Why do you not give it up to the police?’

  My mouth falls open.

  He continues speaking. ‘It is the most natural thing to do, no? When you are given an item of such obvious wealth and value that does not belong to you. You should give it to the police.’

  I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Padre, I came to you, a man of the church because I trust you.’ I emphasise my sentences deliberately. ‘I need information and you promised to help me. My life could be in danger. I have nowhere to go and no-one to turn to, only you, Padre. You are my saviour.’

  His eyelashes flick quickly. ‘Signora Lavelle while I am waiting for an answer from the Cardinal I insist that you seek protection. Please, please go to Santiago. He will protect you.’

  ‘What is taking so long? Why don’t you have any news for me? Does the Cardinal or Padre Stefano not have a telephone? Can you not speak to someone else in the Vatican?’

  ‘It is not that simple.’

  ‘Are you not willing to help me?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘I think I made a mistake in coming to you. I thought you above all people would help me to do the right thing. I assumed that I had your confidence and your trust, and that you would–’ I cannot continue. I stand knocking my knee on the pew. He reaches out and places his hand on my arm.

  ‘I know that Santiago is Glorietta’s brother and that you lost the role of Tosca to her, but don’t let pride stand in your way. Think about your situation Signora Lavelle. The Golden Icon is not yours. It is stolen.’

  ‘Stolen? I told you it concerns a friend of mine. I asked you to find out about it for me. I want to know who it belongs to, so I may return it. I came to you for help.’ It dawns on me that Raffaelle may have been right all along. Perhaps Padre Paolo has betrayed me. That is why Santiago stopped at our table last night in Luigi’s restaurant. It had not been a coincidence that he was eating in that restaurant. Perhaps Santiago knows about the Golden Icon and the threat of the Gardaí and the Irish Consul was only to frighten me.

  ‘I thought I could trust you, Padre.’ I hear a catch in my throat. ‘I don’t think you have even contacted anyone in the Vatican, have you? Instead you went running to Santiago and you betrayed me.’ I don’t squeeze past his knees instead I turn away from him and walk along the pew. It is ungainly and awkward but I want to get away from him.

  ‘Signora Lavelle,’ he calls, ‘Josephine!’

  My body is shaking. I am at the door and I reach out to touch the iron handle but from the corner of my eye a figure moves in the shadow. It is the old man with the yellow corduroy jacket. His eyes are like black holes and a half smile hovers on his cracked lips.

  I slam the door behind me and run.

  My feet won’t carry me fast enough. I have to get home. I need the sanctuary of my apartment and I need to think. I am propelled by urgency and fear. It is the same feeling I had four years ago when I was hunted by the press. When I was betrayed and humiliated. But its familiarity shocks me. It grows inside me, gnawing at my fears, doubts and insecurities like a vicious and vindictive disease. I stumble through the village realising all my judgements have been in error.

  Why did I agree to go back to Dublin to sing at Michael’s funeral? I should have stayed away and never seen Seán or Karl Blakey again. Why did I go to Germany? Seán hated me so much he was prepared to sacrifice me. I am disposable. Where is my letter? Does Barbara know I lied?

  It is midday. I am hot and my head thumps. Perhaps Karl Blakey is watching me. Maybe Maximilian Strong’s nephew is in the village watching Raffaelle’s villa. Alarm propels me. I take the long route to my apartment avoiding the main square and the fountain, turning constantly to look over my shoulder. I pass familiar alleyways that seem darker, stone houses that were once quaint now seem sinister, and at the bakery the steps seem steeper than usual. My muscles tire, I slow down, breathing hard. I stop and lean against the wall. It is cool on my back and the jagged edges prick my skin. It is my penance.

  My eyes are closed, my face is damp and perspiration clings to my skin. A film of uncomfortable moisture covers me like a clammy shroud. I fumble in my handbag for the key and open the wooden communal door. I glance at my mail box and in that instance I decide I will get the Golden Icon. I will dig it up and I will take it to the museum in Milan, the Refectory of the Santa Maria della Grazie church. There will be queues of tourists waiting to see Leonardo’s Last Supper but I will be patient. I will wait. I will give it to the Curator.

  Why should I risk my life? Why did I bury it up in the hills? Why didn’t I put it in the safety of a bank deposit box? Why didn’t Raffaelle advise me to put it somewhere safer?

  I stop half way on the stairs to my apartment. My front door hangs ajar. The broken lock dangles from the split wood. Very slowly and with the tip of my finger I push the door open. The corridor is filled with my discarded shoes and my outdoor jackets hang untouched. I remove my shoes. The laundry room is untouched. I walk in bare feet and at the bottom of the stairs I hear a voice. I grab a rolled up umbrella.

  Music?

  Step by step I slowly go up to my living room. Music scores have been pulled apart and are strewn across the floor. The wooden bookcase has been forced from the wall and lies like a crooked and broken giant, books are torn, pages ripped, spines are broken. Chairs are scattered and broken. The sofa is slashed and white stuffing hangs loose and lays in clumps across the floor. My piano has been daubed with gold paint, and not unlike graffiti on Italian trains, it is sprayed with obscenities.

  In the kitchen, cupboards and shelves have been emptied and scattered; food, plates and glasses are smashed on the floor.

  Music?

  I grip the rolled umbrella. Upstairs in my bedroom the arc shaped window lies open. Views of the lake and mountains remain the same but the sheets, duvet and pillows are slashed and ripped. The contents of my wardrobe are strewn over the floor like the entrails of a dark monster, and from the CD player beside my bed, Tosca sings.

  I live for love, I live for art. I live for love, I live for art.

  Raffaelle arrives in less than fifteen minutes. ‘I was in the square,’ he says. ‘Drinking coffee with Angelo. Santiago is on his way.’

  We are standing in the doorway looking at the mess in the lounge. ‘It’s best not to touch anything. The police may want to take fingerprints. Who would have done this?’

  Santiago’s voice rings out from downstairs.

  ‘Come on up,’ I shout down.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks. ‘You are not hurt?’

  ‘I’m fine. I came home to find this.’ I open my arms to the disorder around me.

  ‘Have you touched anything?’ His voice is sharp and his ferret eyes travel over me first, then over my home. He thrusts out his nose and tiptoes through the debris to the terrace. He is accompanied by a uniformed police officer who takes photographs and makes notes.

  Santiago calls to me from outside.

  ‘Is anything missing?’

  ‘How would she know, with all this mess?’ Raffaelle shouts back.

  I ignore Raffaelle and tiptoe through the debris to stand beside Santiago who is staring into the street below, more interested in the terrace than the destruction to my home.

  ‘They forced the lock but they could have climbed up, here,’ he says pointing.

  I am shaking. My knees cannot support me and I slump onto a chair. Raffaelle rummages inside the kitchen and finds a half bottle of brandy. He pours a generous measure and I sip, holding it with both hands. The afternoon breeze encompasses my body like a thin gauze and it causes my hair to stick to the back of my neck. I am fighting the nausea rising
in my chest, a bile tide in the claustrophobic cabin of my body.

  I am frightened.

  ‘It is shock.’ Raffaelle stands beside me. ‘It’s normal.’ He places his hand on my shoulder reassuringly and I am grateful for his presence.

  I respond automatically to Santiago’s questions. What time did I leave? Where did I go? How long was I gone for? Did I see anyone? Do I have any reason to think why someone would do this? Although I know I should, I don’t mention Karl Blakey and he doesn’t react when I say I spoke to Padre Paolo.

  ‘For heaven’s sake Santiago, can’t you see the state she’s in? Can’t these questions wait?’ Raffaelle explodes and I wonder why he is so antagonistic toward a man who, for many years, was virtually his brother-in-law.

  Santiago moves around the apartment. He flicks music scores with his feet, turning them to see what lies underneath. Glass crunches under his foot. He leans down as if something catches his eye and when he stands he is clutching a black and white photograph.

  I curse myself. It is the print of the British soldiers in the war; the thieves, the looters and the murderer. I had forgotten I left it resting on the shelf against the books.

  ‘It would appear that whoever did this was a professional. He or they picked the lock of the communal door downstairs but then used force to enter your apartment. What were they looking for? What were they after? We need to establish if anything is missing.’ He leans against the doorframe looking into the lounge and turning to gaze at me on the terrace. His secretive eyes travel over my face and then rest on the photograph in his hand.

  He says to Raffaelle. ‘I understand she is in shock but this is the scene of a crime.’

  ‘I have nothing of any real value,’ I say.

  ‘No? A wealthy, and once famous opera singer, must have something valuable. Jewellery?’

  ‘Only a sapphire necklace. I usually keep it in the bedroom, in a drawer beside the bed.’

  Santiago nods at the uniformed officer who disappears upstairs.

  ‘Money? Did you keep cash?’