Golden Icon_The Prequel

by Janet Pywell

  He pulls a tissue from the pack and passes me one. I dab my face.

  ‘I’ve been looking out for you,’ he says. ‘It’s just as well that I was around. This could have been a very nasty incident.’

  He bends to pick up the pieces of my smashed mobile phone. ‘I saved you. He was going to rape you.’

  ‘You’re not a hero Karl. You’re a scumbag.’

  His laugh is an octave too high. ‘Is that all the thanks I get? I could have photographed it. That would have made a good story.’

  A group of teenagers pass us on the way to the village. ‘Buonasera,’ they call.

  ‘Buonanotte,’ he replies. ‘They probably think we are old friends or even lovers, stopping to kiss on the steps.’

  Their laughter follows them down to the square below.

  ‘Why are you following me? Seán is dead there is no story now. Why don’t you go home?’ I snatch my handbag from his inspecting fingers and prying eyes.

  ‘Well, you see, there’s something that still doesn’t make sense.’ He stands too close to me. ‘And it’s still a mystery to me. Why was Seán so interested in blackmailing you?’

  ‘He wasn’t.’

  ‘He had something on you. Something I missed. There’s a bigger story and I’ve got a hunch I missed it four years ago.’

  ‘Is that why you trashed my apartment?’

  His piggy eyes and gerbil cheeks shine ghoulishly under the yellow lamplight.

  ‘You’re an arsehole,’ I say.

  ‘Look, I know about the Golden Icon,’ he says. ‘Barbara told William that when she got to Munich the police detained her. So, we know you have it. The thing is, so do those guys who just assaulted you.’

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me that,’ I mumble. I am rummaging for the key to my apartment. My knuckles are scraped and bleeding.

  ‘He said you’ve got twenty-four hours. That’s not long.’ He scratches his ear. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.’

  ‘When have you ever wanted to be in my shoes, dick-head?’ I turn my back on him and hobble to my front gate.

  ‘You are very ungrateful.’ He holds out my front door key and I snatch it from his grasp. ‘You’re still acting the prima donna, Josephine. You’re a real diva. I’ll give you that.’

  I slam the wooden communal door in his face and lock it behind me.

  My nerves and fear overtake my sense of reasoning and I call Raffaelle from my home phone. My mobile is dead.

  An hour later I have cleaned my face and we are sitting on the terrace. The sky is like a black velvet cushion. It looks soft against the bright stars and half-moon. My top lip is split, my cheek and forehead is grazed, and I have a lump on the back of my head.

  Raffaelle has listened to the story twice, in detail, including Maximilian’s rancid breath, Ian’s attempt to violate me, and his threat to kill us both.

  He is leaning against the railing, his arms folded, gazing up at the moon when I speak.

  ‘They have given me twenty-four hours to give them the Golden Icon. You must leave with me,’ I insist. ‘They will kill you. Ian was going to rape me. They could have brought me in here to my apartment and no-one would have known.’ I shudder at the thought. My hands are shaking and I am drinking my second brandy.

  ‘There was no-one else around?’ Raffaelle pulls the corner of his moustache.

  ‘No,’ I lie. I don’t tell him about Karl Blakey because I can’t face the fact that Karl is determined to unearth my secret.

  ‘You’re sure he’s the same old man you saw in church when you were talking to Padre Paolo?’

  I nod.

  ‘Same yellow jacket?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Oh, Raffaelle, how do I know?’

  ‘You said it was a minute ago.’

  ‘Okay, I think so.’ I stretch my aching shoulder. I am looking at the broken remnants of my mobile phone laid out on the table.

  ‘I think you will need a new one,’ he says.

  ‘Raffaelle, stop it! Please, listen to me. They have given me twenty-four hours. Let’s get the Golden Icon first thing and give it to Santiago. He can protect us both.’

  ‘You won’t need protecting. You won’t be here. You are going back to the States, remember?’

  ‘I’m worried about you.’

  ‘Worried?’ His laugh is sarcastic. ‘Worried about me? No, Josephine. You are not worried about me, any more than you have been worried about anyone in your life. You are selfish and stubborn. You only ever think of yourself and what matters to you. I don’t think you’ve ever done anything for anyone unless you have benefitted from it. We’re the same type, Josephine. We could use the Golden Icon and get out of here. We could move to Florence and start a new life together but you won’t.’

  ‘Raffaelle, please. Please listen to me. This isn’t about us selling the icon and living off the proceeds.’ I stand and move toward him. ‘Come with me?’

  ‘I am not going with you. I can’t! This is my home. This villa which has been in my family for generations is my home. Even though you tell me I have squandered my inheritance, I still have my art studio and my students. It isn’t always what I want, but it is mine. It is my life and the only one I have, and I am happy with it. Yes, I want to go to Florence and yes, I have dreams. You are not the only one who dreams of art and lives for their passion. I dream of these things too. We could be happy together.

  ‘It may mean nothing to you but I have my dignity.’ He reaches out and strokes the softness of my cheek, touching the side that isn’t bruised. ‘I love you, but you don’t love me.’ He moves away and stands at the railing. ‘Maximilian has given you twenty-four hours to deliver the statue to him. That’s tomorrow night - Friday, so if you give the Golden Icon to Santiago, he will give us protection in return and we can go to the opening night of Tosca on Saturday. Then if your mind is made up and you are still determined to go, you can leave Comaso.

  ‘Be honest with me Josephine, you will not be happy unless you see Glorietta playing Tosca. Tell the truth, cara, will you?’

  ‘Tosca is me.’ I am exhausted. ‘I am Tosca. The role is mine and to see Glorietta on the stage would destroy me.’

  ‘It will not kill you, cara. It will help you,’ he says. ‘It will be closure.’

  I put my face in my hands. I have spent weeks imagining Glorietta rehearsing; the stage direction; the orchestra; the production. I can even feel the dress she wears. It is not jealousy or envy but simply that they made a mistake in casting her.

  ‘The role should be mine,’ I say.

  ‘But it isn’t! She is good. She is better than good. She will be a superstar after Saturday night. You want to be seen by the public to support her. You need to be seen by the critics in the theatre. It will be seen as a gracious gesture toward her. It would make you more popular.’

  I look at the passion and sincerity in Raffaelle’s eyes.

  ‘You’re right, they didn’t make a mistake at all,’ I say. ‘Her voice is beautiful. Its tone, its sound and its quality will bring a spiritual depth to the role. I have to see her. I want to see her. I must see her.’ My salty tears sting the graze on my cheek causing me to wince but although my face hurts, it is nothing compared to the torture in my soul and the sadness in my heart.

  ‘These are tears of relief and joy. Everything will be all right. You will see.’ He rubs my shoulder and I look up at him as I reply.

  ‘I will go to the Teatro Il Domo with you, Raffaelle. I will be there on the opening night regardless of the press and what they say or my humiliation. I will go with you. I will give my support to Glorietta and publicly endorse her as my successor. She deserves that much. It is time for me to stand aside.’

  Raffaelle kneels beside me. ‘I’ll come with you first thing in the morning. We will go up the hill and get the Golden Icon and give it to Santiago.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate that, but you hate Santiago, so much. You haven’t said a good word about him in all the years I ha
ve known you. Why is that?’

  ‘We are not friends.’

  ‘You were once.’

  Raffaelle nods. ‘It is difficult to explain.’

  ‘So are most things. Try me.’

  ‘He told Glorietta about the art student.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I would still be with her if he hadn’t said anything. He betrayed me.’

  ‘You betrayed her.’

  ‘It was only for a few nights.’

  ‘I think you still love her Raffaelle. You should tell her.’

  He shakes his head. ‘She has Bruno now.’

  ‘He’s just for show,’ I smile. ‘Eye-candy, they call it.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyes light up and there is a softness in his face that I haven’t seen for a very long time.

  10

  Chapter 10

  Oh, sweet kisses and languorous caresses, while feverishly I stripped the beautiful form of its veils! - E lucevan le stelle, Tosca

  My main concern through the night is not my throbbing head, my split cheek nor the bruising over my eye but the Golden Icon lying buried in the grounds of the Chiesa della Madonna dei miracoli.

  The events of the evening leave me lying awake wondering who to be afraid of the most. Maximilian Strong and Ian who threatened to kill me, Raffaelle or Karl Blakey who will stop at nothing to uncover my secret.

  My thoughts are jumbled. Tiredness holds me prisoner to my fears and my insecurities. Returning to London or the States fills me with agitation and I am awake to watch the dawn yawn over the lake. I stare for a long time from my bedroom window memorising the view and logging its details in my mind. It will be the last time I watch the sunrise from my apartment.

  When Raffaelle arrives he pulls me into his arms but I push him away. He stares at the open luggage lying on the floor.

  ‘Your mind is made up then.’

  ‘You know it is. I will catch the first ferry.’ I resist the urge to stroke his cheek and kiss his lips.

  ‘It’s not safe. I’ll go with you,’ he says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because–’ I don’t finish the sentence.

  I can’t explain the growing foreboding that spreads and seeps through my body like moving quicksand. It is engulfing me, suffocating my senses, and I resist the urge to throw myself into his arms and tell him that we will go to Florence. Instead, I grab my rucksack and wedge a sharp kitchen knife into the front pocket.

  ‘What do you want that for?’ His dark eyes flash.

  ‘In case–’ I lift the bag onto my back. ‘Ian will not get near me again.’

  He bites the corner of his moustache but says nothing. He is determined to accompany me. I lock the door behind us and I walk as fast as my tired body will allow me. I am anxious. I will not be at ease until I hold the Golden Icon in the palm of my hands again.

  We walk up the steep hill, past the snug secret gardens hidden in villas, the apartment block, and passed the gated entrance to the palazzo where palm trees stir in the early breeze. We cross the car park and wind our way through the narrow forest path. I bless myself at the shrines but I barely stop. Once we are half way up I glimpse the lake glittering below and I pause, drink water and wait for Raffaelle to sink onto the log bench before I pass him the bottle.

  ‘You will miss all this,’ he says, between gulps.

  I realise my life will change irrevocably. This sleepy village has been my refuge and my haven but it is my destiny to move on. I will find other operatic roles, perhaps less important, and in venues less known, but at least I will sing. I will return to the stage where I belong.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ I say.

  The few cars on the coast road look like children’s toys, they snake and disappear in the bend behind the church of Santa Anna di Comaso. I imagine the sleepy village stirring below; Carlo preparing breakfast in the Alberge, the ferry-master swapping tickets for money on the pontoon; the waitress with the butterfly tattoo flinging open terrace doors in the cafe on the lakeside, and the bakery grinding into a busy day.

  I picture trays of hot rolls and fresh ciabatta and the comforting smell of baking flour that has greeted me each morning for the past four years, and my stomach growls.

  ‘I’ll get fresh bread on the way back,’ I whisper and Raffaelle nods.

  I know he’s conserving his energy. His hands are on his hips and he lengthens his stride attempting to match my gazelle-like pace.

  The church bells toll and I stop periodically to wait for Rafael. We walk comfortably sometimes side by side, and sometimes when it narrows through the forest between the trees, we walk in single file.

  The humid smell of the beech trees, the pines, the firs and the olive trees fill my senses as we wind our way higher. Below us is tinkling sound of tinny bells and sheep bleating and in the ravine a donkey brays.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ he says.

  ‘If only my life was always this peaceful,’ I reply.

  ‘The beauty of nature is in your soul,’ Raffaelle says between panting breaths, ‘and reflected in your eyes.’

  ‘That isn’t what you told me last night.’ He looks at me questioningly. ‘You said I was selfish and stubborn.’

  ‘Yes, but you still appreciate nature,’ he smiles. This time he is first to take the lead and he walks ahead of me and I let him go. I look back down to the village, the calmness of the lake and the serenity of the hills leave me with a sense of wonderment and awe at God’s creation. Across the valley a dog barks, and I turn and walk quickly away, satisfied that we are not followed.

  We reach the fork in the path below the Chiesa della Madonna dei miracoli and we both pause. I have deliberately walked slowly to make sure no-one comes behind us, and when I draw alongside Raffaelle I reach out for his hand. I am sad but I have a clear picture of what I must do.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he says.

  ‘I am on a path toward a destiny I have neglected and denied for too long. It is time to go back.’

  ‘Cesare says that you will do well with the Philharmonic. He says they are booked into the Carnegie Hall in October.’

  ‘It won’t be the same.’

  ‘It’s a start.’

  ‘I’m not sure I have the energy to start again.’ My fingers reach up and touch my sensitive wounds, my lip is swollen and my cheek is raw. Only the wind on my face seems to smooth my sores but inside my soul I am seething with anger and rage. I still feel Ian’s body pressing against mine. His fingers probing. His breath in my face.

  ‘You will be strong, cara. Look at you now. You are a different woman to the one who arrived in Comaso. You have resolve.’

  ‘Not many people get a second chance,’ I say.

  ‘You will, and you won’t make the same mistakes next time around.’

  We walk up the rocky steps together and when we reach the garden of the church I pull him in the direction of the path.

  ‘Don’t you want me to sit on the rock?’ He points to where he sat last Tuesday, the day I hid the icon.

  ‘Come with me. It is no longer a secret where it is buried.’ I take his hand.

  We walk to the back of the church following the overgrown pathway to the hiding place. It has been buried for three days, yet it feels longer, and I am excited at the prospect of regaining my treasure.

  I scan the ground identifying the area where I buried it. I recognise the fig tree, the overhanging buddleia and the palm fronds. Leaning over the low wall I push them aside. The ivy seems thicker and I tug its roots, but the fern lays already pulled from the damp soil. I don’t use my trowel. Instead I scrape damp earth with my fingers and the soil falls away into a hole. A deep hole, one the size of a shoe box.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense.’ I am digging frantically.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘It must be. Where did you bury it?’

  ‘Here. Right here. Under this!’ I lift the fern i
n my hand.

  ‘There’s a hole but here’s no box,’ he says, stating the obvious.

  ‘It’s gone.’ I look around. There is no sign of anything. No indication that it has moved because of the storm or rain disturbing the earth, so I climb the wall and move further into the undergrowth, crawling on my hands and knees. Nothing else seems out of place.

  ‘It’s gone,’ I repeat.

  Raffaelle continues to stare at the empty hole tugging his moustache.

  I don’t know how long I crouch in the dirt, on my knees but eventually he takes my arm and lifts me to my feet. I pull away from his grip. I walk slowly at first, methodically looking at every small detail then I broaden the circle, taking bigger steps, casting my eyes further beyond the wall and up the hill to the ill-kept woods beyond. Then I run. First in one direction and then another until I no longer know what I am looking for, and sometime later, Raffaelle catches me in his arms and holds me tight.

  ‘Shush, cara, shhhh.’

  ‘It’s gone.’ His shirt is wet from my tears. I rub my eyes and mascara stings my irises. My torn lip is swollen, my grazed cheeks burn with my salty tears, and my head thumps.

  ‘Who would have taken it? No-one knew it was here.’ I push him from me.

  ‘Raffaelle? Did you…’

  ‘No, cara, please don’t think I took it.’

  ‘Maximilian has given me twenty-four hours. I barely have twelve left. You seem very calm.’ I pull a tissue from my pocket.

  ‘I will tell Santiago,’ he says.

  ‘You are the only one who knew where it was hidden. You are the only one who came up here with me to hide it.’

  He turns away. I am screaming at him.

  ‘When did you come back up here? When did you steal it? Did you come back up here after Barbara came to Comaso? Were you frightened I would give it to her? Do you think you can sell it - take the money and run to Florence? Or did you come here last night after Maximilian and Ian had beaten me?’

  He does not turn to face me. Instead he speaks with his back to me gazing up the slope toward the church.