Golden Icon_The Prequel

by Janet Pywell

  ‘Someone has followed us here,’ his voice is calm and measured.

  ‘No-one followed us. I have been careful.’ I grab his arm. ‘I should never have trusted you. You are like all the other men I have met, motivated by greed and money. You are despicable. I trusted you.’

  ‘Maybe you took it!’ His eyes are dark when he faces me. ‘Maybe you were frightened that I would steal your precious Golden Icon? Maybe you think you can take it from Lake Como by pretending it has been stolen, to fool me and to fool Santiago. Maybe–’

  I slap his cheek hard with the palm of my hand.

  ‘You have it,’ I scream. ‘You have stolen it!’

  He grabs my wrists. His face is close to mine and his voice hisses when he speaks. ‘You’re the one leaving Comaso. You’re the one who is going away. You’re the one ending our relationship. Maybe it is in your suitcase and this is all a game or a decoy to fool me.’

  He releases my wrists, pushes me away and I stumble, exhausted and drained of emotion. I watch his receding back as he disappears down the path. I wait a while then follow him, but I do not take my eyes from his back.

  On our way down to the village we don’t speak. We don’t hold hands, and we don’t look at each other, and when we part company we say nothing. We never get the opportunity again.

  11

  Chapter 11

  Forever, my dream of love has vanished. That moment has fled, and I die in desperation. - E lucevan le stelle, Tosca

  My suitcase lays open on the bed. Somewhere in a foggy distance the persistent sound of the phone rings in the lounge. It is my home phone. My mobile is smashed. Then it stops. Outside a strimmer shrieks through the gardens. The raw noise comes from the hills above my apartment. Someone is cutting hedges and slicing my head into pieces, severing my disjointed thoughts and emotions into shards of fragmented rationality.

  The Madonna and her child was crafted, sculptured and moulded over two hundred years ago. She has been stolen and hidden ever since. She was created to bring balance to a situation, and to make a difference in the world, as I believed I once was. It seems as if she has been let down all her life. I am filled with despair. I too, have let her down.

  The midday sun reflects on the hills across the lake. It is deep green. I haven’t stirred from my vantage point, sitting on my bed, staring out of the window. My body is thick and lethargic. Although I know the minutes are ticking past and the twenty-four hours promised to me are slipping away, I cannot move. I missed the first ferry, and the next and the next.

  I look at my watch. I must leave. I still blame myself. I pack the last few items into my case. Of course Raffaelle knew where I had hidden the Golden Icon. Although I had left him sitting on a rock he could easily have followed me and spied on me digging the hole. He must have gone up alone one morning, or perhaps even later that day, I know he has it.

  My cheek is sore. My eye is half closed. My lip feels thick. I yawn with difficulty. I am exhausted. I have not slept. Only worry and fear propel my weary frame. Maximilian will be back tonight looking for me, if he is not already nearby and waiting. Suddenly I am filled with energy and a desire to leave. I slam the lid of the suitcase shut but my movements are sluggish. I am pulling them from quicksand of my lethargy but not fast enough.

  Raffaelle is probably in Lenno with his friend Sergio. I imagine him unveiling the Golden Icon casting the frayed string aside and the linen cloth falling to the floor as Sergio’s thick fingers and dirty nails trace the Madonna’s face.

  I hear my phone or is it the doorbell downstairs? I am too tired to move. I don’t care. There is no-one I want to speak to. I am being dragged into darkness and into sleep. I yawn. I should finish packing and leave but instead I lay on the bed and lie against my leather case. A breeze comes through the open window and the sound of a baby crying in the apartment below makes me think of the Madonna and her child. The smell of baking bread wafts up through the window and my stomach rumbles. I have not eaten today.

  My eye lids close. Bells tinkle; sheep, goats, cows, church bells? Telephone? The doorbell? They all lull me to sleep.

  I awake with a start not knowing where I am. The sun is no longer shining in through the bedroom window. I am dizzy. Perspiring in my clothes. My face is crumpled, my cheek swollen, the lines on my face ingrained, my lip sore.

  The doorbell rings. I pull matted hair from my neck and push it into a makeshift bun, welcoming the gentle wind from the open window on my neck.

  The doorbell.

  It is persistent. My legs are heavy when I swing them to the floor. The bell rings as if someone is pressing it and will not let go. I stagger downstairs hoping it will be Raffaelle with the Golden Icon in his hands and an apology on his lips, but through the spyglass, I see my friend and opera coach, Cesare Serratore.

  I pull the door open and collapse into his arms sobbing. My cries come from somewhere deep inside; my fear; my loss; and the uselessness. I am blabbering and incoherent.

  ‘Josephine, what? What? What is wrong?’ He grabs me by the shoulders. I take a deep breath and pull away from him, wiping my tears with the back of my hand.

  ‘Madre mia, what have you done to your face? What has happened?’ His eyes crease in concern, and when he touches my cheek, I flinch.

  ‘When did this happen? Raffaelle?’

  ‘No! Raffaelle would never hit me.’ I think of how I slapped Raffaelle’s cheek. Was that only this morning?

  ‘Cesare, I have so much to tell you,’ I say. ‘I cannot believe you are here. I need to speak to you.’

  ‘I have been trying to phone you. What’s happened?’

  ‘My mobile is broken.’

  He links his arm though mine and I flinch at the pain in my shoulder. But when we walk up the stairs I decide I will tell Cesare the truth. I will tell him everything. He is my friend. I will start from the beginning. I will leave out no details and I will tell the truth and unburden myself of this secret then I will tell him that I am leaving Comaso and I will sing with the Philharmonic in New York or London or wherever he wants. I will be safe with him.

  ‘So tell me, what happened to you?’

  ‘I tripped.’ I am reminded of Seán telling me how he fell when it was a hit and run, and I know by his eyes that Cesare doesn’t believe me.

  In the kitchen I find a bottle of Prosecco, some cashew nuts and olives.

  ‘Salud, cara.’ Cesare raises his glass to mine. His smile is broad and his hair falls across his eyes. He brushes it aside with the back of his hand with customary care. As I watch, I realise how much I owe him and what a large part he has played in my life; he brought me to live in Comaso, and helped me to focus on my singing.

  ‘Congratulations, Josephine,’ he laughs, staring at my bruised face and swollen lip. ‘It is just a shame you look as if you have just stepped out of a boxing ring.’

  I pause with my glass midway to my lips.

  ‘Yes. It is the right decision. New York and London will do me good. I know there is a demand for pop opera and I have resisted for so long but now I know. I have no choice. It is the right thing to do.’

  ‘Have you not spoken to Nico? Or to Dino?’

  ‘Nico? Why? No, not since my audition. He was a pig. Do you not remember? He reminded me of the time I walked out of Carmen? He humiliated me.’

  Cesare leans forward, takes the glass from my hand and wraps his fingers around my cut and bruised knuckles.

  ‘The role is yours. Tomorrow night at the opening of the Teatro Il Domo. You are Tosca.’

  ‘Mine? Me?’

  ‘Yes, Glorietta is ill. She has strep. She fell sick yesterday and she cannot perform tomorrow. Nico wants you to replace her for the opening performance, tomorrow night.’

  I cannot think. ‘Glorietta is sick? Her throat?’

  He nods in confirmation. ‘Unfortunately it happens, as you know. It is a shame for Glorietta but this is your chance. Your opportunity to–’

  ‘But Nico hates me.’
/>   ‘He does not hate you. He needs you. Dino is adamant that you replace her. It is the first time he is producing a performance as big as this, and as it is the grand opening of the Teatro Il Domo, he is calling the shots. They want you.’

  I think of Glorietta. All her hard work, her training, her hopes and her ambitions. I know how disappointed I would feel if I were in her place now.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You must. Everyone is relying on you.’

  ‘But the opening night is tomorrow.’

  ‘That is why we must hurry. No-one could contact you so I have come here to take you to Como. Nico said he would keep trying to telephone you. We must leave at once. Perhaps we can go over some of the directions and the production tonight in the hotel. You have a dress fitting first thing tomorrow morning, and a dress rehearsal with the orchestra after that.’

  ‘But my voice?’

  ‘It is strong.’

  ‘My face.’

  ‘Makeup.’

  ‘There isn’t enough time.’

  ‘There is, and besides, you know the role perfectly. It is just stage direction for this performance but that will come naturally to you.’

  ‘Look at my face and my lip.’

  ‘It looks sore, but with some makeup, no-one will notice.’

  ‘I’m not prepared. I haven’t even finished packing.’

  ‘That is why I am here.’ He looks at his watch. ‘We have forty-five minutes to throw everything into a suitcase Josephine. Let’s not miss the boat this time.’

  In the end Nico telephones me on Cesare’s mobile phone, he is kind and professional, filling my ego with compliments and reassurances. I do not question his motives instead my chest swells and I push my shoulders back, as he begs me to replace Glorietta at such short notice.

  ‘If you insist,’ I reply. ‘I would never let you down.’

  ‘It is for one night only. The doctor says Glorietta will be better on Sunday.’

  ‘I understand,’ I say.

  Cesare has placed my bags at the door. I take the black and white photograph of the four young soldiers from the book shelf and place it in my purse. Then we are running as if we are in training for the Olympics, only with each step I am fragile and weak. I haven’t eaten all day.

  I insist that we take another path to the pontoon, I don’t want to pass the fountain. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want anyone to know I am leaving. There will be no goodbyes - only memories.

  I grab Cesare’s arm, tugging him past the bakery and down the back steps behind the carpenter’s shop.

  I have left a note to the cleaner with money and instructions for closing up my apartment. I will send for my clothes and my broken piano and books. I telephoned Raffaelle and left a message to say I am singing Tosca but realise I am foolish. He will already know. He probably knows Glorietta is ill. He may even be in her villa, at her bedside. Maybe they have the Golden Icon with them.

  As we descend the steps, I trip but Cesare catches my elbow, he is half carrying and half wheeling my suitcases. I carry two smaller bags. We pause to cross the road. It is busy with summer traffic and I am breathing heavily.

  ‘Come on.’ Cesare pulls me. ‘We must go, look! The ferry is arriving.’

  The boat arrives with its legs splayed wide. It is the fast ferry and it leaves a wake in the water.

  I wait in the crowd while people disembark. My head is filled with Tosca. My head is humming; I lived for art. I lived for love. I lived for art. I lived for love. I am infused with passion, with love and joy, and hiding behind my customary dark glasses. No-one would see or understand my range of complex emotions.

  The cool breeze is lifting my spirits. I am pleased to be going. I want to leave. I want to run. I am ready to go. When I look at the strangers on the pontoon I realise that I have always run away. I have always avoided the truth and the consequences. I have always left behind those I love to fend for themselves.

  I am impatient waiting for passengers to disembark.

  I don’t want to think about Raffaelle but I see his face with my red-hand print on his cheek and the humility in his eyes.

  It reminds me of Seán’s face on the day I told him I was going to sing Carmen at Covent Garden. Then I see Michael’s face when I tell him I have been accepted for a scholarship in Germany, and the smile of love and warmth he gave me.

  ‘Josephine?’ I turn at the sound of my name. People are embarking, jostling me to get on the ferry.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ Barbara stands beside me on the quay. She has disembarked. She looks drawn, tired and exhausted. She glances at the suitcases at my feet then at Cesare standing beside me.

  ‘You sent me on a goose chase to Munich. Dieter was dead and I spent three hours with the German police. The Golden Icon belongs to me. Do you not think I have lost enough? Seán was murdered. We are on the verge of bankruptcy and we need the money. I am not going to lose my house too!’

  I move away. I must get on the ferry.

  ‘I know about your letter,’ she calls. ‘The press will pay a fortune for this. Karl Blakey is practically biting my hand off and I’m going to give it to him but the choice is yours.’

  ‘You can’t. I am singing Tosca tomorrow. You will ruin me.’

  ‘You are destroying me and my family.’

  ‘I don’t have the Golden Icon.’

  ‘Josephine, hurry! Quick, the boat is leaving,’ Cesare shouts.

  ‘You sent me to Munich but you have the Golden Icon here.’

  ‘I buried it in the hills behind my apartment. It’s the truth. I buried it there three days ago, at the Chiesa della Madonna dei miracoli, the church of the Madonna of the Miracles,’ I explain. ‘But when I went to get it this morning, it was gone. Look at my face. Maximilian was here last night and this is what his nephew did to me. They have given me twenty-four hours, until tonight to get it, but I don’t have it.’

  We are alone on the quay, apart from two of the crew, who are staring at us.

  ‘I came to give you this.’ She reaches into her handbag and holds out an envelope. ‘After Munich I went back to Ireland. I knew Seán was blackmailing you but I didn’t know how or why. It took me a long time to find it. He had it well hidden.’

  ‘Thank you, Barbara.’ I am filled with surprise at her generosity. I want to hug her to me. ‘This is a gift to me. You’re very kind.’ I peer inside the envelope. It is a copy of my letter.

  ‘I have kept the original and I will give it to the press if I don’t get the Golden Icon.’

  I am frozen, rooted to the quay.

  ‘Come on, Josephine!’ Cesare has moved forward with the crowd. He is boarding the ferry taking my suitcases with him.

  ‘You can’t do this,’ I say.

  ‘I know you fucked Michael.’

  ‘Signora?’ One of the crew calls out.

  ‘Your fans will love your letter.’ She nods at the yellow envelope clutched in my hand. ‘The opera world with be very impressed with your sexual revelations.’

  ‘You can’t print this. Have you no compassion? The newspapers will crucify me. Especially now. Don’t do it.’

  ‘Seán knew about your affair. Do you think his humiliation was any less than yours will be?’

  ‘Josephine?’ Cesare calls out to me. ‘Hurry!’

  I take two steps toward the ferry. ‘Please,’ I shout.

  Her eyes glisten like green icicles.

  ‘You’re a slut.’ She spits the words at me.

  ‘Signora?’ The crew calls to me again.

  The gangplank is moving.

  ‘A whore,’ she shouts.

  The boat men are casting off and I move quickly. I jump onto the gangplank and the waiting sailor catches my arm. I fall against him and he stabilises me against the rail before he pulls on the rope and closes the steel gate.

  The envelope is clutched in my perspiring palm. My throat is dry. I shall never be able to sing.

  The boat moves away an
d when I turn to look, Barbara is staring back at me and I stand looking at her, as the ferry pulls away, until she is the smallest dot on the horizon.

  Comaso recedes into the distance. My village with its colourful houses built into the hillside, its railings adorned with red geraniums, the sleepy Alberge and lakeside cafe.

  I can see Raffaelle’s okra-coloured villa behind the harbour wall, its green shutters are open and I imagine the refuge of his secret garden, the covered well brimming with potted geraniums, the gently swinging hammock and gnarled wisteria branches over the rickety bistro table.

  My eyes follow the ravine where we walked to the Chiesa della Madonna dei miracoli, where I had foolishly buried the Golden Icon, and where I slapped Raffaelle’s cheek.

  Over my shoulder Cesare sits with my bags at his feet. He is speaking into his mobile phone and I am reassured by his presence, amazed that he still has faith in me.

  I am about to replace Glorietta Bareldo in the most coveted production of Tosca, in Italy’s new and famous Teatro Il Domo, but if the press find out my secret the theatre will be rocked by the revelations of my past and I will be humiliated. My life will be finished.

  I lean against the railing, close my eyes and lift my face to the evening breeze dazed by my confrontation with Barbara. She will destroy me but I must not think. I am exhausted. I must focus on tomorrow. I must block out my feelings and my fear.

  I spend the ferry journey contemplating the shape of the wake left behind in the water, watching my village fade until Comaso disappears completely. Then, as the ferry turns into the bottom end of the Y-shaped lake rising majestically from the water, radiating and sparkling in the sunlight is the Teatro Il Domo.

  On the quay television trucks, delivery lorries, workmen’s vans and an assortment of cars line the pathway leading to the wooden walkway that spans the water to the glass fronted reception. I make out the shapes of the bronze statues and wonder if my likeness may now one day take its rightful place amongst the great and talented. Apprehension seeps into my body which I welcome. It means I am alive. I am no longer frightened, and my tiredness subsides.