by Janet Pywell
It is almost dark when we step onto the quay in Como. I am thinking of Raffaelle at Glorietta’s bedside, comforting her. Will he give the Golden Icon to Santiago for protection or will he risk selling it?
Mistaking my deliberations for weakness Cesare takes my bags and guides me through the throng of people departing the ferry to a waiting taxi. We haven’t spoken on the boat. He has left me to contemplate not knowing about the Golden Icon.
He has said nothing about my confrontation with Barbara. He must have heard it all and I know, I must give him an explanation. I also want to unburden myself.
He lifts my cases into the trunk of the car and I turn to smile gratefully at him.
‘Cesare, I want to tell you the truth. Tell you everything–’ I am about to step into the taxi but I stumble and hold onto the roof. Across the road is a man wearing a yellow corduroy jacket, standing with him is Ian.
I gasp and duck inside. I fall onto the seat. Perspiration trickles down my spine. My legs are crumpled beneath me. As the taxi speeds off I turn to look out of the rear window. Ian’s right hand is cupping his balls, the other is pointing at me then he slashes his neck with his finger.
We are in the Villa Il Domo in Cernobbio. From the window of my hotel room the crystal dome of the Teatro Il Domo gleams and shimmers under the moonlight.
I have eaten well and showered, and I turn from the hypnotic view and lay on the bed, gazing at the dusky pink velvet drapes. My head is filled with an assortment of feelings and memories: Tosca, Raffaelle, the Golden Icon, Glorietta sick and missing her opening debut, Maximilian and Ian. Barbara shouting I am a whore. My letter, in the draw beside my bed, filled with secrets that Karl Blakey is waiting to get his hands on, and Michael. I haven’t trusted myself to read my letter to him almost thirty years ago.
There is a knock on the door and Cesare stands with a bottle of chilled Prosecco.
‘You should not speak,’ he says. ‘You should be resting.’
I move aside to let him in. ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Did you get hold of Raffaelle?’ He places the bottle on the small table in the alcove of the bay window.
‘There is still no answer at the villa and he doesn’t answer his mobile.’
‘Are you worried?’
‘I telephoned Luigi and he told me that Raffaelle ate dinner there tonight.’
‘So, he is not returning your calls.’
‘I assume he is with Glorietta and he is not speaking to me.’
Cesare pours the sparkling wine, kicks off his shoes and sits beside the bed on the small sofa.
‘To Tosca.’ He holds up his glass.
‘Tosca,’ I reply. I lay on the bed, push a pillow behind my back and take the envelope from the bedside table. I pass it to Cesare.
‘You should know about this,’ I say. ‘Within the next few days everyone will know.’
He reads carefully and slowly his head moving from side to side. He flicks his hair from his eyes and when he eventually looks up at me I see disappointment in his eyes. ‘When was this?’
‘A long time ago. I was a different woman at twenty-three than I am today. I cannot excuse what I did or why I did it.’ I close my eyes. ‘It is all such a long time ago.’
‘Times have changed, circumstances have changed, but morals and judgements haven’t.’ Cesare adds with a sigh. ‘The public can do what they like but unfortunately they expect their diva to stay on a pedestal of perfection and when they don’t they take great delight in bringing them down to earth.’
‘As I already know, to my own cost.’
‘It will be very embarrassing. How did you manage to keep Michael a secret for so long?’
‘You mean, why did this not all come out four years ago?’
Cesare tosses the papers aside and I replace them in the envelope.
‘Seán said he found the letter after Michael died but I guess if he had known earlier it wouldn’t have made much difference. He wanted Michael’s money. Michael was funding him or bailing him out. We married too young. I had no experience and Seán didn’t understand my needs or even listen to me.’
‘Ah, so when Michael died, Seán decided to blackmail you?’
‘That is the real reason why I went to Munich. When I sang at Michael’s funeral, Seán blackmailed me with the letter. He threatened to give it to the press. So I was forced to go to Munich to collect his family heirloom which would pay off their debts. But when I saw the Golden Icon I knew I couldn’t take stolen property through the customs. So I went to the nearest hotel and phoned Seán. That’s when William told me he had been murdered.’
‘It was stolen property?’ he says.
‘Yes, the Golden Icon was stolen.’ I explain about Michael, Dieter and Maximilian and Terry during the War. I take the faded black and white picture from my purse. I tell him how I brought the Golden Icon back to Comaso, how I went to Padre Paolo for help and about Raffaelle wanting to start a new life in Florence. I explain how I buried the Golden Icon in the grounds of the Chiesa della Madonna dei miracoli, then Barbara’s first visit and finally David Mallory’s visit.
‘Then you saw Barbara in Comaso this afternoon. She has the original letter and will go to the press.’
Cesare doesn’t speak but he watches me carefully.
I tell him how I have been followed and that my apartment was ransacked by Karl Blakey the journalist who hunted me down four years ago. Then I tell him what happened last night and how Maximilian and Ian threatened me. How my face got bruised, how I was almost raped and that Karl Blakey saved me.
I talk and talk. I tell him how Raffaelle and I went up to the hiding place this morning but the Golden Icon was missing and how I accused him and smacked his face. Finally I yawn. I am drained. My confession has made me weary.
‘Madre mia,’ he says. ‘How is this all possible?’
‘I have no idea, Cesare.’
‘Why did you just not give it to Santiago?’
‘I should have done, but I wanted to do the right thing. That is why I went to Padre Paolo. I wanted to make amends for what Michael did. I didn’t want him to be a thief. I wanted to do the right thing for the Golden Icon, and give it to whom it belongs.’
‘So Maximilian is after you and Barbara is blackmailing you?’ he says. He stretches his legs and raises long arms above his head. ‘What a mess. The only good thing is that you will be safe here in the hotel and in the Theatre tomorrow. With all the television cameras and security there will be no problems, you will be safe. Don’t worry.’
I stare up at the ceiling and study the reflecting lights shining from the chandelier.
‘How badly do I want to sing Tosca, Cesare? How important is my life, my privacy and for how long can I keep my secret?’
‘I think it is too late.’
‘There is one journalist, Karl Blakey. He has been following me. He is now working for William who is obviously in competition with Barbara for the Golden Icon. He would sacrifice me without a moment’s hesitation, and he would take great delight in doing so.’
Cesare stretches his legs and folds his arms behind his neck.
‘What can we do?’
‘How can I explain love, Cesare? How can I justify my actions and explain to the world? How will they judge me? How could they understand? Must I explain? How can I tell them that I loved my husband’s father more than my husband? How can I say he loved me, that he listened to me, he understood me and he loved me enough to let me go, to fulfil my dream? Would anyone understand?
‘Michael wasn’t like Seán. Michael was never like Seán. Michael was kind, generous and loving. He helped me follow my dream and pursue my destiny. He paid for my sponsorship with Guntar. He sent me to France, Belgium, Italy and Germany. He encouraged me. He recognised my talent and gave me the freedom to follow my passion and my art. He helped me develop and grow. He was happy for my success.’
Cesare refills my glass and says nothing. He leans back on the upholstered gi
lt sofa.
‘Sitting there like that, you could be King Herod,’ I say.
‘Your sense of drama is returning, Josephine. You will be excellent tomorrow,’ he smiles.
‘Tomorrow seems a long way off, first, I must deal with today and my past. I want you to understand, Cesare. For every step of encouragement I received from Michael, I received anger and resentment from Seán. Every time I travelled Seán was annoyed. Every time I sang Seán expected me to be at home, and the more the public demanded my voice and the more I was commissioned to sing, the more jealous and demanding Seán became.
‘It didn’t take me long to realise Seán wanted a pretty wife to entertain his business clients. He was happy for me to sing at small dinner parties, so long as it was all for Seán, but he didn’t want to share me. He wanted to control me. He wanted to possess me. Michael tried to explain to Seán that if I was free to pursue my career I would return home.
‘At first, Michael encouraged me to be the dutiful wife. He had lost his wife Shona, and when he took an interest in my career Seán was pleased. I was a hobby for Michael. He was sixty and just retired. I was his project, his interest, his hope–’
‘You were a hobby?’ Cesare’s dark eyes are understanding and they encourage me to continue.
‘I was more than a hobby. Michael wanted to know the real me. I was only twenty-three. I had been married less than a year. I was flattered.’
‘So, you wrote a letter to Michael that Barbara now has. And in return for the Golden Icon she will give you, your original letter,’ he muses. ‘So, who do you think has the Golden Icon?’
‘Raffaelle must have it. He is the only one who knew where it was hidden.’
‘You were not followed?’
‘No, we went up very early and I made sure, each time that there was no-one else around.’
‘Perhaps Maximilian or Karl Blakey followed you?’
‘They have no idea. Last night they were looking for it. That is why they threatened me.’
His sigh is long and drawn out. ‘Well, so long as Raffaelle is sensible, he will give it to Santiago. Do you want to telephone Santiago?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe I should, but what if Raffaelle decides to keep the Golden Icon? I don’t want to betray him to Santiago. They hate each other as it is.’
‘Would he risk Maximilian coming after him?’
‘I don’t know, Cesare. I can’t think. I am so tired. I barely slept last night.’
‘Bene, I will go now. Tomorrow you have a day of rehearsal followed by the opening night, Josephine. Let’s wait and see what happens. You need to rest, relax and sleep. It will be a long day. Do not fill your head with your past, instead concentrate on the present, and dream of the future.’ He stretches and stands up.
It is good advice. At the door Cesare hugs me.
‘Do you think Raffaelle is all right?’ I ask.
‘You have left him messages and you know he ate in Luigi’s tonight. Go to sleep and stop worrying.’ He kisses me gingerly on the cheek, careful not to hurt me, and I close the door behind him.
When I am alone I realise I will go to London. There is something important I must do that I cannot deny any longer.
I am weary but underneath a torrent of emotions there is bubbling excitement. I will be on stage tomorrow in one of the world’s most important and prestigious theatres. I will feel the lights on my face, the stage under my feet and the natural acoustics of the theatre in the glass dome above my head.
The door to the balcony is open and the evening air fills me with calm. In the distance the lake is dark like black ink, and the theatre’s sparkling crystal dome reflects the white moonlight.
The air is still, and heavy clouds scurry across the sky as if preparing for an imminent storm. I imagine the theatre tomorrow night; the stream of cars, the chatter of the audience dressed in their fine evening clothes greeting each other, air kissing; the powerful, the wealthy, the famous. The wealthy society that keeps the wheels of the opera world turning. The red carpet laid out from the quay along the walkway to the glass foyer of the reception. The pre performance gatherings; parties and interviews, television cameras, and the expectant hum of anticipation just before the curtain rises and the moment I step onto the stage.
I am back.
I am Tosca.
I remove my gown and lay naked against the crisp cotton sheets pulling the pillow under my neck. I yawn stretching my cheeks and I wince. My eyelids are heavy, very heavy, and the hands of the clock move slowly through the night. I lay awake until dawn not thinking about my stage presence, nor the dramatic requirements of the opera, or my voice. Instead I practice and rehearse questions that journalists will ask and I worry what the critics will say. I examine every conceivable nuance, hidden meaning, double edged question that a reporter will trap me into confessing, and decide I will not be on the defensive. I will not make a confession.
It is time to face up to my past and to take responsibility for my actions. I must face my destiny and my fate, whatever it may be. In the eye of the public, I will be the diva again, but I know in my heart that there is only one person I cannot fool any longer.
12
Chapter 12
Fragrant, she entered And fell into my arms. - E lucevan le stelle, Tosca
It is the first Saturday in August. The opening night of Tosca. My comeback. My dream. In the dressing room my hands are shaking. Nerves are propelling me through each second and each minute as they have been through each hour of the day. Through fittings, rehearsals and interviews. I have vocalised and after a short nap I now sip camomile tea. I breathe deeply trying to appear calm to those around me. Although the air conditioning works perfectly and the room is at the ideal temperature, perspiration is running down my spine.
The dressing room is large. It smells faintly of paint, fresh flowers and cologne. A long mirror lines one wall under which is a shelf with jars and pots of creams. There are two television monitors; one showing live coverage of the guests arriving, the other, the interior of the auditorium.
All day I have been consumed with the enormity of the architecture and the acoustics. The theatre is tiered around a horseshoe shaped stage. Its interior, unlike the ornate Teatro alla Scala a Milano, is minimalist and luxurious.
Above the stage is the glass dome; round, magnificent and perfect. The orchestra sit to the south of the stage, and we enter and exit from the north, and the audience spans from east to west.
The rehearsals went well. I know the part by heart. Dino, Massimo my lead man, and Andrei the conductor all greeted me with enthusiasm and assisted with stage directions and encouragement.
There was a fifteen minute meeting with Carlotta Spitarzi my new agent and I am scheduled for a live interview on Italian television after the performance plus several interviews tomorrow morning with the international press.
Cesare sits with me drinking herbal tea. He has been my confidante and friend. I could never have managed these past twenty-four hours without him.
‘This is the benefit of your professional training, Josephine. All the hours of discipline, breathing techniques, stamina building, poise and drama. You are a world class soprano singer. You have been amazing today.’ He smiles at my reflection in the mirror. ‘You should feel proud of yourself.’
‘I will feel better if all goes to plan, with no hitches in the performance tonight.’ I rub cream onto my face avoiding the cuts and sores.
‘Nothing will go wrong. You are a true professional.’
Nina, the dress fitter has been in and out of the dressing room all afternoon and she arrives to make the final adjustments to my costume. I have been measured, pulled and pushed into my gowns, and tied like a turkey at Thanksgiving. The dressing room door opens and closes continually; stage hands come and go, changes of scripts, notes, messages and instructions. Amid the chaos Cesare fields all enquiries while I sip my tea and attempt to relax.
Dario, the theatre’s public relat
ions manager who has been dealing with the press is hosting a reception in one of the suites. He is flamboyant and flies around as if he glides on ice. His dyed blond head of hair comes around the door.
‘Josephine?’ he calls. ‘The performance was sold out when Glorietta was the lead star, but now they know you are opening tonight’s show, it is crazy out there,’ he laughs.
He waves an arm almost knocking Nina in the face as she returns with a mended seam. ‘Oops, sorry Nina my darling, I’m trying so desperately to keep calm but it’s impossible. My phone rings non-stop. They all want to see you and talk to you, Josephine, and between you and me, Nico can’t believe any of this either.’
His phone rings and he gives a dramatic sigh of desperation. He speaks to me, but holding the mobile. ‘I’ve got to take this call. It’s important, but there’s a friend of yours who wants a ticket for tonight.’
‘A friend? Who?’ I ask.
‘He’s a journalist. He says he knows you. Oh, hold on.’ He begins speaking into his phone and our conversation hangs in the air as he goes out and into the corridor.
Cesare looks at me through the mirror. He is dressed in his tuxedo. His hair falls around his chiselled features, curls hang to his shoulder. His long legs pace across the room from the sofa to the dressing table and back. Meanwhile he watches both television screens giving me a commentary of events outside; who is arriving with who, what they are wearing, and to which pre-performance party they have been invited.
I sip my tea, grateful for his reassuring presence, and the calm and safety he provides.
‘This is probably my final opportunity to prove to the world that I have not lost my talent or my voice,’ I say to him, ‘I am grateful to you Cesare. I have dreamed of this moment for four years. After the audition I never thought for one moment that it would happen.’ I look at my reflection in the mirror and study my swollen cheek and grazed temple. I watch Cesare striding around the room. ‘After I lost the role to Glorietta, I thought I would never sing on the stage again. I thought I would never know what it was like to perform at this level. I thought I had lost everything.’
