Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]

  he was not mistaken, steak au poivre.

  God was in his heaven and on Air

  France as well. Good Lord! Devereaux

  vaguely calculated the hours since

  he'd eaten: It was nearing thirty-six.

  Unintelligible words droned over the

  cabin loudspeakers, the 727 taxied out

  onto the field. Two minutes later they

  were airborne and the stewardesses

  went about the business of

  distributing the most meaningful

  literature Sam could think of: menus.

  His order took up more time than

  anyone else in thecabin. This was

  partially due to the fact that he

  salivated and had to swallow as he

  spoke. There followed an agonizing

  hour. Normally it was not agonizing to

  Sam, for it was taken up with

  cocktails. But today he could not

  drink. His stomach was too empty.

  At length, dinner approached. The

  stewardess went down the aisle

  spreading the miniature tablecloths,

  placing the napkin-enclosed

  silverware, and reconfirming the

  choice 155

  of dinner wines. Sam could not help

  himself, he kept craning his neck over

  the edge of the seat. The scents from

  the galley were driving him crazy.

  Every odor was a banquet to his

  nostrils; the juices ran down his

  throat at each recognizable smell.

  And naturally it had to happen.

  The weird looking Sikh beside him

  lunged from his seat and unraveled his

  purple turban. Out of the cloth fell

  a large, lethal revolver. It crashed

  to the deck of the aircraft Rat Eyes

  lunged down, retrieved it, and

  screamed.

  'Aigee! Aiyeel Aigee! Al Fatah! Al

  Fatah! Aigee!"

  It was the signal; a screeching

  symphony of "Aiyees" and "Fatahs"

  could be heard behind first class,

  throughout the tube of the long

  fuselage. From somewhere in his trou-

  sers, Rat Eyes pulled out an extremely

  long, murderous looking scimitar.

  Sam stared numbly. In complete defeat.

  So the man wasn't a Sikh. He was an

  Arab. A goddamn Bucking Palestinian

  Arab.

  What else?

  The stewardess now faced the

  murderous blade, the barrel of the

  huge pistol was jammed between her

  breasts. She did her best, but the

  terror could not be concealed.

  "On the wires! On the wires to your

  captain!" screeched the Palestinian.

  "This aircraft will proceed to

  Algeria. This is the wishes of Al

  Fatah! To Algiers! Only Algiers! Or

  you will all die. Die! Die!"

  "Mais, out, monsieur," screamed the

  stewardess. "The aircraft is

  proceeding to Algiers! That is our

  destination, monsieur!"

  The Arab was crestfallen. His wild,

  piercing eyes became temporary pools

  of dull mud, the frustration conveyed

  by the tiny dots of questioning chaos

  in the center of the mud.

  Then the eyes sprang back once more

  to the vivid, cruel, violent

  exuberance.

  He slashed the air with the huge

  scimitar and waved the pistol

  maniacally.

  His demonic, defiant screams were

  worthy of shattering the high-altitude

  glass, but fortunately did not.

  "Aiyee! Aipee! Arafatt Hear the word

  of Arafat! Jewish

  156

  dogs and Christian pigs! There will

  be no food or water until we land!

  That is the word of Arafat!"

  Deep within the recesses of Sam's

  subconscious a small voice

  whispered: You're Ducked, babe.

  157

  CHAPItER FIFTEEN

  The stage manager winced; two violins

  and three horns went sour during the

  crescendo of "Musetta's Waltz." The

  act s finale was ruined. Again.

  He made a note for the conductor who

  he could see was smiling blissfully,

  unaware of the grating dissonance. It

  was understandable: the man's hearing

  wasn't so good anymore.

  As the stage manager looked out, he

  saw that the spotlight operator had

  dozed off again; or had gone to the

  toilet. Again. The shaft of light was

  angled down, immobile, into the pit on

  a confused flautist instead of on

  Mimi.

  He made a note.

  On the stage itself was another

  problem. Two problems. The swinging

  gates into the cafe had been hung

  upside down, the pointed tops inverted

  so that they vee'd up from the floor,

  providing the audience a clear view

  behind the scenery where numerous bare

  feet were being rubbed and not a few

  extras scratched themselves in

  boredom. The second problem was the

  step unit on stage left; it had become

  unhinged so that Rodolfo's leg

  plummeted down into the open space

  causing his tights to rip up to his

  crotch.

  The stage manager sighed and made two

  more notes.

  Puccini's La Boherne was being given

  its usual performance by the company.

  Mannaggia!

  As he finished putting three

  exclamation points after his

  twenty-sixth note of the evening, the

  assistant box-office manager

  approached his lectern and handed him

  a message.

  It was for Guido Frescobaldi, and

  because any distrac158

  tion was preferable to watching the

  remainder of the act the stage manager

  unfolded the paper and read it.

  Instantly, involuntarily, he caught

  his breath. Old Frescobaldi would have

  a fit if it was possible for Guido to

  have a fit. There was a newspaper

  reporter in the audience who wanted to

  meet with Frescobaldi after the

  performance.

  The stage manager shook his head

  sadly, recalling vividly Guido's tears

  and protestations when the last (and

  only) newspaper reporter interviewed

  him. There were two reporters

  actually: a man from Rome and a silent

  Chinese colleague. Both Communists.

  It was not the interview that had

  upset Frescobaldi, it was the article

  that came out of it.

  Impoverished Opera Artist Struggles

  for Peoples' Culture as Cousin, the

  Pope, Lives in Indolent Luxury off the

  Honest Sweat of Oppressed Workers!

  That had been for openers. The front

  page headlined the story in the

  Communist newspaper, Lo Popolo. The

  article had gone on to say that

  diligent investigative reporting on

  the part of Lo Popolo's journalists

  ever alert to the inequities of

  capitalism's unholy alliance with

  savage organized religion had

  uncovered the crass injustice done to

  this look-alike
relative of the

  world's most powerful and despotic

  religious leader. How one Guido

  Frescobaldi sacrificed for his art

  while his cousin, Pope Francesco,

  stole everyone blind. How Guido

  contributed his great talent for the

  good of the masses, never seeking

  material rewards, satisfied only that

  his contributions uplifted the spirit

  of the people. So different from his

  cousin, the pontiff, who contributed

  nothing but new methods to extract

  money from the frightened poor. Guido

  Frescobaldi was the earthly saint; his

  cousin the subterranean villain no

  doubt with orgies in the catacombs,

  surrounded by treasures.

  The stage manager did not know a

  great deal about Guido's cousin, or

  what he did in the catacombs, but he

  did know Frescobaldi. And Lo Popolo's

  reporter had etched a portrait that

  was somewhat at variance to the Guido

  they all knew. But it was this Guido

  the world outside of Milan read about.

  Lo Popolo stated in an editorial that

  the 159

  .~

  l

  shocking story was to be reprinted in

  all the Socialist countries, including

  China.

  Oh, how Frescobaldi had screamed!

  His roars had been the protestations

  of a thoroughly embarrassed man. The

  stage manager hoped that he could

  catch Guido during the act change and

  give him the message, but it was not

  always easy to find Guido during an

  act change. And it was useless to put

  the note in his dressing room for he

  would never see it.

  For the role of Alcindoro was Guido

  Frescobaldi's moment in the operatic

  sun. It was his single triumph in a

  lifetime devoted to his beloved

  musica. It was proof that tenacity

  really did overshadow talent.

  Guido was usually so moved by the

  events on stage as well as his own

  performance that he waddled in a

  trance behind the scenery until the

  confusion of an act change was over,

  his eyes invariably moist, his head

  held high in the knowledge that he had

  given his all for the audience of La

  Scala Minuscolo, the fifth-string

  company of the worldrenowned opera

  house. It was both a training ground

  and a musical cemetery, allowing the

  inexperienced to flutter their vocal

  wings and the over-the-hill to stay

  occupied until the Great Conductor

  summoned them to that glorious

  festival in the sky.

  The stage manager reread the note to

  Guido. In the audience that night was

  a lady journalist named Signora

  Greenberg who wished to chat with

  Frescobaldi. He had been recommended

  to her by no less a distinguished

  source than the United States Army

  Information Seruizio. And the stage

  manager knew why this Signora

  Greenberg included the recommendation

  in her note. Ever since the Communists

  wrote that terrible article, Guido

  refused to talk to anyone from the

  newspapers. He had even grown a huge

  walrus moustache and beard to lessen

  the likeness between himself and the

  pontiff.

  The Communists were stupid. Lo

  Popolo, through habit, was always

  picking a fight with the Vatican, but

  they soon learned what everyone else

  knew: Pope Francesco was not a man to

  vilify. He was simply too nice a

  fellow.

  Guido Frescobaldi was a nice fellow,

  too, thought the 160

  stage manager. Many a late night they

  had divided bottles of wine together;

  a middle-aged signaler of cues and the

  elder character actor who had given

  his life for music.

  What a drama was in the real story

  of Guido Frescobaldi! It was worthy of

  Puccini, himself!

  To begin with, he lived only for his

  beloved opera; all else was

  inconsequential, necessary solely to

  keep body and musical soul together.

  He had been married years ago. And six

  years later his wife had left him,

  taking their six children with her

  back to her native village near Padua

  and the security of her father's not

  immodest farm. Though Frescobaldi's

  circumstances, which by tradition

  meant the circumstances of his family,

  had not been destitute. And if his own

  income was currently less than

  adequate for him, it was by choice not

  necessity. The Frescobaldis were

  actually quite well off; their

  cousins, the Bombalinis, had been

  sufficiently wealthy to allow their

  third son, Giovanni, to enter the

  church, and God knew that took a

  little money.

  But Guido turned his back on all

  things clerical mercantile, and

  agricultural. He wanted only his

  music, his opera. He badgered his

  father and mother to send him to the

  academy in Rome, where it was soon

  discovered that Guido's passion far

  outdistanced his talents.

  Frescobaldi had the Latin fire and

  the soul, perhaps, but he also

  possessed a rotten musical ear. And

  Papa Frescobaldi was getting nervous;

  so many Guido associated with were non

  sono stabile they wore funny clothes.

  So at the age of twenty-two, Papa

  told Guido to come home to the village

  north of Padua. He had been studying

  in Rome for eight years; no noticeable

  progress had been made. No jobs at

  least in music had been offered, no

  musical future seemed to hold promise.

  Guido did not care, however. It was

  the total immersion in things musical

  that counted. Papa could not under-

  stand. But Papa would no longer pay,

  so Guido came home.

  The elder Frescobaldi told his son

  to marry his nice village cousin, Rosa

  Bombalini, who was having a little

  trouble finding a husband, and Papa

  would give Guido a 161

  fonografo for a wedding present. Then

  he could listen to all the music he

  wished. Also, if he did not marry

  Cousin Rosa, Papa would break his ass.

  So for six years, while his cousin

  and brother-in-law Father Giovanni

  Bombalini, studied in the Vatican and

  was sent to strange places, Guido

  Frescobaldi endured a forced marriage

  to the three-hundred-pound bundle of

  selfindulgent hysteria named Rosa.

  On the morning of his seventh

  anniversary, he gave up. He awoke

  screaming; he smashed windows, broke

  furniture, threw pots of linguini

  against the walls, and told Rosa that

  she and her six children were the most

  repulsive human bei
ngs he had ever

  met.

  Basta!

  Enough was enough!

  Rosa gathered the children together

  and fled to the village farm; and

  Guido walked downtown to his father's

  pasta shop, picked up a bowl of tomato

  sauce, heaved it in Papa's face and

  left Padua forever. For Milan.

  If the world would not let him be a

  great operatic tenor, he at least

  would be near great singers, great

  music.

  He would clean toilets, sweep

  stages, sew costumes, carry spears.

  Anything.

  He would make his life at La Scala!

  And so it had been for over forty

  years with Frescobaldi. He had risen

  slowly but happily from toilets to

  brooms, from stitching to spears.

  Finally he was awarded those first few

  words on stage Not so much to sing,

  Guido! More like talk, you seep and

  the sheer openness of his emotion made

  him an instant favorite of less

  discriminating operagoers. Of La Scala

  Minuscolo. Where the ticket scale was

  lower.

  In his way Frescobaldi became a

  beloved fixture as well as a devoted

  participant. He was always available

  to help in rehearsals, to cue, to

  stand in, to recite, and his knowledge

  was formidable.

  Only once in all the years did Guido

  cause any trouble for anyone, and it

  wasn't really his fault. That, of

  course was the Lo Popolo attempt to

  embarrass his cousin, the pope.

  Luckily, the Communist writer had not

  discovered Frescobaldi's early

  marriage to the pontiffs sister. It

  would 162

  have been difficult for him, however,

  because Rosa Bombalini had died of

  overeating three decades ago.

  Hurriedly, the stage manager made

  his way to Frescobaldi's dressing