by Angela Arney
The following day, Raul left. He was to follow Simionato’s body in the ornate hearse Chanel had hired. They were to drive without a stop to Rome where Simionato would be buried with full civic honours.
‘Raul.’ Raul turned; it was Emmy Lou, following him out to his car. ‘When will I see you again?’
He frowned, his eyes blank. ‘See me?’
Without another word she made a small, hopeless gesture with her hands and turned back to the villa. It was humiliating to realize that the man who yesterday had spent an hour making passionate love to her had already forgotten who she was.
*
Simionato had been true to his word. Everything had been left to Raul. He was now a rich man, rich enough to choose the work he wanted to do, rich enough to wait until the right film, play or opera was offered to him. He chose to do nothing until they started rehearsals for La Traviata at La Scala.
With Luigi, his assistant, Raul set about designing the sets and lighting.
‘But Umberto usually does the lighting,’ protested Ghiringhelli. ‘He knows Traviata backwards.’
‘Exactly, that is why I do everything’, said Raul imperiously, ‘my way.’
When Ghiringhelli saw the subtle atmospheric lighting Raul had designed and his imaginative use of sparse sets, he had to approve. He had given the chorus much more room and transformed the whole opera. Under Raul’s direction it would seem like a new work.
‘This is the new breed of director we must always be looking for,’ he told everyone, ‘a man who can do everything, see the production as a whole concept from the very beginning.’
He let Raul have a free hand, even to the extent of dismissing some of the elderly chorus, unheard of at La Scala. While they had breath enough to sing, they always remained. But when Raul was faced on the first morning of rehearsal by a stage full of overweight, elderly men and extremely bosomy, equally elderly ladies, he decided to make changes.
‘The union will never let you,’ forecast Luigi.
‘Nothing is impossible,’ was Raul’s reply. And it seemed that nothing was. By the use of his considerable charm and slightly devious explanations that it would, probably, only be for the duration of the performance of Traviata, Raul persuaded half the chorus to step down. He knew full well that many of them would never come back to the stage once they had left it; they were too old. He sent them away with their heads full of dreams of returning for the rest of the season. They would find out later, when the younger chorus refused to budge. That was not his problem; he had achieved what he wanted – a considerably revamped chorus.
One Friday morning Raul strode into La Scala. He was auditioning that morning for the remaining three places in the chorus – one soprano and two tenors. He was in an exceptionally good mood. His new mistress, Maria, had proved astoundingly accommodating in bed. Every night for a whole week Raul had been able to indulge in every erotic whim he fancied. It amused him to use and sometimes abuse her body for his own pleasure. Shocking her gave him a vicarious thrill – he knew she would never protest. Maria was a young soprano playing at Piccola Scala, an offshoot of the main theatre designed for nurturing new talent. As he indulged himself with her young body, he was well aware that she was hoping it would land her a leading role in one of his operas. He did not tell her that he thought her voice weak and uncontrolled and that she would never be good enough for anything he directed. When she found that out, she would leave him, but in the meantime he had every night to look forward to.
Luigi handed him a long list of names. ‘Christ, couldn’t you have cut it down a bit?’ Luigi looked worried then smiled as Raul grinned. ‘Let’s hope some of them are good.’
They sat in the darkened auditorium, Raul with his feet up on the back of the seat in front, leaning back, smoking one of his interminable cigarettes. ‘First tenor on, please,’ shouted Luigi.
The young tenor walked nervously into the centre spot, lit by a single lime; then the next; and the next. Raul made no comment except to shout, ‘Thank you,’ when he had heard enough. The decision was not difficult; all the tenors were good but two were much better than the others. He needed two and they were the obvious ones. Raul scribbled their names on the back of an old cigarette packet and gave it to Luigi who had the pleasant task of informing the chosen two, and the not-so-pleasant task of informing those rejected.
‘Sopranos next,’ shouted Raul, not waiting for Luigi to return.
He was listening to the fourth girl when Luigi slid into the seat next to him. ‘Any good?’ he whispered.
‘Fucking awful,’ swore Raul. ‘Not one of the bitches can manage a full-blooded top C.’
Luigi sank down in his seat. Even in the darkness of the auditorium he could see Raul’s previous good mood had rapidly dissipated. ‘Oh,’ he muttered disconsolately. He knew Raul’s standards: he was never satisfied with anything less than perfection. Even if it was only for a chorus.
The twelfth girl stepped nervously on to the stage and began to sing. Luigi tensed, waiting for the top C. When it came she only just managed to scrape up to the note before wavering off it completely. Raul exploded. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he shouted, ‘it’s only a fucking top C. Hasn’t your singing teacher taught you that in order to sing C you must be able to get a good E? Get out of my sight and stop wasting my time.’
The girl erupted into noisy tears and had to be led from the stage. Luigi sank lower in his seat. ‘This is the last girl,’ he said, ‘number thirteen.’ He hoped it was not an ill omen. God help her if she could not reach the top note.
‘Last one, number thirteen,’ bellowed Raul.
A tall, slender girl walked on to centre stage. The harsh light of the lime cruelly emphasized the shabbiness of her clothes. But nothing, not even the most piercing light, could find fault with the beauty of her face or the unconscious grace with which she held herself. She began to sing, hesitant at first, then gaining in confidence. It was the voice of a true coloratura, pure silver, soaring effortlessly to the top notes.
But Raul was not listening properly. He half stood as she came into the limelight, gripping hold of the back of the seat in front of him, his hands tense. Now he knew the cause of his vague sense of unease ever since that day at Chanel’s villa. He had not realized it then, but now he knew. The picture of the English countess had started it off; she had a vague resemblance to Liana. Long-dormant memories had begun to stir. He looked again at the girl on stage at La Scala: she could have been Liana ten years ago. Hauntingly beautiful, thin, vulnerable, the emotion pouring forth in her voice, she reminded him uncomfortably of the unstinting emotion Liana had poured over him – over him and everyone she had loved. The top C echoing around the vast auditorium ricocheted and rebounded in Raul’s mind and became Liana’s wailing cry echoing down the mountainside the day Eleanora had died. He shivered violently, although it was a warm day, and shook his head. For the first time in his life guilt swamped Raul, and the sudden, unexpected birth of a conscience was traumatic. For the first time in years he felt uncertain. What should he do?
Luigi was excited. The number thirteen had not been unlucky after all. ‘We’re in luck. This girl can sing like an angel. There’s no doubt. She’s the one. I’ll hire her, OK? OK?’
Raul turned, startled. The bleak mountainside disappeared. He was back in La Scala, Luigi’s enthusiastic words finally sinking in.
He looked at the girl on stage. She had finished singing and was waiting. But he could not possibly work with someone who reminded him of Liana every day, too damned uncomfortable. ‘Get rid of her,’ he said harshly.
‘But she’s the best, she . . .’
‘Get rid of her. Do it!’ he shouted as Luigi hesitated, unable to believe his ears. ‘Hire the first girl we heard.’
Luigi stared after Raul as he walked from the theatre. Where the hell was he going? And what the hell was the matter with him?
Raul did not think about it. If anyone had asked him where he was going, he would not have
been able to say. Invisible strings were pulling him, and he had no control, no say in his immediate destiny. The red MG roared down the autostrada, across the flat plain of Lombardy, past the rice fields and poplars. Piacenza, Parma, Modena, Bologna: the familiar names flashed past as he drove hour after hour across the viaducts and through the tunnels of the Autostrada del Sole on to Firenze, then through Tuscany on to Rome. It never even occurred to him to stop at Rome and stay the night in his villa. It was already late evening and his bones were beginning to ache but the relentless force which had started him on the journey was too strong for him to stop. He drove on and on, past the ruins of the once magnificent monastery of Monte Casino and finally into Naples itself and on up to the castello.
It was pitch dark now. The brief Mediterranean dusk had long since given way to night. The car pitched and rolled on the final ascent up the unmade track to the castello but Raul drove on heedless of the damage the sharp stones might be doing to the tyres. At last he was there. He stopped the car in the gateway and, switching off the engine, lay back and looked up at the solid black mass of stone surrounding him – the ancient Roman portals, silent witnesses to so many human activities. Completely exhausted now, he slumped back in his seat. The lights of modern Naples twinkled below him and swam out of focus. Raul slept but although fatigued almost beyond endurance, it was a shadowy, disturbed sleep. He awoke continually, every time thinking, why the hell have I come here?
He woke at first light to an eery feeling that time had stood still. It was as if he had never been away – the same mountainside, the same smell of wild thyme and rosemary, the same vast, curving expanse of dark blue sea, shot pink and purple now by the first rays of the rising sun. Slowly he walked to the castello. The building had not changed either, the thick stone walls withstanding the ravages of time as they had done for so many centuries. Inside it was empty, a home now for bats and other wild creatures. In the kitchen, lying in a corner, half buried beneath dried rubbish, he found a coffee pot and recognized it at once. It was the one Liana had used.
He sat down on the stone steps of the kitchen and looked out across the cobbled courtyard to the well. He could almost taste the coffee. It had seemed like nectar in those days, the American coffee Liana had earned on the streets of Naples or even the acorn coffee they were forced to drink when real coffee ran out. Where was she now? It was obvious no-one had been to the castello for years.
He walked back along the track and made his way to the village. An old crone served him breakfast in the village square – fresh bread and strong black espresso coffee. She remembered Liana and Eleanora.
‘Did you get your funeral for the marchesa in the end?’
Raul tried not to shudder at her words. He had not banked on anyone’s remembering that. ‘Yes,’ he said briefly. Now was not the time to elaborate. ‘You remember me?’ he asked cautiously.
She gave a toothless grin. ‘I am the only one here who does. God must have sent you to me because I am the only one alive who can answer your questions. Everyone has left this place. Just twenty people live here now, and all, except me, are foreigners! I ask you, what is the world coming to?’
‘It’s a sad world, signora. Where do the other villagers come from?’
‘Foreigners from the next village.’ She spat in the dust. ‘You never could trust those Calitresi, and now look! They have taken over the entire village. Me, the only native left.’
‘Do you know what happened to Liana, the friend of the marchesa?
‘Dead,’ said the crone. ‘She went down into Naples and then there were bombs, bombs, many bombs. She didn’t come back.’ She crossed herself piously. ‘I pray she had a decent Christian burial. So many didn’t, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Raul slowly. An unwanted mantle of guilt settled on his shoulders. ‘It was a terrible time.’ He paid for the bread and coffee and went back to the castello.
What had he rushed down here for? What on earth had he hoped to find? Liana alive and well, still waiting for him? He had acted on impulse, something foreign to him unless it concerned his own future well-being. His mind ached, his step was heavy.
The sun was high in the sky by the time he reached the castello. Brilliant and dazzling, the light should have dispersed any ghosts that might have been left; but it seemed to Raul that the reverse was true. Whereas before in the half-light of early morning he had felt the place to be deserted and empty, now it was full of rustles and sighs. He turned sharply, sure he could hear Liana’s laughter, and then he could smell the orange-fresh smell of the springtime pastiera cake, the one he had given her the first time they had made love. Suddenly the warmth of the sun faded and he shivered. He could see the sunshine, brilliant as ever, but his skin felt the icy wetness of winter rain, penetrating and cold as it swept in from the sea, and the air was rent with the wail of a soul in torment. He put his hands over his ears to blot out the sound and found that it was coming from his own throat. He was the one who was screaming.
Shaking from the effort of controlling himself, he sank down on to the kitchen steps. They felt warm to his touch. Reassured, he spread his hands on the stone, trying to soak up the warmth. ‘God, I must be going mad!’ he whispered.
She was dead. There was nothing he could have done; just as there had been nothing he could have done for Eleanora all those years ago. He walked across to the place where he knew she was buried, past the ruined chapel. There was no sign now of the rough wooden cross he had stuck in the earth but the grave looked undisturbed. Grass and a few stubby bushes of thyme were growing on the mound. He breathed a sigh of relief; at least Eleanora slept in peace. He looked down at Naples, shimmering now in the noonday sun, high-rise buildings dominating the bombed ruins of the city. But Raul saw it as it had been in 1944.
Slowly an idea formed in his mind. Two girls had lived and loved in this place, and now there was nothing left to show for their brief lives. No-one except him and the old woman, who would soon be no longer, even knew they had once existed. It did not seem right.
He went back and sat down again on the kitchen steps and, taking a notepad and pencil from his pocket, began to write. He would give them their memorial. It would be a film, a story of pain and suffering and self-sacrifice: Liana’s story, a love story, a story of true love that stopped at nothing, not even self-sacrifice. His own sexual affair with Liana was unimportant, it was her extraordinary love for Eleanora that he would write about.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized what a commercial story it was. When he found the right writer to make it into a screenplay, he would make the film. Raul smiled, Liana’s unhappy death receding from his conscience. If he could get the story into Hollywood that would really ensure his international recognition. Yes, he would definitely send it to Hollywood just as soon as he could find the right contact.
Chapter Twenty
‘God, how I hate boarding school.’ It was Christmas 1959 and Eleanora was back at Broadacres for the holidays. Perching on the edge of her mother’s desk in the Lower Cloisters office, she bad-temperedly swung a booted foot. She was clothed in what Liana sometimes thought of as the Hamilton-Howards’ uniform, jodhpurs and a sweater. ‘And now the bloody Government is going to raise the school leaving age. I’ll be fifteen in a few days’ time; I could have left school at Easter and now I won’t be able to.’ Pulling her features into a blackly rebellious expression, she kicked out at the walnut marquetry table standing against the wall.
‘Eleanora, watch your language, and do keep your feet down, that table is priceless.’ Liana sighed in exasperation; why was it her daughter was always so difficult? ‘Peter is a boarder at St John’s College,’ she said, ‘and he loves it.’
‘Exactly. He loves St John’s College. But I’m not there, am I? I wouldn’t mind being a boarder there; it’s an exciting school. They do some fantastic things.’ She saw her mother’s expression. ‘All right, all right I know it’s only for boys and it’s Catholic and I can’t go. Bu
t I still hate St Swithuns. It’s a bore and I hate it.’
Liana felt confused the way she always did when she was with Eleanora. Her love for Eleanora had not decreased – it was still the most powerful force in her life, that and her memories of Raul – but in spite of her love, she still found it impossible to feel close to her. Nicholas was close to Eleanora; they always laughed a lot together, sharing private, silly little jokes the way people do who are completely at ease with one another. And Margaret, she was close to her daughter, too, perhaps closest of all. Their mutual love of animals, particularly dogs and horses, forged an inseparable bond between them. Liana half smiled now, thinking of the pair of them. How incongruous they looked when together. Margaret was craggier than ever in old age, her poor hands bent and twisted now with arthritis. She had had her hair permed for the coronation and now had it done regularly because it was easier to manage than a bun. Unfortunately the result resembled a walking scouring pad.
By her side Eleanora looked like a young goddess; but the years between them disappeared when they were together. They were never happier than when mucking out the stables, riding to hounds or walking the dogs. Liana knew they both regularly smuggled their dogs up to their bedrooms; dogs were forbidden beyond the lower ground floor now that the house had been completely renovated. But Liana never had the heart to remonstrate with them, knowing how attached they were to their beloved creatures.
Perhaps that’s partly the problem, she thought now. I appear to be English, even feel English most of the time, but I shall never become as besotted about animals as the English are. Even the Pragnells had their homes filled with an assortment of animals, and Meg’s and Bruno’s children had rabbits, hamsters and guinea-pigs as well as the farm animals. At lambing time there were always a couple of orphans being hand-reared on a baby’s bottle in the kitchen, and it was the same now with the Chapmans. To them, animals were an extension of their family, but to Liana they were animals. She could never have been cruel to any living creature but was still afraid of horses and did not like the boisterousness of the dogs. And the farm cats always seemed so supercilious; they were an independent lot who preferred the stables to the house.
