‘Typical - just my bloody luck!’
‘Not to worry. San Pietro is still worth seeing. If you need me to show you around at all, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m sure your time with your father is precious, but he has my number and I’m not far from the city centre. You’ll see later, when you come to supper.’ The bell rang for them to take their seats for the second half. Alfredo had to admit that Brendan’s voice had only got better with age, more lived in. He looked over at Brendan and Amelia’s son and allowed himself to imagine, for a moment, that Fintan was his own child. How different his life would have been if he’d married...He smiled to himself, knowing that it would have been the most dishonest thing he could ever have done. Fintan felt his stare and glanced over, and Alfredo’s intense gaze melted into a kind smile. He reached over and rubbed the young man’s arm, nodding towards his father on stage as if to say how proud he was.
Fergal couldn’t help himself - he borrowed a pair of house binoculars and watched Fintan from a gap between the curtains at stage left. He studied his hairline and the way his fingers strayed to his lips every now and then as he bit his thumbnail and then thought better of it. Fergal loved the way his smile completely altered his face. He thought that Fintan probably had a string of girlfriends. Why wouldn’t he? He was obviously rich, certainly handsome, and so confident for someone who was only a year older than Fergal himself. Fergal felt intimidated by Fintan, but he couldn’t take his eyes off him.
For the final encore of the night, Brendan looked in the direction of the box where he knew his son and his guest were sitting. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I need your help. I want to dedicate these last two pieces to three very important people. The first piece is for my son, who I love very much. He has flown in especially to be with me on my last night in this exquisite Teatro -and he is twenty years old today! Please join me as I sing.. .Happy birthday to you...’
The crowd went wild. As they all joined in, Alfredo got Fintan to stand and take a bow, mortifying and delighting him to the core.
‘The second piece,’ Brendan said, ‘and the final one tonight, is one I want to dedicate to a future singing star, Fergal Flynn, who also happens to be my assistant backstage. I predict great things for Fergal, not only because I’ve heard him sing, but also because he is under the guidance of the third man I want to acknowledge, one of Italy’s finest...Signore Alfredo Moretti.’
This time the spotlight did pick out Alfredo in the box. He stood up as gracefully as he could without his walking stick and the audience whooped and cheered.
Finally, when they quietened enough, Brendan continued, ‘I want to sing this song for them and for all of you here tonight. Perhaps my friend Alfredo might recognise the tune?’
It was his signature song from Tosca, which Alfredo had always loved. He closed his eyes in the dark box and drank in every note, and for a moment he was transported back to the side of that stage in Venice, all those years ago. He opened his eyes. Brendan was staring at him, nodding and beckoning, so Alfredo stood up and joined him in harmony.
The audience gasped, and as they finished the last note together the whole theatre burst into rapturous applause. Fergal and Giovanni were jumping up and down in the wings. When Brendan finally bowed and left the stage, Fintan rubbed Alfredo’s arm as he saw that his father’s old friend’s eyes were full of tears.
23
Alfredo’s magnificent house looked even more incredible than usual. There were extraordinary flower arrangements in every room, a buffet of fragrant chicken with rosemary and roasted potatoes, and Arianna had sent over dessert from the restaurant while everyone was at the theatre. She had also allowed one of her staff to go to Alfredo’s and help Daniela serve the buffet. She had noticed the dramatic upswing in her brother’s mood, and she knew how important the evening was to him.
The patio doors were opened and the evening sky was unstained with clouds, leaving the garden starlit as Alfredo got home. By a quarter past eleven, the house was alive with his carefully chosen guests, and not much later Fergal opened the door, followed by Brendan and Fintan. The room erupted into applause, and champagne was handed out to toast the two Fiscettis. Brendan was overcome with the obvious effort to which Alfredo had gone in their honour. He hugged him and thanked him over and over until his host banned him from saying it again.
Everyone helped themselves to the delicious buffet. As usual, there was enough food to feed the guests twice over.
As Alfredo and Brendan settled into a corner, Alfredo said, ‘I never got to ask you - what news of the great Marla Davis, our Tosca all those decades ago?’
‘Funny you should ask. I performed with her again, many years after Venice, quite by accident. It was The Barber of Seville, in New York, and I was drafted into the production at the last moment. The lead tenor and his understudy had both come down with the flu - they were sleeping together, but that’s another story. Marla was in the production. She asked after you, but I still had no idea where you were. I had hoped that she might. She was friendly enough, but it wasn’t the same. Too much time had passed, the old closeness wasn’t there. It was a lot to expect, I suppose.’
‘It’s strange - I was worried about seeing you again - I wasn’t sure you would remember me kindly - but now it’s as if you had never been away at all.’
‘Alfredo, I’m so glad you feel that way. You remember I always thought of you as the brother I never had. I still do, even though a whole lifetime has gone by. My baby son is a man now - how did that happen?’
‘I can’t believe it. I was looking at him watching you onstage. He was so proud, and he has your smile. I don’t know where he could have got his charm, though - not to mention that accent!’
They laughed again, and clinked their glasses together.
Fergal had managed to slip upstairs and change his clothes. He put on some cologne, regretted it and looked doubtfully at himself in the long wardrobe mirror. He could hear the revellers downstairs through the floorboards, but he could think only of Fintan Fiscetti. After combing his hair for the fourth time, he finally allowed himself to go back downstairs, where, to his surprise and delight, he found Fintan standing at the bottom of the stairway, with two glasses of champagne.
‘Fergal, there you are! My God, that room is full of geriatrics. I thought you might like some of this.’ He handed Fergal one of the glasses. ‘Cheers, then.’
‘Yeah, cheers - and happy birthday again.’
They stood looking at each other for what seemed like an eternity. ‘Could I have a tour of the house?’ Fintan asked.
‘Of course, yes. Follow me.’
They climbed to the very top of the house, and Fintan stopped and studied every painting and framed poster on the walls. Alfredo had spent his money wisely; he had an impressive collection of modern Italian works. They stopped outside Fergal’s room, but he made embarrassed excuses. ‘It’s in a bit of a state...’
Fintan laughed. ‘You should see mine in London, at my dad’s place. It looks like a bloody bomb hit it...oh, sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘You know, Belfast and all that. It must have been very hard for you.’
‘Ah, you don’t really want to hear about all that.’
‘Of course I do, if you’re willing to tell.’
Fergal began to panic slightly. He could tell simply by looking at Fintan that their lives couldn’t have been more different. ‘Ah...do you want to see the garden, Fintan? It’s a lovely clear night.’
‘Great, I’m dying for a cigarette! But don’t tell my dad, he goes mad. I blame bloody Paris. If you don’t smoke there, then you don’t breathe.’
They descended the stairs again and went out through the kitchen. Fintan grabbed a bottle of champagne from a loaded tray and followed Fergal down to the back of the garden, where it was a bit more secluded. Fergal was struck by his sheer bold confidence, and he loved it.
At the bottom of the garden was a hanging sofa. Alfredo sometimes reclined on it when
he napped in the afternoon, if it was warm enough. ‘Brendan won’t be able to see you here,’ Fergal said, ‘not unless he comes down. Have you smoked for long?’
‘I only smoke when I drink. It’s a filthy habit, I know, but fuck it! I don’t have to mind my voice like you and Dad. Did you never smoke, Fergal? Not even at school?’
Fergal loved the way Fintan always looked him straight in the eyes, whether he was talking or listening. ‘Jesus, no. Asthmatic, you see, but it’s much better these days. And anyway, only the coolest of the cool fellas smoked at my school.’
‘So tell me, how did you end up here? My dad told me a bit, but I want to hear it from you. Do you mind?’
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll tell you, if you’re sure you won’t be bored to death.’
‘Ah, now, no need to play so hard to get! I’m all ears - but not till I’ve opened this champagne. Here, hold your glass out. Shall we get pissed?’
It had been a very long time since Fergal had spent any time with someone his own age, and he loved it. As Fintan poured with one hand and sucked on a cigarette with the other, Fergal wondered if he had heard him right - was he really playing hard to get? Was he really starting to flirt? So, after a swig of bubbles, he told Fintan the edited highlights of his story: his Granny Noreen, meeting Father Mac, Brother Vincent, Sligo Abbey and then Alfredo. Fintan was genuinely fascinated. He kept refilling their flutes until the bottle was empty. The sofa gently swayed under their weight.
‘What about you, Fintan? It must’ve been amazing, growing up with an opera star for a father.’
Fintan laughed. ‘Well, amazing is one of the many things that it was. I mean, it’s great now, and I wouldn’t change him for the world, but he was always away, you know?’ Suddenly he dropped his gaze. ‘Oh Fergal, how thoughtless of me. I’m so sorry.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your just lost your dad, and here’s me waffling on about mine. I’m so sorry ’
‘No, it’s okay. We weren’t anything like you and your da. We never got on.’
‘You didn’t? God, Fergal, that’s awful. You poor thing.’
Fergal was mortified. The last thing he wanted was Fintan’s pity. ‘No, no, it’s fine. I don’t really want to think about him just now. Tell me about Brendan. What’s it like to have him as your father?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I love him to bits and I know he loves me and would do anything for me. And I’ve never had to worry about money - my mum was independently wealthy before they even met. But it would’ve been nice to have him around more, you know? I hated having to share him with so many fucking people. There’s always someone who just has to talk to him, while I stand there like some invisible prat. God, Fergal, I didn’t mean to get so serious. Am I boring you?’
‘No, no. I never thought about it like that. Go on.’
‘It’s a privilege to have him as a dad, hand on heart. He can’t help being so gifted. And God, does he work hard at it. I don’t know how he does it. I suppose you’re probably the same, right? You feel like you have to give everything to your singing, without compromise?’
‘Yeah, I suppose I do.’
‘You left Ireland, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘What I’m saying is that when I’ve finished a painting and I’m happy with it, then that’s it - it’s done and dusted, and I move on. I don’t have to keep repeating myself. And when Dad - or Alfredo, or you - goes to a party, you can bet someone will want him to sing, but no one would ever think of asking me if I wouldn’t mind just knocking off a landscape before the coffee arrives.’
Fergal laughed. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘I’ve met a lot of singers through Dad, and they’re very driven people - the good ones, anyway.’
‘So you’re a painter? I’d love to see some of your stuff - not that I know anything about it, mind you. What kind of paintings do you do?’
Fintan laughed again, simply because he was drunk and he loved Fergal’s accent, but Fergal got embarrassed, thinking he had said something stupid. Fintan realised this and leaned towards him on the seat, to explain, but he tipped his glass too far and the contents soaked the sleeve of Fergal’s jacket.
‘Oh shit, look what I’ve done! God, I’m pissed. I’m sorry, Fergal. When I saw that look on your face, I was worried that I’d offended you. It’s just that I could listen to your accent all day. Here, let me try and dry it off a little.’
Fergal was fairly drunk too, and he couldn’t think of what to say as Fintan took out a perfectly ironed handkerchief and started dabbing his sleeve, where the damp was spreading. They were right up against each other, their faces almost touching. Fergal could smell the cigarette on Fintan’s breath, and for a moment he thought of Father Mac. ‘Ah, Fintan,’ he started, ‘don’t worry, sure, it’ll—’ He never got to finish the sentence. His lips were stopped with a kiss.
All he could hear was the thudding of his heart and his own deafening breathing - or Fintan’s breathing, he could hardly tell whose was whose. Fintan moved away and started to say, ‘I’m sorry—’, but Fergal kissed him back. This time the kiss was longer; they knew it was too dark for anyone to see them. Fergal leaned back, and Fintan moved on top of him.
Just as they were losing themselves, Alfredo’s familiar voice cut through the air like a firework.
‘Fergal! Fergal, wherever you are, there’s some singing about to start.’
Fergal and Fintan opened their eyes and stared silently at each other, a little panicked, then laughed under their breath. They waited, frozen. When there were no footsteps on the garden path, they breathed a sigh of relief. Slowly, Fintan moved off Fergal and they sat up, fixing their clothes.
‘Jesus, that was close. We’d better go in, eh, Fintan?’ Fergal almost whispered.
Fintan got up and steadied himself, offering Fergal his hand to help him off the swinging sofa. ‘You have beautiful hands, Fergal.’
‘Have I?’
Fintan laughed again, but this time Fergal understood. He pulled his jacket down to cover his erection. When they got back to the patio doors, Fintan gave him his handkerchief and walked on ahead. Fergal opened it out to find a dry section, and saw the twin letters ‘FF’ in the unused corner.
‘We have the same initials,’ he said to the champagne stain on his jacket.
Inside the music room, everyone had gathered around the grand piano where Alfredo was seated, ready to play. When Brendan saw Fintan come in, he nodded his head. Alfredo struck up the first chord of ‘Happy Birthday’ and the entire room joined in. The lights were dimmed and Daniela carried in a huge chocolate cake covered in candles. Brendan called his mortified son to the front, holding a brandy in one hand, and told him not to forget to make a wish. Fintan closed his eyes, took a huge breath and managed to blow out every candle in a puff of smoke and loud clapping. He winked quickly at Fergal as the lights went back up.
Brendan started searching through a pile of old music for something that he and his son could sing together, but Fintan was backing off. ‘Dad, you always do this! You know I can’t sing. I’d much rather hear you - how about you and Fergal? Go on, please - for me?’
Alfredo looked at Fergal and suddenly remembered. ‘What about all that Irish stuff you used to sing? I bet Fergal would know some of it too.’
Brendan put the sheet music down and called Fergal over. He whispered into his ear and then said to the room, ‘Let’s see who knows this one!’ Then, in a loud voice he began to sing ‘Dirty Old Town’, and Fergal joined in.
Song after song followed. Alfredo and Brendan alternated on the piano as they went along, and the guests picked up the choruses. Finally Brendan asked Fergal if he could sing something from Belfast.
He thought for a moment. ‘This song was originally called “The Belfast Maid”,’ he said, ‘but it’s turned into “My Lagan Love”, after the River Lagan that runs through Belfast.’ He closed his eyes and started to sing, unaccompanied.
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The very temperature in the room changed. Alfredo had never heard the song, so he turned away from the piano, but he held the pedals down so that every now and then one of Fergal’s stronger high notes made the strings vibrate, adding to the ghost-like, melancholy quality of the melody. Fintan had initially stayed at the back of the gathering, but as Fergal sent the song around the room the notes seemed to pull him to the front of the crowd with quiet ease. Their eyes met, and neither of them could look away.
Her welcome, like her love for me, is from the heart within;
Her warm kiss is felicity that knows no taint of sin.
And when I stir my foot to go, his leaving love and light
To feel the wind of longing blow from out the dark of night.
As he finished, the whole room exhaled as one and clapped. Alfredo and Brendan couldn’t help noticing the way that Fergal had delivered the lines in Fintan’s direction - nor, indeed, the way Fintan had received them.
There were calls for the host to sing. Alfredo playfully rejected them at first, but at last he loosened his shirt collar dramatically, saying, ‘Well, if you insist.’ Once the laughter had settled down, he thanked them all for coming and then turned his attention to Brendan. ‘Dear friends, I can’t tell you what it means to me to have the great Brendan Fiscetti in my home. I was privileged enough to share a stage with him very early in my career, and I’m so happy we can share our friendship again today - and hopefully into the future. I thank him for bringing his son Fintan here, and I look forward to getting to know him too. Fate works in strange ways. If I hadn’t met Fergal Flynn in Ireland, then none of us would be celebrating here now - and we also wouldn’t have heard Fergal sing so beautifully. I wonder who his teacher is?’
Again, the room burst out laughing, and Alfredo smiled. ‘And if Giovanni hadn’t worked at the Teatro and put in a good word for Fergal, then Brendan and I would never have found each other again. So I’ll get to the point, before you all fall asleep. I want to sing a song that I love, by Carole King. It sums up how I feel tonight. Join in the chorus if you can.’
Roman Song Page 24
