Errant Angels (21 page)

31

Penelope,
La Contessa
di Capezzani-Batelli, sat propped up in bed against a pile of pillows, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, with Carlo Quinto snoring gently at the foot of the bed. The rehearsal had gone well enough, including one or two minor slips, thereby confirming the old theatrical maxim of a bad final dress rehearsal leading to a first-class opening night's performance. The Contessa had thought that Gregorio Marinetti had been on edge – again. Not when he was singing – that had been as pleasurable to listen to as it always was – but when in conversation. He had been like that for the last couple of weeks. She had allowed herself a moment of improper contemplation and wondered if he was having trouble fulfilling the more base side of his nature again. She had heard of the yoga teacher and the course for which Gregorio had signed up, as well as of the disappointment of his thwarted desire; there wasn't much that did not eventually filter back to the Contessa's ears. At the rehearsal she had felt a momentary twinge of sympathy for him, although he did look a little better for the exercise.

Why can't you just be yourself and be who you are?
Whilst she could think this, the Contessa would never have dreamt of asking him about it. It was not the situation Maria Santini found herself in, where she exhibited the signs of actually
wanting
to be helped and those around her who cared could respond. No, Gregorio's problem was a delicate matter and his sexual preference would have to remain
personal and out of bounds. She suddenly thought of Maria's and Gregorio's situations in contrast to Renata di Senno and Riccardo Fossi. S
ubtlety is definitely not their strong point
, she mused as she plugged the earpieces into her ears and switched on her Walkman. The strains of the slow movement of Shostakovich's Second Piano Concerto floated softly into her brain. At bedtime, she preferred something a little more soothing than opera. It helped her to relax after the hectic activity of the day.

She reached out to her bedside table and picked up the book she was reading. As she did so the gold locket that she wore on a chain around her neck swung out from underneath her nightgown.

‘Dear Giacomo,' she whispered softly over the strains of the music. She caressed the locket lovingly. ‘You would have been pleased with the angels this evening. I think that the concert will be one of our best ever. But, of course, you'll be there with me and can hear that for yourself.' She smiled, raised the locket to her lips, kissed it gently and then tucked it back into her nightgown. She then sighed as she thought of their life together – Giacomo's and hers – how they had had so much to look forward to and had made so many plans together, before it was decreed that she would have to meet the achievement of their aspirations and dreams on her own – for both of them.

‘Good night, my darling one,' she whispered, before propping the book against her knees and adjusting her glasses.

‘Oh, Elizabeth! You gave me quite a surprise!' said the Contessa loudly as she suddenly caught sight of the hovering shape of her faithful maid out of the corner of her eye. ‘Did you knock?'

‘As if the very staff of Saint Peter himself was in me hand,' came the acerbic reply.

‘What was that?' replied the Contessa, who hadn't heard
clearly over the sound of the music. She removed the right-hand ear-piece. ‘What about Saint Peter and his staff? Did Saint Peter have a staff?'

‘I was after saying that… Away with ye. 'Tis of no matter. Where will you be wantin' this, then?' she asked, holding out a cup and saucer of steaming liquid towards the Contessa. She shook if she had to carry something for a protracted period; that explained the cocoa in the saucer.

‘Oh, how kind. I'd forgotten all about the cocoa. I think on the bedside table will be quite in order, thank you. It smells appetising.'

‘And I found this in the music room,' she said, holding up a gold lipstick case in her other hand.

‘What's that?' asked the Contessa.

‘'Tis a lipstick. “Whore's Red” from the look of it. If y'ask me 'tis from the one who sings high – her with all the rings.'

‘You mean Renata?' replied the Contessa.

Elizabeth made no reply, but stood shaking the cup and saucer in one hand and clutching the offending lipstick between two fingers of the other, as if she didn't actually want to touch it at all. She had a knowing look in her eyes.

‘I wonder why she forgot to take it with her?' asked the Contessa.

‘'Tis because she and that smarmy one is havin'
cardinal
relations and they couldn't wait to get out of here and on with it, so they are,' replied the maid with a deadpan face. ‘'Tis blindingly obvious to those that can see.'

The Contessa was about to reproach her retainer for even suggesting such a thing when she was cut short.

‘On the bedside table, says yourself. Will you be after takin' care of this thing, or will I be puttin' it in with the cleaning things in the cupboard?'

The aged retainer shuffled around to the far side of the bed and deposited the cup and saucer with an alarming rattle of the fine bone china. As she did so, Carlo observed
her suspiciously through one half-opened eye. The servant certainly did not enjoy the same level of trust and affection as did the mistress.

‘'Tis hot,' said Elizabeth, stating the obvious in her own inimitable fashion, ‘so drink it now,' she ordered as she shuffled back around the bed towards the door. ‘I'm now away to me bed,' she continued, eyeing the Contessa with one raised eyebrow, ‘but not before I'm telling you, herself in the kitchen is going to need a seeing to.'

‘Why?' asked the Contessa.

‘I'll not be going into that now; 'tis late and I'm tired. I'm just after telling you for yourself's information that herself will need a seeing to … and that's the end of it.'

Elizabeth stood halfway between the door and the bed, a look of triumphant achievement on her face. The Contessa did not have the faintest idea what had seemingly upset her. Besides, it was late and the Contessa was also tired.

‘Very well, Elizabeth, we'll discuss your concerns in the morning,' she said, reasonably confident that by that time Elizabeth would have forgotten all about it.

‘I'm away off, then,' replied the maid as she wheeled, unsteadily, on her heels and shuffled off towards the door.

‘Good night,' called the Contessa, and plugged herself back into the right-hand ear-piece of her Walkman. The Shostakovich had moved on into the final movement, with its uneven seven-in-a-bar beat pattern, which was far too vigorous for so late an hour. The Contessa fumbled with the controls and rewound the tape. Then she picked up her book once again and opened it.

‘Oh!' she suddenly exclaimed as she was presented with a crumpled envelope held in a gnarled hand. For the second time in as many minutes, the book fell shut again and the ear-piece was removed. ‘Yes?' she asked, her voice tinged with the edge of uncharacteristic annoyance. ‘What is it this time?'

‘
Afore
I'm off to me bed, I'll be giving you this. It came
with the post this morning. Yourself was out and about at the time, so I put it in me apron pocket and forgot to give it to ye. Now I'm giving it to ye; then I'm away to me bed. Good night.' The whole speech was delivered in a single breath.

‘Thank you,' replied the Contessa who, thanks to Elizabeth's performance, was now more awake than asleep, ‘and a goo…' She stopped in mid-sentence as a rather unpleasant aroma caught her nostrils, cancelling out the appealing attraction of the hot cocoa. She glanced down the bed at Carlo, who was snoring softly with both eyes firmly closed, now that the threat of contact with the aged maid had, for the time being, receded.

‘How odd,' thought the Contessa, sniffing the air gingerly. ‘It certainly wasn't me …. and if it wasn't Carlo … Elizabeth?'

A loud click signalled the latter's departure as the tongue of the heavy lock on the bedroom door shot home.

‘Oh,' muttered the Contessa for the third time, ‘and she's gone off with Renata's lipstick.'

She replaced the ear-piece, moved the book further down the bed, reached across to take the saucer in her hand and took a long draught of the still-hot liquid. It was strong, good-quality cocoa and it was sweet, not because the Contessa liked it that way, but because Elizabeth was becoming more and more forgetful when it came to simple matters such as remembering the number of teaspoons of sugar she had stirred into a drink.

‘Oh … well,' muttered the Contessa for the fourth time, and replaced the cup on the table. She then turned her attention to the crumpled envelope, which had enjoyed most of the day in the confines of Elizabeth's copious apron pocket. Tearing it open, she removed the contents. Then she flattened out the single sheet of paper, discovered a pair of tickets and started to read.

My Dear Contessa,

I do hope that you will forgive the directness of my approach, but I have always believed this to be the best policy. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Arthur Crowe and I am the founder and musical director of
La Banda Inghiltalia.
We are a group of keen amateur musicians based in the Pescia area and are about 50% Italian and 50% expatriates, mainly English. That explains our name, which is a contraction of
Inghilterra
and
Italia.
Some of our players are former military bandsmen or orchestral players, so our standard of performance is very high.

The purpose of my letter is to enquire as to the possibility of our working together on a joint concert. I have attended one of yours and was very impressed by what I heard. I feel that our combined efforts will produce a musical event not to be forgotten in Lucca. I prepare much of our music and would be willing to arrange the orchestrations for whatever pieces your singers might wish to perform.

I enclose two tickets for our forthcoming Starlight Concert and hope that you will be able to join us as my guest for the evening.

I hope to receive your favourable reply in the near future.

Yours faithfully

Arthur W. Crowe

‘Oh!' said the Contessa for the fifth time.

32

‘When did he call?' asked Gregorio Marinetti, clutching his DECT phone as he stood in the shade of the umbrella, his naked body still glistening with the refreshing sparkle of water from his swimming pool.

‘Immediately before I phoned you,' Nicola Dolci replied tersely. ‘You know I don't like phoning you on the day of one of your concerts, but the gentleman who telephoned was quite insistent that he speak to you. He said that you did not answer your mobile, as arranged, so he phoned the shop.'

‘My mobile hasn't rung at all – not yesterday afternoon, not today, not…' He broke off as he bent towards the wooden recliner to retrieve the offending object from the pocket of his cotton beach wrap. Nicola wondered what the significance was of the mobile not having rung the afternoon before, but she thought better of saying anything. Her boss seemed twitchy enough as it was.

‘Look, I have no messages or…' There was a pause accompanied by a considerable amount of mumbling. ‘Shit! Fucking thing's flat – no fucking power!'

‘Pardon?' asked Nicola, who had heard perfectly well; Gregorio had shouted it loudly enough for half of Lucca to have heard.

‘What!' barked Marinetti as he flung the dead wonder of the technological age angrily onto the recliner on which his robe was piled in a mangled heap.

Nicola thought it best to simply continue the conversation.
‘The gentleman asked when you would be available and he also seemed quite a bit put out. I did not want to give him your home number. You've told me not to.'

That was true. In the past, he had been unlucky enough to have made the odd liaison, which had subsequently gone wrong, and thought it best to remain ‘non-contactable' until the emotional threat of these depressing occasions had passed. But this caller had not been one of his recent disastrous affairs. He knew that this caller had wanted to talk to him about an important collection – one which should have taken place the previous day and one which had caused him to be preoccupied during the final COGOL rehearsal. As a result, he had made two silly musical mistakes. Eventually, he had had to force himself to switch his attention away from the source of his suppressed panic and onto his music. He not only had a stolen object to dispose of, in return for a substantial sum of money, he also had his considerable musical reputation to live up to. Everything had caused him to have a virtually sleepless Thursday night. Now, at what for him was an early hour of the day, his mind was giving a highly convincing impersonation of a tumble dryer in full revolution.

‘Did you take a telephone number?' he asked, already knowing the answer. Agents who represented clients such as this one were not in the habit of giving out their contact telephone numbers. Any contact in matters of this nature was definitely a one-sided affair.

‘I did ask, but he said that he would call back later, at approximately four o'clock. I did not want to say that you were not in today. He was well-spoken and I thought that he might be interested in something with a high price ticket. He didn't say what it was he wanted. As you know, we could do with the business…' Nicola let the unfinished sentence hang in the warm morning air. Lately, with business being as quiet as it had been, she had often wondered how long it
would be before she was told that her services were no longer needed at the shop.

‘Four o'clock. Alright, Nicola, I'll be in at about a quarter to four. Oh shit … there is something I will have to collect first. If I can't manage it on my own I'll phone for Francesco to help me. Can you tell him that I might need his services a little earlier than planned.'

Snap your fingers and your lapdog comes running
, thought Nicola. The way Marinetti treated her brother – even if he was a little different in the head from most other people – really annoyed her at times, but the money was reasonable and Francesco had little hope of finding anything else that would pay as well.

‘I will tell him,' she said. ‘See you later.' And then she replaced the receiver.

‘Blast it!' snapped Gregorio as he spread his towel on the paved surround of his pool and tried to settle down to his yoga routine. Despite the fact that his principal, misguided reason for enrolling in Tezziano's yoga course had come to nothing, he had kept up the exercises and felt much better for it. He was finding it difficult to remain calm and would have preferred to have kept his mind clear of everything except the evening's concert. The reality was that he was becoming more and more worked up about everything with each passing moment. He would have to go to his lock-up, collect the screen – hopefully without having to summon Francesco's reliable but painfully slow muscle power – then drive into Lucca and close the deal. After all of that, he then had a concert to sing. It just was not fair on him!

‘Fucking people!' he shouted out in uncharacteristic fashion. He was not prone to the use of socially unacceptable language, but he was making up for his avoidance of it now. ‘They say one thing, do another and then change their minds again! Bastards!' he yelled. In his jangled state, it never occurred to him that he had not charged his mobile
for well over a week and that possibly the present situation was largely of his own making. Acknowledgement of his appallingly bad decision to try gambling his way out of his financial woes also never entered his head.

A flock of birds, alarmed by the sudden shriek, took flight from the safety of the row of tall trees, which lined the southern boundary of his property.

‘Take steady breaths … in … out … in … out,' he gasped as he tried to create the pre-concert ambiance, which was so vital to his preparations for a good performance.

After five minutes of pointless effort he was no nearer a state of inner calm than he had been before Nicola's telephone call.

‘It's no use,' he muttered angrily, finally admitting defeat; ‘there's too much going on to let me relax.'

He got up and was about to dive into the pool once more when he remembered that his mobile needed charging.

‘Fucking thing!' he snarled as he picked it up and glared at the dead screen. ‘I now have to abandon my concert preparations and plug you in to charge!'

He had not had a good week and, so far, he was not having a good day either – and it was not even noon.