Errant Angels (24 page)

‘Yes… Hello,' he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

‘
Signor
Marinetti?' asked the calm voice at the other end.

‘Yes, this is he,' replied Gregorio, trying to stem the spreading puddle of coffee as he spoke, before it reached the end of the desk and dribbled into his lap.

‘I am, unfortunately, delayed by a short time. I now anticipate reaching Lucca at approximately eight thirty this
evening. I will collect the item shortly after that time, as discussed.'

There was no indication that this was a negotiable arrangement. It was simply a statement of what was going to happen.

‘Yes… Er, no… I mean to say that there will not be ti –'

‘
Signor
Marinetti, I do hope that everything is as arranged. You seem to be a little undecided. I need hardly remind you that my superior is a very busy person and that I have much to conclude before the day is finished.'

Marinetti's mind was spinning faster than the slot machines in Las Vegas. ‘Of course … all is prepared,' he said, ‘but the item is not at the shop… It is at the
Istituto Musicale Luigi Boccherini
just off the
Piazza Bernardini.
I will have it ready for you at the time you specify.' Given the circumstances, he did not feel confident enough to remind this man to bring the cash. There was a silence on the line, which seemed to bore straight through his ears. ‘Hello?' he said, almost timidly.

‘Why?' asked the caller, his voice ominously flat as if he suspected something was not as it ought to be.

‘Why what?' asked Marinetti, without thinking, before he realized it was probably not the best answer to have given.

‘Why have you changed our arrangements?' The voice maintained its previous quality of ominous calm.

‘It is simply a matter of logistics, nothing more. I am performing in a concert there tonight and if I were not to do so, it would arouse far too much suspicion. I have a very well-established reputation amongst the musical
cognoscenti
here in Lucca. They expect me to sing.' Marinetti found that he had regained a little of his usual self; singing his own praises always did him the world of good. ‘Everything is arranged and delivery will take place as planned at the time you have stated … at the
istituto.
I assure you that the arrangements have been made with the utmost discretion.'
Marinetti crossed himself as he said this. There
were
no arrangements and he had absolutely no idea how he was going to affect the exchange. All he could picture was that bloody screen swathed in the Contessa's piece of secondhand cloth. The upside of this mess was that there was now nothing Gregorio could do until later that evening, hopefully at the time of the interval. Until then, he could at least try to concentrate on preparing himself mentally and physically for the concert.

‘Very well… If your new arrangements are to my satisfaction – and only if – then the transaction will proceed as planned,' replied the caller. ‘I will expect to see you there shortly after eight thirty this evening.'

‘At the rear entrance,' added Marinetti quickly, ‘down
Via Sant'Anastasia
… to the right of the building.'

There was another pause. Marinetti, who was sitting with his eyes screwed tightly shut, hoped the man was writing down the new address details, but he also realized that he could just as easily be considering aborting the entire transaction. The nausea swept over him once again. If that happened, he was well and truly sunk!

‘Until this evening, then,' said the caller, eventually.

‘I look forward to it wi…' said Marinetti, before he realized that the caller had gone. People such as he did not waste time on polite small talk.

It was shortly before 4.10 p.m. Although he had recovered a good deal of his composure, he had not relaxed at all. He was still as tense as an over-wound mainspring and he had done almost no preparation for the concert. To compound matters, he would have to spend the next hour and a quarter driving through Lucca's crowded streets to return to his villa to shower, change, pack his music and then return to the
istituto
in good time, hopefully, to exchange the screens before the audience started to fill the auditorium. Tito Viale would be there adjusting his lights
and setting the spots. He would also be able to help with the screen exchange. Tito never asked any questions. Besides, all this cloak and dagger stuff surrounding the screen had started to wear very thin on Marinetti's nerves, as he found himself slowly reaching the point of not caring about the consequences of his recent illegal action any more.

He was suddenly aware of someone standing next to his desk.

‘More coffee?' asked Nicola Dolci, looking at the splashes on the desk.

38

The stage area at the
istituto
was a hive of activity, in the centre of which stood the Contessa. As always on such occasions, she was calm and unflappable, yet as firmly in command of her troops as had been any of the famous generals in history.

‘That looks lovely, Tito… The way you have set those lights really gives the impression of sunlight streaming through a big window and into a room.'

Tito Viale smiled. He was happy doing something he loved and had not spared a single second's thought about the fallout he would encounter once he returned home.

‘Actually, I have been helped today by my friend Piero. We work together at the municipal electricity offices and he volunteered to set up the lights for the concert, before he takes his seat in the audience.'

‘That was very generous of him to give up his time for our little concert. Perhaps I can meet him after the performance? How useful it is to have friends like that: friends that offer support and assistance when it is most needed… you and COGOL are very fortunate.' Changing the subject abruptly, the Contessa continued, ‘By the way,
Signor
Orsini mentioned that the
istituto
has installed some new equipment since our last concert.' The Contessa was now making interested, polite conversation. She had no head for the technicalities of electricity, nor of how Tito managed to achieve his magical lighting effects.

‘They have one or two new spotlights up there,' he
replied, pointing up towards the fly bars, from which dangled a selection of theatrical lights, ‘but they usually present only a soloist or possibly two musicians at
their
concerts. They do not have enough lights for a production such as ours. That is why we have to use one or two extra units.'

The Contessa nodded sagely, but very wisely did not attempt to add to Tito's comments.

‘They also have a new lighting board over there. It is very modern and will link all the lighting changes through to a computer, which will control everything. I have been talking to their electrician and he tells me that they should have everything installed and running by our next concert.'

‘Oh … how … modern,' replied the Contessa. ‘Don't make yourself late. You still have to change. If you'll excuse me, I had better just go and quickly check on how they are progressing with the refreshments.' She walked through the empty, darkened auditorium and out through the central door. She crossed the foyer, her sensible heels clicking on the marble, and entered a large salon, which led off to the right. ‘Don't those look absolutely beautiful?' she said, almost cooing with delight at the sight of several large arrangements of flowers and greenery, which were dotted around the room. ‘Gilda has excelled herself … again,' she said, straightening a small printed sign, which read, ‘Gilda Ignazio, Lucca's Florist'.

‘
Buona Sera
,' called Gianni as he entered from a side door, carrying several large flat cardboard boxes, each of which contained a mouth-watering assortment of the best that
Café Alma Arte
could produce. He was followed by Anna, who was similarly laden. Verriano brought up the rear. Like the Contessa, they were all formally dressed: Gianni and Verriano in black slacks and bow ties and Anna in a simple, yet curvaceous, smart black evening dress. The Contessa noticed that Verriano was wearing trainers instead
of black shoes. It would not matter, as he would be stationed behind one of the tables during the interval. She smiled at the thought that he had conformed to the expected norm, whilst at the same time managing to state his independence of youth.
Perhaps he will yet embrace his position in the family business.

‘Put those on the other table,' said Anna as Verriano staggered in carrying the largest pile. ‘
Buona Sera
,' she added, nodding her head at the Contessa once she had deposited her load on the table. ‘Gianni has something to show you.'

‘Oh…?' replied the Contessa. Gianni had moved behind the cloth-covered table and carefully put his load of boxes down. She turned to face him. ‘That sounds intriguing.'

‘I have had an idea,' said Gianni, carefully removing the top box and placing it on the table where the Contessa could better see its contents. ‘The Contessa always asks us for that English
crostata
, which always looks so messy when we cut it into pieces…'

The Contessa smiled encouragingly; quiche had been an indispensable part of any cold buffet in her younger days, but that did not seem to be the case in Italy.

‘I have solved the problem by making very small ones, which do not need to be cut up,' announced Gianni, removing the layer of aluminium foil with a flourish.

‘Goodness me, don't those look delicious … and look at everything else,' beamed the Contessa.

‘Shall we put the wine on the table at the back of the room?' asked Anna, her hands free once again. ‘They have stacked the cartons of bottles there … and the glasses,' she said, gesturing.

‘I think that is a splendid idea, my dear,' said the Contessa, turning to look at the wall of cartons, each emblazoned with the Capezzani-Batelli logo and the legend,
Vino della Villa Batelli
, in large letters. ‘Splendid, everyone…
Well done to you all!' she said, applauding softly. ‘They will shortly be letting the audience into the auditorium to take their seats,' she continued, glancing down at her watch. COGOL concerts always commenced at seven-thirty. ‘I had better go and see how everyone is doing in the green room. It is already just past seven o'clock…'

She retraced her steps through the foyer, which was already starting to fill with concert-goers. She recognized one or two and smiled acknowledgement at others, before once again entering the auditorium. Halfway down the aisle she paused, taking in the effect of the simple set of chairs, table and brocade-draped screen. She thought how charming it all looked, basking in Tito's lighting.

‘You would have been so proud of everyone, my darling,' she muttered as her hand unconsciously went to the gold locket around her neck.

For the second time in as many minutes, she had been returned to her past and the things she had lost. The wine reminded her of the disaster of their life out at the villa and the locket was her most precious reminder of her husband. Both had left a void in her, which her music almost – but not quite – filled.

Time marches on and so must we
, she determined, patting the locket once more and then renewing her progress backstage towards the green room.

39

The green room was a large room located just behind the stage area, containing some chairs and three small tables, together with a single, full-length mirror, which was mounted on the wall next to the door.

Renata di Senno had balanced her vanity mirror on one of the small tables and was attending to last-minute adjustments to her make-up. At the same time, she kept one eye on Julietta Camore, who was pacing up and down, holding her score of
Lucia
in front of her. Every few steps she cast a furtive glance at COGOL's principal soprano. The barely controlled animosity that had been simmering between the two for months had now almost reached boiling point. As far as Julietta was concerned, the business of the
O don fatale
aria had seen to that.

Maria Santini, her ample form tastefully encased in a flowing gown of dark, iridescent navy blue, was sitting in one of the corners, her eyes closed. She was swaying backwards and forwards gently as she hummed her way through Dalila's aria. She wore a matching pair of enamelled, drop earrings, which swayed regally from front to back as she did so. None of the other COGOL members knew anything of the previous day's crisis of confidence in her top-floor apartment.

Riccardo Fossi looked every inch the male centre-spread in his bow tie and evening suit, which was such a snug fit that it looked as if it had been sprayed on, accenting all the right curves and bulges. In fact, as he crossed to the bottles
of water that the Contessa had thoughtfully placed on the second table, Renata had been so distracted by the vision in her mirror that she had had to use a tissue to wipe away the ragged line of mascara that had missed her bottom eyelid by a mile.

‘Do you want some?' he asked as he opened one of the water bottles.

Amilcare Luchetti, who had seated his substantial bulk precariously on one of the chairs next to the table, raised a hand in refusal. His jaw was moving as he kept his glance firmly on the score of Verdi's
Simon Boccanegra
, his eyes half closed.

He must be silently mouthing his way through
‘Il Lacerato Spirito'.
You'd think that after the number of times he's sung it that wouldn't be necessary
, thought Fossi unkindly.
Never mind about the spirit; it's that evening suit that's going to be badly lacerated if he gets any fatter!

Fossi had very little time for those of his sex whom he regarded as not being as perfectly built as he was. He turned away from the table and strolled back across the room. What he did not see was that Amilcare Luchetti quickly popped a handful of cashew nuts into his mouth and started chewing them gently. He had secreted the packet on his lap, under the discreet cover of his open score, and the enjoyment of its contents was what had caused him to half close his eyes.

‘Good evening, everyone. Where shall I sit? Anywhere?' asked a voice that spoke Italian with the accent of someone newly arrived in the country. Yvonne Buckingham literally bounced into the subdued atmosphere of the green room and almost collided with Riccardo Fossi as he returned from the water table. Automatically he reached out, took her in his arms and steadied her. Renata saw this unintended intimacy in her make-up mirror and immediately had to face her old spectres of jealousy and anger. As if to
emphasize the point, her hand, suddenly freed from her concentration, slipped and traced a line of deep red where it should not have been. Whilst never taking her glare from the alarming image in her mirror, once again she was obliged to fumble with a tissue, this time to remove the red lipstick from her front teeth.

‘Good evening, Miss Buckingham,' said Fossi in perfect English, his teeth flashing white as his smile broadened. ‘I was beginning to think that you might not be joining us this evening,' he continued, every inch the
roué
.

Prior to the appearance of Miss Buckingham he had been eyeing Renata's back, exposed as it was by her very low-cut evening gown; he had also been fantasising on the promising shape of her breasts, raised as they were by the wiring in the gown's built-in support.

‘And may I say how charming you look this evening,' he continued seductively, in response to the sensual pleasure of touching Yvonne's alabaster skin. He flicked a glance down and realized that her breasts were certainly not in need of any wiring support. Then he released his supporting grip and took her hand in his before kissing it.

‘How kind you are,' the young lady replied, ‘but I really do need the practice in Italian.' He smiled and bowed slightly. ‘Do we sit anywhere?' she continued, switching to Italian.

‘Anywhere at all,' replied Fossi, who was about to escort her to one of the empty chairs when Renata suddenly turned in her seat.

‘Riccardo, would you be a darling and open this for me please. It seems to be stuck.'

Fossi crossed the room to Renata's table, but he paid more attention to where Yvonne Buckingham had settled herself. Before he could make a comment to the effect that the lid of the jar had not been stuck at all, the Contessa entered the room.

‘
Toi Toi Toi
, everyone,' she said. ‘The auditorium is filling nicely and we must soon commence. Remember to enjoy yourselves and just think of the music.' As she spoke, she moved around the room touching each of her angels in turn on the arm or shoulder. It was almost like a pontifical blessing, an acknowledgement that they had all done their best and that the ultimate outcome of that evening's performance was now well and truly in the lap of the gods. ‘We have some very important people with us tonig –' The Contessa suddenly stopped as she drew level with Yvonne Buckingham.

‘Good evening, Contessa,' said the young English Rose, smiling.

The Contessa smiled back; Fossi also smiled; Renata banged the box of tissues down on the table with unnecessary force.

‘My goodness… How
lovely
you look, my dear,' said the Contessa, ‘and what a … lovely dress.' She had not missed the fact that the diaphanous gown did not leave too much to the imagination. Neither could she remember such vivid slashes of highlights in the young woman's hair from the previous evening's rehearsal. ‘Charming,' she said as she reached out to pat her newest recruit's shoulder and then thought better of it, taking her hand instead. ‘I hope you enjoy your first concert with us,' she concluded, smiling warmly into Yvonne's eyes as she did so. With experience, this young lady would learn about the proper dress code to be observed for a COGOL concert.

‘And now I must go and prepare myself at the piano,' announced the Contessa as she completed her circuit of the room and found herself once more at the door. ‘Another ten minutes and then we must start,' she said and turned to leave. Then she stopped and turned back into the room. ‘Where is Gregorio?' she asked, looking at everybody.

‘He will be here directly,' said Tito Viale, who had shed
the work clothes he had worn to set the lights and now appeared looking very dapper in the regulation evening suit. ‘He telephoned me a few minutes ago and said that he was held up – a traffic jam or something.' Viale did not say that Marinetti had sounded extremely stressed and had spoken in short, almost incoherent phrases. He also did not say that Marinetti had asked – insisted – that Tito help him with an exchange of something before the concert began. At that moment in the conversation, a car horn had blared repeatedly at Marinetti's end and had obscured what had been said. Marinetti had hung up.

‘As long as he is all right,' said the Contessa, concern showing on her face.