Errant Angels (25 page)

40

The first half of the concert had gone extremely well. The singing had been beautiful and the Contessa's solo contribution at the piano – her own Liszt-like fantasy on themes from the ‘
Intermezzo
' and ‘Easter Hymn' in Mascagni's
Cavalleria Rusticana
had also been well received. Her angels were enjoying their well-deserved refreshments in the green room and the Contessa was pressing the flesh in the salon.

‘A good concert again. I hope the Contessa is pleased?' asked
Signor
Orsini. ‘I'm sure that the Contessa has met
Signor
Bruschetti – the manager of the
Teatro del Giglio
?'

She had.

‘When are you going to present one of your concerts at the theatre?' he asked. ‘Oh … it's quite all right; Orsini and I often work together. There is no bad blood between us…'

‘Well done,
cara
, it is going very well and there are many favourable comments,' said Luigi, appearing at her side and kissing his mother on the cheek.

‘Luigi dear, how smart you look in your evening suit,' she replied and in her turn, she kissed her son on his cheek. There was no hint of embarrassment about either action; it was merely a gesture of mutual support and affection. ‘My dear, I want you to meet
Signor
Bruschetti from the
Teatro del Giglio…
And, of course,
Signor
Orsini you already know.'

Pleasantries were exchanged, which gave the Contessa time to wonder when her son was going to find a companion
to accompany him to these splendid occasions. She fully realized that she would not be there forever.

‘So … would the Contessa consider mounting a concert at my theatre?' continued
Signor
Bruschetti.

The Contessa inclined her head slightly in understanding. ‘It is, indeed, strange that you should raise the subject,
Signor
Bruschetti. Very recently I have been considering the possibility of COGOL working with a group of instrumentalists on a concert. It is just an idea at present, but who knows…?' They continued chatting for another couple of minutes. Suddenly catching sight of Nicola Dolci shimmering in silver under the chandelier in the middle of the salon and surrounded by several admirers, the Contessa's attention was drawn to the two Australian backpackers who were standing on the edge of the crowd, talking to Roberta from the Tourist Information Office. ‘Would you excuse me, please, gentlemen? I have just seen some people I simply have to talk to. I will see you shortly,' she concluded, patting Luigi on his arm before picking her way through the crowd in the salon, waving at Nicola as she went.

By the time the Contessa had worked her way through the throng, Roberta had disappeared to speak to some other friends and the two young visitors were left finishing off their plates of the delicious canapés provided by
Café Alma Arte
. ‘Hello! How are you both?' she asked as she stood in front of Jez and Victoria, both of whom had nearly emptied their plates. The crumbs left behind amply testified to the amount of food they had eaten. ‘Are you enjoying yourselves?'

‘Hello… Yeah, just fine, thanks. The music's not bad. Never really been to one of these classical concerts before,' said Jez, whose mouth just happened to be almost empty when the Contessa appeared. ‘The food's great, too.'

‘Hi,' added Victoria, who had just swallowed her mouthful. ‘Thanks ever so much, but we're right down the front
and they've been giving us funny looks. We feel a bit uncomfortable.'

The Contessa wasn't at all sure what that meant, but surmised it had something to do with the casual way in which they were dressed. Jeans, T-shirt and a tie-dyed top were hardly the usual dress code. The
Lucchese
could be sticklers for protocol at times.

‘What?' she asked.

‘I don't think we're dressed well enough for them,' said Jez. ‘We didn't pack our evening wear 'cos we never thought we'd be invited to anything so grand,' he continued, almost apologetically, a laugh hidden in the end of his sentence.

‘Nonsense, my dears!' said the Contessa kindly. ‘You are both here as my special guests – to enjoy the music and that is the important thing. It doesn't really matter what the rest of them think,' she continued, her eyes sparkling their defiance. ‘I must circulate for a while… It's important to speak to everyone, you understand. Wait for me here at the end of the interval. The three of us will make a grand, slow progress down the aisle to your seats.'

At the same time that the Contessa was talking to the two backpackers in the salon, Gregorio Marinetti was on the stage struggling with the screen. Before the concert he had only just made it to the
istituto
in the nick of time. He had been preceded into the green room by a very strong smell of
Aqua di Parma
eau de toilette – his ‘spray
de jour
', as Renata had sarcastically remarked a couple of rehearsals before. He had followed the fragrance into the room and because he seemed totally preoccupied and distracted, he had largely ignored everyone. Riccardo Fossi had been about to make a suitably cutting remark about this, but before he could do so, Marinetti had deposited a large carrier bag on the floor and had left the room without a word to anyone, almost as quickly as he had entered it a
few moments before. Out of curiosity, Fossi had peeped into Marinetti's bag and poked at the contents with the fountain pen he always carried ready for any autograph hunters.

‘We could be in for an interesting concert,' he had muttered as he stood up and put the pen back in his inside jacket pocket. ‘A lot of cloth and some bubble wrap. Really! The things people carry about with them…'

Marinetti's contribution to the first half of the concert had gone well enough, but there were some barely disguised looks of concern amongst the other singers during the
Martha
quartet, as well as during the more taxing one from
Rigoletto.

‘I hope he pulls himself together before his
Toreador Song
,' muttered Fossi just before the interval, ‘otherwise he could find himself on the horns of a dilemma, if he forgets himself.'

There had been no response to his pun.

Whilst Julietta Camore and Maria Santini sang the ‘Flower Duet' from Delibes's
Lakmé
, which was the last item on the programme before the interval, back in the green room, Yvonne Buckingham had relaxed somewhat and was laughing, engaged in a conversation with Amilcare Luchetti. Renata di Senno was also engaged in a conversation, but one that seemed far more earnest and animated. She had gone into a rugby-like scrum with Riccardo Fossi. In the lavatory, Gregorio Marinetti had cornered Tito Viale and was insistent that he help him.

‘It is a matter of life and death,' Marinetti had said, not totally untruthfully, ‘and you have to help me. That's why I phoned you. We have to exchange the screen on the stage for the other one – the hospital one propped up in the wings. I can't do it quickly enough on my own.'

‘What is so important about an old screen that y –'

‘Trust me, you would not believe me if I told you … which I cannot do,' continued Marinetti, his voice a rasping whisper. ‘If we both do it, nobody will think anything of it; it is just like changing the scenery. It has to be repositioned for the second act anyway … and if we throw that piece of cloth over the hospital screen in its new position, everything will look perfectly normal and natural.'

‘Well … if you are sure that –'

‘At the interval, which should be somewhere around a quarter past eight, I have to…' He stopped in mid-sentence. ‘The exchange has to be done during the interval,' he repeated, ‘then you have to help me carry the bloody thing to the back entrance.' Marinetti was sweating quite profusely and he had not yet sung his first solo.

‘But why does it have to go to the ba –'

‘Will you help me … pleeease?' Marinetti sounded as desperate as he had begun to look.
And just stop asking bloody questions
, he thought behind the pained expression on his face.

Tito Viale stood looking at Gregorio for what seemed an eternity. ‘Okay,' he said as he turned on the tap to wash his hands.

The interval had barely commenced before Gregorio strode across the stage towards the screen.

‘Come on,' he hissed at Tito Viale, who was a couple of paces behind him.

They were no more than halfway across the stage when a mobile phone rang. The sound of the ringtone was barely muffled by the fabric of the trouser pocket in which it lay.

‘Whose is that?' snapped Gregorio. He knew it wasn't his.

‘Sorry, Gregorio, I have to take this… It is Letizia; something could be wrong with the kids.'

‘Oh, for fuck's sake, Tito; get your priorities right for
a change!' shouted Gregorio, without thinking. There was the faintest of echoes from the auditorium, but as Marinetti was relieved to note, most of the audience had already adjourned to the refreshments in the salon. ‘Wait… Can't you phone her back?' he hissed in Viale's direction, but the henpecked husband had already disappeared, on his way to the privacy of the passageway outside the green room.

‘Shit! Well, sod you then,' muttered Gregorio to himself angrily. ‘I'll do the bloody thing myself.'

He retraced his steps to the wings, collected the hospital screen and marched back across the stage to place it in position for the second half. It stood in line with the von Hohenwald screen and much further downstage of it. He had no sooner opened the hospital screen and blanched at the truly hideous fabric which covered it, than a voice called to him with some considerable authority from the floor level behind him.

‘
Signor
Marinetti!'

Gregorio wheeled around and stared out into the auditorium's interval lighting.

‘
Signor
Marinetti!' repeated the voice.

Gregorio looked down in the direction from which it had come. Then the blood in his veins froze.

‘A pleasant evening of music, so far,' said Inspector Michele Conti. ‘May I introduce my wife?'

Marinetti had no idea what the inspector said next as he was far too busy trying to open the hospital screen to its furthest extent, before this annoying policeman saw around it and noticed the dangerous object further upstage.

‘The pattern on that fabric does seem a little out of character with the rest of the setting,' Marinetti heard the inspector saying.

‘Er … yes … well … we can throw something over it,' mumbled Marinetti.

‘I'm back,' said Tito Viale from the other side of the
screen. The situation had deteriorated to something out of the plot of a baroque opera. Marinetti found himself caught between the law on one side and the presence of emasculated manhood on the other.

‘Please don't let us keep you from your task,' called up the inspector. ‘I can see you have to prepare for the second half. Thank you once again. Goodbye,
Signor
Marinetti.'

Gregorio let the inspector and his wife walk almost to the top of the aisle before he turned to Tito. ‘Get the cloth off the other screen,' he hissed, ‘quickly.'

‘That's a very ugly piece of furniture,' said Tito Viale as he handed the length of blue brocade to Gregorio. ‘I wouldn't give you two euros for it.'

So much you know
, thought Marinetti as he hid the offending pattern of the hospital screen under the brocade. He stood back to admire his handiwork, which was not as well arranged as he would have done it in the shop, but it would do. ‘Right!' he snapped. ‘Let's take the other one away, and we need to be very careful with it. I've brought cloths and wrappings in a bag – they're in the green room. I'll pick them up on the way to the back door,' he said, looking at his watch. It was just before 8.25 p.m.

41

The second half of the concert was going to start with Gregorio Marinetti's rendition of the ‘Toreador Song' from Bizet's
Carmen.
The Contessa always stuck to her principle that her angels should sing whatever solos they themselves selected, but over the last week, she had begun to regret this.

Despite a concerted effort executed in the best diplomatic way, she had failed to dissuade Gregorio from settling on this particular aria. It was, after all, one of his party pieces, but she felt that he needed to broaden his repertoire and sing something new. There was also the festering problem of Maria Santini's association with Bizet's masterpiece; an association that was very definitely best avoided at the moment. As an alternative she had suggested Barnaba's lilting aria from
La Giaconda
, but to no avail. In fact, she had become more than just a little concerned when he had seemed to ignore her and had acted as if he had neither heard her nor understood what it was she was trying to accomplish.

Oh dear
, she had thought as they drank their tea during a break in rehearsal,
I hope I haven't pushed him too far; he seems to be a long, long way away. Perhaps he is too preoccupied with his problems to understand
. The Contessa did not know the accuracy of her supposition.
And I just cannot tell him the reason why I would like him to choose something else
, she continued to think, the smile on her face hiding what she felt
about the awkwardness of the situation.
That would be most improper. I'm sure that Maria would not like the matter discussed openly.

Eventually, the Contessa had thought of a simple solution: she rearranged the items in the second half, to give Maria Santini a long break from the stage, so that she could stay in the green room and out of earshot during the singing of something which, the Contessa feared, might just cause the reappearance of her earlier problems. Seeing that one of the two highlights in the second half was a lengthy excerpt from the first act of
Hänsel und Gretel
, in which Maria was going to sing the important role of the mother, keeping her well away from anything that might rekindle the destructive thoughts of her imagined trauma was of the utmost importance. As it was, the Contessa was only too aware that they had to survive the possible after-effect on Maria's nervous system of her rendition of Dalila's famous aria earlier in the programme.

And so it was that, with Maria Santini safely ensconced in the green room and Tito Viale's additional lighting correctly set, Gregorio Marinetti was to be found pacing slowly up and down in the wings, waiting for his cue to enter as the self-centred, egocentric bullfighter: characteristics which were largely true to life in Marinetti's case. There was, however, something different about him – he looked taller and, for the first time in days, he was smiling to himself as he hummed his way softly through the music.

‘
In bocca al lupo
,' said Yvonne Buckingham, leaning up close to his ear to offer him the traditional Italian wish for a good performance. ‘Back in England we would say “Break a leg”,' she added, smiling.

‘In Italy we reply “
Crepi il lupo
”,' answered Marinetti.

Yvonne Buckingham's knowledge of Italian, good as it was, had not yet grown to encompass the peculiarities of
certain colloquialisms. She looked mystified, as she had heard the whispered reply as ‘Crap
il lupo
'.

‘It means, I wish it could die,' he whispered, ‘and it comes from the story of
Cappuccetto Rosso
.'

‘Oh, I understand,' said Buckingham, smiling and folding her hands behind her back. ‘We call that Little Red Riding Hood.'

Whether by intention or not, she had presented Marinetti with a largely exposed pair of firm, well-formed breasts. She had obviously not yet deduced that his preference lay elsewhere.

‘Please excuse me, but I must focus my thoughts … on the aria,' he said as he turned away from her and continued his pacing.

‘Are you looking forward to your solo?' purred a voice behind her, almost from the curve of her shoulder. It was so unexpected that it caused her to start.

‘Oh! Who's that?' she said, jumping slightly. This action caused her breasts to bounce – something which was not lost on Riccardo Fossi, who stood a good head taller than she did.

‘It is only I … Riccardo,' continued the voice, its practised silkiness folding itself around her.

‘You gave me a fright,' she said.

‘That was not my intention,' he replied, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

‘I really enjoyed your aria from
Tosca
,' replied Yvonne, whispering to him over her shoulder. From the auditorium, the sounds of the returning audience indicated the end of the interval.

‘“
E lucevan le stelle
” – the out-pouring of one so in love … so … overcome with
desire
…' he paused to let the stress he had put on the last word sink in.

‘It is a very moving melody … full of pathos. I could hear the passion in your voice,' she replied.

Fossi was encouraged by her response. His hand moved a little higher up her shoulder. ‘The aria you are going to sing is also full of romantic yearning … of urgency. It is a beautiful aria, like “
E lucevan le stelle
”; it is also about love. So emotional…' Fossi was getting into his stride. He hoped that Renata would not appear and spoil his progress. He thought that highly unlikely as they had already had one heated conversation in the green room and she was now sulking. He had been in this position before and knew how to handle both her and the situation, which did not necessarily mean he had to rein in his ambition in other directions – it simply required good judgement and a certain amount of cool manipulation.

Yvonne Buckingham, who, it should be said, harboured no objections to the presence of a hand on her petite shoulder, now turned her head to see Fossi's handsome face looming over it.

‘It is very beautiful. I hope that I can do it justice,' she replied, turning to look ahead once again, towards where Marinetti was still pacing, humming quietly to himself. He reached the furthest point of his pacing and turned, and slowly approached them again. As he did so, Yvonne Buckingham's mouth dropped open. On his left-hand side, clearly visible under the unbuttoned evening jacket and running from the inside of his thigh to well over halfway up to his waist, was a large bulge. Despite her lack of years, Yvonne Buckingham, the delicate English Rose, was no stranger to that part of the male anatomy that usually gave rise to a protuberance of this nature. But she had never seen one quite as large as this.

‘Would you throw yourself into the Arno for the sake of love?' whispered Fossi, paying the approaching Marinetti no attention.

‘Good God!' replied Buckingham.

‘Are you a religious person?' asked Fossi, innocently
pursuing his familiar path towards ultimate female conquest.

‘Is that for real?' she continued, lapsing into English.

‘It is a story of young love meeting a little parental opposition. Such a situation often arises in Italy,' continued Fossi, who had switched to English. ‘It is quite common.'

‘It must be the sunshine and red wine that does it,' she continued in awe.

‘It is the hot blood of the Italians,' replied Fossi.

And there must be quite a lot of it, to fill that
, thought Yvonne. She was prevented from saying so out loud by the sudden appearance of the Contessa, who had safely deposited the two Australians in their seats. She was now ready to commence the second half of the programme.

‘Are we ready to start again? Gregorio, you're first. Then you and Tito in the
Bohème
duet.' She nodded at Tito Viale, who had just joined the group. ‘And are you ready for your debut, my dear?' she continued, smiling encouragingly at the English Rose. ‘“
O mio babino, caro
” is one of their real favourites. They'll love it … especially when it is sung by someone who looks as pretty as you do this evening,' she continued, avoiding looking at the exposed cleavage.

Riccardo Fossi had managed to remove his hand before the Contessa could catch sight of it and was now busy clearing his throat.

‘If the Contessa is ready then I too am prepared,' announced Gregorio Marinetti as he reached the little knot of COGOL artistes. He seemed to have grown a little and had a decided spring in his step.

‘Goodness … yes, then let us perform,' she answered, somewhat taken aback by the sudden transformation in Marinetti's demeanour and outlook. ‘I will play the introduction and then you are on … as usual,' she said as she turned to resume her place at the piano.

‘Absolutely as usual,' he replied, beaming.

The Contessa was about to leave the cover of the wings when she suddenly stopped, turned and retraced her steps. Fossi removed his hand from the English Rose's appealing shoulder for the second time that evening and was, once again, clearing his throat.

‘I almost forgot to remind you about the change in our running order for this half … as we discussed at last night's rehearsal,' whispered the Contessa. ‘After the
Bohème
we perform the
Cosi
trio. Yvonne, my dear, that's you, Julietta and Amilcare. Riccardo, you won't forget to make sure that everyone is ready in the wings in good time, will you?'

‘Please consider the matter already accomplished,' he replied gallantly. Yvonne Buckingham found both his close proximity and the sensation of being enfolded in the warmth of his voice not unpleasant.

‘Good, my angels, then let us proceed,' concluded the Contessa as she once again turned and started to walk towards the stage. As she did so, her mind dwelt for a second on the words of the Trio from Mozart's
Cosi fan Tutte
– ‘
Soave sia il vento
': May the breeze blow gently and may everything be calm. She smiled to herself as she walked into the glare of the stage lights.
That is not a bad wish to make
, she savoured.

As the Contessa crossed to the front of the stage to descend the steps to floor level and resume her place behind the keyboard, she was greeted by a crescendo of applause from the appreciative audience. She was helped down the short flight of steps by Luigi, who was standing waiting for her. This was a tradition of many years standing and it had become a bond, which drew the two of them together. The Contessa knew that she could never share her son's world of medical practice, but he was more than welcome to share in her precious world of music.

‘They will applaud even louder for your solo,' whispered
Fossi, his hand once again in the preamble-to-seduction position.

‘They are enjoying our efforts. Listen to that,' whispered Marinetti, who was standing in front of Yvonne Buckingham, waiting to make his entrance. As he spoke, he smiled at Fossi and Buckingham. It occurred to the former that in the last few minutes, Marinetti had probably said more than he had in the past two weeks of rehearsals. The latter was trying very hard not to look down Marinetti's front.

‘I feel that this performance is going to be one of my better ones.'

Neither Fossi nor Buckingham had any idea of just how powerful the presence of well over 250,000 euros, in tightly bound bundles of 500-euro notes, could be on a previously depressed and tormented soul, even if those bundles, in the interests of a secure hiding place, had been shoved into a trouser pocket for safekeeping.