Errant Angels (5 page)

7

The vestibule outside the reception rooms in the Contessa's apartment positively reverberated with the sound of the emotionally charged duet,
‘Verranno a te sull'aure'
from
Lucia di Lammermoor.
The rehearsal for next week's concert was underway and, by the sound of it, Renata di Senno and Riccardo Fossi were running through one of the items on the programme. Their considerable vocal talents were doing justice to this passionate operatic farewell.

Standing outside the music room, Gregorio Marinetti paused to listen to his fellow artistes and to catch his breath. He had been let into the apartment, on its lower level, by the Contessa's faithful retainer and personal maid, Elizabeth McGraunch, who had greeted him with the sharp side of her tongue for being late. He chose to ignore her and swept in up the stairs: after the difficult day he had just endured, he was in no mood to explain anything to the domestic member of this household.

In the later part of that afternoon, Marinetti had telephoned the Contessa in a very flustered state, to offer his profuse apologies that he would be running late as he had an urgent delivery to make, but that he would attend the rehearsal as soon as possible. The Contessa thanked him for his politeness in advising her and mentioned that she had something to speak to him about after the rehearsal. Safe in the knowledge that the screen was out of his shop and was secured in his lockup away from prying eyes, he could now
look forward to singing at this evening's rehearsal; this was his comfort blanket and it was very much needed after a stressful afternoon dealing with what amounted to a stolen antique.

As Donizetti's music permeated his brain, he truly started to relax as the duet drew to its conclusion.
I'll stay here until they finish, before entering the room
, he decided.
It would be impolite to do otherwise.

Elizabeth was heard puffing up the stairs to this level of the apartment muttering under her breath. Marinetti had left her at the entrance door engaged in some dispute with two children who were playing outside the apartment. From this viewpoint, he could see the strange, flattened cloth-cap affair she wore on the top of her head. It was held in place by two ribbons, which met in a mangled bow under her chin. She had never been seen by visitors to the apartment without this curious piece of headgear. At first glance it resembled the little white lace cloth worn by the aging Queen Victoria, but on closer inspection, which was rather dangerous and always best carried out surreptitiously, it was a formless piece of material, which had long since lost the identifiable structure of its original construction. It was also more grey than white.

Arriving on the top step, and still wheezing from the climb, she motioned Marinetti towards the music room and gasped, ‘Herself was beginning to think you weren't going to appear, so she was.'

They spoke English – she in her fractured and often tortuously distorted brand of Irish–English and he in his considerably more fluent Italian–English: Miss McGraunch had never concerned herself with learning Italian, despite having lived in Italy for over fifty years. Elzeebit, as she pronounced her own name, held the belief that anything worth saying should only be said in English – Irish–English at that.

‘I prefer to wait,' replied Marinetti, wanting to remain where he was so that he might hear how Renata and Riccardo would manage their respective top Cs in the
cadenza
towards the end of the duet.

‘Nonsense,' Elizabeth said dismissively as she shot past him. Grasping the handles of the music room doors, she flung them open with a crash and with her usual acerbic turn of phrase, brought the rehearsal to a standstill by announcing, ‘Him what wasn't here is here now and he's saying he is putting on
weight
, but I told him that's not an excuse.'

Riccardo and Renata, who had been on the cusp of climaxing, musically, whilst ‘
proclaiming their sorrow at their impending parting
' now floundered to a halt. The resultant sound of gasps, flat notes and expletives, certainly never envisaged by Donizetti, now echoed around the room. The other artistes in the room had been gathered in an informal laager around the Steinway grand piano and, as true musicians, had been totally immersed in the music that was being performed. Awakened from that spell, they now all gazed in astonishment at the scene enacted before them in the doorway.

‘Weight?' repeated the Contessa from her position at the piano's keyboard. ‘What weight?'

‘Contessa, I merely said I wanted to wait until the duet had finished … I am mortified by the interruption, my apologies to you all,' Marinetti babbled. ‘Riccardo, … what can I say … Renata, … I'm sure that top note would have been … won…derful… It must have been a misunderstanding, but I spoke English to…' He gestured discreetly with his chin to the right, to where Elizabeth was standing.

‘I'll be putting on the kettle for tea,' continued Elizabeth, oblivious to the mayhem she had caused.

‘Thank you, Elizabeth,' said the Contessa, still not totally clear as to the significance of what either her faithful
retainer or Marinetti had said. ‘I think we need to do some work first, so we'll have our tea a little later.'

The others drew closer to the piano, laying their music scores on top of it.

‘We've a little bit of the cake you brought back from
Almartyr's.
And there might be some of those nut
briskets
, too. Will that do?' asked Elizabeth, pausing in the still-opened doorway, eyeing the Contessa with a pained look of tolerance. ‘'Tis all that's left from the box. He had a good mouthful of it before I was stoppin' him,' she said, pointing an arthritic finger at Carlo, who was seated on one of the Louis Quatorze chairs close to the fireplace. Carlo snarled back at her quietly. ‘I told him he was
disbehavus
, but he's not after listening to Elzeebit … never has.'

There were those who could be forgiven for thinking that Elizabeth was a direct descendant of Mrs Malaprop: so obtuse was the meaning behind her pronouncements at times. Over the years, the Contessa had become acclimatized to this and paid little heed, accepting it as normal
lingua franca
between them. For others, particularly those with English not as their first language, Elizabeth's way of talking was unfathomable.

Renata di Senno, the leading soprano of the Chamber Opera Group of Lucca – or COGOL as the Contessa affectionately referred to her pride and joy – suddenly caught a whiff of something that offended her finely shaped Tuscan nose. She leaned forward, picked up her score from the piano and moved from her position near the fireplace to one further away from the source of the sudden stench of rotten eggs.

‘The bloody dog's farted again,' she mouthed as she walked behind Gregorio Marinetti. Protected by his customary screen of cologne, he had not noticed. He had calmed down a little since the episode with Elizabeth, but his feet were still a little moist with the nerves he was experiencing
since he had taken delivery of the screen. ‘It is always the same,' she continued, speaking
sotto voce
, with exaggerated mouth movement; ‘you don't have to wait for the break for the little rat to make a good fart.'

‘What was that, Renata?' asked the Contessa, who had seen her mouth moving but had not actually heard anything.

‘Contessa, I was simply saying that we are ready to make a good start … with our next piece.'

‘
Brava
, Renata. You are absolutely correct. We should always maintain a positive attitude. That's what my dear Giacomo used to say.' She paused and touched the small, engraved locket, which hung around her neck. ‘So, now that Gregorio is with us, let us commence,' she continued, suddenly once again in charge of the rehearsal from her position at the keyboard. ‘Let us begin exactly at the introduction… Two bars and then …' She nodded her head to indicate the entry point of the vocal lines. The members of COGOL drew closer to the Steinway, focussed on their scores and mentally prepared themselves to tackle the sextet from Donizetti's
Lucia di Lammermoor.
‘As you might remember, our new member, Yvonne Buckingham, will be joining us for her first COGOL concert next Friday evening. This evening, however, she's going to be a little late, as she has to attend a parents' evening at the International School in Pisa. She will join us as soon as she can.'

Yvonne Buckingham, a petite, delicate English Rose, had only been in Italy for ten months. She had heard of the Contessa from her sister, who had recently graduated as a violinist from the Royal Academy, where the memory of Professor Giacomo di Capezzani-Batelli was still very much alive in the Department of Vocal Studies. Unlike her sister, Yvonne had no formal musical training; she was just blessed with the gift of a glorious soprano voice. She had attended
teacher training college and was a holder of the TEFL qualification, which allowed her to teach English as a Foreign Language in Pisa.

‘In the meantime, let us commence. I will fill in Yvonne's part,' said the Contessa.

The room filled again with music made by aged fingers tripping lightly across the ivory keys and the subsequent singing from the opera group rising to match the magnificent, but faded, glory of the room itself. Although the combined talents of the pianist and of the singers now splendidly filled the space with sound, the focus of the music room remained on the Steinway grand piano that represented the undying love of a husband and wife.
Il Conte
had given the piano to his wife when they arrived in Italy and had taken up residence in the
Villa Batelli.
Since then it had been moved to various homes they had shared until it had accompanied her to the apartment when she had been widowed. It was now carefully positioned between two large, luxuriously curtained French windows and was a constant reminder of a wonderful and loving musical partnership. Accordingly, it was polished daily by the Contessa in homage to its beauty and its memories. In contrast, close inspection of the windows' formal decoration revealed that the generous swags and tails were laced with what looked suspiciously like cobwebs. Instead of detracting from the setting they somehow managed to add to the patina and stability of the Contessa's home.

A large portrait in oils, encased in the confines of an ornate and heavily gilded frame, beamed down approvingly from its place above the mantelpiece.
Il Conte Professore
Giacomo di Capezzani-Batelli, the Contessa's late, much-loved husband and one-time Professor of Voice at both the
Istituto Musicale Luigi Boccherini
in Lucca and London's Royal Academy of Music, watched with varnished satisfaction
as the music flowed. Like almost everything else in the apartment he was a lingering relic of an earlier time and, like the heavy brocade that grandly draped and swaged the windows, he too was gently encased in a filigree of cobwebs. Elizabeth had never taken positively to the skills of wielding a feather duster – or any duster, for that matter. A cursory flick with a cloth and the occasional wheezy blow, ineffectual at best, was as good as things got. Over the passing years, her already short stature had become even shorter due to the curvature of her spine. As a result, anything above head height stood very little chance of being assessed as a job opportunity. For his part, suspended in semi-majesty against the wall, high above the large marble fireplace,
Il Conte
had long ago resigned himself to never being freed from the gentle spidery embrace that enfolded his upper regions.

The room fell silent as the last notes of the sextet died away into the late afternoon. The Contessa's music room became, once again, an oasis of calm and serenity; a monument to the cultural passion she and her husband had shared. The position of the apartment ensured that the bright Tuscan sunlight never reached the sacred confines of the Steinway and it was only at this time of day, when the subdued tinges of the fading light reflected off the buildings opposite, that the colours of the floor rugs began to glow.

‘
Bravi, angeli miei
… that was beautiful,' said the Contessa, beaming with enjoyment. ‘Such phrasing and breath control. You have remembered what we practised at our last rehearsal very well.' She always referred to her singers as her angels. It was a sincerely meant, warm term of deep affection. ‘Did I tell you about my plans for our next project?' she said suddenly.

Carlo shifted his position, snorted and let out a couple of growls. Renata di Senno, who had removed herself to a
safer distance on the other side of the piano to Carlo, glared at him.

‘Fart?' she mouthed to Riccardo Fossi, who stood opposite her, perilously close to the chair and belligerent canine.

‘What?' he mouthed back, his brow furrowed.

‘The dog; has it farted again?' She tried to communicate her question through a combination of exaggerated mouth movements and glaring eyes, which bulged in the dog's direction.

Riccardo shook his head – he couldn't smell anything.

‘My poor Renata,' said the Contessa, who had changed her score to Flotow's opera
Martha.
She had caught sight of the end of Renata's mouth aerobics as she did so. ‘Is your jaw no better? You sang “Lucia” most beautifully just now, my dear. I do hope your jaw problem isn't about to return, not with our concert so close.'

For a moment, Renata completely lost the thread of the Contessa's question, as her attention was still divided between Riccardo and the dog. ‘Pardon, Contessa?' she asked.

‘Your jaw; is it starting to trouble you again?' asked the Contessa, her face clouded with concern. The next COGOL concert was in just eight days' time and as usual, the ticket sales had been brisk. She could not afford to have any of her angels fall out at this late stage.

‘Oh… I see… No, not at all. I was simply performing a few stretching exercises. The Contessa is most kind for asking.'