The White Hotel (21 page)

However, she felt happy again, to have cleared this great hurdle with reasonable success. The conductor gave her a satisfied nod; Signor Fontini said “Bravo!” though with a lugubrious expression; and M. Moreau, the leader, tapped the wood of his violin with his bow, to show his approval. Several members of the orchestra clapped briefly, then everyone scattered to get a drink. There was to be another rehearsal in the afternoon. Vera and
Victor invited her to come with them to their favourite little trattoria down a back street, where they could get instant service and good cheap food. Vera said she had no intention of leaving by the midday train; now that she had heard Lisa sing, wild horses would not drag her away from Milan till after tonight’s performance. Victor was obviously overjoyed at her change of plans: in full view of the stage hands he hugged her and kissed her firmly on the lips.

Over a light meal, Lisa asked them for their advice, and they made a few suggestions which struck her as excellent; in fact, she wondered why she had not thought of them herself.

In the midst of their happy and creative discussion, they were upset by the appearance of a gaunt, ragged urchin at their table. He held out his hand for coins. His face was being ravaged by some unsightly disease. Before the waiters could chase him out, Lisa insisted on giving him all the change in her purse. Of all suffering, she could least tolerate the suffering of children. Her new friends agreed with her, sadly; and Victor said,
that
was what was hopeful about the Soviet Union. “It can’t be done overnight, and there are still monstrous inequalities. But we’re heading in the right direction at last.”

Vera agreed; and Lisa listened, impressed by their balanced enthusiasm. They talked on, about music and politics—but mostly music—until it was time to return for the afternoon rehearsal. Vera excused herself, saying she was going back to the hotel to rest. Between Onegin and the former Tatiana there was an amorous scrimmage, which embarrassed Lisa, and she turned away.

When the curtain went up on her first night, she found all her nerves had gone; and no personal feeling intervened when she sang “Happiness was so possible, so close.” Instead, she found
herself responding more and more instinctively and pleasurably to the dramatic voice and gestures of Berenstein. They took their bows to warm, if not tumultuous, applause. Backstage, everyone rushed to congratulate her; but the praise she most appreciated was a silent gesture from Onegin, who crooked his thumb and middle finger into a circle, as if to say, “It worked. We’ll be all right.” She said, with sincerity, how wonderfully he had sung. At the rehearsals she had not been sure how much she liked his voice, but during the actual performance it had “grown” on her. Of course his voice was in its autumn, as surely he knew; but the gravelly edge of physical decline only seemed to add to its spiritual richness. He turned her praise aside, with a shrug of dissatisfaction. “It’s gone off,” he said. “I can’t reach the top notes any more. This is my swan-song.” But Serebryakova, clutching his arm, said, “Nonsense!”

Bending, he whispered into Lisa’s ear: “We’ve fixed up a little party in our suite. In honour of your first night and Vera’s last. Do come.”
Our
suite! The effrontery took her aback. She preferred these affairs to be carried on with a certain discretion. Gratefully she accepted, beginning to feel (three hours too late, so to speak) the immense strain of the occasion. It would be good to unwind with a drink. So, having changed, they bundled into limousines and were whisked back to the hotel. “Their” suite on the second floor turned out to be even more spacious and elegant, and bedecked with flowers, than her own. Rapidly it filled and became overcrowded; the air thickened with cigarette smoke and the rumble of voices; waiters whisked around with trays of wine.

When she had drunk a couple of glasses, Lisa told Victor how much she had worried about being too old for the part. He roared with laughter; and said his last Tatiana, in Kiev, had had
to be brought on stage in a bath chair! But
he
was certainly the oldest Onegin ever! “You’re just the right age. What are you? Thirty-five, thirty-six? Well, at thirty-nine you’re not even in your prime, not by a long chalk, and you could quite easily pass for an eighteen-year-old girl! Yes, yes, I mean it! But a white-haired old man of fifty-seven, playing a young man of twenty-eight—that really is straining belief! It’s a good thing the Italians are brought up to believe in miracles!” And he roared with laughter again.

Vera glided up, and Lisa explained the joke. “But you’re just a spring chicken, Lisa dear!” said Vera. “Truly, your voice is so much better than when I heard you in Vienna—and I loved it
then
. You
must
come to Kiev, mustn’t she, Victor? I shall tell the director about you as soon as I get home. Of course, he knows your reputation already and I’m sure he’d be thrilled to have you sing for him. You must stay with us. I’m sure we can find room for you, even though”—her green eyes danced—“I’m having a baby! Yes, but it’s a secret. Only you and Victor know, so please don’t tell anyone. That’s why I’m going home—to rest—though I hate leaving Victor. Look after him, won’t you? We’re very happy about it. I’m almost glad I fell and broke my arm; though”—her smile dimmed momentarily—“it might have been serious. You see, I couldn’t have lasted the whole season anyway! I thought I’d mind having to give up my career, for a time, but now I find I don’t. I’ve never felt happier in my life! So I shall have a little baby when you come.”

Her joy infected Lisa too; and Victor was grinning sheepishly. The moral issue was none of her business, thought Lisa; she knew only that they had been kind and generous to her, and she liked them both very much. She squeezed Vera’s hands, and said she was happy for her, and would love to visit, even if she could
not sing at the Opera. But they were sure there would be no problem about that: she would be welcomed back with open arms. Lisa was then whisked away by Signor Fontini to be introduced to two wealthy patronesses of the opera—old ladies whose bones rustled like dry leaves and who gushed over her embarrassingly. She was relieved when the director shouted for silence. Gradually the hubbub died away, and he began a slurred speech of welcome to the excellent Frau Erdman and of regretful farewell to the wondrous Serebryakova. Glasses were lifted, toasts drunk, and the waspish conductor called for a farewell song from the diva. This request was supported with acclamation, which grew ever noisier as Serebryakova resisted efforts to drag her towards the piano where Delorenzi, the conductor, was already impatiently seated. (The piano, a grand, went with the suite: Lisa had one too.)

At last the beautiful opera star—the white of her sling contrasting almost elegantly with the plain black of her silk dress—allowed herself to be propelled across the room, smiling through the mělée of her friends and admirers; and she exchanged a word with Delorenzi. He began the serene, familiar introduction to Schubert’s
An die Musik
, and then the soprano took wing. They would not let her escape with just one short song, and so she gave them—Victor having produced a tattered piece of music for Delorenzi—a poignant Ukrainian ballad. The repetitive yet endlessly varied links in the chain of melody, every phrase struck clean, pure as a crystal glass, and full of yearning for the fertile homeland, cast a spell over the audience. One would have sworn that, when the last of many last phrases died into silence, her voice continued to sing, in the heart alone. Everyone was too deeply affected to applaud. The conductor rose from his stool,
stretched up on his toes—he was a very small man—and kissed her on both cheeks.

Lisa was suffering. She had found it hard to stay in the room while Vera sang, because she had been overcome by a really bad attack of breathlessness. She thought she was going to die. It had nothing to do with overhearing a member of the orchestra say to the person next to him, after the Schubert, “Now there’s a
real
voice.” She was not jealous; she knew she could not match that voice, which was as close to perfection as she ever hoped to hear, this side of paradise and perhaps even beyond. She not only revered Serebryakova, she liked her—had even perhaps fallen a little in love with her, in the space of a day.

Partly, of course, it was the heat, smoke, noise, and press of bodies. But more than that, it had something to do with Vera’s announcement about expecting a baby; for she had started to become breathless during Vera’s rapturous unburdening of her secret. For some reason it disturbed her greatly. Now, as soon as Vera finished the folk-song, Lisa went over to her, and in a breathless voice thanked her for her wonderful singing, and for the party, but now she must go to bed, because the smoke was beginning to affect her voice. “Aren’t you going to wait for the newspapers?” asked Vera, disappointed.

Safe in her own suite, a faint rumble of conversation underneath the carpet, Lisa threw open a window and gulped cool night air. She began to recover. Am I perhaps an embittered old maid, without knowing it? she wondered, starting to undress. She slept very badly again, tossing and turning. As dawn glimmered through the curtains she slept, and dreamed she was standing over a deep trench filled with many coffins. Directly beneath her she could see Vera, her straight naked body showing through a glass top. As
she mourned for her, in a line of crying mourners, there was a rumble above her, and she knew a landslide was going to crash down and bury her. Before it could do so, she was woken by the telephone. It was Vera—who wanted to know if she was all right, because she sounded out of breath and upset. Lisa explained she had been woken in the midst of a bad dream, and was grateful.

“Well, forget about your bad dream—we’ve just had the newspapers sent up. The reviews are
excellent!
Truly! No more than you deserve. We’re going down to breakfast soon—my train goes in an hour. Hurry up and join us. We’ll bring the newspapers down. Victor wants to say hello.” And after a pause Lisa heard Victor’s deep voice intone “Hello!” and then they hung up. Feeling much more cheerful, she jumped out of bed, ran to the bathroom and quickly dressed. She was down in the breakfast room almost before her friends. They presented her with the newspapers, opened at the review section. But before she could begin to read, Vera laid her hand on hers and said, “Just remember the critics here are cynics. Believe me, these are
good
reviews—better than
I
had—aren’t they, Victor?” Victor nodded, after a brief hesitation.

They did not seem at all good to Lisa. “Sadly we have to report that even a one-armed Serebryakova is better than the two-armed Erdman,” wrote one of the critics. The other critic said her voice was “raw and provincial,” and that she sang with more emotionalism than feeling. There were admittedly some balancing descriptions: “competent,” “brave attempt,” “Tatiana’s Letter Scene movingly acted and sung,” “expressive potential.” “Believe me, this is high praise from the Milan critics,” Vera pleaded, taking Lisa’s hand again and squeezing it hard to prove her point; for they saw she was upset.

It was not the reviews, however, which upset her. They were
really not at all bad. She had been warned about the Milanese critics, and she knew there was an element of truth in Vera’s reassurances. No, she had simply had a shock, and it made her very angry with herself, at her stupidity. One of the critics had written: “The quite exceptional musical and dramatic understanding of the Berenstein–Serebryakova team assuredly owed much to their long association at the Kiev Opera, and also—it goes without saying—to their being husband and wife.” Lisa now recalled where she had seen Victor’s name most recently—in an article about Serebryakova. Serebryakova, of course, was only her stage name. It now seemed so obvious. Why had she jumped to the wrong conclusion? It was clearly written, she found later, in the programme given to her by Signor Fontini on arrival; but her eyes had somehow skipped over it.

Vera, gulping her coffee, jumped up, and bent to give Lisa a hug and a kiss. As her husband wrapped a red cape round her, and buttoned it at the neck, she told Lisa she would expect to see her in Kiev next year. “Don’t come to see me off. Finish your breakfast. And good luck! We’ll keep in touch!”

On her first rest day, she went to mass at the Cathedral, but the great building oppressed her, and she resolved not to go again. It was too institutional. She much preferred being in a minority, on the outskirts: it was much easier to believe. Even in Vienna there were too many Catholics; but even so, the Church was not so relentlessly present as it was here. She could not believe in anything so universally acceptable and so infallibly certain. Even Leonardo’s
Last Supper
, which she went to see in a near-by convent, struck a chill in her. It was too symmetrical. People did not eat meals like that.

Perhaps the closer you came to God, the harder it was to believe in Him. That was why Judas had betrayed Him—and the cock crew for Peter too. Walking back from the
Last Supper
, Lisa had to pass one of those smelly tin boxes, by the side of the street, where men urinated. Though she walked hurriedly by, and with averted face, she caught a glimpse of two weatherbeaten, olive-skinned faces, overtopping the urinal, deep in conversation. Before she could stop the blasphemous thought, she saw the two men as Jesus and Judas, their robes hoisted, standing in subdued conversation side by side after the Last Supper. It must have been difficult for Judas, being so close, to see Him as the Son of God. And probably even harder for Mary, next to Him in heaven. Which meant it must be impossible for Him too. Sitting up there like Boris Godunov, He must be tormented by the holy sham of it all.

The blasphemous moment passed, but left her feeling terribly oppressed. Before writing a postcard to her aunt, she looked closely at the picture on it. It was a blurred reproduction of the mysterious Holy Shroud, kept at Turin. It was not the first time she had seen reproductions of it, and wondered if it really was the Shroud of Christ; but it meant more here because the Shroud was close. She thought it might help her to feel more spiritual again if she went to see it. So, on another rest day, she took the train to Turin.