Errant Angels (20 page)

‘Will there be any Puccini on the programme?' asked Jez.

‘But of course… We are in Lucca… What would a concert be without Puccini?' replied the Contessa, a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Here we are … two tickets for tomorrow. They're the last two, so we should have a full house.'

Jez took the tickets and they both thanked the Contessa.

‘It starts at seven-thirty sharp and we perform in the
Istituto Musicale Luigi Boccherini.
We also have a glass of wine and a little something to eat at the interval. It's all included in the ticket.'

Victoria was visibly gladdened that, if the music was no good, at least there would be food on offer.

‘Where's did ya say the concert is?' asked Jez meekly.

‘The Music Institute… It is named after the famous composer Luigi Boccherini … just off the top end of the
Piazza Bernardini.
The venue is on the ticket and there are signs to show you the way to the
piazza
.' The Contessa had finally recalled everything she could about these two and was feeling quite relaxed and at home in their company. The young man, though of a much slimmer build, reminded her of her Luigi when he was in his early twenties.

‘Do you sing?' asked Victoria, politely trying to hide the incredulity in her voice.

‘Me? Good gracious no!' snorted the Contessa as she slung the bag back to its usual position and straightened her glasses. ‘Me … sing?' she chuckled. ‘No, my dear, but I do play the piano.'

29

A few minutes later the Contessa reached
Café Alma Arte.
It seemed to her that the throng of tourists filling the
Via Fillungo
was as big a crush as ever. She was glad that Carlo had been left to Elizabeth's tender ministrations for the day as she found herself thinking it best not to imagine the fun he would have had with his leash and the many legs of those in the street. She had entered the aromatic oasis, exchanged the usual pleasantries with Gianni, enquired as to the health of Fiorenza and the expected arrival of the baby and been assured that all was well. Then, as was the established custom, she had been ushered to her reserved table in the far corner of the café.

‘You only have to let me know if there is anything you and Fiorenza need, Gianni. You do know that,' she said as she sat down at the table, to the suspiciously watchful glares of many of the other café patrons, many of whom were squeezed somewhat uncomfortably around their own small tables.

‘The Contessa is too kind,' Gianni had smiled warmly back at her offer. ‘It is a comfort to us. Let us hope that the Blessed Virgin will smile on us this time. Will it be your usual tea and something for the palate?' he continued. He knew perfectly well what her answer would be – it was always in the affirmative – but asking the question was somehow part of the tradition of a Thursday afternoon.

It was some time later when the Contessa, whose mind was filled with the music for the forthcoming concert,
suddenly became aware of a middle-aged couple approaching close to her table. The man walked with a heavy limp and his female partner seemed to be in the early stages of exhaustion. As they continued to walk towards the rear of the café, the man suddenly stumbled and nearly fell over. It was only the action of his partner that stopped him from doing so.

‘Goodness me, are you all right?' asked the Contessa, a little alarmed. ‘Please do join me and take a seat.'

‘You speak English?' asked the man, who seemed to be embarrassed by his near fall in such a crowded place. ‘That's very kind of you. We could do with a bit of a rest; we thought a cup of something and a sit down would be just the thing.'

For what seemed an age, three pairs of eyes looked at each other expectantly. The Contessa's invitation had been well-meant and gratefully received, but she, herself, occupied the only chair at the table.

‘Oh! How silly of me!' she said suddenly, realising this with a chuckle. ‘There are no other chairs, are there? Let me catch Gianni's attention and he'll soon fix that.'

Within a minute two chairs had been produced and the couple had been seated to the continued accompaniment of quizzical glances from the other customers.

‘This is very kind of you,' said the man after Gianni had departed with their order. ‘I'm Ewan Morgan and this is my wife, Margaret. We're here on holiday … but I suppose that's quite obvious,' he laughed.

His wife took his hand in hers and laughed, too.

‘How do you do? I'm Penelope Strachan and I've lived here in Lucca for' – there was a pause as her expression tallied up the years – ‘well, for quite a long time,' she said simply, smiling. ‘Have you seen the sights and visited the Puccini Museum? He is one of our more illustrious sons you know, but we have others as well.'

They chatted on amicably for a few minutes, until Gianni reappeared with the couple's order, which he placed expertly on the table in front of them.

‘Two
cappuccini
and some unforgettable
dolci
to excite the mouth,' he said, grinning broadly. ‘Does the Contessa require any more tea?'

‘No, thank you, Gianni … the pot is still half full.'

‘
Buon appetito
,' said Gianni and left them alone once more.

‘He speaks very good English, doesn't he?' asked Ewan Morgan, turning to watch Gianni's receding back.

‘Please excuse me, I don't wish to appear rude, but did I hear the waiter call you
Contessa
?' asked Margaret, a look of curious respect on her face.

‘Hmm?' replied the Contessa, but in such a way that she didn't answer the question directly.

‘The waiter … did he call you Contessa?' she repeated.

‘So comforting to see that the younger generation still have respect, don't you agree? Of course, we don't make a song and dance about such things in Italy these days … not since the king went. But we still have the old family titles.'

Mrs Morgan almost rose from her chair and was about to embark on her next question when her husband cut across her and to save any possible embarrassment, changed the subject.

‘I must compliment you on your English,' he said, adding some sugar to his cup.

‘How kind,' smiled the Contessa, as she selected two
dolci
and put them on her plate. ‘I was born in Hampshire, actually,' she added. ‘I do hope that your leg will soon be back to normal,' she continued, avoiding Mrs Morgan's questioning gaze.

‘Sadly, not,' replied Ewan Morgan. ‘It is an artificial one.'

‘Oh … I am sorry,' replied the Contessa. ‘I … er…'

‘It was during the war in Yugoslavia,' said Margaret, ‘at a
field hospital helping the local people… They were attacked and…'

‘How awful … the hospital was attacked?' repeated the Contessa, indignation showing in her voice.

‘Ewan was hurt, along with many others,' continued Margaret, her voice trailing off.

‘Were you in the army out there?' asked the Contessa.

‘No, I was a surgeon with Global Medical Outreach,' replied Ewan softly, the suggestion of what could have been a smile creasing his face, ‘but no longer, I'm afraid. The old hand can't be relied on to behave itself all the time,' he said with no trace of anger in his voice. ‘These things are sent to try us, I suppose.'

The Contessa noticed that his hand, which Margaret still held in hers, twitched from time to time. ‘I really am very sorry for that,' she said with genuine concern.

‘But I wasn't killed; that was lucky,' he continued. ‘Perhaps you've heard of Global Medical Outreach?' he asked, stirring his
cappuccino
. ‘GMO: it's a charity working in trouble spots and disaster areas around the globe.'

The Contessa had not, but she smiled demurely and nodded sagely as if she had.

‘How admirable that people should put themselves in such danger to help others,' she said.

‘Anyway, such is life,' continued Ewan. ‘After such a narrow scrape, we decided that life was too short to just think about things, so we decided to get out and about and see the world, to celebrate my lucky escape, as it were. And here we are in Lucca,' he beamed, his lust for life all too evident.

The conversation drifted between what to see and do in Lucca and the declining state of the Old Country on the other side of the Channel. The Contessa suddenly found herself musing on the unpredictability of life: on the cheerfulness of this man, who had been dealt a cruel slice of it;
on Gianni and Fiorenza with the on-going difficulties of their first child; of her own tragedy all those years ago at the foot of the goddess Ceres's statue; of the uncertain future facing the Mother Superior and sisters of the Convent of Saint Jerome Emiliani; of her own dear Giacomo, who had been taken from her unexpectedly, when he was barely out of his forties. Life could be kind and life could be cruel.

‘…so that's what we plan to do with the rest of today,' said Margaret, ‘so perhaps we had best get a move on.'

As the Contessa watched the couple leave, she felt her usual enthusiasm return, dispelling the more sombre thoughts of life she had felt earlier. Mr and Mrs Morgan had not let adversity pin them down any more than she, herself, had; to her, life was for the living. She felt the teapot; it was still warm and like herself, still contained the glow of life. There were a couple of things to do before her angels arrived at the apartment for the final rehearsal before tomorrow's concert and time was marching unstoppably on.

30

As the end of the day approached, two crises – one real and one largely imagined – had arisen in the otherwise placid city of Lucca.

At Number 102
Via Fillungo
–
Casa dei Gioelli
– the owner, Gregorio Marinetti, was becoming progressively more and more irritated as the day wore on. Nicola Dolci, his long-suffering assistant, had already fallen foul of his tongue and was busily dusting to keep out of his way. She was quite used to his erratic behaviour on the eve of one of his COGOL concerts, which she had long ago put down to his over-excitable artiste's temperament. In fact, she looked forward to the actual day of the concert, when her employer would absent himself from the shop for the whole day in order to prepare himself for the rigours of his fleeting moment of stardom at that evening's concert. At least her day would be quiet and reasonably stress free – which, she surmised, was more than could be said of his. She flicked her duster at the lined and pock-marked face of a minor Roman Emperor for the umpteenth time. The marble bust, which had been accustomed to being shown far more respect in a time long past, glared belligerently back at her. Nicola was not to know that the reason for Gregorio Marinetti's excessive display of pre-concert unpleasantness had nothing to do with the build-up to that august musical event. Rather, it had to do with a stolen art treasure, bought illegally to be sold on – again illegally – at a considerable profit. More accurately, it had to do with the collection of the piece – or
the non-collection, as it seemed to be. She turned her head and caught a glimpse of her employer seated at his desk in the other closet he fondly referred to as his office. He was sitting dejectedly, his head resting on his left arm, his hand clamped over his mouth. He was staring at the telephone, which had been silent since they had reopened following the afternoon siesta. Something else Nicola Dolci was not to know was that it would remain open until well past closing time that evening.

The palpable mood of despondency, which Nicola Dolci had felt blowing off the dejected bulk of her employer, was mirrored in the apartment of Maria Santini. Steam rose from the narrow stream of boiling water as the Contessa poured it into the cup, stirring the camomile teabags around with a teaspoon as she did so. She had arrived at the apartment with a packet of the tea in her sling bag. It was an indispensable part of her therapy equipment and was most effective in a very strong dose. She picked up the saucer and the cup, with its soothing contents and walked through to the spacious sitting room with its trail of discarded silver
Carezze
wrappers pointing the way to the balcony.

‘Here you are, my dear,' she said kindly as she put the steaming brew on the table in front of Maria. ‘Sip this and you'll feel a lot better. Be careful; it's hot,' she added as an afterthought, looking at her principal mezzo-soprano, who looked all the worse for wear.

‘Thank you. The Contessa is too kind,' mumbled Maria, keeping her gaze firmly on the cup and its strongly coloured contents. ‘I do n…' There was a long pause, during which nothing was said. The Contessa had been through these sessions before and knew the best way to proceed, which was at a pace dictated by Maria.

‘You have a truly beautiful voice, my dear, and do you not
wish to share that special gift with everyone?' she asked, quietly, after several minutes.

The pair of herons said nothing as they danced behind the steam rising from the cup.

‘Naturally, I… I want to sing… That is what…'

The silence descended once again as Maria took another tentative sip of the hot liquid. The Contessa sat quietly opposite her, her hands resting in her lap. It had been some time since the last Maria
pazzia
– Maria madness – as the other members of COGOL referred to such bouts of self-doubt and withdrawal.

‘What is it you want to do?' asked the Contessa encouragingly. She was patient and supportive, although she had more than enough to do herself, what with the looming rehearsal and a host of other things to prepare.

Earlier, the Contessa had reached her apartment in the amphitheatre, quite exhausted from the many activities of her day. Her anticipation of a light snack, yet another cup of restorative tea and half an hour with her feet in a soothing basin of hot water laced with lavender oil had been dashed when Elizabeth had met her at the front door.

‘Herself sounded in a right fix, so she did!' she said as she opened the door for her mistress.

‘Which “herself” would we be talking about then?' asked the Contessa, who, after all these years and a long day of organizing a concert and chatting to visitors to her beloved city, still found herself slightly irked by her maid's wonderful ability to be so vague.

‘'Twould be the large one with the low voice. Muttering like an angry swan, so she was. Something about not being able to
reverse
tonight. So I told her yourself will be ringing her.'

‘You mean Maria not being able to attend tonight's
rehearsal?' replied the Contessa, automatically correcting the maid's malapropism.

Elizabeth grunted confirmation.

‘Oh dear…' replied the Contessa, ‘not again,' she said,
and as usual with appalling timing
, she thought. ‘Thank you, Elizabeth.'

The Contessa continued walking into the vestibule as the door was loudly banged shut behind her.

‘Will you be after
trellifoaming
her now then, before I bring the tea?'.

‘No, I think the tea will have to wait. I fear that I will have to go to Maria and speak to her in person. I had better go straight away.'

‘Of course, I want to sing…' said Maria Santini softly, as she fidgeted nervously with the teaspoon in the saucer, ‘but I have such anger it causes me to not want to sing … at times,' she muttered.

‘Then you
must
sing and beautifully, too,' replied the Contessa softly, ‘as you always do, my dear. That will defeat the anger.'

‘I find it difficult … to' – Maria seemed to be searching for the right words – ‘to … understand…'

‘To understand what?' asked the Contessa, realising that Maria had slowly started to open herself up to the conversation. She knew exactly what was coming next, as an encounter with Maria and her insecurities was nothing new. The therapy of getting Maria back into her comfort zone and out onto the concert platform always took the same route.

Yet another silence engulfed the room and its occupants.

‘…to understand why I did not have the career everyone told me I would have. It is unfair that I should not have had one, when the others I knew did. I saw them again … in that…' She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the
torn remains of
Gramophone
, which lay on the floor in a tangled heap.

‘Which opera is it this time?' asked the Contessa, who suddenly feared that the tone of her question leant itself more towards the bored enquiry of a regular occurrence, rather than towards an enquiry of legitimate concern.

‘Carmen …
that
one … again,' muttered Maria, her eyes still on the cup that was now half empty, but which still emitted tiny wisps of steam.

She had taken the question at face value. The Contessa felt relieved as she did not want to make a difficult situation more so.

‘Maria, my dear, what happened in Barga was an unfortunate accident… It was nothing against you personally… It could have happened to anyone.'

‘But then why did it happen to
me
? I don't understand.'

‘And perhaps you should not try to understand,' replied the Contessa calmly. ‘Sometimes things happen for a reason which is not yet apparent, or which might never become apparent. It does us no good to look for the answer. If we are truly meant to know the reason why, it will be shown to us without our having to look for it.'

‘But
they
are not looking for the reason why
they
have their careers.'

‘My dear, are you taking this all far too much to heart? You
do
have a career … here in Lucca, with COGOL,' said the Contessa, pausing. ‘The
Istituto Musicale
might not be La Scala or Teatro San Carlo,' she continued, being careful not to include the name of La Fenice, with its painful memories of a blossoming career that never was, ‘but our audiences appreciate our efforts –
your
efforts and
your
talent – with the same appreciation and enjoyment. Would you not agree with me, my dear?'

Maria Santini shrugged slightly and slowly nodded her head, but she still stared down at the now empty cup. The
two herons moved gently as she heaved an enormous sigh. It was the usual sign that the Contessa was winning the argument.

‘The important thing to remember is that you must live for the moment. You have only the one chance to perform at your best, then the opportunity is gone until the next time. That takes courage, determination and perseverance.' The Contessa leaned nearer to Maria and continued. ‘The people you remember from an earlier time … the people in the recordings in that magazine … they can sing a piece as many times as it takes before they get a near-perfect performance. You do the same thing, my dear, but you create that near-perfect performance with just a single opportunity and that is the sign of a true artiste. I would suggest that those same loyal supporters of ours, who appreciate our musical talents, will be very disappointed if COGOL's favourite mezzo-soprano is unable to perform for them tomorrow night.'

‘Do you really think so?' asked Maria, looking up at the Contessa for the first time since her arrival at the apartment.

‘Of course I do, my dear, and I think you do as well. You do not have to sing in a major opera house to have your performance appreciated by the audience. Besides which, what would your friends in COGOL do tomorrow night if you do not sing? We all rely on each other and we are all just as important as each other. Perhaps
they
are your true friends … not the people you remember from a previous time.'

The Contessa smiled across the table at Maria, who seemed to be somewhat calmer.

‘Well, if that is what the Contessa truly thinks, perhaps it
is
important for me to sing tomorrow…' As she spoke, she reached out and caressed the corner of a box of
Carezze
, which lay on the table at her elbow. The Contessa had
quietly replaced the lid on the remains of its contents when she had sat down to face her troubled mezzo-soprano. Now, as she sat and quietly watched, she knew that, if Maria Santini decided to remove the lid then the case would not yet have been won and further persuasive talking would be necessary.

‘Perhaps I should perform,' continued Maria, still running her fingers over the corner of the box, ‘if that is what the Contessa thinks is best.'

‘The important thing is what Maria thinks,' replied the Contessa, ‘and I think that she already knows what the Contessa thinks.'

The room was once again filled with the insecurity of silence.

‘Very well, then,' said Maria eventually. ‘I will sing for the sake of the concert,' she said as she pushed the
Carezze
box just far enough away from her to make it almost unreachable.

The Contessa suppressed any outward signs of her relief. Trying to find a substitute mezzo-soprano who had the necessary repertoire at her fingertips in twenty-four hours would have been a next-to-impossible task.

‘I think you know it will be more for the sake of Maria Santini,' smiled the Contessa as she stood up and took the cup and saucer to return it to the kitchen. ‘Although, of course, your friends will be very pleased that you can join them in the concert. And, of course, so will I.'

Maria Santini smiled up at the Contessa. The two herons suddenly seemed to be a lot more relaxed in the folds of her gown.

‘So … now I suggest that we prepare ourselves for tonight's rehearsal,' said the Contessa over her shoulder, as she made her way through to the kitchen. She felt a sense of achievement at having averted a possible crisis, but she also felt a sense of trepidation. Maria was prone to these
bouts of depression, although the Contessa wasn't quite sure what the exact medical term was for them. What was obviously apparent was that they were occurring with more frequency than before. She had broached the topic with Luigi at one of their weekly suppers – not mentioning anyone specifically of course, but speaking in general terms. He had said that such a condition was usually the result of a mental attitude, rather than the result of anything purely medical. He had confirmed that there was a range of treatments available, depending on the severity of the individual case. It all depended on the mental state of the patient and, in some instances, whether the individual concerned had the ability or the will to realize that something was wrong and had the desire to be guided towards putting that condition right.

The Contessa stood in front of the sink, looking out of the window and down across the
Piazza Napoleone.
She wondered how long it might be before Maria Santini finally surrendered to her insecurities; either deliberately to get cured, or unintentionally and have the decision made for her.