Last Act (8 page)

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Anne sighed with relief as the two of them turned away from her to discuss the terms of her contract. She ought to be listening, but it was hard enough work just not to let the pain show.

“You're very tired.” It was Falinieri, sounding quite different, human … “Let me take you to the hostel, Miss Paget.” An eloquent shrug suggested that Meyer was going to be tied up for some time.

“Oh, thank you! It's been a long day.”

“A long day!” He took her arm, sketched an explanatory gesture at Meyer and led her offstage. “If you sing like that when you are tired, I look forward to hearing you in the morning. Oh, there were some roughnesses, of course—a lack of practice? But what I do not understand is why I have not heard of you before.”

“I haven't sung for a while.”

“Ah! And the voice has grown in idleness. It surprised you, too, did it not?”

“Why, yes. Clever of you to notice.”

“I notice everything,” said Signor Falinieri, alarming her, but then went on. “And if I were you, I would notice my contract quite carefully tomorrow.” He pushed open a door and they were out once more in the cool grey of the cloisters. “This way. It's only a step to the hostel. Wise girl, weren't you, to say no to that apartment in the castle. Now there
would
have been a complication.”

“Oh?” She neither liked nor understood his tone.

“You don't know the Hereditary Prince's reputation? Then I admire your instinct. But can you think of any other explanation for that disastrous Fräulein Moser?” He laughed. “Clever of the old fox to arrange for the offer from the hotel. Here we are.” He pushed open a heavy bronze door at the back of the cloister and ushered her up a shallow flight of steps to what looked like the foyer of a small hotel. Behind a high desk, a white-haired old man sat reading a newspaper, the
Herald Tribune,
Anne noticed with surprise. At the sight of them, he looked up, smiled with extraordinary charm, and broke into fluent Italian, of which Anne could catch only the high points, the good evening and the welcomes. Italian opera, like the German, seemed to lend itself more to high drama than to everyday moments like hotel greetings.

But Falinieri had noticed her blank look. “English,
mein Herr,
if possible. Miss Paget is tired. His Highness says she is to have thestar's suite; everything she needs; supper in bed if she wants it.”

“His Highness does, does he?” The hostel keeper's English was Oxford as against Falinieri's American. “Well, he'll just have to think again, won't he? Do you see me throwing Regulus out at this hour of the night?”

“Oh, please.” Anne put out a pleading hand. “Just a room, Herr …” she paused.

“Just call me Josef,” he told her. “You
do
look tired, Miss Paget. I've had a fire lit in the guest suite. Michael told me about you. Your bag's up there already. It's nicer than the star's, in fact. You get the view of the castle.” He reached behind him and took a key from a rack. “Thank you for bringing her, Signor Falinieri. You know your way to the hotel?” It was courteous enough and yet a surprisingly firm dismissal, and Anne thought Falinieri looked slightly miffed as he took his leave.

“He'll get used to me,” said Josef, reading her thoughts as he led the way through the lobby to a shining modern lift. “I have my privileges, and one of them is to tell you that you're not to stir from your room again tonight, my child. I've had Lisel unpack for you. She'll bring you dinner at eight. I'd get into bed if I were you. Shall I switch off the telephone?”

“Telephone? What kind of a hostel is this?”

“You're in the guest suite, remember.” The lift had stopped at the first floor and he led the way down a long corridor. “Chorus and such use that.” He pointed to a phone booth set in an angle of the hall. “You're hardly chorus.” He fitted his key in the end door and flung it open. “Guest suite,” he said.

“Oh!” She moved forward, speechless, almost breathless, through a little hall towards the view revealed by uncurtained windows. The floodlit castle was poised as if in the air, high above her.

“I thought you'd like it,” said Josef with satisfaction, switching on sidelights. “Michael said you weren't quite in the ordinary way. Those are from him, by the way.” He pointed at red roses in what looked oddly like a silver vase.

“Bless him!” And then, “I suppose he's your cousin?”

“No. As a matter of fact, he's my nephew.”

“Stupid of me.” She laughed. “It's just, he said you were all cousins in Lissenberg.”

“And so we are,” he said. “I hope. Sleep well, Miss Paget. Pleasant dreams.”

“Thank you.” But, alone, she shivered, remembering nightmares.

As she drowned in sleep, Anne's last impression was of a vast mountain silence with just a thread of sound through it that must come from the stream in the valley. Water, and trees, and quiet. I shall sleep here, I shall rest, she thought. I shall not dream of Robin. And woke to the gleam of sunshine round the edges of heavy curtains.

A soft tapping at the door heralded the girl, Lisel, with a loaded breakfast tray. Coffee in a huge vacuum flask, croissants and rolls, butter in a cool container, black cherry jam. “It's enough?” Lisel's English was merely adequate. “Josef says eggs, bacon if you want?”

“Oh, no.” She pulled herself up in bed. “
Nein, danke schön.
”

“
Sehr gut.
” Putting the tray beside Anne on the big double bed, Lisel moved over to draw the curtains and let in a flood of sunshine. “Today better.” Her smile was friendly. “You sleep?”

“Marvellously.” Anne was taking in the morning view of the castle, outlined dark against the sunlight. “It's beautiful!” She searched for a phrase and settled for “
wunderbar,
” which seemed to please the girl.

“Josef say, ‘Eat well, then see this.'” She pointed to a folded note on the tray. “And not …” She paused, groping for the word Josef must have taught her, “not to horry.”

“Please thank him.” Pouring coffee, Anne smiled a grateful dismissal, then fell to with a will on freshly baked croissants. Last night she had been almost too tired to eat; now, with that extraordinary healing sleep behind her, she felt ready for
anything. When had she last slept through without nightmare or pain?

She poured more coffee and unfolded the note, which proved to be a succinct time-table for the day. It began, she saw with elief, and a quick glance at her watch, at eleven. An appointment with Carl and the Prince's lawyer. The contract, of course. Then, rehearsal until lunch. “Dining room: 13 to 14 hours,” ran the message, “Your room: any time. After lunch, rest.” No doubt about it, Josef had composed this missive. At three she had another rehearsal and at five an appointment with the wardrobe mistress. Her heart sank as she reached the last item: “Twenty hours, cocktails and dinner at the castle. The car will fetch you at 19:40.”

It was obviously a royal command, and must be obeyed. She finished her breakfast and got out of bed to pad over to the wardrobe where Lisel had hung her clothes. A pity about that gold brocade, she thought wryly, looking at the one evening dress she had not sold at the local second-hand shop. Brown velvet; low cut; and she had no jewels. Oh, well. She found herself smiling suddenly. The last thing she wanted was to attract His Promiscuous Highness. And smiled again a little wryly, remembering the contract she was presumably going to sign, undertaking to sing at next year's opera festival. It was not so much, she thought, that being about to die concentrated the mind, it seemed to free it wonderfully. So many things that should have been problems were simply immaterial, trivial … She dressed quickly in Jaeger skirt and pullover and was just reaching for her lipstick when the telephone rang by the bed.

She lifted it nervously. “Yes?”

“Good morning, Miss Paget.” Josefs friendly Oxonian voice. “I hope you slept well.”

“Like an angel, thank you. It's all so heavenly … And the delicious breakfast … I feel like a queen!”

It got her a dry laugh. “With a view of the castle. But, to business. Herr Meyer and the lawyer are here; they apologise for being a little early and have no wish in the world to hurry you.”

It was her turn to laugh. “You mean, they want to see me at
once. Tell them I'll be right down.”

“No need. If you are ready they will join you in your sitting-room.”

“My—”

“—Sitting-room. The door facing the one to the bathroom, Miss Paget. I can see you were too tired last night to explore. I hope the piano meets with your approval. The room is soundproofed, by the way.”

“Goodness! I feel like a princess in a fairy tale.” She used the lipstick, ran a comb through her hair, and, feeling a little like Bluebeard's wife, ventured to open the panelled door that faced the one into her bathroom. In so far as she had noticed it, she had assumed that it would be locked, allowing access to the next bedroom when necessary. Now she discovered her mistake. If her bedroom had a view of the castle, this corner room almost seemed to contain it. A bay window, with cushioned seats, had been designed so that the castle hung outside, like some magnificent stage set. Valhalla, perhaps? Not altogether a cheerful omen.

But there at the far side of the room was the piano. A Bechstein baby grand, it made her realise just how large the room was. I shall never live up to this, she thought, and then, Well, I won't be trying for long. And pulled herself up short at a knocking on the door that must lead to the passage. “Come in,” she called. Here, presumably, were the Nibelungs bearing their disastrous gold.

Carl Meyer was spruce this morning in sharply tailored light grey, and again she was surprised at the conscious change he had made in his appearance. But that of the lawyer who accompanied him did something to explain this. He was almost absurd in formal morning dress, and looked hot with it, she thought sympathetically.

Their good mornings said, he put an elegant flat dispatch case down on the table by the bay window, apologised briefly for troubling her so early, and produced the contract and a golden ballpoint pen. “If you would just sign here,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” The acoustics of this room were good, too, and she was pleased with the emphatic way it came out.

Carl Meyer, she noticed, was sweating lightly. The lawyer, whose name she had failed to catch, looked mildly impatient. “Quite right,” he said. “I never expect the ladies to bother with reading the small print, but you are absolutely right, Miss Paget. Do, pray, read it at your leisure.” He looked ostentatiously at his watch and handed her the surprisingly long document.

It was, at first sight, a fairly standard contract—printed, with spaces left for various facts and figures to be filled in. It certainly all looked reasonable enough, but she remembered Falinieri's warning, and why was Carl so obviously tense? The salary offered was incredibly high for an understudy, but, equally, low for a principal. She looked at this clause thoughtfully, wondering if it was worth querying, her thumb marking the place.
Money I despise it
… But it would be pleasant to have enough money to die in comfort.

“Fräulein Paget”—the lawyer had seen where she had paused—“please, see here.” He turned the page to where an extra clause had been typed in, promising what struck her as a quite enormous bonus for each performance at which she actually sang. “We all know you will sing at each one,” he said. “It has been discussed … The Princess quite understands … She agrees … She asks me to say that she greatly looks forward to meeting you tonight.”

“The Princess?” She looked at him in amazement.

“Princess Alix.” He was surprised at her surprise. “You did not know?” He turned to Carl. “You did not tell her?”

“I thought she knew.” Carl was still sweating.

“You mean, it's the princess who has the contralto voice.”

Anne was working it out slowly. “Her idea, the whole thing.” She turned to Carl. “I remember, you said Alix's idea. But you never said she was a princess.”

“She prefers to be called Alix,” said the lawyer.

“But to give it up now,” protested Anne. “Such a chance! Such a part! She can't!”

“She has,” said the lawyer. “She talked to her father, and then—she heard your voice. She yields, she says, to the greater singer.”

“Heard me? But how?”

“We are well equipped here, Annchen.” Carl was not enjoying this interview. “You were taped, last night, when you delighted us so.”

“Oh, I was, was I?” Odd to be so angry. “Well, before you do it another time you will kindly let me know.” She dropped her eyes from his unhappy ones and went on reading the contract, and suddenly, there it was, the point she was supposed to have agreed on without noticing. First, the provision she had expected about keeping herself open for a star part in next year's Lissenberg Festival, and then, an inconspicuous part of the standard printed contract, the unbelievable undertaking: “And I hereby agree that between now and this time next year I will keep myself free of all professional organisations that might in any way guide, control or inhibit my performance.” She looked up and met the lawyer's shifting eyes. “This means,” she said, “that I would not be able to join Equity if I should get the chance.”

“We pride ourselves upon being amateurs here, Fräulein,” he said inadequately.

“All very fine for Princess Alix.” She reached over and took the gold pen from his hand. “For me, no.” She struck out the offending sentence and wrote her initials boldly in the margin, then handed the pen back to the lawyer. “If you will be so good as to do so too,” she said. “And you,” to Carl, who looked as if he wished the floor would open and swallow him.