The Italian Girl (3 page)

Everyone in the Menici household overslept. When Rosanna arrived downstairs for breakfast, Marco was nursing a terrible hangover at the kitchen table and Antonia was struggling to clear up the mess in the café.

‘Come and help, Rosanna, or we shall never be ready to open,’ Antonia demanded, as her daughter stood surveying the debris.

‘Can I have some breakfast?’

‘When we’ve tidied the café. Here, take this box of rubbish out to the backyard.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’ Rosanna took the box and carried it through to the kitchen, where her father, looking grey, was rolling pizza dough.

‘Papa, did Roberto talk to you about my singing lessons?’ she asked him. ‘He said he would.’

‘Yes, he did.’ Marco nodded wearily. ‘But Rosanna, he was only being kind. And if he thinks we have the money to send you to a singing teacher on the other side of Naples, then he is deluded.’

‘But Papa, he thought . . . I mean, he said I had a gift.’

‘Rosanna, you’re a little girl who’ll grow up to make a husband a good wife one day. You must learn the gifts of cooking and home-making, not waste your time on fantasy.’

‘But . . .’ Rosanna’s bottom lip trembled. ‘I want to be a singer like Roberto.’

‘Roberto is a man, Rosanna. He must work. One day, your sweet little voice will help soothe your babies to sleep. That is enough. Now, get that rubbish outside, then come back and help Luca wash the glasses.’

As Rosanna took the box to the dustbins in the yard behind the kitchen, a small tear rolled down her cheek. Nothing had changed. Everything was the same. Yesterday, the best day of her life – when she was somebody special – might as well not have happened.

‘Rosanna!’ Marco’s voice roared from the kitchen. ‘Hurry up!’

She wiped her nose on the back of her hand and went back inside, leaving her dreams in the yard with the rubbish.

Later that day, as Rosanna was slowly climbing the stairs to bed, exhausted by long hours of waiting on tables, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

‘Why do you look so glum tonight,
piccolina
?’

Rosanna turned and looked at Luca. ‘Maybe I’m just tired,’ she shrugged.

‘But Rosanna, you should be very happy. It’s not every young girl that reduces a room of people to tears when she sings.’

‘But Luca, I . . .’ Rosanna sat down abruptly at the top of the narrow stairs and her brother squeezed in next to her.

‘Tell me what it is, Rosanna.’

‘I asked Papa about the singing lessons this morning and he said Roberto was only being kind, that he didn’t really believe I could be a singer.’

‘Attch!’ Luca swore under his breath. ‘That isn’t true. Roberto told everyone what a beautiful voice you have. You must go to singing lessons with this teacher he suggested.’

‘I cannot, Luca. Papa says he hasn’t got the money for me to go. I think singing lessons must be very expensive.’

‘Oh
piccolina
.’ Luca put his arms round his sister’s shoulders. ‘Why is Papa so blind when it comes to you? Now, if that had been Carlotta, well . . .’ Luca sighed. ‘Listen, Rosanna, please don’t give up hope. Look.’ He fumbled in his trouser pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. ‘Roberto gave me the name and address of this teacher too. Never mind what Papa says.
We
will go and see him together, yes?’

‘But we have no money to pay, Luca, so there’s no point.’

‘Don’t worry about that yet. Leave it to your big brother.’ Luca kissed her on the forehead. ‘Sleep well, Rosanna.’

‘Goodnight, Luca.’

As Luca made his way down the stairs and through the café, he sighed at the thought of another long night in the kitchen. He knew he should only be grateful he had a more secure future than other young men in Naples, but he found little pleasure in his work. Entering the kitchen, he went over to the table and began chopping a pile of onions, his eyes stinging from the pungent fumes. As he scraped them into the frying pan, he thought about his father’s refusal to countenance singing lessons for his little sister. Rosanna had a gift and Luca would be damned if he was going to let her throw it away.

On Luca’s next afternoon off from the café, he and Rosanna took a bus up to the exclusive neighbourhood of Posillipo, perched on a hill overlooking the bay of Naples.

‘Luca, it’s beautiful here! There’s so much space! Such cool air!’ exclaimed Rosanna as they stepped off the bus. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

‘Yes, it’s very lovely,’ agreed Luca, as he paused to gaze out across the bay. The shimmering azure water was dotted with boats, some plying a trade, others resting in their moorings close to shore. Looking straight ahead, the island of Capri floated like a dream on the horizon. Following the curve of the bay to the left, he could see Mount Vesuvius brooding in the distance on the skyline.

‘This is really where Signor Vincenzi lives?’ Rosanna turned and looked up at the elegant white villas nestled on the hillside above them. ‘My goodness, he must be rich,’ she added as they started walking up the winding road.

‘I believe his house is one of these,’ Luca said as they walked past several grand entrances. He finally stopped in front of the last one.

‘Here we are – the Villa Torini. Come, Rosanna.’ Luca took his sister’s hand and led her up the drive to the bougainvillea-covered porch which housed the front door. Hesitating out of nervousness for a few seconds, he finally rang the bell.

The door eventually opened and a middle-aged maid peered out at them.

‘
Sī? Cosa vuoi?
What do you want?’

‘We have come to see Signor Vincenzi, signora. This is Rosanna Menici and I am her brother, Luca.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No, I . . . but Roberto Rossini—’

‘Well, Signor Vincenzi sees no one without an appointment. Goodbye.’ The door was closed firmly in their faces.

‘Come, Luca, let’s go home.’ Rosanna pulled nervously at her brother’s arm. ‘We don’t belong here.’

From somewhere inside the villa, the sound of a piano drifted through the air. ‘No! We’ve come all this way and we won’t return without Signor Vincenzi hearing you sing. Follow me.’ Luca pulled his sister away from the front door.

‘Where are we going, Luca? I want to go home,’ she pleaded.

‘No, Rosanna. Please, trust me.’ Luca firmly took hold of Rosanna’s arm and followed the sound of the music, which led them around the side of the villa. They found themselves on the corner of a gracious terrace decorated with large clay pots filled with dusty-pink geraniums and deep-purple periwinkles.

‘Stay there,’ whispered Luca. He crouched down and crawled along the terrace until he came to a pair of French windows, which hung open to let in the afternoon breeze. He peered tentatively inside, then ducked back out of sight.

‘He’s in there,’ Luca whispered as he returned to Rosanna’s side. ‘Now, sing, Rosanna, sing!’

She stared at him in confusion. ‘What do you mean, Luca?’

‘Sing “
Ave Maria
” – quickly!’

‘I . . .’

‘Do it!’ he urged her.

Rosanna had never seen her gentle brother so adamant. So, she opened her mouth where she stood and did as he had asked.

Luigi Vincenzi had just picked up his pipe and was about to take his afternoon stroll in the gardens when he heard the voice. He shut his eyes and listened for a few seconds. Then slowly, unable to contain his curiosity, he walked across the room and out onto the terrace. In the corner of it stood a child of no more than ten or eleven, wearing a washed-out cotton dress.

The child stopped singing as soon as she saw him, fear crossing her face. A young man, obviously a relative of the child judging by his resemblance to her, was standing next to her.

Luigi Vincenzi put his hands together and clapped slowly.

‘Thank you, my dear, for that charming serenade. But may I ask what the two of you are doing trespassing on my terrace?’

Rosanna slid slowly behind her brother.

‘Excuse me, signor, but your maid would not let us in,’ Luca explained. ‘I tried to tell her that Roberto Rossini asked my sister to call, but she closed the door on us.’

‘I see. May I know your names?’

‘This is Rosanna Menici, and I am her brother, Luca.’

‘Well, you’d better come inside,’ said Luigi.

‘Thank you, signor.’

Luca and Rosanna followed him in through the French windows. The spacious room was dominated by a white grand piano positioned in the centre of a gleaming grey marble floor. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed untidily with piles of sheet music. On the mantelpiece over the fireplace were numerous framed black-and-white photographs of Luigi in evening dress, his arms round the shoulders of people whose faces looked familiar from newspapers and magazines.

Luigi Vincenzi sat down on the piano stool. ‘So, why did Roberto Rossini send you to see me, Rosanna Menici?’

‘Because . . . because . . .’

‘Because he thought my sister should have proper singing lessons with you,’ answered Luca for her.

‘What other songs do you know, Signorina Menici?’ Luigi asked her.

‘I . . . not many. Mostly hymns I sing in church,’ Rosanna stuttered.

‘Why don’t we try “
Ave Maria
” again? You seem to know that very well.’ Luigi smiled, sitting down at the piano. ‘Come closer, child. I won’t bite, you know.’

Rosanna moved towards him and she saw that, although his moustache and curly grey hair made him seem very stern, his eyes sparkled warmly under his thick eyebrows.

‘So, you sing.’ Luigi sat down and began to play the opening chords of the hymn on the grand piano. The sound was so different from any other piano she’d ever heard that Rosanna forgot to come in at the right moment.

‘Have you a problem, Rosanna Menici?’

‘No, signor, I was just listening to the beautiful sound your piano makes.’

‘I see. Well, please concentrate this time.’

And, inspired by the grand piano, Rosanna sang as she’d never sung before. Luca, standing nearby, thought his heart might burst with pride. He knew it had been right to bring Rosanna here.

‘Good, good, Signorina Menici. Now, we shall try some scales. Follow me as I play.’

Luigi led Rosanna up and down the keys, testing her range. He was not normally given to superlatives, but he had to admit that the child had the greatest potential he’d come across in all his years of coaching. Her voice was remarkable.

‘So! I have heard enough.’

‘Will you teach her, Signor Vincenzi?’ asked Luca. ‘I have money to pay.’

‘Yes, I will teach her. Signorina Menici’ – Luigi turned to Rosanna – ‘you will come here every other Tuesday at four o’clock. I will charge four thousand lire for one hour.’ It was half of what he usually charged, but the brother looked proud, if penniless.

Rosanna’s face lit up. ‘Thank you, Signor Vincenzi, thank you.’

‘And on the days you’re not with me, you’ll practise for two hours at least. You will work hard and never miss a lesson unless there is a death in the family. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Signor Vincenzi.’

‘Good. Then I shall see you on Tuesday, yes? And now you shall leave by the front entrance.’ Luigi led Rosanna and Luca through the house to the front door. ‘
Ciao
, Rosanna Menici.’

The two of them said goodbye, then walked sedately down the drive until they were out of the front gate. Then Luca picked Rosanna up in his arms and gleefully swung her round.

‘I knew it! I knew it! He just had to hear your voice. I’m so very proud of you,
piccolina
. You know this must be our secret, don’t you? Mamma and Papa might not approve, Rosanna. You mustn’t even tell Carlotta.’

‘I won’t, I promise. But Luca, can you afford the lessons?’

‘Yes, of course I can.’ Luca thought of the cash he’d been saving for two years to buy a scooter, which would provide the first step towards his much longed-for freedom. ‘Of course I can.’

As they saw the bus approaching, Rosanna gave her brother an instinctive hug. ‘Thank you, Luca. I promise I’ll work as hard as I can. And one day I will repay you for this kindness.’

‘I know you will,
piccolina
, I know you will.’

3

‘Take care, Rosanna. The bus driver knows where to let you off, in case you don’t remember.’

Rosanna smiled down at her brother from the steps of the bus. ‘Luca, you’ve already told me a hundred times. I’m not a baby. It’s only a short journey.’

‘I know, I know.’ Luca kissed his sister on both cheeks as the bus driver started the engine. ‘You have the money safe?’

‘Yes, Luca! I’ll be fine. Please don’t worry.’

Rosanna made her way to a seat at the front of the bus, sat down and waved to Luca through the grimy window as the driver pulled out of the bus station. The journey was pleasant, taking her out of the bustle of the city and up into the freshness of the hills. Rosanna’s heart beat a little faster as she left the bus at the correct stop and walked up towards the villa. She rang the bell cautiously, remembering the previous frosty reception, but this time when the door was opened Rosanna was greeted with a smile by the maid.

‘Please come in, Signorina Menici. My name is Signora Rinaldi and I’m Signor Vincenzi’s housekeeper. He’s waiting for you in the music room.’ The woman led Rosanna along a corridor to the back of the villa and knocked on a door.

‘Rosanna Menici, welcome. Please sit down.’ Luigi indicated a chair by a table, on which a jug of iced lemonade was standing. ‘You must be thirsty after your journey. Would you like a drink?’

‘Thank you, signor.’

‘Please, if we’re to work together, you must call me Luigi.’ He poured them both a glass of lemonade and Rosanna drank thirstily.

‘This weather is most uncomfortable.’ Luigi mopped his brow with a large checked handkerchief.

‘But it’s cool in this room,’ ventured Rosanna. ‘Yesterday, in the kitchen, Papa said it was over one hundred and twenty degrees.’

‘Really? That kind of temperature is only for Bedouins and camels. What does your papa do for a living?’

‘He and Mamma have a café in the Piedigrotta. We live above it,’ Rosanna explained.