The Italian Girl (8 page)

‘It’s all worked out perfectly,’ smiled Marco. ‘Antonia’s gone, but you, my favourite daughter, are back to take her place. As you’ve told me so many times that you won’t return to Giulio, you can live here with Ella and help me in the café as your mamma would want you to.’

Marco waited for his daughter’s reaction. Carlotta stared off into the distance as if she hadn’t heard.

‘It is a good plan, yes? For all of us,’ Marco encouraged.

Eventually, Carlotta nodded. She had lost a considerable amount of weight and her brown eyes looked huge in her drawn face. ‘Yes, Papa. I will stay here and take care of you. As you say, it’s my duty. Excuse me, I think I will take a walk.’

Marco watched as Carlotta stood up and left the room. Soon, he hoped, his child would be back to her old self. They would laugh together and he would be for Ella the papa she’d recently lost. Pouring himself a brandy, Marco decided that, under the dreadful circumstances, things had at least worked out better than he had could have ever expected.

Rosanna was searching through a drawer for a clean white blouse when her sister came into the bedroom.

‘Congratulations.’

Rosanna looked at her sister apprehensively. She knew Papa had told Carlotta of her move to Milan and was not sure what the reaction would be.

‘Thank you.’

‘Why did you not tell us of your secret, Rosanna?’ Carlotta asked.

‘Because . . . I didn’t think anyone would approve.’

Carlotta sat down on the bed and patted the space next to her. Rosanna moved towards her nervously.

‘You think I’m jealous, don’t you, Rosanna? Because you and Luca are soon to be leaving for a new life in Milan, while I stay here and take Mamma’s place?’

‘Carlotta, Luca and I will come home every holiday and help you, I promise,’ Rosanna reassured her.

‘It’s kind of you to say so, but I think, once you’re away from here, you will forget your old life.’

‘No, Carlotta! I’ll never forget you and Papa and everyone here in the Piedigrotta,’ Rosanna replied defensively.

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Carlotta said gently. She reached for Rosanna’s hand. ‘I can’t deny I felt at first a little envy when Papa told me, but I’m pleased for you, really. You’ve been given a chance, and I hope,’ she sighed, ‘that you’re wiser than your big sister and don’t mess it up.’

‘Carlotta, please don’t say that. You’re still young too. And you might get back with Giulio.’

‘No, Rosanna, I won’t,’ Carlotta said firmly. ‘And I can never marry again as he will never divorce me. You know how such a thing would cause a scandal here. So, what I’m trying to tell you is that it takes one moment of stupidity to ruin your life forever. And I don’t want to see you suffer the same as I have because of it.’

‘I’m sure I won’t,’ replied Rosanna, still not sure what mistake it was that her sister had made. ‘I’ll be careful, I promise.’

‘You’re a sensible girl, Rosanna, but when it comes to men’ – Carlotta smiled wryly and shook her head – ‘all women can be stupid.’

‘I’m not interested in men, only in singing. Please tell me, what is it that’s happened between you and Giulio?’

‘I can’t tell you now, but maybe some day I will. All I know is that I’ve paid the price for my stupidity and will continue to do so for the rest of my life,’ Carlotta replied sadly.

‘And now, on top of everything, you’ll have to stay here and care for Papa!’ said Rosanna, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. ‘If I wasn’t going to Milan, then—’

Carlotta put a finger to her sister’s lips. ‘Don’t think like that. For now, Ella and I need Papa as much as he needs us. Things have worked out well, really.’

‘You really don’t mind us going to Milan and leaving you here?’

‘No. I’m very happy for you, truly. Just promise to take care of Luca for me.’

‘Of course,’ Rosanna agreed.

‘We’re so lucky to have a brother like him. And it’s good that he’s going with you. You’ve given him his freedom too and that’s a wonderful thing. He deserves it.’ Carlotta stood up, kissed the top of her sister’s head affectionately and left the bedroom.

Rosanna took off her T-shirt and put on her white choir blouse. She was confused by Carlotta’s reaction. She’d expected tears, tantrums and jealousy from her fiery sister, not an almost saintly acceptance of her lot, and she felt unsettled by Carlotta’s uncharacteristic resignation to her situation. And she couldn’t help feeling terrible that, through winning freedom for herself and Luca, the two of them seemed to have sentenced their beautiful sister to a life of unhappiness.

Roberto Rossini waited until he was fully awake before he opened his eyes to the blinding light of a hot August morning in Milan.

Roberto turned over and saw Tamara’s pretty face, still in peaceful repose. Tamara was accommodating and they’d had an enjoyable three weeks. But now it must end, as she was becoming far too possessive and had started talking of their future together. The moment women did this, he knew it was time to move on.

He put his hands behind his head and lay watching the clear blue sky beyond the window, thinking of the day ahead. He had a singing lesson this afternoon, then tonight there was a benefit performance at La Scala for a children’s charity – he couldn’t remember which, but everyone who was anyone in Milan would be there.

Roberto sighed. He’d been singing professionally for the past five years, and, although he was now a soloist with La Scala, he always sang minor roles. There were other opera companies in Europe he had appeared with who had offered him larger parts in their forthcoming seasons, but he wanted more than anything to succeed at La Scala. Caruso, his hero, from his home town of Naples, had made his name there. And it was also in Milan’s magnificent opera house that Callas and di Stephano had given some of their finest performances.

Roberto was becoming impatient for the glory he knew his voice and his charisma deserved. Although thirty-four was hardly old for an opera singer, he had only a few more years before his still handsome young features and taut body moved into middle age, and the moment for true greatness at the height of all his powers had passed.

But how could he achieve his goal in time? Roberto knew he had the qualities that, once he’d been given the opportunity, would separate him from the rest. His voice was strong, distinctive and growing richer as he matured. He’d been told often that he possessed great stage presence and knew how to pour emotion into the characters he portrayed. So why hadn’t he yet been given the chance to shine in a leading role at La Scala?

When he’d joined the company five years ago, he’d presumed that it would be only a matter of time before he was promoted and given all the great tenor parts he so yearned to make his own. But, since then, roles he was right for in every way had gone to others. Singers who Roberto hardly rated were rising above and beyond him.

Roberto turned away from the sun and groaned. He had to accept that, for all his talent, he had something of a public relations problem with those who employed him. When he’d been at the music school, he’d done himself few favours by sending a stream of distraught female students in the direction of their tutors. His reputation as a Casanova had not endeared him to anyone, and Paolo de Vito, not only a director of the school but also artistic director at La Scala, had heard of his antics.

Last year he’d had an affair with a guest soprano, who’d gone running to Paolo when Roberto had unceremoniously dumped her. He’d had a major dressing-down for that, Paolo pointing out that it wasn’t good for La Scala’s reputation to have an up-and-coming young soprano swearing never to return.

After the great soprano debacle, a chastened Roberto had apologised to Paolo and promised it wouldn’t happen again. He’d desperately tried to discipline himself for the rest of the season, his ambition to succeed at La Scala and to appease Paolo subduing his more hedonistic tendencies.

Roberto had often wondered whether it was purely a clash of personalities, or something deeper. Paolo was a well-known homosexual and Roberto was sure his handsome good looks and success with women were not qualities that would naturally endear him to the maestro, however well he behaved. And he
had
behaved . . . at least, until Tamara had arrived, fresh from Russia. She’d been impossible to refuse.

Roberto rolled out of bed and walked into the bathroom to take a shower. The season at La Scala finished in September. Then he was off to sing in Paris for a couple of months. He would return to Milan in November for the final year of his contract and, if he didn’t get the roles he wanted in the new season, he’d vowed to give up and go abroad permanently. Until then, he’d have to sit it out.

That evening, Roberto sang to an audience worth several billion lire.

Afterwards, there was a reception in the foyer of La Scala to which the entire opera company was invited. As Roberto sipped a glass of champagne, he decided he’d leave as soon as possible. This kind of event bored him: there were too many over-made-up wives glittering with the fruits of their ageing husbands’ wealth.

He watched morosely as the young Spanish tenor, who had given, in his opinion, such a mediocre Otello, was fêted by the Italian Prime Minister and other well-known dignitaries.

‘Good evening. I enjoyed your performance tonight.’ Roberto heard a female voice behind him and turned without enthusiasm, prepared for a tedious five minutes of being polite.

‘Donatella Bianchi. I am pleased to meet you,’ ventured the woman.

Roberto shook her outstretched hand. Donatella Bianchi had a head of the most glorious curly, ebony-coloured hair, green eyes that sparkled brighter than the priceless emeralds around her throat, and the most sensational cleavage. Although certainly past forty, she oozed sex appeal. Her long, perfectly manicured fingernails lingered on Roberto’s palm for a little longer than necessary.

‘I’m pleased to meet you too.’ Roberto gave her a genuine smile.

‘I’ve seen you perform many times before. My husband is a very generous patron of the company. And I think you are a very talented . . . performer.’

‘You’re most kind.’ The conversation was outwardly formal, but the eye contact between them was electric.

Donatella reached into her Gucci evening bag and drew out a card. ‘Give me a call tomorrow morning, Roberto Rossini. We need to discuss your future.
Ciao
.’

Roberto slipped the card into his pocket as he watched her make her way through the crowd and slip her arm round the considerable waist of a short, balding Italian.

Minutes later, Roberto left. As he walked across the Piazza della Scala, he pondered whether he would give Signora Bianchi a call. Older
paramours
were not usually his thing, but Donatella was obviously no ordinary woman.

And, when he found himself undressing her in his mind as he climbed into bed that night, he knew that, despite his misgivings, he’d pick up the telephone tomorrow and call her.

8

‘Do I look okay?’

‘Rosanna, you look as you always do – lovely.’

‘Oh, you’re just saying that, Luca.’

‘Listen,
piccolina
, you’re only going to your first day at music school, not entering a beauty pageant. Come, or we’ll be late.’ Luca offered his hands.

Rosanna took them. ‘I’m so nervous, Luca.’

‘I know you are, but you’ll be fine, I promise. Now, we need to go.’

Luca shut and locked the door to their tiny fifth-floor apartment and they began to walk down the many stairs.

‘I like our new home, but I hope the lift will be mended soon. I counted seventy-five steps last night,’ Rosanna giggled.

‘It will keep us fit, and besides, the climb is worth it for the beautiful view we have of Milan.’ Luca knew they’d been lucky to get an apartment so centrally located and suspected that Paolo had pulled a few strings to secure it for them.

The two of them reached the downstairs hall and Luca opened the front door. They stepped out onto the wide pavement of the Corso di Porta Romana, narrowly avoiding a collision with the steady stream of pedestrians that flowed busily in both directions. Luca consulted a sheet of paper on which he’d scribbled down the directions that Paolo had given him.

‘We could take the tram, but it’s so crowded at this time of the morning.’ He watched one rattling past at that moment, with passengers spilling out of the open windows. Two young men ran behind it and daringly leapt onto the rear footplate to hitch a ride. ‘Signor de Vito says it’s only a fifteen-minute walk to the school from here. Well, we’ll try it and see if he’s correct,’ Luca shouted above the hubbub.

‘I keep having to pinch myself to believe that today is happening,’ said Rosanna, drinking in the atmosphere as they walked along the noisy street, past teeming cafés and shops opening their shutters for business. ‘What will you do while I’m at school?’

‘I think I’ll be a tourist,’ Luca said. ‘There are so many beautiful old churches in the city and I’ll start with those. The Duomo di Milano is only a few streets from here. And I must find a place of worship that’s near our apartment. I promised Papa I’d take you to Mass every Sunday.’

As Paolo had predicted, after fifteen minutes or so, the two of them turned left into the Via Santa Marta. ‘Look, there’s the school.’ Rosanna paused on the street corner and turned to her brother. ‘There’ll be no need to walk me here every morning. I want you to have your own life in Milan too, Luca.’

‘I know. And I will. But my first priority is you.’ The two of them crossed the road and stood looking at the entrance to the school. Other young men and women were streaming past them, funnelling into the door that led to the hallowed corridors of Italy’s most illustrious music academy. ‘Well, here we are,’ Luca said, smiling at her. ‘I’ll say goodbye now and meet you back here at five o’clock.’

Rosanna clutched his hand. ‘I’m scared, Luca.’

‘You’ll be fine. Remember, this was our dream.’ Luca kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Good luck,
piccolina
.’

‘Thank you.’

Three hours later, Luca was sitting in a small café writing a postcard to his father, eating crostini and drinking a glass of beer. He’d spent an hour inside the great Duomo, then walked through the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, marvelling at the exotic shops and the cost of the goods they contained. He’d exited the Galleria into the Piazza della Scala and stood for a while gazing up at the fabled facade of the world-famous opera house, where one day he hoped he would hear his sister sing.