Roman Song

  When Fergal Flynn's remarkable singing talent is discovered by world-renowned opera star Alfredo Moretti, the young man sets out from his native Belfast for Rome, to study under the famous singer.

  This new, sophisticated world is a far cry from working-class Belfast. But Fergal soon finds out that escaping from a troubled past is not just a matter of geography. The more he tries to disguise his rough edges, the harder it becomes for him to unearth his true voice.

  Moving back in time to the glamour of 1950s Venice, Roman Song also tells the story of three leading lights of Tosca - Alfredo, Marla Davis and Brendan Fiscetti - and of Amelia, the beautiful widowed countess, whose entrance stage-left creates a bitter rift between the three companions.

  When, three decades on, Alfredo gets word that Brendan Fiscetti is starring at the Teatro where Fergal works backstage, it becomes clear that Fergal is not the only one running from his past. . .

  Roman Song is an enchanting and funny tale of coming to terms with your true self, and of how facing your demons can open the door to the fulfilment of dreams.

  PRAISE FOR THE ARRIVAL OF FERGAL FLYNN BY BRIAN KENNEDY

  'An impressive achievement'

  Dermot Bolger, Sunday Tribune

  'An intriguing and superbly constructed story'

  Ireland on Sunday

  'Highly recommended'

  Woman's Way

  Roman Song

  Brian Kennedy was born in Belfast in the mid-1960s. He is a singer-songwriter with numerous platinum-selling albums and he presents a TV show on the BBC, Brian Kennedy on Song.

  Roman Song is his second novel, the sequel to The Arrival of Fergal Flynn.

  BRIAN

  KENNEDY

  Roman Song

  HODDER

  HEADLINE

  IRELAND

  Copyright © 2005 Brian Kennedy

  First published in 2005 by Hodder Headline Ireland

  A division of Hodder Headline

  The right of Brian Kennedy to be identified as the Author of the Work

  has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and

  Patents Act 1988.

  1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means

  without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise

  circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is

  published and without a similar condition being imposed on the

  subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 0 340 83231 2

  Typeset in Plantin Light by Hodder Headline Ireland

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  Hodder Headline Ireland’s policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable

  and recyclable products and made from wood grown in

  sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to

  conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  Hodder Headline Ireland

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  www.hhireland.ie

  www.briankennedy.co.uk

  For Everyone, Everywhere

  ‘love, the strongest poison and medicine of all’

  Joni Mitchell, from 'A Strange Boy’ (Hejira)

  Table of Contents

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  1

  With his antique walking stick held firmly aloft, Alfredo Moretti, retired opera divo and world-renowned vocal teacher, looked as if he was about to conduct an unruly orchestra. Instead, he parted the waves of Da Vinci Airport’s human sea of travellers like a better-dressed Moses. For counterbalance, he linked the arm of his newly arrived protégé , the very relieved and travel-weary Fergal Flynn.

  Alfredo’s legendary status was like an exquisite, exclusive perfume that infiltrated the airport’s stale air, capturing the attention of the whirling throng. As teacher and pupil forged their way to the exit, they were studied, gawped at and, inevitably, halted by well-meaning autograph hunters who couldn’t believe their luck. Fergal could only watch in bewilderment as the elderly, overexcited fans frantically mined every zipped pocket of their belongings for paper and a pen, finally and apologetically producing the back of a wrinkled receipt and a badly chewed Biro. All the while, they took pictures and hyperventilated some story from years gone by in breakneck Italian. Fergal didn’t understand a word anybody said until he heard Alfredo saying his name and realised that he must have started telling his audience of two that Fergal had just arrived from Ireland to study singing under his wing. Suddenly, the same crumpled proof of purchase was thrust in Fergal’s direction. Alfredo translated: they wanted him to sign too, because they were sure he was also going to be famous one day.

  ‘What? Alfredo, I’m not sure. I mean, I’ve never...I’m not famous, for God’s sake! Sure, I’ve never even been out of Ireland until this morning.’

  Alfredo laughed. ‘It’s only polite to do as they wish. Without good people such as these, I would never have enjoyed such a privileged career. And this is an extraordinary moment, my boy. You haven’t been in Rome for five minutes - discounting the holdup at customs, of course - and already you’ve been asked for your first autograph! It’s delightful - and an encouraging sign!’

  It was enough to make Fergal laugh, albeit begrudgingly. He felt like a total fraud next to Alfredo. Blushing, he managed to write his name just under his teacher’s broader, more confident stroke. Once the deed was done, the recipients reacted as if they had won the lottery. They threw their arms around Alfredo and kissed him on both cheeks, and before Fergal had time to breathe, they did the same to him. Then they trundled off as quickly as they had appeared, clutching their luggage-laden trolley and their freshly inked treasure. Alfredo raised his walking stick cum baton again, and they left the airport building.

  Fergal’s face was instantly caressed by a wave of warm, fresh air that brushed his skin like a velvet tide, as if to say, You made it! It’s all right now, you're safe. After the greyness of Belfast, the sun’s heat made him smile. Fergal undid another button of his shirt, and his winter coat, folded over his roasting arm, suddenly felt like a dead weight. The overcoat had been a last-minute present from the wardrobe of Father Dermot MacManus. Fergal had been very reluctant to take it. He knew that it must have been expensive because it felt so soft. In his head he heard Father Mac’s voice insisting that although the weather was undoubtedly better in Rome than in Ireland, the winters were not to be taken lightly and Fergal must keep his chest warm at all costs.

  If he was honest, Fergal had to admit that he had been only too relieved to leave Belfast behind. He remembered the soldiers’ constant, unsuccessfully camouflaged and ever-threatening presence and the burning buses and cars that had been hijacked and strategically dumped at the bottom of his old street
to keep the army out and the residents in. Fergal’s eyes widened as he allowed himself to accept the truth that could only surface now, at a safe distance from his hometown: he had been lucky to escape alive, never mind with all his limbs intact. It wasn’t the shooting and the bombs, but the clenched fists and furious feet of his own family that had nearly been the death of him. He had somehow managed to get used to the beatings from both his parents, but a particularly out-of-control attack by his older brother, John, had put him in hospital.

  Fergal hated the fact that these sickening memories could visit him without warning, as if to remind him not to get too comfortable in his new surroundings. He tried to shrug off what his skin would never forget and consoled himself with the thought that all the people who had made him feel constantly on edge for all of his seventeen years were suddenly far away, unable to get at him. There was only one man who still felt close by, one man Fergal knew he would miss - Father Dermot MacManus.

  ‘Not far now, Fergal. For once I think I remember where I parked. Hey, watch out for that—’

  Fergal tripped over the end of an abandoned trolley, dropping his coat and his overload of memories. ‘Oh, God! Sorry, Mr Moretti. I was miles away there.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. At least you’re not hurt. By the way, Fergal, please call me Alfredo, will you? “Mr Moretti” makes me sound like an ancient relic. What were you thinking about?’

  ‘I was.. .I was thinking about Belfast.’

  ‘You’re not missing home already, are you? We’re not even out of the airport yet.’

  ‘Me, miss that place?’ Fergal blurted out. ‘You must be fucking—’ He caught his breath. ‘Sorry.’

  Alfredo was a little taken aback at the reaction to what he’d thought was an innocent and playful question. He knew from Father Mac that Fergal had had a difficult time at home, but now he realised that he’d underestimated just how difficult, so he wisely decided not to press the matter any further. He put a calming hand on Fergal’s tightened shoulder and smiled.

  ‘I’m only joking with you. Tell me, how is the good Father MacManus? Is he well? He must be delighted that our plan has come to fruition. What an incredible man to have on your side, Fergal.’

  Fergal was embarrassed, and his throat had tightened. He managed a dry swallow and found his manners again. ‘Ah, he’s good, Mr— Alfredo. He’s good. Sure, he left me to the airport this morning. I don’t know what I would have done without him - and you, too, of course.’

  ‘That’s nice of you to say, Fergal, but never forget - if you didn’t possess such a voice, he wouldn’t have heard you, I wouldn’t have heard you and we wouldn’t be here. It’s as simple as that. Fate works in mysterious and strange ways, eh?’

  ‘You can say that again!’

  They stopped beside a beautiful silver Mercedes Coupe. Alfredo hit a button on his key ring and the car unlocked itself with a discreet beep that was a perfect B flat, according to its owner. They left Da Vinci Airport and careered along the motorway towards the centre of Rome. Alfredo touched the stereo system, and as music filled the car he explained that the voice belonged to one of his favourite singers, Tito Schipa, singing a well-loved piece called ‘Cavalleria Rusticana’, recorded in 1913.

  Fergal listened for a while. ‘What’s he singing about?’ he asked. ‘The day will come when you won’t need to ask. As well as learning to be a world-class singer, you’ll also become fluent in my mother tongue - if you’re prepared to work hard at it, of course.’ ‘I am. I promise I am.’ Fergal swallowed hard and tried not to dwell on all the doubts he felt. Father Mac had always told him how good his voice was during their little rehearsals at St Bridget’s Parish House and after Fergal’s performances at Sunday mass. That very morning, before Fergal left Belfast, Father Mac had reassured him that he would be a great success. But it was no good. Fergal had a constant, dull nagging feeling in his chest, a feeling that he was going to let everybody down and have to go home with his tail between his legs. He had promised his Granny Noreen, who he had lived with until she died, that he would make something of himself. He had begun to feel all right about it in Ireland, but now that he was actually in Rome, it was all too real and scary.

  Above the surface of Fergal’s fear, Alfredo was still explaining that the song concerned a soldier called Turiddu who was singing a Sicilian serenade to his lover, the beautiful Lola. ‘When he returns from the war to rekindle their flame, he finds that she has married his neighbour instead. Imagine!’

  Fergal, glad to be distracted from his ever-hovering past by the glorious sound of the tenor’s voice, closed his eyes and sank a little further into the leather seat. The unfamiliar language enfolded him, and it made him picture one of the countless warm embraces that he and Father Mac had secretly shared under the immaculate bedclothes of St Bridget’s House. Alfredo Moretti looked at his new pupil and smiled to see him immersed in the music.

  2

  They snaked through the increasingly busy traffic until they arrived at a pristine square guarded by marble sculptures of soldiers astride frozen rearing horses. To Fergal’s amazement, there was even a working fountain without a single bit of graffiti.

  Alfredo’s town house was by far the biggest and most well-kept home Fergal had ever seen. The hallway smelled like a flower shop, and the front room, with its high ceilings, vast collection of artwork and shelves upon obedient shelves of perfectly ordered volumes in English and Italian, was like a museum. Fergal was even more shocked to discover that his teacher seemed to have it all to himself. He was gob-smacked at the grandeur of it all. He’d thought St Bridget’s House was posh, but it paled in comparison to Alfredo’s palace. When he caught sight of his dishevelled, cheaply dressed self in an ornate gold-framed mirror, he had never felt poorer in his life. Even the expensive furniture seemed to sneer at him, as if to say, Don’t you dare park your dirty West Belfast behind on us!

  An enormous Bosendorfer grand piano had pride of place in the front room’s bay window. Its lid was closed and a crystal vase of freshly cut white roses stood in the centre, surrounded by a carefully selected audience of framed photographs starring Alfredo and various luminaries of the opera world. The biggest and most opulent frame was reserved for his favourite, a picture of him with Maria Callas, who had signed it for him ‘with love and respect’. Alfredo couldn’t hide his disbelief when Fergal admitted he had never heard of her. Alfredo raised his eyebrows to the black-and-white legend as if to apologise for his protégé ’s innocence. Fergal, purple with embarrassment, quietly thought to himself that she looked like someone from Star Trek.

  ‘This room is where I conduct most of my lessons,’ Alfredo said. He looked at his watch and frowned. ‘I planned to offer you a welcoming coffee and some delicious pastries, but the traffic has prevented that. I think it’s best if we leave immediately, before it becomes even worse, to meet my sister in the family restaurant. That’s where you will live and work.’

  The traffic sounded not unlike the riots Fergal had thought he’d left behind. People were screaming obscenities at each other out of car windows and honking their horns repeatedly. Alfredo seemed no more bothered about the circus than about the increasing temperature outside, but Fergal thought he was seeing things - tiny cars and mopeds impatiently mounted the crowded pavements, nearly knocking down the pedestrians, who seemed to ignore the unlawful intrusion. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere.

  Finally, like an unblocked drain, the traffic surged forward in awkward unison. Ten minutes later they pulled up in front of Bistro Moretti, as it announced in tiny white light bulbs above the entrance. At tables on the tiled pavement outside, customers of all ages were eating lunch, smoking, feeding fresh sticks of bread to children in prams and drinking coffee, so deep in conversation that they didn’t appear to need to pause for breath. No one sat outside anywhere in Belfast.

  Everyone acknowledged Alfredo’s presence as he and Fergal entered. A group of men stood up from their table, calling him ‘Maest
ro’, and hugged and kissed him like a prodigal son. Alfredo introduced Fergal, hastily and proudly, as one by one the extended family, dressed in snow-white uniforms, began to appear from behind the swinging doors of the back kitchen. As they all stood looking at him, Fergal couldn’t help feeling intimidated. Every one of them seemed to have a beautifully smooth, tanned complexion and pearly white teeth. He felt like an out-of-date bottle of milk beside them.

  The last to appear was Alfredo’s sister, Arianna, who single-handedly ran the successful business. She strode purposefully to her brother with open arms, her long blue-black hair shining. Fergal pictured the fanned feathers of a raven drying its glossy wings in the afternoon sun after a sudden rainfall. At first he thought she was much younger than Alfredo, but her youthfulness was momentarily betrayed by the occasional silver strand of hair that rose to the surface as she threw her head back to laugh at something her brother said.

  Arianna turned to Fergal, took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes. ‘So you are Mr Fergal Flynn, the one we’ve heard so much about, all the way from Ireland. My brother speaks highly of you, and we want you to know that you are most welcome here.’ Then she pulled him close to her, in a motherly way, and kissed him on both cheeks.

  Fergal felt his face redden, but he managed to thank her and acknowledge everyone shyly before Arianna clapped her hands and ushered her staff back to their duties. Then she and Alfredo led him around the back of the restaurant and up a flight of freshly bleached stairs to show him where he was going to live. The brother and sister rattled away to each other as they ascended to the older part of the building. Fergal thought their language sounded more like singing than talking.