Roman Song Page 11

  ‘What? What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that I won’t be coming to Rome after all - not this year, anyway. I’m really sorry, fella.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Things aren’t good here in Belfast. The parishioners really need me. The bishop just sent me a letter saying that holidays are restricted until further notice. I can have a day here and there - my sister has some leave coming up, so she’s going to come and stay with me for a few days - but I can’t go out of the country.’

  ‘Ah no, Dermot, I was so looking forward to seeing you. It’s not fair. I bet that oul’ bishop gets to go away!’

  ‘Now Fergal, you know it’s beyond my control.’ Fergal didn’t know what to say. ‘Fergal? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yeah. But...’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I need to see you, Dermot. I feel like things are getting on top of me.’

  ‘You’re living in Rome, you have the best teacher you could have, you’re surrounded by great people and you’re even earning money. You could be stuck on the dole in Belfast, fearing for your life every time you went out the door. What more do you want?’

  ‘I miss you, and Granny Noreen. And I feel like I’ve let Alfredo down.’

  ‘Fergal, you need to stop being so dramatic. The past is the past. You need to move on. We’ve been over this before.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying you know, when you don’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry. My ma’s been writing to me. She sounds so unhappy.’ Father Mac wanted to kick himself for forwarding her letters, but he knew he had no choice. ‘Look, try and focus on the positive - you passed your first exam. I know you wanted to do better than you did, but sometimes expectations can be too high, and you’re very hard on yourself. I think it’s great you passed.’

  ‘But the examiner said he didn’t believe most of my performance.’

  ‘Well, that will come in time. You’re so young. You passed, and that’s the end of it. Now move on.’

  ‘I’m going to try, Dermot. Honestly, I am.’

  But when they finished their phone call, Fergal couldn’t find it in himself to feel much happier. He felt that Father Mac was getting further and further away, just when he needed him most. The voice of doubt had certainly won this round.

  13

  The day after the exam, Fergal got another letter from his mother. It was short, but as always, the contents stayed with him long after he finished reading. Angela poured out her heart to him. It was as if she found it easier to tell him things because he was so far away. She was worried because his father was drinking more than ever: ‘He’s hardly ever home for his dinner. Most of the time I have to throw it away. Honest to God, our Fergal, the local dogs have started drawing straws for it every night’ She missed her mother and her father, Fergal’s namesake, whom he had never met. ‘My daddy would be so proud that you’re in Rome learning to be a singer ’ It was her only way of saying that she was proud too.

  Somewhere inside himself, Fergal was secretly beginning to look forward to her letters. He wrote back and told her he was moving into his teacher’s house, writing the address very clearly on the top of the page so she wouldn’t have to keep going to St Bridget’s House.

  Exactly one week later, Alfredo pulled up outside Moretti’s to take Fergal to his new home. Fergal had packed up his belongings - he didn’t realise they had outgrown his suitcase until he tried to close it. Arianna kissed him on both cheeks and put a brave face on. At least he would be working part-time at the restaurant, so she would still see him.

  As he unpacked his things in Alfredo’s spare room, Fergal was bubbling over with excitement. Although he still felt that he had failed his teacher, he could feel a new chapter in his life beginning. He looked around his new room. It was much bigger than the one he’d had at Moretti’s, with a huge double bed and an ancient wardrobe that housed a full-length mirror on the inside of the door. As he hung up his old clothes on the wooden hangers, he was sure he could still smell Belfast off some of them, and in some ways it was a comfort. He stared at his one good suit, hanging slightly apart from all his other clothes, like an overachieving child who could never belong to the family’s inner circle. That was what Fergal felt like. It wasn’t that he thought he was better than his family, but he was far too different to belong. Like the suit, he was just cut from a different cloth.

  There was an old writing desk with a swivel chair in front of the window overlooking the courtyard. Fergal sat down and opened the drawers. They had been cleaned out except for a bit of blank stationery. He suddenly thought he should write to Father Mac and describe his new room, but once he’d written his new address in the top right-hand corner, he didn’t know where to begin. He just sat there, staring at the blank sheet of paper.

  He decided to reread his little collection letters from Father Mac. He was surprised at how little they had actually written to each other. Then, of course, there was that letter. The sentences circled him like long-tailed kites flapping in the wind. It's precisely because I love you so much that we need to let the past go... You must be finding a world of new possibilities there, and I’d hate to think that you might limit your experiences... We will always be friends... You know you have my heart, but you must go fully into the world now, as a free and single young man at the start of an incredible adventure...

  Fergal was surprised to find that the contents didn’t hurt as much as they once had. Something had changed in him since the disastrous night of his birthday. He decided that if he truly had to let Dermot go forever, then he was determined at least to have one last night of love with him. Surely he wouldn’t say no? But he knew it was probably impossible now that Dermot wasn’t coming to Rome. He couldn’t believe that they would never kiss again. He sat down at the desk again and started to write.

  Dear Dermot,

  'I'm sitting here in my new room on the first floor of Alfredo’s house. What a shame you can’t come over! I was so looking forward to it - it’s been ages and ages since I've seen you. I was unpacking my stuff and I just reread your last letter again, and I think I'm beginning to understand what you mean.

  I do think of you often. When I was in my exam I thought about you, and about Granny Noreen. It was like youse were with me for some of it. Maybe I was a bit distracted after all. I really thought I would do better.

  Dermot, you should see my new room. I feel like a prince. I've also gone part-time at Moretti’s, because I've got an interview for a new job at the Teatro degli Artisti tonight - working behind the scenes, of course, but I’ll get to meet all the performers and watch the operas. I can’t wait. I promise I’ll keep working as hard as I can. I hope you’re well and that you have a good time with your sister. Please remember me to her and to Mrs Mooney.

  Yours,

  FF

  When he read it back to himself, he thought it sounded good. He searched for an envelope in the other drawer and quickly sealed it. Then Alfredo shouted from downstairs, ‘You should take a bath soon, if you are going to look your best at the interview!’

  Fergal had never taken baths at Moretti’s - the shower was , easier, and he usually didn’t have much time - but Alfredo had insisted that he should begin a lifelong relationship with the clawfooted bath. It was the only thing that relaxed the Italian after a hard day, and he believed the heat was good for the voice.

  Fergal locked the bathroom door behind him and began to smell the contents of all the brightly coloured bottles set on the window ledge and in the cabinets. He thought of a game he had played as a boy, where all the children in the neighbourhood had collected bottles of coloured liquids; they would have killed for some of these. He settled on a bottle of deep green liquid, and as he poured it under the running tap the room filled with clouds of lime-scented vapour, as if he were walking through an orchard. He took slow, deep breaths and watched as the water filled the old bath almost to the top. />
  When he eased himself into the scalding water it was almost too much to bear, but he found that if he didn’t move a muscle he could endure it, and it made his whole body feel calm. After a while he began doing the little vocal exercises for which bathrooms seem to have been invented. He stayed in the water for a long time, happy in the liquid blanket of warmth, and for the first time in a long time he didn’t think about anything.

  When he got back to his room, there was a pile of unfamiliar black clothes neatly folded on his bed. On top of them was a note. ‘ You must look your best at all times. You can pay me back when you’re famous. Welcome to my home, and I hope you will be as happy as I am that you’re here. Love, Alfredo’

  Fergal was overwhelmed by Alfredo’s thoughtfulness, and by that all-too-familiar hybrid of sadness and gladness. He didn’t like the thought of owing anybody anything, but when he looked at what his wardrobe had to offer, he knew he had very little choice, and that it would be rude and pointless to argue. He tried on the clothes, a casual black cotton shirt and trousers. They fitted well, and they felt so good against his clean skin that he almost wanted to take them off again and save them for another occasion, but he knew they couldn’t have come at a better moment.

  He combed his damp, wavy hair as neatly as he could, decided he could wait one more day for a shave and went down to find Alfredo and thank him. As he neared the door of the music room, he could hear the singing butcher booming away: ‘and Moon River...’ Fergal always felt a little jealous when Alfredo was busy with other singers, and now, since his exam, he felt vulnerable too. The old voice of doubt surfaced in his head: Not as shit-hot as you thought you were, are you? That exam proved it. You’re wasting your time, trying to be some fancy singer...Suddenly Fergal realised that the voice was a mixture of his father’s and his brother John’s. ‘Fuck off,’ he hissed under his breath, furious with himself for letting them get to him even though he was so far away from Belfast.

  He had to leave or he would be late for the interview. Rather than disturbing Alfredo, he found a pad of manuscript paper and wrote in big letters, ‘Alfredo, what are you like? You shouldn’t have. How can I ever thank you enough? The new clothes fit perfectly. I didn’t want to disturb your lesson, so I’ll thank you properly later, in person. FF.’

  He had been practising his autograph for weeks, but he couldn’t decide on a style, so it was initials only for the time being.

  The Teatro degli Artisti wasn’t far away, and Fergal had a map and very clear directions from Giovanni and Alfredo. After only twenty minutes’ walking he saw the dramatic sculptures on the front of the theatre, the awnings and the brightly lit posters. The current production was called How Can I Keep from Singing: The Collected Arias.

  As arranged, he presented himself at the stage door. When Giovanni appeared, also dressed in black, he commented on Fergal’s foresight in wearing the dark, casual uniform of the backstage staff - Alfredo to the rescue once again.

  The ‘interview’ was much shorter than Fergal had expected. The theatre manager looked him up and down, then said, ‘So you’re Moretti’s new protégé , eh, the one we’ve been hearing about? Yes, yes, you can have the job - a month’s trial, and then we will re-evaluate the situation. You can start tonight. Giovanni will show you the ropes. Off you go, and be sure to give Alfredo my very best. We miss his performances here.’

  As Giovanni led Fergal out of the office, he laughed at the startled look on Fergal’s face. When they began to descend the old stairs, Fergal thought about all the hallowed, hurried footfalls that had slowly eroded the marble steps over the years and he wondered how many times Alfredo had rushed up those same stairs on the way to the stage. When he asked Giovanni why Alfredo had retired, the Italian rolled his eyes and told him to ask his teacher when he got home. He showed him his locker underneath the stage area, next to the orchestra pit. Fergal had never seen the pit before, and a strange tingle of excitement ran down the back of his neck. He wondered how Alfredo could have traded performing for teaching at all. Giovanni scribbled his name on a blank piece of card and placed it in the slot on the locker’s grey metal door. When Fergal tried the key and opened it, there was a tiny bunch of violets inside with a welcome note from Giovanni and Luigi, wishing him every happiness.

  As they were going back upstairs, they heard a sudden commotion. Giovanni pulled Fergal back against the wall as a man brushed past them in a flurry of velvet scarves. ‘Lemon tea, please, to my dressing room,’ he called over his shoulder, and Fergal heard his English accent. Then the man disappeared into his dressing room, leaving a trail of lavender fragrance that lingered in the ancient hallway.

  Giovanni grinned at Fergal. ‘Well, you may as well start as you mean to go on. Now is as good a time as any for you to meet our visiting star.’

  Fergal looked a bit puzzled.

  ‘That, Fergal, was none other than the great tenor Brendan Fiscetti, all the way from London - but you should refer to him as Mr or Signore Fiscetti. The kitchen is at the very bottom of the theatre. Make the tea very weak, with no milk but lots of lemon juice and honey - he should have a kettle in his room, but I think he prefers us to do it. Then knock on his door, but on no account enter until he responds. Be patient, he might take a while to answer. Then introduce yourself. Don’t look so worried, he might even like you!’

  Fergal ran down the stairs like a schoolboy on the last day of term. He found the kitchen easily, made a pot of the lemony concoction and put everything he could think of onto a tray. The sound of the orchestra rehearsing filled the stairway and swam around him in the air as he took two steps at a time.

  The main dressing room had a huge T’ painted on the door in black, in the middle of a gold star. Directly underneath, in ornate calligraphy, was the leading man’s name: ‘Brendan Fiscetti’.

  Fergal balanced the tray on one arm and knocked, almost dropping the whole thing. He stood still and waited as the scent of lemons filtered up from the pot. He was thinking of knocking once more when he started to hear groaning. Fergal was a bit worried - it sounded as if Signore Fiscetti was ill. He looked up and down the corridor, but it was empty.

  Suddenly the door flew open and there stood Brendan Fiscetti in his shorts and vest. ‘Ah, the tea. Come in, come in, young man. I’m not in the habit of parading around in a state of undress, I can assure you - unless it’s called for on stage, of course! I hear you’re new?’ Fergal nodded.

  ‘I suppose you wondered what the noises were all about? I was in the middle of doing my daily stretches. My spine, sadly, isn’t as supple as it used to be. Put the tea over there and tell me your name, otherwise I shall be forced to think that you’re unfriendly, and that would never do, because without conversation we are lost.’ Fergal smiled. ‘I’m Fergal Flynn, Mr Fiscetti,’

  Signore Fiscetti nodded. ‘An Irishman, if I’m not mistaken? A fine, fine country, with even finer singers and songs. I’m part Irish myself, you know.’

  Fergal placed the tray on a low table. Signore Fiscetti looked at it and shook his head. ‘Oh, it will never do, it simply will never do, Mr Flynn.’ Fergal was mortified, thinking that he’d left out a vital ingredient, until Signore Fiscetti stopped teasing and said, ‘You’ve only brought one cup, Mr Flynn. We won’t have another word until you fetch one for yourself - so go, hurry!’

  Fergal practically threw himself back down the stairs, dodging members of the chorus. He was a little out of breath when he returned. He knocked on the door again and Signore Fiscetti was waiting for him, this time fully clothed.

  Fergal sat down at the little table and poured the lemon tea into two cups that bore the theatre’s name. Signore Fiscetti was seated at an enormous mirror framed by tiny light bulbs. As far as Fergal could tell, in front of him was every kind of make-up ever invented. Fergal’s predecessor had laid it out and checked it every day, and Giovanni had told Fergal to watch the tenor’s routine as closely as he could so he would know if anything needed replacing.

  Si
gnore Fiscetti turned in his chair and picked up his steaming cup, blowing away the vapours and then sipping the contents noisily. He gestured for Fergal to do the same. ‘Where in Ireland are you from? And how have you ended up at the Teatro in Rome?’ Fergal told him a careful version of his upbringing on the Falls Road - how all he had ever wanted to do was sing, and how Father MacManus had encouraged him, how the recording at the monastery in Sligo had led to Alfredo Moretti’s visit, which had changed his entire life.

  Brendan Fiscetti’s eyes widened. ‘Forgive me, Fergal - did you say Alfredo Moretti? Here in Rome?’

  Fergal nodded. ‘Yes, he’s my teacher. So you’ve heard of him? He used to be a big star, like you.’

  For a second Signore Fiscetti looked almost vulnerable, for such a big man. He turned to apply his make-up and said, in a quieter voice, ‘My good God, this is amazing. I was only thinking about Alfredo Moretti recently, when I found out I was flying over to do these concerts. We used to know each other very well for a while, many years ago. We worked together on a production of...now what was it? Oh yes, Tosca. How could I forget? It must be twenty years...’ His voice trailed off for a moment. ‘He’s about my age, wouldn’t you say, Fergal?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘It must be him. Surely there’s only one Alfredo Moretti who was an opera singer. I wonder why he doesn’t sing any more. I mean, I’m busier than ever, and he was incredible, you know. What a bizarre coincidence! The angels are at work tonight, Fergal. Well, one thing I do know: if he’s your teacher, then you must be very good. How is he doing?’

  As Fergal was about to answer, the speaker on the wall announced loudly, ‘One hour till curtain up. That’s one hour till curtain up.’