Roman Song Page 12

  Signore Fiscetti looked at his watch and furrowed his brow. ‘Fergal, forgive me, but I must rest. We’ll continue our chat tomorrow, of that you can be sure, but I always leave the theatre the second I come off, to avoid the public demands and to rest my voice. I’m sure it sounds a little precious, but one of these days you may understand the lengths you have to go to when you’re doing six or eight performances a week and you’re the leading man. Please leave the tray. And Fergal, as it is your first day, let me say welcome to the world of the theatre.’

  Fergal sat at the side of the stage and watched that night’s performance of classic arias in awe. There were so many incredible songs, so many lighting changes, and Fergal hadn’t quite realised how much acting was required - not to mention how much volume. Signore Fiscetti’s rich voice could be heard all the way to the back of the theatre, and there wasn’t a microphone in sight. Signore Fiscetti was on stage a lot of the time. Sometimes he was joined by a young Greek soprano with a voice like a blackbird’s. They sang a duet that Fergal remembered hearing on an advert on TV in Belfast, then Signore Fiscetti left her to sing two songs by herself and joined her again for the last selection of pieces before the interval. Fergal was at the ready with water and a fresh pot of tea, just the right temperature to drink.

  The second half of the evening seemed to move a lot faster. One lament had some of the people in the nearby boxes in tears. Fergal thought Signore Fiscetti was magnificent. He started to clap in all the wrong places, purely because he was so moved, but luckily it was so dark that no one guessed it was him. There were three curtain calls and a standing ovation. As promised, Signore Fiscetti exited in the same confusion of scarves into a waiting car. Within fifteen minutes, the Teatro was completely empty.

  Giovanni appeared and took Fergal through his various jobs, encouraging him to write things down in a little notepad so he would be able to carry them out to the letter every evening after the final curtain fell. ‘So how was your first meeting with Signore Fiscetti?’ he asked.

  ‘He was nice. He made me get another cup and have tea with him.’ Giovanni looked incredulous. ‘Seriously? I can’t tell you how rare it is for a leading man to do that. Normally they’re demanding old queens. Sorry, bitchy of me, I know. I wonder, is he...? Oh, never mind, we’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure. Well, well, all this on your first day. Well done. So hang up his clothes and tidy his counter, then I’ll meet you at the stage door to clock out, okay?’ Fergal had been about to tell him that Signore Fiscetti knew Alfredo, but the moment had passed.

  He went back to the dressing room and stood there for a quiet moment, imagining that it was his name on the door. Inside, the room was in quite a state, with boots and clothes and make-up strewn everywhere. Fergal opened the window onto the street below to let fresh air in. He could hear people shouting for taxis and mopeds humming homewards in every direction, like bees.

  Brendan had five different outfits thrown over the backs of chairs. Some were plain black suits with the shirts sewn into the waistcoats, for ease in changing, while others were ornately embroidered in silver and gold. They looked a bit ridiculous up close, but when the spotlights were on them they were impressive. Fergal caught sight of himself in the mirror and held one of the jackets up against himself to see what he looked like. Even though he knew Signore Fiscetti was much bigger than he was, he couldn’t resist trying the jacket on. He burst out laughing when he saw how it hung on his shoulders, but then he closed his eyes and pictured himself on the stage. He could almost feel the curtains rising to explosive applause, almost hear his own voice steering the melody to the far corners of the Teatro until no ear was left uncaressed...

  Giovanni’s voice suddenly called up the hallway, breaking the spell. Fergal unwrapped himself from the jacket and the fantasy, finished tidying the dressing room and clicked off the light.

  Giovanni offered Fergal a lift home, but he said he wanted to walk. His mind was racing with thoughts of being in a similar production one day, having a dressing room with a little daybed to rest on before performances...He started to sing quietly to himself as he got closer to Alfredo’s road, and an old woman brushing away the petals of lime blossom that had covered her doorstep like heavy snow stopped and smiled at him. ‘It’s lovely to hear someone so happy with the world.’

  Fergal smiled back. The old woman was small, like his Granny Noreen, and she was around the same age Noreen would have been. Sadness pulled at his heart. Sweet-smelling petals had never troubled his grandmother’s Belfast doorway. Instead there had been litter and dog shite and soldiers’ boot marks, and she had struggled to keep the passageway clean for decades until her tiny hands grew callused and her spine weakened, and at last her whole body gave in.

  Then, somewhere in his head he heard Father Mac’s voice reminding him that he had promised his grandmother not to let his talent go to waste. As he closed Alfredo’s gate and looked at his newr lodgings, he suddenly realised just how far he had come towards keeping that promise. The rest was up to him. As he put the key in the front door, he smiled.

  ‘Fergal?’ Alfredo called from the front room. ‘How did it go?’ He had been reading. He looked up over the half-moon of his glasses, smiling. ‘I want to hear all about your evening. I assume you got the job, or you would have been home long ago. Did Giovanni look after you? Did you get time to see the production? I’m ashamed to say I don’t even know what’s playing. I haven’t been there for quite a while.’

  Fergal sat down on the bright blue sofa. ‘It was great. I got the job; I’m on a month’s trial. The manager was asking after you.’ Alfredo raised an eyebrow. ‘A month’s trial? I suppose they’re being careful. One day they’ll be telling anyone who will listen that you used to work backstage.’

  Fergal looked at Alfredo so intensely that his teacher asked him what was the matter.

  ‘Well, I was just wondering, why did you give it all up, you know, for teaching? Do you not miss the stage?’

  Alfredo sighed as if the question weighed him down. ‘Fergal, my dear young man, that was the hardest decision I ever had to make. But in the end, it was the right one for me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’d worked too hard for too long. I was lucky that my international reputation was beginning to gather momentum, but I got to the point where I just couldn’t face another long flight and months away from home. I was exhausted all the time. Life on the road can be very solitary when one has to put one’s voice above everything and everyone else. My car accident was a blessing in disguise in many ways.’

  Fergal’s eyes widened.

  ‘You see, Fergal, it literally made me stop and take stock, for a little while at least. I hadn’t spent any time with Arianna in years and I virtually lived out of my suitcase. I know it’s hard for you to understand what I’m saying, seeing as you have it all ahead of you, but I woke up one morning and realised that I just wanted to be here at home. If I’m honest, I never liked travelling very much. So I spent another year working through my commitments, but that’s when I should’ve been resting, so my leg never healed properly, hence my slight limp, which is all my own stubborn fault. And that, my friend, is how I came to retire early from the world of performing. As you will find out yourself one day, the good times far outweigh the bad ones, and its rewards are plenty. But all great things have to end sometime, and I have no regrets.’

  ‘And how did you get into teaching, Alfredo?’ Fergal asked. ‘That was an accident of a different kind. I was asked to quickly put a baritone through his paces here in Rome and suddenly I realised I could work here and still be surrounded by my passion, which of course is music. To answer your previous question, though, I don’t miss the stage because it never really feels very far away from me. Tell me, who is singing there at the moment?’

  ‘A tenor called Brendan Fiscetti. He’s lovely, Alfredo.’

  Alfredo nearly dropped his book.

  ‘He says he knows you. He was really startled whe
n I told him you were my teacher.’

  Alfredo’s breathing had gone a little odd, but he gathered himself. ‘We did indeed know each other, but we lost contact decades ago...’ He looked away. ‘I haven’t really thought about him since. The last I knew, he was living in England - London, I think - with a countess. They married very suddenly, after a whirlwind romance while we were on tour in Venice. Was she there, by any chance?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but the Teatro was mad busy. What does she look like?’

  ‘She had the most incredible red hair I’ve ever seen, curls like corkscrews. I suppose there may be some grey in it now - if they’re still together. My goodness, it’s been so long.’

  ‘He was out of the theatre like a lightning bolt after the performance. To save his voice, he said.’

  Alfredo burst out laughing. ‘Oh Fergal, if only you’d seen him all those years ago! He used to try and get me to drink with him into the early hours every night, whether we had a performance or not. I was the one who finally put my foot down - my voice had started to suffer. What else did he say, Fergal? Did he seem pleased that I was teaching you? Did you mention that you were living here?’

  Alfredo suddenly realised that he had asked too many questions too quickly. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said, trying to cover up his eagerness for information. He left his chair, opened one of the cupboards and searched through a pile of old scrapbooks. ‘Here. Look, Fergal - Brendan Fiscetti and I weren’t that much older than you are now.’

  Fergal took the book carefully into his lap and marvelled at the sight of the two tenors, much younger and much thinner. They might have been the sons of the men he knew.

  It was well after midnight when Alfredo stopped reminiscing and remembered they had to be up early for a vocal lesson. Many hours later, with scrapbooks littering his bed, Alfredo Moretti finally surrendered to sleep.

  14

  The next morning, during the voice lesson, Alfredo couldn’t help asking Fergal what repertoire Signore Fiscetti was singing and whether he was in good voice. ‘He’s doing a collection of arias from different productions,’ Fergal told him. ‘Alfredo, I hadn’t realised how much acting there is. I don’t know if I can—’

  Alfredo got up swiftly, tutting and shaking his head. ‘Fergal, the more energy you spend on self-doubt, the less you will have for improvement. Remember that I have every faith in you. I wouldn’t waste my precious time, or yours, if I didn’t think you had what it takes. Your performance during the exam was a wake-up call, nothing more. Just wait until Brendan hears you!’

  They started with the most difficult section of the aria that Alfredo had selected, then moved on to the less complicated parts as the day progressed. Alfredo still felt that Fergal was holding back, but not quite as much. He knew that Fergal was fragile and that it would do no good to roar and shout at him any more than was necessary. He needed time to work out whatever was blocking his progress.

  Fergal certainly knew how to work, but he still felt outside the music. Sometimes he missed the buzz of Moretti’s and Arianna’s kindness, but he and Alfredo still attended the family lunches every Sunday, and Fergal always looked forward to them. And he was glad not to have to see Riccardo more than was necessary.

  At the Teatro, Brendan Fiscetti began to rely on Fergal more and more as the days went by, and their chats continued over rivers of lemon tea. As Fergal talked about his studies, Brendan would suddenly interrupt him in mid-sentence to ask a question about Alfredo, like whether he had many pupils. When Fergal said, cautiously, that Alfredo did seem to be busy a lot of the time, Brendan nodded as if it was the answer he’d expected.

  Brendan never mentioned his wife. When Fergal said one day, ‘Why don’t you try and meet up with Alfredo, Signore Fiscetti, while you’re in Rome?’, it was the only time he ever saw Brendan look truly vulnerable. He mumbled, ‘Oh, I meant to arrange a lunch or something before the end of the run, but Alfredo is obviously a busy man or he would have rung me by now.’

  Fergal didn’t understand it at all. Alfredo was equally reluctant to call Brendan. Why were they both being so reticent? A week of performances came and went and the two men stopped asking Fergal about each other, but the silence reeked of sadness.

  Fergal sang every day, working on his breathing technique and his sight-reading one morning and on his tone the next, alternating to keep things fresh. He also worked on his piano skills. Alfredo insisted that he needed to be able to play so he could figure out scores for himself. Fergal was intimidated at first, but after a few lessons he was amazed at how much sense the keyboard made. On alternate days he went up the road to Signora Truvello for a few hours of Italian tuition. After dinner every evening he went to the Teatro, where he stood at the side of the stage, riveted by the performances, drinking in every note and sometimes lip-synching along to the arias he and Alfredo were working on.

  One night, when most people had gone home, Fergal went to the stage to collect a coat that Brendan had left behind. As he crossed the stage, he stared out into the empty auditorium. It was so quiet that it was almost unnerving. Fergal began humming to himself, softly at first, then more and more loudly. The acoustics were wonderful. He braved a few long round notes and shivered at the thought of what it must feel like to sing to a packed house.

  With most of the lights out, the stage looked just as it did when Brendan sang his main aria: almost complete darkness, save for a moonlit wash. Fergal stood where he had watched Brendan take his position every evening. Then he started to sing.

  His voice slowly rose through the empty theatre. He moved into the centre of the stage just as Brendan did, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. Fergal imagined the orchestra pit full of the ghosts of musicians past slowly joining him, each string a sympathy to his plight. He reached the edge of the pit and looked at the empty rows of seats, imagining that his Granny Noreen was seated there. With outstretched arms, he held the final note that was the climax of the aria. Each night, when that note ended, the house would fall into an abyss of blackness, giving Brendan just enough time to exit. It always left the audience breathless. Fergal listened as the theatre carried the echo of his own voice towards the carved roof and into the deep blue silence.

  In the darkness, a single pair of hands clapped from the wings.

  Fergal almost fell into the pit. For a moment of sheer panic, he thought it was one of the ghosts. Then he managed to steady himself. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  An unmistakable English accent answered, ‘Well, well, young Flynn, I had no idea you sang so exquisitely.’ Brendan Fiscetti moved out of the wings into the half-light at the side of the stage.

  Fergal was speechless. Brendan continued, ‘I came back from my hotel because I stupidly left my reading glasses behind. When I’m tired, reading a good book is the only way I can get to sleep after a performance. And on my way to the dressing room I heard a voice.’ Fergal glanced up for a second, still unable to say a word. ‘Signor Flynn, you belong on the stage, not behind it. There can be no question about that.’

  Fergal’s mind was racing as he stood there, a little out of breath, holding Brendan’s discarded gown. Brendan stepped forward and hugged him generously, instinctively, like a father. Then he placed his arm along Fergal’s shoulders and they walked back to the dressing room.

  ‘I want to write a note to Alfredo,’ Brendan said, ‘if only I can find my glasses.’ Fergal found them under a newspaper and located some official Teatro stationery, and Brendan took out his antique fountain pen and wrote quickly, in large, sweeping motions, as if he were drawing.

  ‘There,’ he said with a sigh, sealing the envelope. ‘Give that to Alfredo as soon as you see him. Now, may I offer you a lift home?’ As they set off, Fergal said, ‘Signore Fiscetti, you know I have a room at Alfredo’s house, don’t you? That’s where you’re going to drop me. Would you like to give him the note yourself?’

  Brendan hadn’t seen that coming. ‘I would prefer you to give it to h
im,’ he said after a moment. ‘I want to get back to my hotel - I need a proper night’s sleep before the matinee tomorrow. And in any case...let’s see how he reacts. I’ll leave the ball in his court. The last time we spoke, you hadn’t yet been born.’

  As Fergal got out of the car, Brendan said, ‘This has been a remarkable day, Fergal. Sleep well. Give Alfredo my best. Tell him...’ He sighed. ‘Just make sure he gets this note.’

  The car pulled away into the warm evening and Fergal watched it disappear around the corner before he fished for his door key.

  He found Alfredo snoring on the sofa beside an empty bottle of wine and one drained glass. Fergal was dying to wake him up to tell him what had happened, but he didn’t have the heart. Alfredo looked too tired. He went to the piano and placed Brendan Fiscetti’s note on top of the keys. He found a blanket and draped it around his unconscious teacher. Then, suddenly exhausted, he climbed the stairs and fell into bed as quickly as he could.

  It was nearly three o’clock in the morning when Alfredo woke in the dark. His blanket had slipped off and he was freezing. He knew he was still drunk. His throat was parched, so he got up slowly and went to the little table where he always kept a decanter of water for his lessons.

  He switched on the lamp and filled his glass. As he drained it, he saw that the piano was still open. He reached down to close it and saw the envelope. The hand that had written his name was oddly familiar.

  He picked up the note and shut the lid over the piano keys. Then he sat down in his favourite leather chair by the unlit fire and studied the writing a little suspiciously, tracing the contours of his name with one stubby finger. He recognised the handwriting, and yet he couldn’t place it. Carefully, he sliced open the envelope. As soon as he saw the official notepaper of the Teatro degli Artisti, he knew.

  My dearest lost friend Alfredo,