An extract from my novel in progress, provisionally titled Ragazzo, but may end up being published as OPERA

The first night was two months away which sounds like quite a long time. It is, after all, about sixty days, which is 60 x 24 hours, and you can work out how many minutes and seconds that is for yourself. I assure you Feddy knew the number. Which is 1,440 hours. Which is 86,400 minutes. Which equals 5,184,000 seconds. Each of which Feddy was determined to make count.

Poor Feddy! He was, after all, cast in the role of dictator upon whom the entire state depended. And remember, he had never directed an Opera before. Certainly Capo was a help. Also, a major hindrance. To describe their relationship as prickly would be to underestimate hedgehogs. To assert that there was a clash between their temperaments would be to misunderstand the sound of cymbals in a war.

It didn’t start as a war. Initially, Feddy was impressed by the gravitas and showmanship of the Italian. His flamboyant clothes, the moustache which resembled a writhing, living pet which had attached itself to the upper lip of the Maestro like an hirsute leech. The incredible jodhpurs with their stains and fustian stench. Were you to ask Feddy to describe the man he would certainly add a whip to the aforegoing description, even though we know he never carried one.

They say it is not good to have two women in a kitchen. The same applies to two directors of a single opera, both coveting the title of “Maestro”.

The first days were more-or less without serious incidents. This was the phony war period when Capo would watch and listen while Feddy took each member of the cast through their lines, accompanied by Fr Muller on the piano. The official – and agreed remits of the two Directors was, Feddy: music; Capo: Stage. However as we know, Capo had quite some experience at both, and for the first few days he had to bite his tongue, purse his lips and cross his legs. Every now and then words or sentences or phrases would escape the prison of his jaw. And as those seconds flew, the number of words and sentences and phrases grew. In direct proportion, Feddy’s irritation grew too.

It started with Rodelinda’s very first aria, L’empio rigor del fato

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lf23OeCaUt0

“It’s about the wickedness of fate, darling”, Feddy says as his beloved Gertrude stands next to the piano, waiting for Fr Muller to play the intro. “Now sing for us.”

So simpering Gertrude places the music on the stand, turns sweetly to the page, and begins. “L’empio rigor del fato….”

Watch their faces, Feddy and Capo. On Feddy’s, his love for this luscious example of German womanhood, a creature Wagner would have loved to cast as Brunnhilde, this perfect parody of Pre-Raphaelite perfection simpers her way through an aria which is supposed to be a railing against cruel fate. For Feddy, the performance is lush. He is so thrilled that she manages to get through the whole thing, more-or less on the notes. This for him is a huge relief and progress indeed.

As we watch Capo’s face we see something rather different. Frustration, confusion, then comprehension perhaps, if the writhing of the moustache is anything to go by. He too is thinking of the wickedness of fate.

“Bravo!” Feddy claps when the thing is finished.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Gertrude soaks up his adulation, looks over at Capo in his chair and sees no confirmation.

“You see why I have chosen her Maestro!” Feddy says.

“Yes I suppose so Maestro.” Capo replies.

At this stage both our Directors are still addressing each-other as Maestro, to show mutual respect and understanding.

But the word “suppose” hangs in the air. Feddy decides to attempt to snatch at it. “Gertrude will win the hearts, all of them, won’t she Maestro.” Partly addressed to Gertrude, to boost her confidence.

“She is very – heartfelt Maestro”. Capo replies.

“Oh yes! What a good point Maestro.”

“Only – “

“Please! Please! Any suggestions are gratefully received!” Feddy gushes.

“Just perhaps, we can have a little more – “

“You didn’t like it?” Gertrude asks

“Yes yes of course I liked it. Just Remember – “

“What? I remember the lines well!”

“You are upset. You are complaining about Fate. Perhaps a little less – “

“Less what!”

“Less what!”

“Less what Maestro? Please Gertrude – “

“Maybe a little less – beautiful. More – angry.”

“Angry?” Gertrude is getting tearful. “But this is only the first time! I was singing it for the notes, not the expression!”

“She will of course put the acting in Maestro. I will coach her.” Feddy is alarmed, feels this rehearsal slipping away from him.

“I can act! You know I can act! Why are you being so nasty!”

“Yes yes I know – “

“I don’t have to take this from my husband-to be! You can stuff your bloody opera!” At which she throws the part high into the air where it exercises an excellent loop-the loop and lands, open and unreachable, on a stayrope.

Exeunt Gertrude, in tears.

Capo shakes his head. He is slightly amused. “Very melodramatic Maestro,” he says. “At least it shows she has spirit.”

Feddy sighs. “She certainly has that, Maestro,” he says.

Watching from the wings our Guido waits like a spider, eyes glued to the head of his prey with its shining gold, her pink cheeks streaked with tears. And when she flees, Guido follows.

He catches up with her in the street,

The midday streets are streaked wet. The sky is wet too, and our soon-to be united pair are being soaked through.

“Fraulein! Freulein!” He shouts and eventually, as she stumbles clickety-clack over the wet cobbles, she hears and turns.

“Liebe Gott! What do YOU want!”

“I saw that. I watched your performance! You were – divine”

“Divine?” She stares at this grotesque youth, who, even at the age of sixteen, towers over her. The beautiful face in his tiny head is glowing with adoration which she can see is utterly sincere. “You think so?”

The rain, desperate to be noticed, intensifies its attack.

“Fraulein believe me! I have seen so many fine sopranos – all over Europe! And none so – so coloratura, so perfect in vibrato, so elegant in bel canto!”

Ah you charming liar. You haven’t spoken even one moment of truth since you stepped into the rain. You are taking a huge gamble, dear man. For a start, does this German provincial know the first thing about bel canto, vibrato, coloratura? And she hasn’t said a word to you since first you met…

“Bel canto!”

“You pronounce Italian so well. I could tell from your singing! You speak Italiano?”

“Oh signor! A little – enough for opera – “

“Never enough Italiano! I speak only a little German – “

“You speak so well!”

Dear liar, brought up in Germany, you speak it as well as any native! Stop putting on that accent!

“You are very kind… Perhaps we can find some shelter?”

Having gained each-other’s permission, the pair find the overhang of a medieval building to lurk under together. All around them the summer storm whooshes.

“Do you think you could teach me Italian signor?” Gertrude asks breathlessly.

“I would be so honoured and delighted!” Guido is overacting sickeningly at this point. He is speaking German with an absurdly exaggerated Italian accent. Seriously, while he is the greatest singer who ever lived (perhaps) as an actor, he’s rubbish.

Gertrude laughs. I hope she is not as stupid as he thinks she is. “And in return, I will teach you German!”

“It would make me very happy.” Guido says.

“I could even help you with this!” she says, grasping the tent pole which is attempting an escape through the young man’s trousers.

“Really?’ Guido asks as he unbuttons his flies.