Song Above the Clouds (14 page)

They had reached the church now, and he drew into the kerb, behind a lot of other vehicles. Somewhere ahead of them in the line was Michele’s Fiat, and as Candy got out of the car a slim figure detached itself from the crowd of humanity still pouring into the church and hurried towards her. It was Caterina, and she was holding an insubstantial black lace scarf, which she pressed int
o
Candy’s hand.

“Put it on your head,” she whispered. “I waited—I remembered that you would not have one with you.” And then she slipped away again. Looking after her, Candy saw Michele’s dark brown head follow hers through the lighted doorway and into the church.

Standing and kneeling through the long, colourful ceremony of the Mass, her nose assailed by incense, her eyes dazzled by the glow of hundreds of candles, Candy’s thoughts were for most
of
the time in a turmoil. She was profoundly grateful for the press of humanity around her, for their happy, rustling, murmuring presence gave her a feeling of being part of something outside herself which helped to ease, a little, the aching unhappiness at the centre of her being. The throbbing organ seemed to soothe her bruised and bewildered spirit, too, and very gradually the blackness of the depression hanging over her lightened just a little, But nothing seemed to clear the despairing confusion in her mind, and it wasn’t until the final blessing had been given, and above the soaring strains of
Adeste Fideles
the Christmas bells were starting to peal out across the city, that the mists clinging about her thinking powers began to evaporate,
a
nd then, quite suddenly, she knew that Marco di
Lucca was right. She must go on with her singing career. Here, in Rome, with Michele or without him, she must work to justify the confidence that had
been placed in her. She must take the part of Marguerite and she must do her best to make a success of it.
But only she herself, and perhaps Marco, would ever know how much it was going to cost her.

CHAPTER NINE

THE next few weeks were the most exhausting and bewildering that Candy had ever experienced. She seemed to work day and night, pausing only for rest, for short walks through the wintry city, for increasingly light meals—increasingly light only because she felt less and less capable of facing food. Her health was undoubtedly suffering, as everyone around her noticed with genuine concern. But they attributed it all to tension and excitement and the strain of a
l
l the hard, gruelling work she was putting in—work that was absolutely essential if she was to stand any chance of meeting the challenge of the seventh of February with any success. They saw with approval that she was really keen to achieve that success, and for the most part they imagined she thought of very little else.

In actual fact she was profoundly thankful for the fact that the ordeal ahead of her—and she couldn’t think of it as anything but an ordeal—left her with so little time to think. She not only had to learn and perfect her presentation of a series of difficult and demanding arias, but for the first time in her life—if she were to discount the part of a small angel, once allocated to her in a school Nativity Play—her acting ability was to be put to the test in public. At first, on top of all the effort and concentration called for by the musical side, it had all seemed far too much for her to
attempt to tackle with success, but Signor Galleo had been bracing on the subject. Theatrical ability, he remarked, came naturally to women, and he had no reason to believe that Candy was any exception. He did, however, arrange for a certain amount of drama coaching to be added to her curriculum, and within a short time the idea of impersonating another human being on a stage began to hold fewer terrors, for her. Signor Galleo was actually far more pleased
than he would have been prepared to admit, with the rapidity of her progress in every respect, and his confidence in her increased every day.

Michele was unfailingly kind and unfailingly helpful, and in spite of everything during the hours when she was with him she was almost happy. Sometimes she would be singing and he would be, accompanying her, sometimes he would be helping her to learn the complicated French libretto—yet another hurdle to be crossed—and sometimes they would simply be talking over a break for coffee and sandwiches, but whenever she was with him she felt that in a curious way they were completely and utterly in sympathy with one another, and while they were together the uncomfortable memory of his uncle’s words—
ev
en the shadow of Caterina, who didn’t often take part in these sessions—seemed obliterated as if nothing of the sort had ever been.

Very early in January she met Giulio Preti, the Italian tenor
who was to sing opposite her in Florence, together with the rest of the cast, and thereafter she had to take part in frequent joint rehearsals. Everyone was friendly and helpful, and although Giulio was
decidedly overweight and anything but good-looking he was a very competent singer whose support on stage was obviously going to be invaluable to her. Gradually, very gradually, she began to feel more at home in the part, less appalled by the vastness of the whole undertaking.

But the strain grew progressively greater, and by the evening of February first, as she returned alone to Caterina
’
s flat after a lengthy session with Signor Galleo, she knew she felt decidedly odd. She had been singing for more than five hours with very little in the way of rest, and she hadn’t bothered to eat much that day, either. The following morning they were all due to leave for Florence, and she found herself wondering suddenly just how she was going to face it all.

Slowly, she made her way up in the lift, and let herself into Caterina’s flat. Then she closed the front door behind her and leant against it. And instantly a voice spoke to her.

“So very tired, Candida
?
”

It was Michele. She had closed her eyes, but now she opened them quickly, and stood up straight. “Not really tired,
”
she lied valiantly.
“
I’ll be quite all right after
a
good night’s sleep.”

“Are you sure
?
” He was frowning a little.

“Absolutely sure.”

He helped her out of her coat, and guided her through into Caterina’s sitting-room as if she were an exhausted child. Caterina didn’t seem to be anywhere about.

“You are ready to leave for Florence in the morning?”

“Yes.” With a trace of anxiety she added: “You’re going to join us at the station, aren’t you?”

“No, Candida. That’s one of the reasons why I came to see you to-night. I shall not be going to Florence with you.”

Afterwards she could only hope that the dismay she felt hadn’t shown too clearly in her face. “You aren’t coming?” she repeated a little stupidly.

“No. I have to go abroad—to Switzerland. It is .
.
. unexpected business. I must go. I am sorry, because I wanted to help you as much as I could, but I am sure you will be all right without me.”

She wanted to say that of course she wouldn’t be all right, that she would be lost without him. But all she actually said was
:
“I hope you have a good journey. Do you leave to-morrow?”

“The following day. But to-morrow I shall have many things to do. I may not have time to see you off at the station.”

“Oh!”
She made a
brave attempt to smile. “Well, I’ll do my best not to let you down. You’ve been such a wonderful help to me.”

“I am glad.” Abruptly, he stood up. “I came only to say good-bye ...
arrivederci.
You are tired to-night, and there is no need to give you more advice now. We have been over everything, and besides you will have with you people much better qualified than I am to help you.” At the door of the flat she gave him her hand, and: he held it for several seconds in a light but remarkably comforting clasp that she felt for a long time afterwards. A little uncertainly, she said
:

“You will be in Florence for the performance... won’t you?”

He looked down at her, and his brown eyes took on a strange, unreadable expression.

“Of course, Candida, I shall be there to support you. And now, good-night
... and good-bye until we, meet again.”

And then he turned and left her. A moment or two later she heard the clash of the lift doors, and knew that he had really gone.

The next morning it was raining hard, and she awoke with the beginnings of a headache, and the knowledge that she didn’t feel in the least like setting out for Florence. But there was no possibility of avoiding what had been planned for her, and punctually at half past nine, as they had been instructed, she and Caterina arrived at Rome’s central railway station. Caterina was insisting on going with her to Florence, and she was grateful, for she had grown really fond of the Italian girl. Somehow, she couldn’t feel resentful of whatever relationship it was that existed between her and Michele. Not, as she constantly reminded herself, that she had any right to feel resentful, anyway.

At the station they were met by Lorenzo Galleo and Giulio Preti, both very alert and cheerful despite the damp greyness of the morning, and one by one the rest of the cast arrived to join them. Laughing and chattering in English and Italian, they all climbed aboard the long, streamlined, north-bound train, and precisely at ten o’clock they began to draw slowly out of Rome.

Candy, looking very English and very attractive in a misty turquoise woollen suit, attracted a good many interested glances from her travelling companions, both male and female, but she didn’t feel at all in the mood
for conversation, and for most of the time sh
e
buried herself in an absorbing book which Michele had thought might be of use to her. Michele...

T
ime and again she put the book downward, staring through the rain-streaked window at an endless vista of dimly-seen grey olive slopes and distant hills, wondered why Michele couldn’t have been with her. Whatever the business was that was taking him to Switzerland, it must be important, for she was sure he hadn’t wanted to let her down. And besides, if he had come to Florence he could have been with Caterina.

They reached the city of Dante and the Medici during the afternoon. It was raining
harder than it had been in Rome, and it was also a good deal colder. Candy, who felt tired and stiff, was grateful for the smooth efficiency with which she and her fellows were whisked from the station to their
hotel, and still more grateful for the fact that she was immediately left alone to rest. Only a few months earlier the last thing she would have wanted to do on arrival in Florence was lie down and have a nap, but these days, outside working hours, she was almost always tired.

The hotel they had all been taken to was a comfortable middle-grade establishment, and her room was small but well furnished. After taking one look through the wide plate-glass windows at the rain-soaked rooftops of Florence she curled up on the bed with her book, and almost immediately fell asleep.

She was awakened about an hour later by the sound of the telephone ringing close beside her. The room was almost in darkness, and as she struggled into
a sitting
position she reached first for the receiver and then for the light switch.

At the other end of the telephone line a man’s voice spoke, rather uncertainly.

“Is that Candy?”

“Yes.” Who
did
that voice belong to?

“It’s me ... John.”

“John?” There was a pause, and then realization hit her. “Oh!”

“Candy, I’m in Florence. Just a couple of blocks away from you, as a matter of fact.” He waited, but there was no answer. “Candy?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m here.”

“Did you hear what I said? It’s
ridiculous, when
I
’m within walking distance of your hotel, but this line doesn’t seem too good.”

“I can hear you very well, John.” Her voice had never sounded calmer.

“Good. Listen, Candy, I want to see you. I’m dying to see you.” Another short pause. “Will you have dinner with me to-night?”

She sighed, but so
softly that he didn’t hear. “Haven’t you got a date with the Contessa di Lucca?”

She heard him say something violent under his breath. “No! Anna’s in Rome, and I shan’t be seeing her again. Candy, I’ve a lot to explain—”

She interrupted him. “No, you haven’t. You haven’t got anything to explain. I don’t know anything about your
... your relationship with the Contessa, but that doesn’t matter, because it’s nothing to do with me.”

“Don’t be absurd
!
” The voice she had once thought so shatteringly attractive sounded irritated. “Darling,
I’ve made a fool of myself, I know that, but—hang it all, she is one of the most beautiful women in the world
!
When I met her I was hypnotized. Any man would have been the same. But it’s over now, and— Candy, are you there?”

“Yes. But, John—”

“Well, listen to me, will you? I love you, Candy. I suppose I always have done, but it took this little—episode to get it sorted out in my mind
.
” There was a moment’s hesitation, and when he went on his tone was subtly confident. “Look, we can’t talk over the phone. I’ll pick you up at half past seven, and we’ll go out and
discover Florence. It’ll be an evening, to remember!”

“You go out and discover Florence, John, and I hope you do have an evening to remember.” Her voice was cool and even. “But I’m tired to-night, and I’ve got a good deal of work ahead of me. Thanks for asking, but I’d rather not. And I don’t think we have anything to talk about.” She waited a moment, and then said quietly: “Good-night, John.”

She lowered the receiver to its rest, and then a few seconds later picked it up again to speak to the hotel switchboard.

“I’m
sorry to be a nuisance,” she heard herself saying,
“but I’d really rather not have any more calls put through to me to-night. Yes, room three hundred
and
n
inety-one.”

She hung up again, and leant back against the bed’s padded headboard. Well, she had settled that. He might try to get in touch
w
ith her in other ways, he might ring her in the morning, but she would just go on finding means of avoiding him until, finally, the message
penetrated. He probably wouldn’t persevere very long, in any case.

The call had certainly been a bit of a shock, and she knew that if she were to be honest with herself she would have to admit that her vanity had been gratified. She wouldn’t have been a normal woman if she had not derived some satisfaction from the knowledge that the man whom she had once imagined herself desperately in love with, and who had been stolen from under her nose by the fantastic Anna Landi, had now come rushing back to throw himself, metaphorically speaking, at her feet. Admittedly, there had been little enough in the way of humility about his attitude on the telephone, but then, as she realized now, humility in the ordinary sense just wasn’t possible with John.

She sighed, and was conscious of a feeling of peace. John was out of her system once and for all—he no longer had any hold over her. And she knew that whatever it was that she had felt for him it had not been love.

For the next four days Candy and the rest of the cast worked almost non-stop. Dividing their time between the Hotel Michelangelo—where their expenses were being met by the rather obscure fund which had financed the whole enterprise—and the imposing baroque theatre in which their performance was to be staged they saw about as little as it was possible to see of the city on the A
rn
o, but Candy at least felt no urge whatsoever to engage in sightseeing activities, and everybody else seemed to have been familiar with Florence since early childhood.