Tuscan Rose (21 page)

After several further tests of her patience, Rosa managed to manoeuvre all the children into playing
Greensleeves
together. Sebastiano performed the piece on the piano and Fiorella and Marco accompanied him for a few bars on their flutes. It was at that high point in the lesson that Signora Agarossi returned along with the nursemaid and Sibilla.

‘That’s going well,’ Signora Agarossi said.

Rosa, who was at her wits’ end, was taken aback by the praise. The children had told her that they had been learning the piano for years but none of them, except for Sebastiano in the very slightest way, showed any knowledge of the instrument.

‘That’s the most progress I’ve seen them make in a while,’ Signora Agarossi added. ‘Perhaps you should come twice a week.’

Despite her nerves being on edge, Rosa was pleased by the suggestion. The children were difficult to teach but perhaps they would improve over time. And it was more money for her and Sibilla.

‘Where did you learn to play music?’ Signora Agarossi asked.

‘At the Convent of Santo Spirito.’

Signora Agarossi was impressed. ‘The convent has a good reputation,’ she said.

Signora Agarossi asked about her education at the convent with genuine interest. Rosa did her best to answer without giving away that she was an orphan but was distracted by Fiorella and Marco giggling. They were still standing behind her while she shared the piano stool with Sebastiano.

‘You can teach foreign languages too,’ said Signora Agarossi, with approval. ‘I will speak to my husband but I believe Fiorella would benefit from lessons in French. She picks things up so easily.’

There were more giggles from Fiorella and Marco.

‘Mamma,’ Sebastiano interrupted.

‘What is it, darling?’

‘She’s got insects in her hair.’

‘Who?’

‘Signora Bellocchi. I saw one crawling on her neck. Here, I caught it.’

Signora Agarossi stood up in a flash. Her face turned pale. She put out her hand and Sebastiano dropped something into it. She screamed and the maid stepped forward and took whatever it was from her, dumping it into the water jug. A sick sensation gripped
Rosa’s stomach. Signora Agarossi looked at her in horror. ‘Lice!’ she screamed.

Rosa’s face burned. It wasn’t possible. She had washed and scrubbed herself so thoroughly. Then she remembered the bottles of vinegar in the bathroom that morning and the red welts she had seen on the Porretti children’s necks. Oh my God, she thought, I caught the lice from them!

‘Get away from her!’ Signora Agarossi shouted to her children. They scattered to the corners of the room as if Rosa were a dangerous animal. Signora Agarossi’s perfect façade was shattered. Her face twisted with disgust. She glared at Rosa. ‘You brought lice into this house!’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘Get out! Get out now!’

Rosa grabbed Sibilla’s basket and ran for the door. Signora Agarossi and the nursemaid chased after her like townsfolk running an adulteress out of their village.

‘Get out! Get out!’ Signora Agarossi shouted. ‘And take your dirty child with you!’

Rosa sat on the banks of the Arno with Sibilla, paralysed by panic. What was she to do now? She had little money left. She had taken a chance on being hired as a music teacher and had failed. How could she find work as a maid or a cleaner as quickly as she needed to? Who would take care of Sibilla? She couldn’t entrust her to Signora Porretti.

If you stay together you will be a weight around her neck.
Signora Cherubini’s words stung Rosa’s conscience. She looked at Sibilla lying in her basket. Her attempt to save them both had sent them slipping further down the slope. Tears welled in Rosa’s eyes. The only thing she could do to save her daughter was to give her up to the sisters of Santo Spirito. But how could she bear the pain of not being with her? Sibilla was all she had.

Rosa stared at the Arno and imagined sinking to the bottom of it—the cool, muddy water engulfing her; never feeling sorrow again. No, no, no, she told herself. There must be another way. God will help us.

She lifted Sibilla out of her basket and arranged her on the blanket next to her. She pushed the basket into the sunshine to repel any lice that might be lurking there. ‘I can’t give you up,’ she told Sibilla. ‘I must stay strong.’

She assembled her flute. It had brought her peace in the past and Rosa hoped it would help her to think clearly now. She played Bach’s Air from Orchestral Suite 3, letting the music express the wretchedness in her heart. She was a good-for-nothing whose own daughter would be better off without her. Rosa closed her eyes and lost herself in the sorrowful music. She did not hear the metallic ching of something landing near her. The sound repeated several times at intervals and still she did not pay attention to it.

‘You play well,’ a man’s voice said. ‘Beautifully, in fact.’

Rosa opened her eyes and saw that there were coins and notes in Sibilla’s basket, at least twenty lire. The same amount she would have received if Signora Agarossi had paid her for the music lesson instead of chasing her out of the house. A woman with a pram walked by and dropped in some coins as did a man in a herringbone suit. They had mistaken her for a street entertainer. At first Rosa was ashamed to be seen to be begging but then she realised the money might be an answer to her prayer.

She looked up at the man who had spoken to her and blinked. He was standing with the sun behind him and was illuminated by its golden rays. He was in his late twenties with tanned skin and copper-brown hair with blond spun through it. He smiled and his teeth gleamed beneath his light beard. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way. He wore gabardine pants and a white shirt. His shoes were worn at the heel and unpolished and yet he looked more elegant than the best-dressed men on Via Tornabuoni. The man’s grey eyes flickered to the curtain ring Rosa wore on her finger but his gaze quickly returned to her face. There was something about the way he looked at her. He had a presence Rosa had never seen in any other person.

‘Thank you.’ She choked on her words. ‘Are you a musician too?’

‘I’m the leader of a theatrical troupe,’ he said. ‘We need a flute player. Are you interested?’

Rosa felt light-headed. It must be the lack of food that was making her faint. She averted her eyes.

‘Go on,’ he said gently and laughed. It was an attractive sound, masculine and deep like his voice.

Rosa wasn’t sure she could have refused him, even if she’d wanted to.

T
he man’s name was Luciano Montagnani. ‘Call me Luciano or Montagnani, whichever pleases you better, but never Signor Montagnani. It makes me feel like a town official,’ he said.

Luciano was on his way to book a theatre, but asked if Rosa could come to see him that evening. He scribbled out an address for an apartment in Via Ghibellina.

Rosa needed a job if Signora Cherubini’s prediction about her ending up on the street wasn’t to come true. But she was terrified of giving Luciano lice. Every time he stepped closer to her, she inched back.

‘Not this evening,’ she told him. ‘I can come tomorrow night.’

Tonight she planned to soak her hair in vinegar and wash her clothes to get rid of the parasites.

Early the next evening Rosa set out to meet The Montagnani Company, carrying Sibilla in her basket. Light streamed between the houses and the heat off the cobblestones was searing. She was dazed. Her body had been in decline since she had been in prison and she was still recovering from Sibilla’s birth. She wished that she could rest for a few days in bed, but there was no chance of that. She had to press on for Sibilla’s sake.

Luciano’s apartment building was near the corner of Via delle Casine. The shutters were closed and the door to the street was shut. Rosa was about to push it when her attention was taken by the Medusa-head door pull. She was mesmerised for a moment before she remembered that staring at a gorgon was supposed to turn you to stone. Or was that only men? She heard hammering from inside the building and smelled paint. A woman was singing the ‘Ballad of Santa Zita’. The door suddenly swung open and Rosa found herself facing a man in a striped shirt with a patch over his eye.

‘I saw you from the window,’ he said.

At first Rosa thought the patch might have been part of a pirate costume but then she noticed the scar across the man’s face.

‘I’m here to audition for the troupe,’ she told him.

The man puffed out his barrel chest and examined her with his good eye. ‘I am Piero Montagnani,’ he said. ‘Come this way.’

Rosa guessed that Piero was in his early thirties. She wondered how he had got the scar. Could it have been the Great War? Piero led her into a passageway plastered with tattered theatre bills. She wanted to stop to read them but he indicated a door with some steps leading downwards.

‘Our apartment is on the second floor,’ he explained. ‘But we rent the cellar as well. We use it for rehearsals.’

Rosa followed Piero down the stairs. The hammering grew louder. There was a crash followed by cursing and a burst of laughter. Entering the cellar, Rosa found Luciano nursing his thumb surrounded by two men and two women. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing his muscled arms.

‘Signora Bellocchi,’ he said, smiling. ‘I should have known that banging my thumb was a foretelling of your arrival.’

‘If I must call you Luciano then you must call me Rosa,’ she replied.

Rosa’s comment brought laughter from the others. She blushed, not understanding what was so amusing. It was awkward to call a man she had just met by his Christian name. She glanced at the
scenery that was being assembled: a backdrop of a garden of sunflowers and geraniums.

Luciano folded his arms and nodded towards the others. ‘This is the young woman I was telling you about,’ he said.

‘Che bella bambina,’
said the younger of the two women, stepping forward to admire Sibilla. ‘She’s so tiny.’

The woman had a fine, sculptured face that was the feminine version of Luciano’s. Rosa guessed that she was his sister.

‘I am Orietta,’ the woman said. ‘And I see that you have already met Piero.’

A youth with blond ringlets smiled at Rosa. He had a face like a cherub. ‘And I am the youngest brother of all: Carlo.’

‘So you are all brothers and sisters?’ Rosa asked.

‘Good gracious no,’ said the remaining man, running his fingers through his well-groomed moustache. He had a refined actor’s voice. ‘Some of us have class.’

‘That is the famous Benedetto Raimondo,’ said the older woman, curtseying and covering her mouth to hide her laughter. There was an upright piano to the side of the cellar and the woman sat down at it and played a chord. ‘Benedetto Raimondo is an actor extraordinaire. And I am Donatella Fabrizi,’ she sang in an operatic voice. She was about fifty years old with a wistful look about her. Her face, while wrinkled, was attractive with finely drawn eyebrows and a flattish nose.

‘We come together in the summer,’ explained Luciano, pulling out a chair for Rosa. ‘The rest of the year we do what we can.’

Piero opened up a piano accordion and commenced playing a tango. Luciano took up a guitar and Orietta a violin. They joined in with him.

‘This year we are staging a play and we need someone who can provide music to help set the mood,’ Luciano explained while playing.

Rosa realised that she wasn’t at an audition—Luciano seemed to have already settled on her—rather she was meeting the others to see if they could get along together. She had played duets and
trios with the nuns at the convent but had rarely played entirely by ear. Still, there was something free and dramatic in the music that urged her to join in with it.

She placed Sibilla’s basket down next to her chair and felt under the blanket for her flute. She assembled it and came in on the melody with greater ease than she had expected. The music was more sensual than anything she had played before—parts of it were fiery and temperamental, while others were slow, dark and melancholic. At first she felt self-conscious and rested for a few bars to listen to the others. She glanced at Luciano. Suddenly she saw Giovanni Taviani, the gatekeeper at the Villa Scarfiotti, standing and looking at her from the woods. The vision stayed with her no more than a second but was powerful enough to leave her breathless. What did it mean?

She picked up the melody again and played well despite having been shaken by the image. The others stopped playing one by one and let Rosa continue with a solo. She moved on to Bach’s Air from Orchestral Suite 3, which was the piece Luciano had heard her playing by the Arno. When she finished, the troupe applauded.

‘She’s very good,’ said Benedetto, giving an excited laugh. ‘Perhaps
too
good for us.’

‘Yes, she is far too good,’ Luciano agreed.

Rosa thought she saw admiration flash in his eyes. She sensed that he knew she was desperate for work but he didn’t intend to use that against her.

Luciano was pleased when Rosa told him that she could also play the piano. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You can accompany Donatella and Carlo in their acts and that will leave me free to do other things.’

Carlo announced he would perform his act for Rosa. She watched, astonished, as he juggled balls, clubs and rings using not only his hands but his forehead and feet as well. She was astounded when he added pirouettes and somersaults to the routine. She had never seen anything like it. When he finished, Luciano hummed a tune and asked Rosa to follow it on the piano.
She caught the tune easily. Donatella picked up a basket covered with a cloth and carried it to the centre of the room. She whistled and the corner of the cloth lifted. A black nose and two eyes appeared. The next moment a papillon spaniel jumped out and padded along the floor towards Donatella. Rosa continued to play while watching the act. The dog jumped through rings and pranced on his hind legs for Donatella. At first Rosa was reminded of the unfortunate Dono and the undignified way that the gypsy had forced him to dance. But the dog didn’t give Rosa the impression of being compelled in any way. He seemed to be enjoying himself. His antics complemented Donatella’s comic gestures. Whenever she bent over he took a run and propelled himself into the air off her backside. It was the funniest thing Rosa had seen and she had to cease playing for a while because she couldn’t stop laughing.

‘You like my act with Dante, do you?’ asked Donatella, winking at Rosa. Dante leaped into her arms and gazed at her with adoration. She brought him over to Rosa, who patted his head. ‘He’s my darling. He’s so clever,’ gushed Donatella. ‘I never have to use a harsh word on him.’

‘So what do you think?’ Luciano asked Rosa. ‘Will you join our troupe? It’s not an easy life, especially when we are on tour and performing three times a day as well as rehearsals.’

Rosa caught the expectant looks on the faces of the others. She could see from the tatty costumes that the troupe was poor and that she wasn’t going to make a fortune playing with them. But their extroverted energy was uplifting and Luciano’s beguiling charm was hard to resist. Before she realised what she was saying, she found herself agreeing to play with them. Her compliance brought whoops of joy from everyone except Luciano, who simply cocked his head in approval.

‘Well, that settles it,’ he said. ‘Let’s get something to eat.’

Rosa expected that they might have some bread with a ‘C’ of olive oil or make some
farinata.
But the troupe headed out to the street. She realised that if they went to a café, even a cheap one,
she wouldn’t be able to join them. Her rent for the month was due the following day and she needed the rest of the money she had received by the Arno for food. Besides that, Sibilla would want to be nursed soon and, although her milk flow had settled down, Rosa’s breasts felt full. She was thinking of ways to excuse herself when the group came to a halt outside a restaurant. Because the evening was warm, the windows were open and some tables and chairs were set up on the cobblestones at the front. A red carpet had been put down and the area was roped off with gold braid. One look at the elegantly dressed diners and the damask table linens and Rosa knew she could not afford to eat there.

A waiter appeared with a stack of plates in his arms, piled so high he could barely see over them. He was followed by another waiter carrying a pile of bowls. Rosa wondered where they were headed. Suddenly Luciano, Carlo and Piero rushed forward and seized the waiters, snatching the plates and bowls off them. Some of the patrons screamed. Rosa felt the blood rush to her feet. They were stealing the plates and bowls! One man stood up and made fists, ready to accost them. Another called out for the police: ‘Help! Thieves! Help!’ Rosa froze to the spot. Was she going to be sent to prison again? She could only clutch Sibilla’s basket and watch with horror as the scene unfolded.

The manager appeared and rushed at Luciano and Carlo. But the brothers were too quick for him. They made a straight line along with Orietta and Piero, while Benedetto opened up the piano accordion and starting playing
La Tarantella.
The Montagnani siblings passed the plates to each other one by one through the air in a juggling act. They slipped them underarm, overarm and spun them on the tips of their fingers. Rosa, along with the patrons, realised it was an act. The man who had challenged the brothers smiled sheepishly and returned to his seat. Donatella encouraged everyone to clap in time while the troupe passed the dishes faster and faster to each other and Dante ran in loops between their legs. As a finale, Orietta climbed on top of her brothers’ shoulders and the plates were passed in a triangle formation, which earned a burst
of applause from the onlookers. Donatella danced among the diners with a hat, collecting money. The manager slipped a few notes into it. He must have been in on the act. Rosa sighed with relief.

Benedetto slowed his playing and Luciano and Carlo collected the plates and bowls as they were passed back to them. They then handed the piles back to the waiters. After more applause and shouts of
‘Bravo!’
the diners returned their attention to their food.

Luciano gestured for everyone to hurry to the adjacent laneway, where Donatella counted out the money into piles.

‘They were generous tonight,’ she said with a wide grin.

Luciano took some notes from Donatella and gave them to Rosa. She was desperate for money but she couldn’t take something she hadn’t earned.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ she protested, trying to pass the money back to Luciano. ‘I can’t accept it.’

‘Non fare brutta figura!’
Luciano scolded her. ‘Don’t make a scene! It’s a gift for the little one’s welfare.’ He spoke gruffly but Rosa sensed the kindness behind his act.

‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his need,’
said Piero. ‘That’s Karl Marx. The founder of communism.’

‘You are communists?’ Rosa asked. She liked the troupe, but if they were communists that could get her into trouble with the fascists.

Carlo burst into laughter. ‘No, we’re not communists,’ he said, patting Rosa on the back. ‘We’re a family. We take care of each other. And when you join the troupe, you are part of the family too.’

The play the troupe was rehearsing was
Les Misérables.
Luciano and Benedetto had rewritten it so that it required only a small cast along with some multiple-role acting. Rosa watched the performance through to decide on the appropriate music. The subject matter was close to home: abandoned foundlings; a young girl reduced to prostitution after giving birth to an illegitimate daughter. Even the scene where Jean Valjean was turned away by
the innkeeper because of his convict past was painful to Rosa. When Luciano called a break mid-afternoon, she excused herself to feed Sibilla but the truth was that she needed to be alone. She took Sibilla to the courtyard where it was quiet and undid her blouse and nursed her daughter under the lines of washing. A while later Carlo appeared with a plate of fried potatoes, mushrooms and radicchio.

‘Bambina
is growing well,’ he said, placing the food next to Rosa. ‘But you must take care of yourself too.’

‘Thank you,’ Rosa said, grateful for his thoughtfulness.

‘Orietta went out early this morning to the woods,’ Carlo explained. ‘The mushrooms are particularly good. She said they will bring colour to your face.’

Rosa was touched by Orietta’s concern for her health. She remembered what Carlo had said about everyone in the troupe being like a family. Was this what being a family was about? To have someone looking out for you?