Last Act (7 page)

“She was so wet when I found her. I'm sorry.” He meant it. “I'd forgotten it was tears. I'd meant a water nymph; a nereid; you know; Sabrina fair, something like that. Forgive me, Miss Paget?”

“Oh, call me Anne, and forget it. I was close enough to tears, goodness knows, when you rescued me.” But there had been something disconcerting, just the same, about his choice of name. Had he somehow felt her state of despair? She changed the subject. “Is it really all there? The whole opera complex?”

“Yes, ma'am. The opera house is in the centre, behind that fine, fake portico. It's cut deep into the mountain. Very hard rock we have here in Lissenberg. Administrative buildings, your hostel, all that kind of thing on the left.” He waved a hand towards a cloister where she could see people moving to and fro. “And, over there, on the right, the conference centre and the international hotel—when it's finished. Note how much better the road is that side. We're expecting every Rolls and Bentley in Europe in three weeks' time.”

“Will it be ready?” Trucks and scaffolding in the cloisters of the hotel and conference centre suggested that work was still in progress there.

“Oh, I think so. Our Rudolf pays well. Has to”—Michael's voice was sharp—“to keep the trade unions out.” He turned to Carl. “Have you asked Miss Paget yet?”

“Of course I haven't.” He might as well have said, “Mind your own business.”

Anne turned to Carl. “Asked me?”

“You don't belong to anything, do you?”

“Belong?” And then, understanding. “Oh, you mean Equity? No, I wish I did.”

“Lucky you don't,” said Michael. “No trade unions in Lissenberg, Miss Paget, by order of our ruler. ‘We are all
brothers working for the same cause.'” He dropped his voice to a deep rumble on the words and struck a heroic pose. “The only snag is,” he went on in his own voice, “that some brothers seem to get paid a lot better than others. And as to the sisters … well, maybe we won't go into that now.” He opened the door of the front passenger seat for her and she felt Carl's arm stiffen on her shoulders. But it would be rude and ungrateful not to sit beside her rescuer for this short last lap of the journey and she climbed in, ignoring a kind of strangled grunt from Carl.

“Trouble-making young sod,” he said at last when Michael had dropped them at the foot of the steps just to the left of the central portico. “I
am
sorry I didn't meet you at Schennen, Annchen. That young man's poison here in Lissenberg and don't you forget it.”

“Poison? But why? What's the matter with him?”

“Everything.” He took her arm and led her up the steps. “Where he is, there's trouble. And no wonder. I can't think why Prince Rudolf let him come back.”

“Back?”

“From abroad. I wish I knew who'd sent for him. Full of crazy ideas. Stirring things up. Well, you heard him about trades unions.”

“I happened to agree with him.” Anne paused at the top of the steps and looked back to see Michael swiftly reversing the car down hill to leave her bag at the hostel. “And I never thanked him properly either; you dragged me away so quick. What's got into you, Carl?”

“I'm mad with worry.” He turned to face her, his arm still firm on hers so that he spoke almost uncomfortably close. “This opera is my great chance, and right now it looks headed for disaster. Everything's gone wrong—everything. Alix's throat. Lotte Moser. And now Falinieri's been in some accident and turned up in a filthy mood. It was a miracle I got away to meet your bus. We must go
in
, Anne. We've wasted too much time already sight-seeing with that damned dropout. Falinieri was going straight up to the rehearsal room. Said he wanted to know the worst. And—” here he came to the heart of the matter—“said he'd never heard of you. Well, not surprising. You've kept
so quiet. If only Alix could sing today, but she's got this throat … If he hears Lotte first, I'm afraid he's capable of going back to Italy, the mood he's in, and then we're in real trouble. I can't do it all, Anne; I absolutely can't.”

“Of course not. It would be crazy to try. But hadn't we better go in, if you're so worried?”

“Yes. No. Do you know any of the music?”

“How should I?”

“No. I'm stupid with worry. But you always did sight-read like an angel.” He looked her up and down, and she was very much aware of her shabby appearance. “Tell you what.” He let go of her arm and she felt an odd stab of relief. “I've got a better idea. We'll
let
him hear Lotte first. Slip in the side way, sit at the back—give you time to do something about your hair, at least—and listen to Lotte. While he does.” He pushed open swing doors and led her across a lobby and down a corridor. “Shh.” Finger on lip, he opened another door and a great burst of disastrous sound hit her. A full, rough soprano was making desperate attempts to get her voice down the necessary register to the contralto part.

The rehearsal room, dimly lit, was a miniature theatre with an almost full-sized stage but a truncated auditorium where a few people were scattered, half visible on the banked seats. “We worked like hell on the acoustics,” Carl whispered as they slipped into two seats at the back.

“Much good they're doing her!” Onstage, a luxurious golden-haired Valkyrie in a low cut model dress was baying incomprehensibly in something between German and, Anne thought, the local dialect.

“
No, Fräulein Moser. No, and no, and no!
” Signor Falinieri, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, was almost incoherent with rage. “
E impossible
…” He looked furiously round and changed languages. “It's nuts; it's crazy; it's an insult; I won't do it. Where's this Alix? And for Christ's sake where's Herr Meyer?”

“Here.” Carl stood up and moved forward to climb onto the stage. “And I've brought the new understudy.”

“Oh you have?” Lotte turned on him. “Your precious ‘unknown.' I may not have Italian trills and shakes to please the
signor here, but what of my friends in Lissenberg? What will they say if a foreigner gets yet another part? Our great local opera, and hardly a Lissenberger in it. And who is this unknown singer? Can she sing? Has she proved it anywhere?” She burst at this point into fluent, furious and entirely incomprehensible Liss.

It was obvious that it was Anne's own presumed character, antecedents and capacities that were being so vividly described, and it was restful not to understand a word of it. At last, after a quick check that her lipstick was back on and her short hair just curly from its wetting, Anne stood up. “Were you, perhaps, talking about me?” She let her deep voice make the most of the hall's admirable acoustics as she moved slowly forward towards the stage, and felt a little hush among the people seated in the twilit auditorium.

“Yes!” Carl Meyer came over to meet her on the flight of steps at the right hand side of the stage. “Signor Falinieri,” he said as he helped her up onto the stage. “May I present Miss Paget, who has gallantly agreed to come to our rescue.”

“But can she do it?” Ignoring Fräulein Moser, Falinieri surveyed Anne without enthusiasm. “You know the part?” he asked.

“Not a word of it!” It was marvellous to be onstage again. “But it's my register and I'm a quick learner. Besides, just to understudy an understudy.” She turned to Lotte Moser. “It's just the pleasure of singing it,” she tried to explain.

“Pleasure!” spat Lotte. “If that's your idea of pleasure, you're welcome!” She had been singing from a score and now thrust it angrily into Anne's hands, then turned back to Carl Meyer. “They've offered me a job at the hotel,” she said. “Two spots a night. I told them I'd have to think it over. Well! I've thought! I'd rather sing in a beer cellar than be shouted at by that bastard son of an Italian-American Jew.”

“That will do,” said Carl Meyer. “You're fired, Fräuelin Moser. Signor Falinieri, I apologise.”

“No need, I think, as between you and me. But perhaps we had better hear this understudy of yours before we decide just how much trouble we are in. The speaking voice is perfect, I admit, but what does that prove? If you don't know Marcus,
Miss Paget, what can you sing for us?”

“Orpheus' first lament,” suggested Meyer, moving over to the piano where the accompanist had sat all the time, looking miserable on his stool. “You know it, Kurt?”

“Not well, I regret.” He spread apologetic hands.

“No matter. I do.” Carl sat down and played a few introductory notes as Anne moved forward to the centre of the stage. To sing, here on a stage, where she belonged, was to be alive again, and, singing, it was easy to ignore the slow, threatening bite of pain. Carried by the full tide of the music, she went straight on from Orpheus' lament for Euridice to his passionate cry for reunion or death, and, silent at last, almost expected to hear the dramatic intervention of Amor, the God of Love, who would make all right. Instead, there was a little, breathing hush, and then a sudden burst of clapping from the back of the hall.

“
Brava,
” cried a new voice, and silence fell again as a tall man moved forward out of the shadows, vaulted lightly onto the stage and stood revealed as considerably older than his movements had suggested. Grey hair, a Hapsburg-type nose, an unmistakable air of command. Even if she had not seen Carl jump to his feet and join the others in something between a bob and a full bow Anne thought she would have recognised the Hereditary Prince, Heinz Rudolf.

Curtseying is difficult in a straight skirt, but she did her best, only to be gallantly raised and to find her hand kissed by dry aristocratic elderly lips. “No, no,” said the Hereditary Prince, “rank bows to the artist. You said you had found us an understudy, Herr Meyer, you did not warn us that she would steal the show. Alix will retire. We must rewrite our advertising.”

“But, Your Highness …” Anne paused.

“No buts. Alix will retire.” He said it again with some emphasis. “You know the part?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“But you can learn it, or you would not have come.” He looked at his watch. “Three weeks until we open. A suite of apartments at the castle, I think. That way there can be no
disturbance of any kind. What kind of piano do you prefer, Miss Paget? We must find you an accompanist all of your own. For your practice. It will be sensational.” He was striding up and down the stage as he talked. “Not just the lost Beethoven opera, but a new star born the same night. I suppose …” He turned now to Carl Meyer and Falinieri, who were standing side by side, a little as if struck by lightning. “I suppose we could not write in a little more music for Marcus?”

“Your Highness.” Falinieri sounded understandably appalled. “It is not possible.”

And, “Your Highness,” said Meyer, “it will not be necessary.”

“You're right! And it would mean more for her to learn.” He had turned back to Anne and was looking her over with a curiously professional eye. “New clothes.” He summed up his findings. “A whole new wardrobe. And not a word—not one word—before the opening. Or, maybe an appearance at the Sunday reception for the foreign ministers? The day before the opening. With a hint to the press? Let me see, gold brocade for that, I think.”

“Good God, no,” said Anne. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but I am quite an ordinary person. Gold brocade is for royalty. And anyway, I can't afford a whole new wardrobe.” She could feel Meyer and Falinieri stiffening with fright, and thought, with amusement, how liberating it was to have only six months to live. But enough was enough. She smiled up at the bristling potentate. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” she said again. “And bear with me? I am not rich. I will accept two outfits, gratefully, for publicity purposes. But, please, may I live in the artists' hostel? I have been—out of touch a little—I am starved for the company of musicians. It will do me more good than anything.” And as she said it, felt again the twinge of pain, the harbinger of death. She stood a little straighter, fighting it, breathing slowly, but luckily the Prince had turned, with a quick nod for her proposition, to plunge into a highly professional discussion with Meyer and Falinieri as to how they should make the most of her surprise debut. No-one was taking the slightest notice of her. She moved across the stage to an upright wooden chair, sat down,
closed her eyes and let the talk wash over her. The main question seemed to be whether all the advance publicity should be scrapped and her name substituted for Alix's. If she had felt better, she would have protested but then heard with relief Carl's emphatic insistence that it was too late to make such a change. “Besides, you know well, Your Highness, what a draw the name will be. As if we needed one … But a change now, at this late date, might cause doubts, lead to cancellations …”

“You're right.” Prince Rudolf was a man of quick decisions. “After all, it is not just this year's season we must think of, but next, and the one after … And that reminds me: Miss Paget's contract. It must be drawn up at once. We are giving you a great opportunity, Miss Paget.” He looked round at her. “Perhaps a clause undertaking to sing for us next year?”

Next year. If she let herself laugh, it would become hysteria. The pain was devouring her now. If she tried to speak, she might cry. She sat there, looking up at them, helpless, silent, aware of the Prince's gathering frown. When he speaks, she thought, people jump.

“We're monsters,” Carl hurried to her side. “The poor girl's been travelling all day, Your Highness. She's worn out, aren't you, Annchen? A good sleep and she will be ready to discuss the contract, which will be generous, I know, as is everything Your Highness does.”

The Prince looked at his watch again. “Quite right. Too late for business today. Take Miss Paget to the hostel, Meyer. I rely on you to see that she has everything of the best. The star's suite, of course. Rest … quiet … meals in her room if she wishes. You'll tell the custodian…”