Prima Donna at Large (31 page)

Penitently
,

Geraldine Farrar

The sooner I patched things up with Emmy the better; I didn't want Caruso spreading the rumor that I was jealous of her. Not that anyone would believe such a ridiculous notion, but still …

“With luck, we can keep this going for a week,” Morris Gest said, rereading one of the newspaper articles. “I talked to the Met's publicist this morning—he loves you, darling. You've made him very happy.”

“Delighted to hear it. What's he planning?”

“Follow-up stories—causes of the fight, that sort of thing. He'll need to talk to you.”

And then, while we were still reading, the flowers arrived—baskets and baskets and baskets of them, containing everything from exotic purple-tipped white orchids to delicate little violets. There were lilies—orange tiger lilies, white calla lilies, and those pale pink Japanese lilies with red spots on the petals. There were blue China asters, creamy white magnolias, velvety purple pansies with yellow throats, scarlet-striped amaryllis, bronze Dutch tulips, Boston yellow daisies, sweet-smelling narcissus, five varieties of rose, irises, camellias, birds of paradise, sweet peas, lilies of the valley, and two potted ferns—all grown in hothouses and therefore all terribly expensive. By the time the two deliverymen had brought them all in, there was barely room left to walk.

Morris stood in the midst of all that floral abundance and asked in amazement, “Who sent them?”

“Caruso,” I said, reading one of the cards. “This is the softening-up stage. He thinks.”

Morris discovered a wreath with
Forgive me, Gerry
spelled out in rosebuds. “He must have rousted the florist out in the middle of the night to get this one done.”

The maid I'd sent with my note to Emmy came back, and gasped when she saw the roomful of flowers. She handed me an envelope and moved among the baskets, ooh-ing and ah-ing. The note in the envelope contained neither salutation nor signature.

I think it would have been more fitting for you to wait meekly outside my door; nevertheless, I will come, if only to prove that I am a nicer person than you are. Please have both a good explanation and an excellent lunch prepared
.

She wasn't going to make it easy for me, but she was coming. Ah well, I'd serve up a little humble pie for lunch. A little wouldn't hurt me.

Bella squeezed between two baskets of lilies and said, “Excuse me, Miss Farrar, but Mr. Gatti-Casazza is on the telephone—he says it's urgent.”

“Very well, I'll take it.”

Gatti may have told my maid it was urgent, but he took his time getting to the point. He hemmed and hawed and inquired after my physical well-being, and finally got around to saying what he'd called about. “I am thinking about scheduling one additional performance,” he said in an overly casual voice, “a benefit for the Emergency Fund, you know.”

“Additional performance of what?” I asked, as if I didn't know.

“Ah, hem, of
Carmen
, as a matter of fact. The season ends soon, so I am thinking of scheduling it right away, yes?”

“To take advantage of all the free publicity I've generated? Why, what a surprise! Last night you were ready to have me boiled in oil.”

“Last night is over,” he said tightly. “Today, I try to make plans. One more
Carmen
. A
benefit
,” he stressed.

To which I was expected to donate my services. “You know, Gatti, this just might be a good time to discuss my new contract.”

Dead silence.

“I'll let you talk to my manager,” I said sweetly, and called Morris.

When he understood what was afoot, Morris grinned from ear to ear. “See? It's working for you already, darling. Maybe you should plan a nice little stage brawl once every season.” He picked up the telephone. “Good morning, Mr. Gatti. Perhaps now we can have our little talk?”

I left him to it and called Bella and one of the other maids to try to rearrange the flower baskets so as to allow more walking room. We managed to get one pathway running through the middle of the room, but now it was a little hard to find the furniture.

Morris hung up the telephone, but it rang again immediately. He answered, and then covered the part you talk into with his hand and said, “Jimmy Freeman.” I shook my head. The two maids and I stood there and listened as Morris wove an impromptu fantasy about how I couldn't come to the telephone because I was soaking in a special medicinal bath designed to alleviate pain and stress following unusual physical exertion. It's a good thing Morris Gest had no criminal tendencies; he could talk anybody into believing anything.

Finally he finished with Jimmy and stood up to leave. “I'm gonna run down to the opera house,” he said. “Gatti is ready to negotiate.” He gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, made an exaggerated lunge toward the maids (who fled giggling), and waved a cheerful goodbye as he left.

I got in about an hour's work in the music room, ignoring the ringing telephone as best I could, before I was interrupted by the arrival of my two favorite baritones. Scotti, unfortunately, was unbearably solicitous, treating me like some frail, battered blossom until I ordered him to stop (he of all people should know better!). Amato, on the other hand, was practicality itself.

“This argument with Caruso—it must end,” Amato said to me. “You cannot work together if it goes on.”

“What argument?” I smiled. “I'm not mad at anybody.” Not any more.

“Good, Gerry, I hope you say that. You and Rico are friends for too long for something like this to drive you apart, no? You do not know how bad he feels.”

“He is miserable,” Scotti put in. “Miserable, embarrassed, ashamed. He is horrified by what happens, and he humbly begs your forgiveness. He is so humiliated that all the way up here he hides his face—”

“All the way up here? He's here?”

“Out in the hallway,” Amato said, “waiting to learn if you will see him. Let him come in, Gerry. Do not punish him further—he makes us all unhappy! Allow him to make his apologies.”

I didn't mind. “Oh, very well,” I said in a resigned tone. “You may bring him in.”

Well, it was all I could do to keep from bursting out laughing when Caruso came in. I have never seen another human being look so
contrite
as Caruso looked at that moment! He stood cringing inside the doorway, his big black eyes filled with tears as he kept turning his hat around nervously in his hands. He put his weight first on one foot and then on the other, trying to work up the nerve to come further into the room. I eyed him stonily, waiting for him to speak first.

Finally he did. “Gerry!” he burst out. “Can you forgive me? I am a pig! I go a little crazy, yes? Say you forgive me, or I go all the way crazy! I am desolate! Do not hate me—I cannot stand it if you hate me!”

I allowed myself a small smile. Now that I'd gotten the resentment out of my system, Caruso no longer seemed to have horns and a tail. The monster who had deviled me so much was gone; he was just Rico again. “How do I know it won't happen again?”

His eyes overflowed and the tears ran down his cheeks as he dramatically slapped one big hand over his heart. “Never! Never again does it happen! On my mother's grave, I swear I never fight with you again! Not for any reason in the world!”

Now that was a promise I intended holding him to. Suddenly I just couldn't keep up the pretense any longer; it wasn't fair for Caruso to suffer so while I was having such a grand time. I opened my arms. “Come here, Rico.”

With a cry he dashed toward me, knocking over a basket of roses on the way. He swept me up in a big bear hug and was laughing and crying and kissing me, and I was laughing and not crying and kissing back. Amato did a little jig among the spilled roses.

“That is enough kissing, I think,” Scotti said.

At length we all settled down. “We have something we must talk about,” Amato said, like a chairman presiding at a meeting. “Gerry, this investigating you do—it is the cause of the trouble between you and Caruso, yes? Tell me, is it worth it? Is it not better to forget the whole thing?”

“Perhaps so,” I conceded, “but remember, Pasquale, I was not just amusing myself. The police suspect me of having put the ammonia in Duchon's spray. And Jimmy Freeman—they suspect him too.”

“Ah, but have you been arrested?” Amato smiled. “Or Jimmy? You are not in jail, you are both free. This danger from the police, it does not still exist.”

“It might,” Caruso said uncertainly.

Scotti shook his head. “The police, they arrest no one. They never find the culprit. Not ever. It is hard, but we must get used to the idea.”

We were all silent a moment, and then Amato said, “So, Gerry—do you agree to stop your investigation?”

“Yes, if Rico will also agree.”

Caruso scowled; he hated to give up on it. But ultimately he yielded. “It is not right,” he complained. “A man who destroys another man should not go free.”

I felt the same way myself. It was no longer a matter of self-protection; I wanted to find the man responsible. But I'd given my word, and I'd stick by it.

Someone was at the door. The maid admitted Emmy Destinn, who came charging straight in. “I have not decided whether I want lunch or the apology first.” She looked around her. “What is this? Do you open your own flower shop, Gerry?”

“Good heavens!” I said. “Is it noon already?”

“So nice to feel welcome,” she said, searching for a place to sit.

“No, I didn't mean that—I just meant the morning has slipped away so fast. Of course you're welcome. I invited you, didn't I?”

Emmy had found a chair behind one of the potted ferns. She parted the fronds and peered out at the four of us. “I did not know it was to be a luncheon party.”

“It's not,” I told her. “The men are just leaving.”

“But Gerry,” Caruso protested, “I plan to take you to nice restaurant for big fancy lunch!”

“I had the same idea myself,” Scotti said wryly, “but you may come too, Rico.”

“You have made up your differences?” Emmy asked Caruso. He nodded happily.

“Why do we not all go out to eat?” Amato asked. “The five of us?”

“Thank you, but Emmy and I are staying in for lunch,” I said politely but firmly. “We have things to talk about.”

“Well, now, a moment please, let us not be hasty,” Emmy said. “Gerry, what are you planning to serve?”

I gaped at her. “You want to know the
menu
? To decide whether we stay here or go out?”

“That is correct,” she said imperturbably. “What do you have planned? Some sort of salad, I suppose.”

I did have a salad planned, as a matter of fact, but obviously this was not the time to persuade Emmy to start on a diet. I floundered for something to say while the three men argued amiably over where we were all going for lunch.

Emmy picked up one of the newspapers Morris Gest had brought and started leafing through it. “Still no news of Prague!” she complained. “I begin to think I must go there myself, to find out what transpires!”

“You do not mean that,” Amato said uneasily. “Go to Prague? Now?”

“She is not serious, Pasquale,” Scotti said.

“Yes, she is,” Emmy said. “I am seriously thinking about going, as soon as the season is over.”

“Do
not
think about it,” Amato ordered. “Emmy, you could be killed. You do not go visiting in war countries!
Ridicolo
.” The rest of us chimed agreement.

Emmy sighed. “I know. If the newspapers would just print
something
once in a while—”

She was interrupted by an urgent hammering at the door. The maid admitted Mildredandphoebe, who came rushing in wide-eyed and breathless. “Miss Farrar,” they gasped together.

They looked so distraught I was alarmed. “Here, sit down—oh, where are the chairs? My goodness, what's the matter?”

“We found him,” Mildred panted. “Uncle Hummy—we know where he is.”

“Are you sure you can do this?” Caruso asked dubiously.

“Of course I'm sure,” I answered impatiently. “I always drive myself on the chauffeur's day off. Get in—we're wasting time.” In the last four years Caruso had owned five motor cars and never learned to drive any of them; so naturally he had trouble believing I could operate such a mysterious machine.

“You promised me lunch,” Emmy complained.

“Emmy, I'll buy you
ten
lunches—but not now! Please get in.”

Everyone piled in. Scotti sat up front with me, while Amato, Emmy and Caruso squeezed into the back seat. That meant Mildredandphoebe had to sit on the men's laps. Amato and Mildred adjusted easily to their enforced intimacy, but Phoebe looked scared to death perched there on Caruso's knee.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Mulberry Street,” Mildred said. “Just head downtown—I'll give you directions.”

The last time I'd driven down Broadway, the street had been icy and treacherous. But today was clear, and New York had the look of a city that was just remembering there was a season called spring. There was an unusually high number of motor cars in the streets, and I'm afraid I gave one of them a little scratch. At least that's what that yelling mob in my back seat said, only they called it a gash. Some people always exaggerate.

“Mildred, how did you find Uncle Hummy?” I asked. “I mean, is he trying to hide?”

“We weren't the ones who found him, Miss Farrar. It was Mary Perkins—short girl, curly red hair? She told Phoebe and Phoebe told me and I told you. All we know is an address.”

“Bless Mary Perkins,” I said, trying to remember her. “Mildred, I want you to spread the word. I'm giving a party for everyone who helped.”