“What exactly was the nature of your relationship with this diva?”
“Am I on the witness stand now? Did I say ‘relationship’ or did I say ‘acquainted’?”
I smiled, and he gave me a damning look in return. In fact, I knew he had been subjected to a screaming tirade by the great soprano, whose advances he had rebuffed. I had heard the tale from his brother in New York. Kitty Curran had confirmed that he’d been on the receiving end of the diva’s fury. That’s opera for you.
We were greeted by the doorman at the singer’s sumptuous quarters in the upscale Parioli district of Rome. He alerted
Signora
Rossi, and sent us upstairs. The apartment had travertine marble floors, a grand piano, and enormous arched windows overlooking a broad avenue lined with similarly luxurious dwellings, palms, and plane trees.
I had heard Graziella Rossi on “Saturday Afternoon at the Opera” on CBC radio, and had a CD of her
Traviata
; this was the first time I had seen her. She was the very archetype of the dramatic soprano, and she had the operatic figure to match. Her black hair was swept back from her face and her upturned dark eyes flashed over a set of high cheekbones. Her large mouth was painted a flaming red.
“
Ma che sorpresa! Caro
Brennan! Can it possibly be?” She held out her arms and made a show of looking him over, then embraced him
and kissed him on both cheeks, leaving a smear of red like an open wound near each of his ears. I could practically feel the effort he made not to put his hands up and wipe the lipstick off.
“Whatever brings you back to Rome? A summons from the Holy Father? Or have you been desanctified? Settled down with a little hausfrau and a brood of runny-nosed children?”
Her eyes homed in on Brennan’s face.
“Cosa è successo?”
“Niente, Grazi, niente.”
“Nothing has happened and yet your eye has changed. It gives you a tragic air, very minor key, shall we say. And who is this
angelo biondo
?”
“The blondy angel, whose appearance is deceptive, is Monty Collins.”
She gave me her hand. I did not know whether I was supposed to shake it or kiss it. I opted for a shake.
Brennan listened to the latest developments in
Signora
Rossi’s life, then explained our mission.
“We were all at vespers when the body was found,” he concluded. “One of our guests in Halifax is Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre. Someone suggested there may be some bones rattling about in his closet.”
“Oh, you must be referring to the intimidation charges. Have no fear, that was all hushed up.”
“What do you mean, intimidation?”
“Interfering with a witness; is that what it would be called? My English!”
“Witness tampering?”
She gave Brennan a helpless look and shrugged.
“What’s he supposed to have done?”
“It had something to do with the sex charges. You know. It was all too sordid. I paid little attention.”
“Sex charges.”
“Yes, yes.” She flapped a bejewelled hand, as if it was of no interest. “Now, Brennan, did you know I made a film? You must see it. Though I warn you: you may be committing a sin by watching me in it. I am a long way from a good Catholic girl in this film.”
“Are you now. Well, maybe I’ll have the chance to see it some time.”
“I have it here.”
“Ah.”
She turned her head and shouted at someone off stage. “Beppe! Set up my film!”
“What were those charges you mentioned,
Signora
Rossi?” I inquired. “Charges against Enrico?”
“There was a woman. Hasn’t it always been so?
Cherchez la femme!
Who can say what happened? But dear Enrico found himself under investigation by the magistrates, and it was said that charges would be laid against him. False accusations?
Chissà?
“Beppe!” she commanded again. “Are you setting up my film, or have you gone to Hollywood for it? He is useless!” she said to us then, not bothering to lower her voice. “I may have no choice but to dismiss him. Will you take him under your wing if I put him out on the street, Brennan, like poor Annunziata all those years ago? I am sure she was grateful for your assistance at that time. Ah, well, blessed are the poor, and Annunziata was blessed indeed to be the object of your attentions, Brennan, a man otherwise so —”
“The charges, Grazi.”
“The charges went away!
Un miracolo!
Some day perhaps
Don
Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre will be named a saint, having performed such a miracle!”
“What accounted for the charges going away?”
She leaned forward and affected a mock conspiratorial pose. “That is more in your line than in mine, Father Burke: Vatican treasure, is what I heard!”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre comes from a long line of Sicilian looters, my dear Brennan. Perhaps you didn’t know. They bought their way into the aristocracy centuries ago with gold and art stolen from around the Mediterranean world. So what could be more natural to a Sferrazza-Melchiorre than to get his fingers on a priceless Vatican object and use it to bribe his former mistress — or victim, whatever she was to him — to drop the accusations? Jewellery is what I heard. Perhaps she’s still flaunting it around the slums of Tirana! If she’s still alive. If not, look closely — perhaps Enrico is wearing it himself!”
“You don’t like Enrico? I never knew that.”
“Oh! On the contrary! I have always held Enrico in the highest esteem. He partakes of a quality I cannot help but admire in others, a quality I recognized in you as soon as I met you, Brennan: a streak of utter ruthlessness.”
He let that go, and continued with his questions: “Do you think he would have killed Reinhold Schellenberg?”
“Well, he missed his chance to kill
her
, didn’t he? The Halili slut. Though one would think he had the opportunity. She trailed after him wherever he went. He tried to take a vacation in Venezia. She turned up there. He taught at the University of Firenze — Florence — she followed him there as well. I understand she caused a scene. Confronted him and made accusations. He eventually went all the way to Africa! But as for Schellenberg, if he knew about the scandal and if Enrico wanted him dead for that or some other reason, and didn’t do the killing himself, someone in his family might have stepped in. Or perhaps they hired someone. Does anyone at your choir school look like a professional assassin,
Padre
?”
“This woman — Enrico’s mistress — she’s in Albania, you say?”
“As far as anyone knows. But she has been known to present herself in the streets of Rome.”
“What are the chances of that happening in the next few days?”
“The odds are against it, but the odds could be improved.”
“How?”
“Zamira always has her price. As I have explained to you.”
“What would bring her to Rome?”
“Well, she already has the crown jewels. But the offer of a part in an opera would have her here quicker than you could grasp your wallet.”
“She’s a singer then.”
“She is a screamer.”
“So you’re not likely to intercede on her behalf with the casting director of your next opera.”
“Not in
my
next work, no. Perhaps she and Enrico can stage Verdi’s
Sicilian Vespers
together. Do you know it?” She looked at me. “It is based on the massacre of the French by the Sicilians in the thirteenth century. The killing began at the time of vespers. Enrico can be one of
the Sicilian tenors, and Zamira can sing the part of the maid!”
Brennan laughed, then said: “We can’t pin our hopes on that, I’m afraid.”
“No. Well, Alfredo Totti will be doing
Norma
next year. He is casting the opera now. Pia Franca will be singing the role of Norma, which of course should have gone to me.” She gave Burke a significant look.
“You loathe Pia Franca.”
“Yes, I do. I’ll give Alfredo a call. Maybe he’ll have a role for Zamira Halili — the role of Adalgisa perhaps? Bellowing alongside Pia on the stage. Come see me in a couple of days, to find out if she has taken the bait.
Ora
, my film! Beppe! Refresh our drinks.”
Burke scrambled to his feet. “We have to go, Grazi. We’re meeting someone at the Vatican about the murder. I hope to see your film another time. Will you be singing anywhere this week?”
“Alas, no. But come to my master class! I am teaching a new group of young sopranos, from all over Europe. The day after tomorrow at the Bel Canto Auditorium. Four o’clock. Consider it a free concert!”
We hailed a cab outside the apartment. It took us past the Borghese Gardens, past a multitude of trees, fountains, monuments, and statues. As I wrenched my head around to catch a fleeting sight of the Galleria in the gardens, I said to Burke: “We’re not going to keep up this pace all week, are we? I want to relax and see the city. I was here years ago, but —”
“It hasn’t changed. It’s the eternal city, remember?”
“Still.”
“Sure we’ll see the city. It’s time for a scoff now, though. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Famished.” “Well, I know just the place.”
The Trattoria Benelli was a small, family-owned eatery a few blocks from our hotel in the Prati district. The aroma of garlic and freshly baked bread made me want to move in and live there. The walls, inside and out, featured frescoes of the Italian countryside. Everyone
in the place was local — always a good sign — and they were having a marvellous time talking, laughing, and sharing food between tables. Italian folk music played over the sound system.
A young girl came over to take our order.
“Buonasera, signori.”
“Buonasera, cara. Dov’è Alberto stasera?”
“Papà è morto, tre anni fa.”
Burke expressed his obviously genuine condolences to the girl on the death of her father, and asked her a number of questions, which I took to be inquiries about the current ownership of the restaurant. Mamma owned it now and Mamma was called to the table. Susanna Benelli had the kind of classic Italian face that should have been immortalized on a gold coin. Her rich brown hair was tied loosely back, and her deep brown eyes were lightly made up to show them to advantage. She was not in the least worn down by widowhood or the responsibilities of raising four children on her own. The three youngest, all boys, made their presence known in the restaurant as they carried out, or failed to carry out, the chores assigned to them. She introduced us to her sister, Isabella, who, except for being smaller and darker, looked exactly like Susanna.
We ate plate after plate of antipasto, pasta in mouth-watering sauces, fish, cheese, fruit, and sweets, and we washed down gallons of Chianti. By the end of it, I was playing the harmonica I always carried with me; Burke was singing a duet with one of the Benelli kids, a boy soprano; and Isabella was inviting us to a party the evening of the thirtieth at her place in a northern suburb of Rome.
The next day we walked all over the city, admiring the Renaissance palaces, baroque facades and fountains, the buildings in warm shades of ochre burnished by the sun. We retired to our rooms early and slept away our jet lag.
Our third day in Rome was Sunday, which meant Mass with the cardinals in St. Peter’s Basilica, an almost overwhelming experience given the immensity of the building and the enormous crowd of worship-pers. In the afternoon we found our way to the Bel Canto Auditorium in the Termini district of the city. The old palazzo was surrounded by
scaffolding but it was open, so we walked in. Graziella Rossi was on the stage with several women in their late teens and early twenties. They didn’t see us come in and take seats in the back row. We listened as the young sopranos took turns singing arias from Puccini, Verdi, and Bellini. To me they sounded magnificent — a combination of natural talent and expert coaching from La Rossi. No doubt Graziella accepted only the top students. She issued gentle suggestions for improvement, and we heard the pieces again. Gentleness was the last thing I expected from the opera star. But it was clear from the genuine, unaffected delight she took in their accomplishments that she loved her pupils.
“Do you think we should announce our presence?” I whispered to Brennan, and he nodded. We got up and headed for the stage.
“Brennan! Monty! Come meet my girls! This is Melanie, Melissa, Annick, Anna, and Stephanie. You will see them in opera houses around the world some day. Girls, be good. This is
Don
Burke and
Don
Collins, the pope’s legions!” She repeated it all in Italian, and we greeted the students, complimenting them on their performances.
“It’s all from Grazi,” one of them declared. “You are fortunate you did not hear me before!”
“No,
cara
, it is you.” She looked with unselfconscious affection at the group, and said: “The daughters I never had!”
“Sing something for us, Grazi,” Brennan urged her.
“Sing about love!” one of the students requested.
“Love — yes, the repertoire contains more than a few arias about love!”
Everyone left the stage but the diva, and she sang to us about
amore
. Puccini’s “Chi Il Bel Sogno.” She was in fine voice as she soared to an effortless high C. Brennan translated it for me later, but it was all there in the music: mad, intoxicating love, the kind of passion you’d give up all earthly riches to possess. She walked to the back of the auditorium with us, and turned to Brennan. “Do you know that kind of love, Brennan?”
“Yes. I do.”
“I won’t ask you who she was. Or
is
. But you will not pursue that life, will you? You belong only to God; you exist to glorify him with music. I have heard it said that most of us go to the grave with our
music still inside us. That, at least, will never be said of you or me, Brennan. With our music we reach heights others can never reach. If we forgo other things in life, it is for this.”
Everyone was silent for an extended moment. Then Brennan asked: “What will you be singing next?”