Flora McIvor Read online

  The tone was sliding from anger towards hurt reproach.

  ‘Nothing happened, Mãe. What’s got into you today? I only went up the hill to make sure that oaf did not get drunk and end up in prison.’

  ‘Look at your eyes, daughter, the lids can barely open. Is that how you will attract a gentleman?’

  ‘Not this again, I don’t want to marry any gentleman.’

  ‘Be quiet, you disobedient hussy. You’ll marry if I say so.’

  ‘Not that old Poet, Mãe. That’s just like being in service.’

  ‘I’m not listening to another word from those shameful lips. You’re burning for that uncouth Jaimhino, Ligia, I can see it. What can he bring in life except grief and labour? A peasant come to town. The head is as bare as his purse. Go and clean the rooms. And don’t show your face in here again till they’re spotless, and scrub your own skin clean while you’re about it. Hussy.’

  The last word was like a weary exhalation of breath as the culprit departed. Flora hurried on before a recalcitrant Ligia appeared in the doorway. The row would be made up before evening, but then the cycle would begin all over again.

  It amused her to think of the Poet being subjected to Renata’s marital scheming, like a victim of the comic opera plots that dominated the Lisbon stage. For in reality Lorenzo Gozzi wrote or at least adapted these plots for Teatro São Carlos. Flora had often seen the Poet holding court in the theatre foyer where he sold his libretti before performances. She had never spoken to him, nor had he deigned to notice the humble seamstress. After realising the librettist was also a tenant of Villa Flor, she had paid Gozzi little attention. What else did the Poet do, or was the opera his mainstay?

  It came as a surprise when later that same week Lorenzo Gozzi spoke to her in the theatre. Flora was passing through the foyer in search of a singer who had missed his fitting. Gozzi was coming through the door directly in her path and stopped.

  ‘You are the costume maker.’

  ‘Yes, I work here.’

  ‘Your work is very fine. All the artists wish to have your costumes.’

  ‘Well not Luis Ferraro. He has not come to be fitted though he is due to sing as leading man tomorrow, and I must finish his costume.’

  ‘Ferraro is a young fool, a libertine. He will be in his cups somewhere.’

  ‘That is not my business, or concern, Maestro.’

  ‘Maestro? You are mocking me, dear lady. The only thing I master here is hackwork.’ Gozzi waved his new libretto in the air dismissively. ‘You are more of a creator than I. But since we are both inmates of Villa Flor, we must drink wine or coffee together one afternoon. Here in the Chiado though, not in Alfama where the attentions of the fair Ligia may be loosed upon me at any moment.’

  Flora could not help smiling at this tone, and for a second she met Gozzi’s look. His eyes were light blue, almost grey, mobile with amused intelligence. He had noticed her. She quickly looked away but did not want to deny their moment of recognition.

  ‘Mãe Renata is the stage director at Villa Flor. Now I must find Luis.’

  ‘What about our coffee?’

  ‘I don’t frequent the coffee houses.’

  ‘But you will be my guest.’

  ‘Another time, perhaps, when this performance has opened.’

  ‘Good day to you.’ This to Flora’s rapidly retreating back.

  The first real conversation began on the following Monday, when La Serva Padrona was successfully launched. There was no performance in the theatre so the singers and musicians stayed away and everyone else came in late. Flora liked these times when the big clear spaces of the new building were quiet and she could catch up on routine jobs undisturbed. But Gozzi appeared in the afternoon and invited her to join him for a drink. It transpired that he was well known in the cafe on the other side of the piazza from the theatre, where he conducted his business and socialised with the artists.

  Flora had never crossed the threshold of Cafe São Carlos but when she arrived the librettist came out to make her welcome. They sat at an outside table in the sun where she soon relaxed, and enjoyed the unusual luxury of drinking coffee that had been prepared by someone else. Gozzi looked around him very much at his ease.

  ‘Did you see the performance?’

  ‘Most of it, though Serpina’s aprons kept snagging. Whoever saw a serving woman with lace aprons?’

  ‘Ah, but the lovely Nelidova is the beauty of the piece and must be flaunted. What about the plot?’

  ‘I don’t take much notice of the plots.’

  ‘Because they are all the same.’

  ‘Well, often.’

  ‘Have you not heard Serva Padrona before?’

  ‘Yes, in Paris where it caused a great row. There was a –’

  ‘War of the operas, between followers of the French style and the comic Italians. You were there?’

  ‘In a way. Costume makers don’t take sides. I had to sew for both schools.’

  ‘So was this production of the Padrona different?’

  ‘Longer?’

  ‘Indeed, dear lady, longer. Can I call you by your name? Flora. Twice as long, padded out from the two short acts of Pergolesi to four so that the good merchants of Lisbon can have their full evening of entertainment, and eat and drink and ogle to their lazy hearts’ content.’

  ‘How did you stretch it out?’ asked Flora, remembering the loose plotting of Amorous Indies. ‘Is the humour not in the action?’

  ‘So you do follow the plots. Exactly, how to pad out without padding. Surely you face that problem in your craft as well. But for me it was easy. I looked at life.’

  Gozzi paused to lean back in his chair as Flora laughed. He accepted her enjoyment appreciatively.

  ‘Umberto the bachelor,’ he continued, ‘has a maidservant who thinks she is mistress of the household. Here is an extra act in the making. I introduce another character, the girl’s mother, who is determined her wayward girl will marry this wealthy old Umberto. Do you recognise this story?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘The orchestra must roll out a few standard songs and we have the first Act. As for the rest we just enlarge the original. Of course at the end the mother too must join the household. Only the music – and Pergolesi is here a master – can convince us that this conclusion is happy. Surely in life Umberto and the Mãe would settle for each other?’

  ‘And what of Serpina? Should she not have wed her soldier instead of the crusty old bachelor?’

  ‘The soldier is merely a decoy, Serpina’s tool in disguise. But suitors are queuing at the door. If only she chooses wisely.’

  ‘Do you believe in happy endings?’

  ‘The Italians insist on them, and so now do the Portuguese.’

  ‘We cannot play Orpheus and lose Eurydice.’

  ‘Not here. How did you come to costume making, Flora?’

  She was disconcerted by this sudden directness, but she had a stock reply in hand.

  ‘I lost my nearest family in war. They joined the struggle to restore the House of Stuart in Britain. We were, are, Scottish, from the Highlands of that country, but exiled. It is far away now, a long story. I have left it behind and take no part in politics.’

  ‘Perhaps one day you will tell me that story.’

  The conversation moved on to other lighter topics, until it was time for Flora to go back and tidy up her day’s work.

  The next week they met again, until gradually it became two or three times a week, depending on the theatre schedule. But by unspoken agreement they continued to ignore each other at Villa Flor. This was a friendship formed by shared interests and the pleasure each took in the other’s company. It was their own to enjoy, without interference. Flora had never experienced such friendship with a man, though she sensed that Lorenzo had known women of all kinds.

  Bit by bit she pieced together a picture of Gozzi’s life. He had been born in a poor family in the rural Veneto and had come to music through the Church. He had be
en sent to study in Venice where after sampling the city’s artistic delights he had jumped his ecclesiastical ship and joined the household of a wealthy patron of culture. There he had organised musical entertainments while consuming volumes of literature and history from the nobleman’s extensive library.

  Although Lorenzo was musically talented, it appeared that his real love was Italian literature. In Lisbon he gave classes in a fashionable picture gallery which were to his frustration attended by people acquiring the gloss of culture rather than artistic appreciation. When Lorenzo spoke about his passion for the language and its beauties, the mask of comfortable assurance slipped a little. A bitter edge could be heard in his sardonic mockery of polite society. Yet the Poet recited and interpreted the Italian classics rather than compose his own work. That was focused on the libretti which gave him a place in the city’s thriving theatrical life.

  As far as Flora could make out, the young Gozzi had left his patron’s house in some kind of disgrace and had turned to the theatre as a way of earning. Venice offered every kind of stage entertainment, official and unofficial, but the opera was the most lavish and prosperous of the arts in a city that valued spectacle above all else. Except, in Lorenzo’s mordant judgement, secrecy and disguise. He had fallen into writing a libretto by chance, and discovered that his scattered talents suited what he called ‘that peculiar half-breed form, trapped between music and literature’. This fortunate knack had in due course launched his career and taken him across Europe wherever Italian opera was performed.

  According to Lorenzo, Vienna was the capital of musical culture, and the scene of his greatest success. At the same time he admitted that he had no idea why some productions had succeeded and others failed. For himself, he had no control over the final presentation of an opera and was often bemused by the fickleness of audiences. The trick was to keep playing a different hand till the right cards came up. Contacts and persuasion were all. It was apparent that Lorenzo could be charming when he chose.

  It was not clear how long Gozzi had stayed in Vienna or why he had left his Mecca, other than like Flora to experience Lisbon’s famous new theatre. At the same time his work here seemed to cause him little effort and to offer even less satisfaction. Perhaps the Poet too was enjoying a period of calm after troubled times. One day he might tell her that story, if he chose.

  It was an autumn evening when Flora had lingered at the Miradouro to watch the last embers of sunset. As she made her way down past the Cathedral, darkness had gathered in the narrow streets and the interiors were lit. To reach Villa Flor she had to turn left and make a slow ascent back towards Rua de São Pedro.

  There was a small square at the start of the Rua where the winding routes from each side of the Cathedral joined and a tavern spilled out amidst a few gnarled trees. It was a popular drinking place in the Alfama, and Flora pulled her shawl over her head to hurry past. But the glow of light from inside drew her eye. It was like an illuminated stage – tables, faces, bottles emerald and ruby. And sitting alone to one side was Lorenzo.

  She stood for a moment compelled. He had no wig, but unevenly cut grey hair receded from his brow. You could not mistake those strong features. But the face was haggard and sunk. The table was littered with empty bottles. He was in a soiled waistcoat and stared downwards oblivious to the crowd around him. Flora forced herself to look away and walk by.

  She went to her room in the Villa yard and took no part in the social meal that evening. The next day Gozzi did not appear at the theatre, nor was he at the cafe. Flora prepared her evening meal as normal, dressed her hair and tidied the little room, checking that all her personal treasures were safely in the box inside her canvas bag below the bed. Then she went across the walkway.

  When she knocked the voice told her to come in. Lorenzo was standing in his room by a table at the window. He was pale but freshly shaven, relaxed in his compact frame and upright stance. He was wearing a white shirt and britches. He looked and spoke her name, Flora, without surprise or emphasis. She moved towards him and he opened his arms to welcome and enfold her in his strength.

  Flora’s change in life was quickly accepted by the community of the Villa. People appreciated her modest way of dealing with them in the daily round, but there was an underlying belief that Flora carried some distinction about with her. Renata sometimes used her whole name, Flora McIvor, in mysterious intimation of this. Becoming the Poet’s companion and mistress confirmed what had always been generally known.

  The only practical issue arose around food. As part of her campaign to install Ligia officially in the old apartments, with full marital status, Mãe had been organising a constant flow of dishes which were delivered morning and evening by her fair assistant. Ligia herself avoided the smelly, messy business of cooking whenever possible. Flora however ate very simply avoiding the rich fish sauces which were the staple of Alfama cuisine, and Lorenzo, who seemed to take little interest in food, was quickly converted to her preference for fresh produce lightly cooked in the local olive oil.

  At first Ligia threatened a scene but as she had no genuine interest in the Poet it was more scripted than delivered. Soon Renata called her off, for though she was disappointed that her first scheme had fallen through, she came to feel that bringing together Flora and the Poet had always been in her mind as an alternative possibility. The lustre still accrued to the credit of her establishment, and it left her the priest as an undisputed focus for her own affections.

  For Flora those first weeks were a slow revelation as she and Lorenzo, long used to living by themselves, adjusted to each other’s presence. He felt the quiet assurance of her daily patterning, her steady temperament, and the warmth of her touch. Apart from the months with Fergus at Castle McIvor, and the stresses of her time with Clementina, she had not experienced intimacy with anyone since early childhood. She felt something in her coming alive. She enjoyed his cultured conversation, wit and good humour, and her body responded to his pleasure in unexpected ways.

  The days and weeks went by with no change to the couple’s working routines. In the mornings Flora still rose early to shop and prepare food for the day ahead. She took Lorenzo coffee and left him in bed with books and papers spread around him. This he promised was the most productive time for writing. They always spoke briefly to each other at the theatre, but Flora left him to hold court at the cafe in the afternoons, so that she could finish work as soon as the performance was underway.

  The big difference was their coming together each evening to eat and share the last hours of the day. Lorenzo’s frank delight in her broke down a long cultivated reserve. Something on the heart lifted, releasing her at last to speak about Glengarry.

  But to let Lorenzo understand that calamity, she had to explain the McIvor inheritance, the clans in Scotland and the Jacobite struggle. For the first time she spoke openly about Fergus’ death, Clementina, and the conspiracy to abduct the royal family in London. He listened to the whole account in attentive astonished silence until she reached her last word.

  ‘It’s like a novel, Flora, in which you have survived every chapter. Surely you must write about this and tell your story? They say that novels are the coming thing.’

  ‘No, Lorenzo, don’t speak of it in that way. I do not have an artist’s freedom to tell. I must not attract any interest to myself. Palazzo Muti’s tentacles stretch across Europe. I have barely escaped that past and must not give it any hold on us.’

  ‘Poor girl, you have been living all this time in fear of discovery.’

  Flora was surprised by his focus on her secret life, rather than Glengarry’s betrayal, which was what she most needed to share. ‘I had to tell you, Lorenzo, about the man who abused my trust. If there is to be no concealment between us.’

  Lorenzo shrugged. ‘Dearest, dear Flora, my love. Life is full of such betrayals. We should not let them stain our souls or our freedom to embrace.’ And he took her in his arms, and she gave way and wept and was comforted. So great was
her relief that she did not look for any revelations in return.

  There were still periods in which Lorenzo’s underlying discontents broke out. His mood altered and sought release in drinking. Flora did not try to staunch that bitter flow but to divert it, encouraging him to drink at home and to take some food. Sometimes she pulled his insensible body over to the bed to let him sleep off the ill effects, without the dangers to which drunkenness in the Alfama taverns could lead.

  The next morning she would leave him sleeping heavily, and in the evening resume their normal conversation without comment or reproach. Lorenzo would look apologetic for an instant, and then he too picked up where they had left off, as if nothing had happened to disturb the even tenor of their way.

  One evening after such an episode, Flora stumbled unintentionally into an antidote to Lorenzo’s nagging complaint.

  ‘Did you ever hear Rameau’s Amorous Indies, Lorenzo?’

  ‘No, but I know it is popular in Paris.’

  ‘Very popular. The music is beautiful, and the subject has great appeal. But the libretto is thin. Could you not write for a new production in Lisbon? You have influence at the opera. Rameau’s librettist, Fuselier used to come to the Palais Royal. He revered the composer’s memory and would not allow any changes to the words he had used.’

  ‘What is the story?’

  ‘That is the trouble. There are several different stories, poorly expressed in words at least. Yet the theme is love in exotic places, and every world with which Lisbon trades from Constantinople to the Americas is represented. The quays here are loaded with the produce of these distant worlds, and filled with faces of India, Africa and America. The subject is crying out for a poetry of amour to match the old master’s music. I made new costumes in Paris but what pictures we could make here where the colours are already present to the public eye.’

  Lorenzo again looked at Flora as if she had drawn back the curtains from some wholly unexpected design.