Flora McIvor Page 14

  ‘I wonder if there is a copy of the old libretto in Lisbon?’

  ‘I have one in my trunk. Would you like to read it?’

  Within a fortnight he had crafted a new script working between the original French, Italian, and the score which he had found at Teatro São Carlos. As both musician and poet, Lorenzo was in his element, interweaving much more closely the four love stories through language as Rameau had harmonised them in sound. Then began his campaign to have a new production mounted.

  As the labyrinthine theatrical politics played out, Flora looked again at the sketches she had drawn for François Bouchier in Paris. They were stowed away neglected in the old trunk, which had now travelled across the walkway to the apartment. She realised that much more was possible for her in Lisbon. The theatre could provide new scenery for each Act. The style of costuming here was already more naturalised than at the Palais. In addition the huge Mercado by the new port contained, alongside the fruits and spices of the world, rich silks and brocades from the east, dyed woollen fabrics from the Americas, an abundance of feathers, decorated leatherwork and other adornments There were even fabrics made from rushes and bark. Quietly as the manoeuvrings went on over the backers, musicians and singers, she was steadily accumulating new materials.

  What finally swung São Carlos behind Amorous Indies was the dance sequences. Since the house generally followed Italian tradition, an expanded troupe, sequentially costumed in a variety of native exotics, was judged to be bold innovation and sure box office. Flora’s new drawings played a decisive part in winning the merchants’ support, as Lorenzo fulsomely acknowledged.

  For the first time, Lorenzo and Flora shared their creative work as well as daily life. They were both at full stretch, as Flora brought in extra costume makers and moved between the scene painters and the cutting room. Lorenzo sat in on all the rehearsals arguing publicly with the music director while advising each singer discreetly on phrasing and expression. When not in rehearsal he gave extra lessons and appeared in all the fashionable gathering places to promote Amorous Indies as the theatrical event of the season, if not of many seasons. Now a rebuilt, rejuvenated Lisbon could outclass venerable Paris.

  And so it proved. The opening night was everything its devisers hoped for, and more. That elusive alchemy of success worked its magic on performers and audience alike. Encores and standing ovations followed one upon the other until eventually the curtain had to be lowered and the crowd spilled out into a perfect starlit night. As celebrations continued in the town, Flora eventually managed to tug an exhausted but exhilarated Lorenzo away from the throng towards home.

  The courtyard was deserted and peaceful. In the apartment they undressed like peasants who had spent every daylight hour in backbreaking toil, and lay down joined hip to hip in resignation and content. Soon they fell together into deep dreamless slumber.

  The first free day after the opening of Amorous Indies was as usual a Monday. Flora lingered at home, and when Lorenzo got up he announced that they should go on an outing to celebrate. He proceeded to dress in his finest wear and encouraged Flora to change out of her workaday clothes.

  Early morning rain bursts had been chasing each other over the estuary, but the skies had cleared to a crystal bright morning as they left Villa Flor and climbed towards the Miradouro. However Lorenzo did not delay to enjoy the view. He continued up towards the Castelo and then bearing right below the fortress walls, he and Flora strolled arm in arm into a part of the city she did not know. It was less crowded with open squares and newer apartments than Alfama. Soon they came out into a broad piazza that swept up to an imposing church.

  ‘São Vicente de Fora. Come, there is something I want to show you.’

  Instead of starting the ascent up a grand stair towards the ceremonial entrance, Lorenzo guided Flora to one side where the rise was less steep. They went through a shaded archway into a side chamber of Paradise. It was a courtyard longer than broad, with a pillared portico on three walls. In the centre was an ornamental garden with small trees, flowers and bushes in a sequence of raised beds. On the right hand side a cascade of pure water tumbled into a brimming pool from which streams spilled over and ran in channels through the garden. The whole portico was tiled in the intense primary colours of Lisbon’s sun and sea. Flora stood entranced by its vivid beauty.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘A monastery, and the burial crypt of Portugal’s kings and queens. But wait here till I see if the priest is ready.’

  ‘A priest?’

  ‘Yes, dear Flora, for our wedding.’

  ‘Lorenzo. I am not prepared, dressed…’

  ‘But you will marry me? Come, sit here by the fountain.’

  She sat obediently and listened to the water splash and flow. It was inevitable like a dream. An elderly priest appeared with Lorenzo and took them through a small door into the immense gloom of the church. There in a side chapel he conducted the brief ceremony, and taking them back to the courtyard departed with a blessing. Then they went for lunch near the Castelo and home to rest.

  The couple continued as before, but Flora felt as if some deeper level of trust had been reached, even as Lorenzo basked amidst the bustle of theatrical plaudits. She was grateful that after so many journeys, her life had found a safe harbour, while she took pleasure in her husband’s success. She began to go sometimes to the ancient Cathedral and make her devotion again after so many years to Jesu of the Sacred Heart and to Our Lady. She thought of Clementina and prayed that she and her daughter Louisa might be unharmed, secure in their love. And she prayed for the soul of Fergus, pleading the intercession of Saint Teresa.

  Some few weeks later, after an unprecedented run Amorous Indies was coming to its triumphant close. She came back early to the Villa to find Lorenzo already in the apartment. He was very quiet, at the table, staring out towards the sea. There were no papers or books around him. She went on with her normal tasks, tidying and getting things ready for the evening meal.

  ‘Flora, could you sit down for a moment.’

  She sat in the chair on the other side and folded her hands on the table. He did not touch her or look at her face.

  ‘There is part of my life I have not told you about.’

  ‘Tell me now then, Lorenzo.’ She reached out a hand across towards him but his gaze had fastened on the polished surface.

  ‘After I was in Vienna, I returned to Venice. There was a friend of mine there from childhood in the countryside, Girolamo Michele. His dream was to take control of a theatre, not an opera house but a comedy house playing Goldoni. Like me he was brought up with nothing except hunger. He said it was the only kind of theatre that made money; that I could direct the actors and music, while he ran the business. He was caught up in his plan, like a child with a toy castle, and convinced me to give him all the money I had.’

  Lorenzo paused and drew breath.

  ‘For a while things seemed to go well. Our productions were acclaimed, but the theatre was decrepit, always needing repairs, and in truth audiences wanted a change from Goldoni. Yet Girolamo refused to consider failure. When I gave him the money, we signed a deed of partnership, but as losses mounted without my knowledge, he sold half of the building to a member of the nobility, and then borrowed money on security of the whole property. Before things finally collapsed, Girolamo fled the city, telling me that he was going to sell a vineyard which he had been left by an old uncle in the Veneto.

  Somehow I still trusted him, perhaps because at heart he believed in his own falsehoods. They were much more appealing than the truth. Is that not the secret of all theatre?’

  For a moment he looked at Flora, but she was intent on following his story to the end, as if compelled by some malign spell.

  ‘When the creditors foreclosed I was liable for half of all the debts, which were owed twice. No-one it seemed had been paid at the theatre for two months. When he realised that Girolamo had disappeared, the moneylender took out a contract on his lif
e as Venetians do. I was imprisoned awaiting trial, but a lady whom I knew well at the theatre came to visit me bringing food and spare clothes – a woman’s dress, cape and hat. She remained in the cell till I had escaped disguised in her garments. I managed to flee the city, outlawed and penniless.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Girolamo is certainly dead. They will have found him. As for that brave woman, I don’t know. I got out of Italy, travelling as a beggar, and have severed all connection with my home city. Until today.’

  ‘Today? What do you mean?’

  ‘This afternoon a man came to the theatre asking for me by name. He left an address. But I saw him approaching from my seat in the cafe, and I knew him immediately as a Venetian man of business. He has come to collect the debt, or my life. I should not have put my name to our opera.’

  ‘Can we not pay? I have money in my box.’ She started to get up but Lorenzo pulled her back.

  ‘It is a large sum of money, Flora. Listen now, for our lives’ sake. This is what we must do. I have booked passage on a ship leaving tomorrow for New York in America. Fortunately I have the money from Amorous Indies. You must remain here, for a time. That man will soon find this place. Tell him when he comes that I have gone to Paris to arrange another production of my libretto, and that you expect me back in two months. Then you should stay, working as normal until he gives up watching. In two or three months you can come and join me in New York. Have you enough money to do that?’

  ‘Yes, but what kind of place is New York? Is there not war between the French and the English?’

  ‘Yes, there has been fighting but not in New York. It was a Dutch port till Britain took it and drove away the Indians. The English are at war with France and Spain for possession of the Americas. They do not like Europeans, Flora, even though they want our music and literature. That is why it is the best place to go. No-one will find us there.’

  ‘Can I live here alone?’

  ‘You did before. You can, Flora. You are stronger than you know. Forgive me for bringing this unhappiness. I thought I had escaped Venice but their web spins far. We will be reunited. I shall not forget or abandon you for a moment. You are my wife.’

  He held both her hands in his but she could not keep still, or take in anything further.

  ‘I must pack your trunk. There is washing in the courtyard.’

  ‘Don’t go outside. Ligia will bring it in. Please, prepare some food, and I will gather my books. Who knows, New York may bring us better fortune.’

  ‘What could be better than the life we share here, Lorenzo?’

  He did not answer but turned away towards the bed where Flora could see the trunk open and already half full.

  Eventually, Flora went to bed, tossing and turning in restless sleep. Lorenzo seemed to stay up all night unable to surrender his anxious watch. As first light crept through their windows he embraced Flora and slipped out to be early at the quay ready for boarding. She turned away from the windows and shrank into herself. She could not comprehend what had happened. Tears would not come to her aid.

  Things transpired exactly as Lorenzo had foretold. Looking back, Flora was amazed at his cool head in the face of danger. First the black coated man reappeared at Teatro São Carlos asking for Maestro Gozzi. Two days later, he came enquiring at Villa Flor, and finally arrived at the apartment door.

  ‘Does Lorenzo Gozzi live here?’

  ‘Yes, but he is away from home at present.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘His wife.’

  ‘So you know where he is?’

  ‘Yes, of course, he has gone to Paris, to try and repeat his success with the Rameau opera.’

  ‘Are you telling me the truth?’

  ‘Why would I tell you anything else? The whole of Lisbon knows of my husband’s success with The Amorous Indies.’

  The man’s brow darkened and he turned away without acknowledgement or thanks.

  ‘Shall I say who called?’

  ‘Tell him that Girolamo Michele needs him in Venice,’ was shouted back up the stair, ‘He has not been forgotten.’

  Over succeeding days she felt watched. But Mãe Renata was more than a match for any surveillance, and once inside Villa Flor she was surrounded by friends. No-one in the theatre or the Alfama was surprised that the Poet had gone on the back of his success to seek more fame in Paris, and as Lorenzo was not in the city no sighting or encounter could upset that version of events.

  However as the weeks passed Flora felt a need to share her troubling secret with someone, so she confided in Renata. In any case, how was she to manage her own departure without arousing suspicion? Mãe drank in the tale with ravenous eyes, but her first instinct was to pull the delicately formed Flora to her full heart and squeeze the breath from the slighter woman’s body.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. The Poet is an honourable man and he will wait for you. As for that Venetian I will set the stonecutter on him like a dog. Now that Jaimhino and Ligia are betrothed, he will do anything for me. See, do not cry. Why was the Poet so foolish, but now he has you to look out for. He is your husband. It will all be fine, I promise. Have you money for your passage? Good, than I will go to reserve for you, so no-one can notice you are leaving. But please come and eat with us again in the court. Do not be alone in these days, for friends are all around you.’

  It was too much for an exhausted Flora. She wept, and Mãe wept in sympathy. She was relieved that Renata showed such faith in Lorenzo, rather than casting doubt or worse adding new revelations. The strain of these lonely weeks had taken their toll.

  Mãe however was as good as her word, watching carefully over Flora, and booking passage for her on an American ship, the Columbia. There had been no further sign of the black coated man, so Flora packed up her life at Villa Flora into two large canvas bags and prepared to depart, telling everyone other than Renata that she was following Lorenzo to Paris. On a misty autumn morning she rose before dawn and crossing the walkway went down into the courtyard. Mãe was waiting by the well with a further basket full of food and a huge shawl which she wrapped round Flora’s shoulders.

  ‘You will need this for a blanket on the ship.’

  Then she pushed Flora out of the gate, and for the last time she went down the steep Alfama steps to the port, where in the deeper harbourage the three-masted Colombia waited, her drooping sails swathed with early morning fog.

  Later, when Flora was reunited with Lorenzo in New York, she found it hard to distinguish his memories of the voyage from her own. Both crossings had taken more than two months and had been accomplished in the face of constant headwinds and gales. Life on board was equally a battle against cold, sickness and hunger. Mãe’s blanket had been a godsend, while Lorenzo had not reckoned on having to provide bedding. He had resorted to using his complete stock of garments as a compendious mattress and blanket.

  The food supplies ran short after a fortnight. Flora’s bundle included cheese and meal. Lorenzo talked his way into the captain’s rough cabin where the ship’s only reliable supplies of wine and liquor staved off hunger. Meanwhile pigs and hens ran about midships in cacophonous terror. Those which were not swept overboard were slaughtered in the worst of conditions to provide the basis of the galley’s poor imitation of cookery. Flora avoided these greasy slops, suspicious that many of the retchings blamed on seasickness had a more immediate cause.

  There were only two women aboard the ship so their shared worm eaten niche, which contained four slatted bunks, became Flora’s refuge. It offered shelter along with a place to sleep and store her precious bags. The other woman, a Spaniard, was also travelling to join her husband, but spent most of the voyage incoherent with sea sickness.

  Lorenzo’s bunk was in the lower passenger deck where lighter items of cargo were stored. He slept there fitfully in an open bunk, as if in a poorhouse, but spent most of his time drinking and gambling in a vain attempt to shut out the driving grey rain soaked winds which ceasel
essly roused up the big seas.

  Nonetheless, after the blur of those weeks, Flora’s clearest memory was of the approach from open ocean to the Hudson river estuary. It reminded her of the mighty Tagus and its narrow sea gate within which Lisbon sheltered beside its open expanse of water. The day was clear with a rare following breeze and as if to welcome the weary Colombia, dolphins and seals swam alongside, while the air was filled with raucous cries of gulls. The ship nosed into the bay and made good headway past an island with a ruined fort till the two forks of the huge river were visible, and between them the port of New York on the tip of Manhattan Island.

  Flora felt light headed and dizzy as the ship nosed into its berth. Passengers and their luggage were manhandled down the gangplank onto a quay that seemed to sway with every race and condition of humanity. Porters yelled at the latest arrivals, competing for business and jostling those who had come to welcome the ship. She clutched her bags tightly, desperate to escape the crowd and find her own way to the town. But on the edge of the crowd she heard her name called out. There was the familiar compact figure, paler, grey hair pulled back in a pigtail, but wearing his usual ironic yet appreciative smile. She collapsed into her husband’s welcoming embrace.

  Lorenzo steered her out of the docks and through the busy streets to a rooming house where there was fresh milk and bread to eat, and a comfortable bed in which Flora would sink finally into motionless sleep. As she lay allowing her husband’s comfortable tones to wash over her brow, she was able for the first time since their sudden separation to admit a future. Now the voyage had ended in this way, she could surely leave the last months behind like a bad dream or episode of fever, and begin life afresh in this new world.

  The next day she woke to noise. It rose up from the street and filled all the space around her bed. The clatter of wheels on rutted road. The cries of traders and street hucksters. A background hum of grinding and mending. Even the narrow skies seemed to press in at the window. For an instant she saw the vista of blue stretching out from their apartment in Villa Flor. She heard the early morning quiet before Alfama came to life. But she was alone in a world that raucously demanded remorseless attention.