‘Look up,’ Puccini replies. ‘Up.’ The manager raises his eyes above the uneven array of rooftops. And there, low and very large, is the moon.
‘Now I see,’ says Audran. ‘So big, and such a colour. Like an orange.’
Puccini appears transfixed. He is quite still, hands by his sides, staring at the moon. It seems absurdly artificial: too big, too perfectly round, as if it were a hastily-painted prop pasted above a skyline in a set for a cheap theatrical show. Would never be deemed appropriate for an opera.
‘The colour is unusual,’ he says after a long pause. ‘Maybe it’s a different moon altogether from the one I know at Torre del Lago. A moon to make a man and his troubles seem very small.’
‘Also, I think, easier to find than your comet,’ says Audran. A wispy cloud drifts in front of the moon, smudging its brilliant surface. This breaks the spell. ‘Let us return. Though I have a few things to show you.’
The composer tugs at his collar. Pulls his hat down further.
‘You fear being recognised?’ Audran asks, as another cable-tram passes.
‘Unlikely, I think. I am not a famous escaper. Or a man who dances with a sheep’s head. Yet I have no desire to make any more explanations.’
They walk in silence for another block, away from the moon, until Audran grunts in satisfaction and draws Puccini’s attention to a window display.
‘See? Here, too, you are famous.’
It is a music store. The street lighting is just strong enough for the composer to make out a selection of instruments: a trumpet; a violin; and two flutes arranged like flowers in the window – as well as a fanned pile of sheet-music. Pride of place has been given to a flat gramophone record in its paper cover, around which has been placed three postcard-size photographs, standing up. The composer can make out a photograph of himself, with shadows over one side of his face and moustache, taken in Rome several years earlier. Beside it is a portrait of Caruso – bareheaded, clean-shaven, with his black hair combed back, wearing a winged collar over a spotted cravat. The other picture, a little larger than the others, is of a woman in a pale gown with the waist pulled absurdly tight; a woman with a haughty expression looking away from the photographer.
‘Our Melba’, reads the caption.
‘Buonasera, Madame,’ Puccini says. ‘It seems you are everywhere.’
‘This would appear to be a celebrated recording,’ says Audran, pressing against the glass. ‘A duet from your Boheme. And see the sign here: “New Stock Now Available”. Must be very popular.’
‘Popular everywhere, I think. This duet – “O soave fanciulla”, from Act One of Boheme – is the only one they have recorded together. And this was three years ago. It would not surprise me to know this is deliberate. Rarity makes something precious. Madame, especially, is very clever at business. Her fees must always be higher than Caruso’s. Her recordings must be sold for more money. And it is not an accident that her picture is the biggest.’
He falls silent, gazing at the display.
‘I do not have a copy of this recording for myself,’ he continues. ‘The machine I have with me plays only cylinders. And I would like to hear it again. That note she holds at the end, the high C … She is the only one in the world who can reach that.’
‘Yet you will not have Melba in your opera to premiere in New York.’
‘You have heard my reasons,’ replies Puccini, still addressing the window. ‘She could sing Flora Tosca for the recording machine. But can you picture Madame as a pretty saloon keeper in a miners’ camp?’ He steps back from the window. ‘First I must finish. Already I fear it will not match Boheme.’
‘Which, as you see, is still celebrated here. So far from your home.’
‘It is the singers who are the stars. Not me. This likeness reminds me I am just a sad man with a hat and a moustache. And if you put a photograph of Signor Houdini in this window he would attract many more admirers.’
Audran leads him away, taking his arm as they pass a narrow street. The composer can see lanterns hanging in a dingy shopfront with only teacups and dominoes on display. He glimpses men inside with long-stemmed pipes and smells sweet-scented smoke as well as cooking fish. Nearby are more stores and dwellings, the low buzz of conversations they do not understand, signs with characters they cannot comprehend.
‘Chinatown,’ says Audran. ‘Like in San Francisco. Not far to go now.’
They are walking uphill. The composer’s bad leg is troubling him. He sees a horse-drawn hansom-cab stopped next to a high stone wall with no signs or number facing the street. There is only a wooden door with a brass handle and a peep-hole at eye-level. As they approach, the door opens and a gentleman emerges – a well-dressed man wearing a long-tailed jacket over light-coloured trousers. His deep voice carries clearly in the warm night air: ‘Goodnight, my dear—’
Noticing the two strangers observing him, he leaps into the cab, banging a door, and instructs the driver to move on. Hearing this disturbance, a young woman steps forward from behind the door in the wall. The composer glimpses a pale, lovely face framed by a dark cloud of hair and lustrous eyes that quickly appraise and dismiss him before the door is closed again. He stops, arrested by this face, until the manager nudges him forward.
Soon he recognises what he has studied from his hotel window: the fountain; the statue of a dead general, looking pensive in the limpid moonlight; the intersection of several streets. Audran directs him towards a secondary entrance, one that skirts the hotel foyer and leads directly to a rear staircase. The composer considers suggesting a brief sojourn for a cigarette on the rooftop before they retire, as the manager has allowed him to keep his key. But it is getting late. He is a little breathless after the walk. And they have already seen enough for one night.
20
Vendredi 25 Février 1910
Bizet. Saint-Saëns. Massenet. Gounod.
These were men who touched Heaven. M. Bleriot would say there is one thing only more beautiful than flying. Music.
In Paris, after the Channel was crossed, he took me to a symphony concert at the Odeon. When Saint-Saëns played I saw his face. This fearless man was crying.
So I try to learn more about music.
The box Jordan left with me, the Champion, I like very much. It is a clever machine. I must look inside to see the cogs and spring and belts that make it work. Unlike the Voisin it needs no fuel.
But it is not good for a paddock. This Champion would be suited to my apartment on the Boulevard Chantilly, where there is no dust. The discs for the Champion bring dirt as flies come to sugar. The music will skip and jump like the Voisin trying to leave the ground in too much wind.
Perhaps the machine does not care for the music. For here I have no Bizet or Saint-Saëns or the others. Only a marching band playing ‘My Country ‘Tis of Thee’ and George H. Diamond singing ‘You Will Never Know a Mother’s Love Again’.
Ralfbanks likes this Diamond song. He will call out—
I say Oldboy, crank up your box and let’s hear it for mother again.
But it is not my preferred music.
When Jordan comes again with Mr H. I will ask if he has more discs.
