‘In Boheme one time. London, I think. First Act – the love duet “Che gelida manina” – Madame Melba is trying to look very dramatic: so sick; so cold. Caruso has had his dresser, Martino, warm a salami on a spirit-burner off the stage. Then he puts this hot salami in his pocket and in the middle of the aria, Rodolfo and Mimi falling in love, he presses the salami into her hand. Her eyes go wide with shock but she must keep singing. And while the orchestra plays music as beautiful as anything I have ever created, he asks her, very quiet, as if concerned about her health: “You like sausage, English lady?” After the scene he must use a handkerchief to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes.’
Bess is unsure if she should look amused or shocked.
‘I struggled to make this music and he treats it as a silly plaything. And yet still they sing, Madame and Enrico. Not a note is missed. The audience sees nothing. Hears nothing.’
The composer shakes his head. A father frustrated by a wayward child. ‘When we did Butterfly in America three years ago, I said to him that he is lazy, won’t learn anything, and is too easily pleased with himself. Yet also – and this had to be said – I told him his voice is magnificent.’
It appears to Bess that the composer and tenor have a mutual dependency: despite friction and personality differences, they need one another for artistic fulfilment. Bess hasn’t felt this way about her husband for some time. Once she was his essential on-stage associate; now Kukol and Vickery and even Brassac play this part while she is a mere spectator.
‘She’s not English,’ Audran says, interjecting while collecting the soup bowls.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your story about the sausage. Caruso called her “English lady”. Melba was born here. I think she would rather be thought of as Australian than English. She concludes her recitals here by singing “Home, Sweet Home” and is now having a residence built near Lilydale.’
The composer shrugs.
‘Enrico would say: “Australian lady, English lady, is it not the same thing?”’
Audran serves the next course, which he has kept warm in a metal trolley.
‘Roast mutton with mint sauce,’ he announces, placing Bess’s dish before her. ‘Potatoes to come, also a salad of cucumbers.’
Bess spears a tiny piece of mutton with her fork.
‘To be honest, I’m not much of a meat-eater – unlike my husband. Meat makes muscles, he likes to say.’ Because it feels strange to be quoting him in his absence, she adds: ‘Mr Audran, could I possibly hear some more from your ingenious piano?’
After checking labels on the rolls in boxes on the piano lid, Audran selects one, inserts it into a drawer under the keyboard, and presses some switches. The piano starts playing. Bess can see keys moving. The music is familiar: she thinks it is the Chopin piece she heard when she first came to the room.
‘It is not so bad,’ Puccini says. At first, Bess believes he is referring to his food. But his attentive expression makes it clear he is listening to the music. ‘Quite believable,’ he continues. ‘It has some feeling, both light and dark. There will always be new things: this piano that plays itself; the talking machines. Soon, I think, nobody will go to the concert hall.’
The piano stops. There is a hissing sound until Audran fits another roll. ‘This is another thing,’ Puccini continues. ‘Music in machines cannot last long. On the Edison cylinders, less than three minutes. Enrico told me when he recorded with Madame that one time they had to finish too soon.’
‘Only one recording with Madame Melba?’ Bess asks. ‘I would have expected more, considering how often Caruso must have sung with her.’
‘Recording takes time, performance schedules must match,’ he replies.
Puccini is gazing into his red wine, swirling it around his glass.
‘The manager and I saw that recording from Boheme in a store window the other night. After we left the Opera House, where there is no opera.’
He rises from the table, offers Audran a cigarette from his slim silver case, then crosses the room to examine the Boesendorfer.
‘Is this all you have for music, or do you also have a machine?’
‘You mean a phonograph like your own?’ Audran replies. The composer nods. ‘No. I have never found their reproduction of sound to be impressive. But I believe the quality is steadily improving, so I may yet purchase one.’
‘I hope to get a machine soon,’ Bess says. ‘For myself. One of the latest models. My husband has been promised one by his driver. I would love to hear that duet you have talked about.’
Bess doesn’t see Audran jotting something in his notebook. She is distracted by Puccini’s smile, one of the first for the evening. Then he says:
‘You know, Enrico can be like Vesuvius. Every so often he has an eruption. And he might explode after what you said just now.’
‘But what—?’
‘Nothing. You have done nothing, dear lady,’ Puccini interrupts her, resting one hand lightly on her back as he resumes his seat. He sits, pours more wine into all their glasses. Only then does he continue.
‘He has had a difficult time of late. An extortion threat in New York from people who call themselves the “Black Hand”. Before that, a surgeon must operate on his throat, which is like a painter having his fingers broken. And the woman he lived with for more than twelve years, the mother of his children, left him for somebody else – their chauffer. So, you see, he cannot tolerate any talk of drivers.’
‘I had no idea,’ Bess says.
‘Of course not,’ Puccini replies, exhaling a long plume of cigarette smoke. ‘I can also tell you that soon after the eruption he would be fine. He cannot be upset for long. First the volcano rumbles, then all is calm.’
He considers the table: the dishes; the glasses empty and part-empty; the ash-tray. ‘I am thinking, however, our dinner is concluded.’
Bess checks: the clock on the mantelpiece shows the time as 8.54. It is still early, yet the night feels over already, although she is not at all tired. The composer rises. Taking her cue, Bess also gets up.
‘I understand,’ the manager says. ‘You have work to do. Madam, if you wish to take breakfast in the dining-room tomorrow morning, in your husband’s absence, you will find on the menu a tasty fruit compote I had the chef prepare for our dessert.’
‘Could you do that?’ Bess asks Puccini as they move to the door. ‘Eat in public here, I mean.’
‘I may do that soon,’ the composer replies. ‘Madame is on her way to England, and unlike Caruso I am not concerned about Black Hands. To prove my adventurous spirit, I will accompany you back to your room.’
THEY take their leave of Audran. Puccini offers his arm to Bess. It would seem churlish to refuse. This is what she would tell her husband if he suddenly confronted them. The composer’s forearm, on which her left hand rests, feels thin but firm. He smells of tobacco and claret and cologne. They are approaching the landing when he stops.
‘Signora, do you need to hurry?’
‘No, not at all.’
