Yet he continues to gaze at the lowering sky, not reacting to any sounds from the streets below: a dog barking; the snorting of a carter’s horse; the post office bell tolling ten times.
‘Perhaps tomorrow night you will see it,’ she tells him. ‘Or in Sydney … Have you decided? Will you be going there – for Madame Butterfly?’
She thinks he has not heard her. He does not reply. Does not look at her. Only after he has found a cigarette and lit it does he speak.
‘I had thought, yes, maybe I would visit my poor Butterfly, who must wait so long, in Sydney. But I have now seen advertisements in the newspaper Audran brings me.’ He raises one hand and writes large letters in the air with the glowing tip of his cigarette: ‘Theatre Royal – Grand Opera IN ENGLISH. English! Which is not the language of opera. I would rather hear Butterfly sing “Un bel di” than “One fine day”. So, no, I will not go.’
She believes she can hear his cigarette burning.
‘And tomorrow night …?’
‘Tomorrow night, Signor Audran has invited me for a farewell dinner. Then, early on Tuesday morning, I will be on the steamship Orion to begin the journey to New York. A telegram has been sent to Otto Kahn of the Metropolitan Opera. His composer is returning with the finished score for his new work. To be premiered later this year, with Caruso as Dick Johnson and, for Minnie, well, we will see … Destinn, perhaps. But not Melba.’
‘We leave the following morning – on Wednesday,’ Bess responds, fearing at once that her voice is too bright, too brittle. ‘My husband must begin another season for Harry Rickards in Sydney. There will be more flying.’
‘I am glad to have seen this flying. Something ingenious. Almost magical. But he doesn’t travel anywhere. He comes back. I am content for the Orion to stay on water and take me where I must go.’
Silence hangs between them as thick as the gloom. She hears the scraping of another match. When he raises it she senses he is looking directly at her with an intensity that causes her to step back. She thinks of her husband asleep in their room below. Asleep with the ugly trophy from the Aerial League still close by on the bedside table so it will be the first thing he sees when he wakes. Sleeping more deeply than he has managed since arriving in Melbourne. For just a few nights he is content, with nothing further to achieve. Until there is something else to challenge him.
‘Will you stay in New York?’
The glowing tip of his cigarette sways as he shakes his head.
‘Once I am done with the Metropolitan, I must return to Italy. It means another voyage by sea, but I need to be back at Torre del Lago. At heart, you know, I am a simple man. I long for the freedom of loose trousers and time for fishing and shooting.’
‘Time for your wife as well?’
He exhales smoke in twin streams.
‘Elvira? Yes. She will wonder where I have been and ask many questions. But she must be satisfied with my explanation. If she wants to believe I am still angry about her treatment of poor Doria, well, so it is.’
‘And you will stay with her?’
He fumbles for her hands, finding her elbows in the darkness and then letting his grip slide down. They stand facing each other like a couple in a dance-hall waiting for the music to start.
‘I will stay with Elvira just as you will stay with your flying man, Signora Beatrice. We share too much history.’
The champagne that she drank with dinner – her husband wouldn’t touch any of it, although they were celebrating his success – has made her giddy. Or perhaps she is just very tired, for she must cling on to the composer to stop from falling. She tightens her hold on his hands.
‘Was it true what you said – that I helped you complete this work?’
He releases one hand and cradles her chin, nudging it up so her eyes are facing his. Yet still she can barely discern his lips as he speaks.
‘As true as anything I ever said. No matter who sings Minnie, it is your face I will see.’
‘Well, I must be satisfied with that,’ she says, perhaps more coolly than she intended, because now he has both hands on her shoulders.
‘Listen to me. Listen now. Everything that is here: the dark; the quiet; the softness of your skin – this is what will last. It is the moments that matter. An opera lasts how long? Two hours, three? Yet what people always remember is a beautiful aria. One song of just a few minutes that will stay with them long after the curtain is down. “Un bel di” … It is these moments that are precious. There is great beauty in things that are gone too soon.’
From the street comes the sound of bottles clinking.
‘In my operas there is something I do. Like a signature … a melody lingers after singers have gone. Voices are heard even when nobody can be seen. There is a presence in absence.’
He kisses the top of her head. Her hair smells of gardenias.
‘I am sorry you may not see your comet,’ she says.
‘I will look from the boat. What a moment that would be. After waiting seventy-five years, there it is, burning bright. And then it will vanish again.’
Somewhere a door bangs shut. A cat yowls. On the roof they stay close together as the darkness and a sense of distance settle in.
‘In this new opera, for the first time, I let the leading characters live,’ he says. ‘Minnie and Dick Johnson leave, but they do not die. Because only now I understand that every departure is a kind of death.’
55
THE Voisin has been dismantled and returned to the crates with Harry’s name on the sides; the same crates that were packed in the hold of the Malwa. This time they will travel on a wagon to Sydney, where Brassac is hopeful of finding accommodation more suited to a French gentleman than a canvas hangar. He has been paid his bonus. Jordan too, who was surprised that the American – made generous by success – paid him above the odds. As well as presenting him with a signed photograph, which the driver hopes to sell.
Because the mechanic will soon be leaving the paddock, his work done, he is sharing a bottle of absinth with Banks. Brassac is in a very hospitable mood. So mellow he has decided that ‘You Will Never Know a Mother’s Love Again’ is not such a disagreeable tune after all. He allows Banks to sing a verse – with great emotion, if not quite in tune. But he does not sing along. When the George H. Diamond song is over Banks raises his glass, grunts, and says:
‘You know, when you can’t see the dust or snakes or rocks, it’s not such a bad place.’ He falls silent; looks up. ‘Hardly any stars tonight.’
Brassac attends to the Champion – his Champion, now he has paid Jordan the six pounds two shillings owing.
‘What will you do now?’ he asks.
The Englishman takes so long to answer that Brassac wonders if he should repeat the question. Only the sound of a palm rubbing at his stubbled cheeks suggests that Banks is considering it.
