PHANTOM IN TIME (3 page)
Authors: Eugenia Riley
“And
he does keep things clean!” put in Sophie Crawford, prompting everyone to
laugh.
“Yes,
we have Mr. Usher with his broom,” mused Litchfield, his gaze flicking to
Bella, “and the ghost of Jacques LeFevre, with his fondness for pretty ladies.”
And
I saw them both!
thought Bella, convulsed with cold shivers. Before she
exited, she glanced back at the auditorium, and could have sworn she heard the
sensual echo of a certain phantom tenor's ghostly laughter . . .
Chapter Two
Bella
drove down Royal Street, passing the opera house's magnificent facade, the
marble steps leading to massive Corinthian columns. With the windows of her
small white sports car rolled down, she left the French Quarter slowly, taking
in the sights, sounds, and smells. The Vieux Carre exuded its own special
morning-after odor of stale beer mingled with garbage, and even at this hour,
the sounds of jazz and Dixieland spilled out from the clubs. The early-June
morning was overcast and humid, and along the iron lace balconies of the
ancient stucco buildings, the ferns and flowers spilling down from hanging
baskets appeared particularly vibrant. Bella smiled at the sight of several
street musicians jamming on a corner near a bar, and spotted a clown
constructing balloon animals for a group of enthralled children. Having spent the
past couple of years in New York, Bella found the Old World ambience and slower
pace of the Big Easy a refreshing change. She particularly loved spending free
hours at Jackson Square, feeding pigeons or watching sidewalk artists perform
their magic. She often wished she could spend her life that way, carefree and
anonymous. Instead, she had a daunting legacy to live up to.
But
she had made important strides this morning, winning a place in the chorus at
the opera house. Perhaps in this smaller, more obscure company she could
prevail, working herself up to the coveted role of diva. She never could have
tackled such a task at the Met. Here, at least, she had a chance of making Gran
happy—
If
she loved the opera enough to stay . . . She relived her moments at the theater
this morning, beginning with her sighting the handsome ghost who had put such a
delicious shiver down her spine, and her conversation afterward with the
equally spooky Mr. Usher. Both encounters seemed bizarre now, yet she found her
mind instinctively accepting them. She realized Mr. Usher had spoken the truth:
despite her family background, she hadn't a true passion for theater life, and
she was terrified she wouldn't be able to overcome her fears and please Gran.
Yet she had performed better at her audition than she had expected. There had
been times in her past when she had totally frozen during tryouts, had even
rushed offstage to vomit. Thank God she had been able to sing—albeit it was a
faltering performance.
Had
seeing the ghost of Jacques LeFevre in any way bolstered her confidence? Once
again the thought of the amorous phantom brought a smile to her lips.
Bella
pulled into the driveway of her grandmother's home on St. Charles Avenue. She adored
the old two-story house, which was tall and narrow, with an Italian Renaissance
red-brick facade complete with black iron lace balconies and dark shutters. The
home was positioned on a deep lot dotted with sweeping oaks and blooming
magnolias.
Leaving
her car, Bella inhaled the mingled aromas of jasmine, magnolia blossoms, and
roses. She climbed the steps, unlocked the front door with its oval faceted
glass inset, and slipped inside, shutting the panel behind her. In the mellow
light of the foyer, she inhaled the unique scent of the house, a combination of
must, furniture polish, and flowers. The timeworn Oriental runner muted the
sound of her footsteps.
She
paused by the Empire console table and stared at her reflection in the
girandole mirror hanging above it. Sweeping her mane of long, curly black hair
off the nape of her neck, she arranged an errant lock or two around her face.
You
could have a splendid stage presence . . .
Remembering Lesley Litchfield's
remark, Bella frowned. She critically examined her features and found herself
looking at a younger version of Carmita De La Rosa's face, with the same cameo
perfection, the aristocratically high cheekbones, the finely etched jaw, the
delicate, slightly upturned nose and wide mouth. She noted the sparkle in her
bright blue eyes, the flush in her cheeks. Something about the theater had
definitely given her a glow—though she doubted it was Mr. Litchfield's comment.
No, this shivery yet distinctly pleasurable feeling had likely not come from
any human source . . .
Smiling
ruefully, Bella continued down the hallway. She glanced to her left and spotted
the Swedish maid in the dining room, polishing the Queen Anne table, which
gleamed softly in the mellow light filtering through the lace panels.
“Yetta,
is my grandmother awake?” she called.
The
woman, who was middle-aged, plump, with a pretty, round face and high coloring,
set down her polishing cloth and nodded. “Yes, Miss Bella. Miss Isabella is in
her room reading her Scriptures and listening to your grandfather's recordings.
Hardly touched her breakfast, though. It worries me.”
“I
should have bought her some beignet
s
at the Cafe du Monde,” Bella
replied anxiously. “She loves them so.”
Yetta
beamed. “There are a couple warming on a plate on the back of the stove. Miss
Isabella won't touch them for me, but I thought that for you, miss—”
“I'll
take them up,” offered Bella.
“Good.
And by the way, miss . . .”
“Yes?”
The
maid eyed her with concern. “How was your audition?”
“I
was accepted into the chorus,” Bella announced proudly.
The
woman clapped her hands. “Miss Isabella will be so thrilled. She has been
living for this day—to see you sing here in New Orleans.”
“Thanks.
I hope Gran will be pleased.”
Bella
headed to the kitchen in the rear of the first story. The cozy room, with
its glass-fronted cabinets and small table with checkered cloth, smelled of
cinnamon and cafe au lait. Bella fetched a lap tray from a cabinet, then loaded
it with the plate of warm beignets Yetta had left on the stove. She added a fork
and linen napkin, a small glass of orange juice, and the rose in a bud vase
that had been on the kitchen table. Taking a whiff of the delicate fragrance of
the yellow bloom, Bella headed up the back stairs, which were placed next to
the small elevator Isabella had used for years now to her weak heart.
In
the upstairs hallway, the sounds of her grandfather singing Puccini's
“Nessun
dorma”
greeted Bella. For a moment she paused, shutting her eyes and
listening to the lovely, haunting refrain sung in Antonio De La Rosa's
incredible tenor voice. Bella had heard the recording hundreds of times, yet
the music never failed to move her. Sometimes she wondered how she could
connect so strongly with operatic music but be so terrified of singing herself.
As
the strains of the aria died away, Bella proceeded through the open portal of
Isabella's room. As always, a feeling of warmth and love greeted her in the
large, sunny expanse, which was filled with a breathtaking Rococo Revival bed,
a pale yellow Savonnerie rug, etageres crammed with Gran's crystal figurines
and paperweights, and carved Belter chairs with tufted blue-silk-brocade
upholstery.
Bella
smiled at the sight of her grandmother, who sat in her rocking chair in the bay
window, outlined by a wide beam of light. Isabella's frail body was ensconced
in a blue velvet robe. A mauve-colored afghan covered her legs. She was dozing,
her head lolled back on the chair, her curly silver hair caught in a bun. In
her lap lay her opened Bible, with her reading glasses on top. Even as infirm
as she was, Isabella rarely missed mass on Sunday; Bella often accompanied her.
Tenderness
clutched at Bella's heart at Isabella's fragile appearance. Although frail
almost to the point of emaciation, her skin heavily lined, she remained a
striking beauty, her aristocratic features especially lovely in profile. In a
corner of the bay window rested a folded wheelchair and a cylinder of oxygen,
sad reminders of Gran's infirmity—as well the pill bottles cluttering her
bedside table, the nurses who came daily to help with her routine needs.
Bella
started toward Gran with the tray, hating to wake her, but knowing Gran would
be delighted with her news. She set her tray down on the Gothic Revival
dresser, then approached Gran, gently retrieving her glasses and Bible from her
lap.
Turning
to place the items on the dresser, Bella heard Gran's breathy voice. “Good
morning, my girl. I suppose Antonio's singing must have lulled me to sleep.”
“Gran.”
Picking up the tray, Bella smiled and approached Isabella. Although she fretted
constantly over Gran's weakened state and labored breathing, the old woman's
dark eyes appeared especially alert this morning. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.
You fret over me too much.”
“Do
you need your oxygen?”
Gran
waved her off. “Bah! Tell me how the audition went.”
Bella
winked at Gran, gently setting the tray on her lap. “Take a bite of beignet
and
maybe I'll tell you.”
Isabella
made a sound of outrage. “You are ordering me about like a major domo—and I presume
Yetta has been tattling on me again.”
Bella
plopped herself down on Gran's footstool. “She loves you to death. And you know
you don't eat enough.”
Isabella
scowled at the tray. “Where is my cafe au lait? I refuse to have beignets
without coffee.”
Bella
wagged a finger. “You know the doctor warned you no more caffeine. And you
won't drink decaffeinated.”
Isabella
harrumphed. “Who has ever heard of decaffeinated cafe au lait? Why, it's a
desecration of one of the finest traditions of the Old South.”
Bella
fought a chuckle. “Quit arguing and eat.”
“You
are a slave driver!” But Isabella dutifully took a small bite of the
confectioners’-sugar-covered doughnut. “So how
was
the audition?”
Bella
forced a smile. “I made the chorus.”
Joy
lit Isabella's face. “Splendid, my dear, though I'm not surprised. You should
be trying out for lead roles—but you'll get there in due course.”
Bella
frowned. “Gran, you know I'll try my best. I love the opera, but I'm just not
sure I've inherited my parents' passion for the limelight. Surely you can
understand that—you never sang yourself.”
Isabella
laughed sharply. “I never had your voice, my girl! But that was what my Antonio
wanted—God rest his soul.” She paused to cross herself, a wistful look
softening her features. “I remember when we met in Italy, not long before the
second world war. I first saw him singing in
Don Carlos
on the stage of
the Teatro alla Scala in Milan. I think I fell in love with him that night.
After the performance, I rushed into the wings, hoping to get him to sign my
program, and the rascal swept me off my feet and out of the theater. I was only
eighteen, a complete innocent, educated at convent schools. I was totally
bedazzled by him. My parents soon had the police out searching for us.”
Bella
chuckled.
“Antonio
seduced me that very night, the rascal, and then he proposed to me in the
Piazza del Duomo, in front of the cathedral. Ah, it was so romantic. I asked
him why he was interested in an ordinary girl like me. Of course, I came from a
venerated family, but I possessed not a whit of musical talent. Antonio replied
that he wanted to marry a 'dilettante,' as he called me, a woman who could
never compete with his gift. And he wanted a son, someone to follow in his
footsteps, and of course he got his wish. Eight months to the day after we were
wed, there was little Mario, his pride and joy.”
Bella
nodded. She had relished this story so many times.
Isabella
expelled a heavy sigh. “Afterward, Antonio and I . . . well, I knew there were
other women—there often are for such a talented tenor. But I loved him—and miss
him to this day.”
Hearing
the catch in Gran's voice, Bella murmured, “I know you do, and I hope one day
I'll find a man I'll love as much as you loved Grandfather.”
“You
will, dear,” Isabella assured her. “You've simply been too busy establishing
your career to pursue romance. But one day, I know you'll find a wonderful man
who will give you both his heart and his fidelity.” Gran paused to wipe away a
tear. “With Antonio, at least I always knew I had his love.”
“Of
course you did!” Bella replied. “I often wished I could have known him better.
I was so tiny when we lost him. But you've been happy in New Orleans these past
two decades, haven't you?”
A
dreamy expression lit Gran's dark eyes. “
Si,
I've found contentment, my
girl. I've been able to put down the roots I'd never had. And Antonio adored
this city, the few times he performed here. He always claimed that
la belle
New
Orleans has opera in her soul, when so many modern cities have lost the passion
for song.” Gran reached down to pat Bella's hand. “Your dear parents felt the
same way.”
Pain
knotted Bella's throat. “I miss them, and only wish they could have put down
real roots. I mean, we had our home in San Francisco, but they were away on
tour so much of the time—”
“They
had the life they wanted—their music, and each other—”
“Which
pretty much left me out of the equation,” commented Bella bitterly.
“They
loved you, my girl,” insisted Gran. “And even from the grave, they still do.”
She winked solemnly. “Don't they send you a dozen red roses every year on your
birthday?”