Scott Mariani: The Mozart Conspiracy

‘Well, you had me convinced.’

She sipped some wine. ‘It hardly seems real to me now.’

‘Let’s not talk about it.’

‘I still can’t understand how he missed me,’ she said. ‘When I heard that shot I thought I was finished. It was only after I fell down the bank that I realized I was all right. It was a miracle.’

‘It was no miracle,’ he said. ‘Don’t thank God, thank the patron saint of bent barrels. Remember the snowman?’

She raised her glass and smiled. ‘Such a sceptic, especially for a former theologian.’

‘I told you the gun was throwing to the right.’

‘Yeah, well, I hit the snowman dead centre, no problem.’

‘You did,’ he admitted. ‘But if the gun had been straight, you’d have missed.’

She laughed. ‘That is some logic.’

He let the laughter die away. His smile faded. He fingered the stem of his wine glass. There was something he wanted to say, and he thought about the best way to say it.

She noticed the change in his face and looked at him curiously. ‘Something on your mind?’ she said.

‘Leigh,’ he said seriously. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

She looked up at him attentively.

He paused, not meeting her eye.

‘What?’ she said.

‘I don’t want to do this any more.’

She blinked. ‘Do what any more?’

‘I’m retiring.’

‘I thought you already were retired?’

‘I mean I’m stopping what I do.’

She leaned back in her chair. ‘Why?’

‘It isn’t what I want to do any more.’

‘Why?’ she said again.

He looked up and met her eye. ‘Because of you.’

‘Me?’

‘I want a life, Leigh. I threw so much away when I walked away from you that time. I’m sorry. I should have listened to Oliver. I should have married you when you wanted me to. I was stupid.’

She said nothing.

‘When they told me you were dead, I realized something. I realized how much I still love you. That I never really stopped.’ He reached out across the table and took her hand. ‘Will you give me a second chance?’

She looked at him.

‘I want to be with you,’ he said earnestly. ‘Is there room in your life for me?’

She looked at him.

‘I want to marry you, Leigh. Will you have me?’

‘I’m stunned,’ she said.

He let go of her hand and fiddled with his glass. ‘You don’t have to answer now.’

‘Are you seriously asking me?’ she said.

‘Yes, I am. I’m seriously asking you.’

‘I travel around a lot,’ she said. ‘My work’s important to me. I’m not that easy to live with.’

‘I can deal with that.’

‘What about your home in Ireland?’

‘I’ll sell it,’ he said without hesitation.

‘You want to live with me in Monaco?’

‘I like France,’ he said. ‘I like the wine and the food. I have a place in Paris. France is no problem for me.’

‘You’ll get bored with nothing to do.’

‘I’ll find things to do,’ he said. ‘I already know what I’ll do.’

‘And you hate opera.’

He paused. ‘You’ve got me there,’ he said. ‘I do hate opera. Especially German opera, and especially Mozart.’

She laughed and then went quiet and serious, watching him. ‘Fifteen years,’ she said. ‘A long time since we left off. A lot of catching up to do. We’ve both changed.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I mean it. Will you think about it?’

The Bahamas

A few weeks later

Chris Anderson sipped on his martini and looked out across the white sand. A warm breeze ruffled the palm fronds over his head as the Isolde bobbed slowly on the shimmering water. There was sand between his toes. He reached out from the sunbed and picked up the newspaper.

The copy of The Times was three days old, dated the nineteenth of January. Yesterday’s news, but he liked to catch up on what was happening at home, and what could happen in three days? He rustled through the pages. Foreign news. More assassinations in the Middle East. Storms lashing the UK. Same shit as always. Chris stretched and shot another glance at his yacht on the calm blue water, then grinned to himself.

He flipped randomly through a few more pages.

A small headline caught his eye. He did a double-take.

‘I knew it,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘That bitch. Lying bitch.’

OPERA STAR WEDS.

He read it three times. It wasn’t a long article. There was a small photo to go with it. The wedding had taken place a week ago in Venice, where the bride Miss Leigh Llewellyn was in rehearsals for the celebrated new production of The Magic Flute. Chris stared long and hard at the face of the groom in grainy black and white. He looked down at the name in the article, then back up to the photo. ‘Bastard,’ he muttered. Just as he’d thought. It was Major Benedict Hope.

Chris rumpled the paper up in disgust, tossed it away and took another swig of his drink. Then he hurled the glass away too.

TheGran TeatroFenice Opera House, Venice, Italy

Everything in the box was red velvet. Ben’s seat was upholstered with it, the wall behind him and the partitions either side of him were draped in it. He loosened his collar, leaned back in the seat. He was as casually dressed as he could get away with in this place, just a dark suit and a plain navy tie. Most of the men in the audience were in tuxes, but dressing in a tux twice in the space of five weeks was a little too much for Ben.

Perched up in the private box, he had a great view of the Gran Teatro Fenice. The Phoenix, the legendary opera house. Aptly named. He’d read in the programme that someone kept burning the place down. The last time had been in ’96. In 2003, the programme said, it had been restored to its former grandeur.

Grandeur was the right word. He looked around him. He’d seen some sumptuous décor in his life, but this was going a stage and a half further. The ornamentation of the place was beyond belief. It was like a cathedral built in the name of music.

He sighed. So here he was. Venice. His first opera. Leigh was an old hand here-half the audience were here especially to see her. The Queen of the Night was the big diva role. The media were all over her, and all over her new husband by extension.

He’d got used to being a very private man, and his first encounters with the hordes of journalists and paparazzi had been a bit disquieting. He might have been a little surly with them. Especially the overinsistent camera hound he’d threatened to ditch in the Grand Canal.

This was all something he’d have to adjust to. He wondered if he’d ever get to like opera. Maybe one day. For now, all he wanted was to see her on the stage. He’d never heard her sing live. He couldn’t wait to see her in her element.

Down below, the orchestra was tuning up and the audience was animated, the theatre filled with the hum of chatter. Ben sprawled in his seat and drank it all in. It was a heady feeling. He could begin to understand the appeal for the performers who devoted their lives to this moment.

Then the conversation began to die down and the audience started applauding loudly. The conductor was coming up through the orchestra pit. He was a tall man in a black tuxedo, white tie, a thick mane of black hair swept up from his high forehead. His expression was severe, focused. He bowed to the stage, turned and bowed to the audience and the musicians, then took to the podium. Dead silence fell over the theatre for a moment before the overture began.

A huge orchestral chord sounded, the instruments all coming in together. Then a pause for four beats, and another two big chords. Another pause, followed by two more stabs. It was the composer’s way of grabbing the audience’s attention by force, and it worked perfectly. The theatre was suddenly filled with sound as the whole orchestra chimed into the main theme.