“HOW LONG’S IT going to take?” asked Bettany, rubbing more sun screen lotion onto her arms.
Ian noted her frown with an inward sigh. He had hoped this weekend might bridge the widening distance between them, but Bettany seemed determined to find fault. “It’s her first interview for twenty years. I’m not going to rush her.”
Overhead, a seagull screamed.
Bettany flicked her hair out of her eyes. “No one listens to Giulia Iammazzo anymore.”
Enough people were still interested in her that his magazine was paying for this trip. But he said nothing and sipped his Limoncello.
“Except when they can’t avoid it, or they’re addicts,” Bettany went on, giving him a sidelong glance. “Sometimes I wonder . . .”
His cheeks warmed. “I like listening to her, that’s all. There’s no law against it.”
“There should be,” she muttered. “It’s not as if they’re even proper songs!”
Giulia’s trademark liquid trills were an expression of feeling not meaning. Bettany had never appreciated that.
The ravioli caprese they’d had for lunch was making Ian sleepy. He relaxed on the sunlounger, closed his eyelids, and began separating out the sounds of his surroundings. The Marina Piccola’s blue waters lapped the shingle beach and sandals crunched across it. That baritone murmur was the sunlounger attendant, those distant shrieks and splashes some tourists taking a dip . . .
“So I’m going to have to entertain myself then?” said Bettany.
Ian opened his eyes. “Only for a few hours.” He scratched his nose and pushed up his sunglasses. “Why don’t you visit Gracie Fields’ grave?” The suggestion drew an incredulous stare. “Or those Roman ruins you were talking about? What was that place called? The Villa Jovis?”
Bettany’s brow creased. “It’s not much fun on my own.”
“I know and I’m sorry, but—” He shrugged. “I came with you to see that villa this morning, didn’t I? And the Blue Grotto yesterday?”
They had lain on their backs in the bottom of a rowing boat as it eased under the grotto’s low entrance then sat up to regard the water’s eerie blue light in astonishment. Bettany had been fascinated by the grotto’s history and the Roman statues found on its bed; Ian had been more interested in trying out its acoustics, joining in with the boatman when he burst into song.
He tried a conciliatory smile. “You could always go back to the hotel and read a book.”
“I didn’t come to Capri to read, Ian!” Bettany crossed her ankles.
“Let’s not quarrel.” He took another sip of his drink. “I expect the interview will take an hour or two at best. You know singers. Once they’ve promoted their latest project, they can’t wait to get rid of you.”
It was time to change the subject. His gaze travelled across the water to the limestone stacks that were the Faraglioni, familiar from so many postcards, before settling on the other famous rock that divided the bay in two. “So that’s where the mermaids sat, is it?”
Bettany rolled her eyes. “Sirens aren’t mermaids, idiot.”
Once there would have been affection in that “idiot.” Stifling a sigh, Ian closed his eyes once more.
THE BUS TO Capri town was supposed to deposit Ian not far from Giulia Iammazzo’s villa, according to the directions he’d been given. But once he had left the café-lined Piazzetta behind, the steep, stepped streets were a labyrinth and he was soon forced to ask the way. How could someone confined to a wheelchair live in such a place? He thanked an old woman and followed the direction of her pointing finger away, thankfully, from the crowds of rushed day-trippers chattering loudly in every language under the baking Italian sun.
Giulia had been born in the private villa she still occupied and rarely left the island. Marriage hadn’t changed that; Giulia’s husband Eduardo, who subsequently became her manager, had moved in with her. It had always puzzled Ian what the singer could possibly have in common with a man so profoundly deaf no surgery could help, but their marriage had been rock solid, according to accounts.
The bag’s strap was cutting into him so he shifted it to his other shoulder and considered the imminent interview. Giulia’s background and the origin of her unique voice were famously shrouded in mystery. It would be quite a coup if he could prise something new out of her.
A foot protruding from a doorway almost sent him flying into a bougainvillea-draped wall. He regained his balance and turned to remonstrate, then stopped. Ear buds protruded from the ears of the man lying
in the doorway, and on his face was a faraway expression.
A player was clipped to his belt. Ian crouched, unclipped it, and inspected its display: Virgil’s Lament by Giulia Iammazzo. A few key presses revealed that the playlist consisted entirely of songs by Giulia.
He replaced the player and regarded the man with fresh eyes. Those gaunt cheeks, the lack of muscle tone . . . Paradise Lost, some called it—that poignant sense of yearning, almost a physical ache, that remained with you afterwards. As if you had been snatched back from a bliss you could no longer remember.
He reached out to press the “stop button” but changed his mind. What business was it of his? From the full wallet in the man’s trouser pockets, no one had robbed him. He was hurting no one but himself.
A memory of Bettany’s accusing expression surfaced, and Ian sighed. Bending, he dragged the man deeper into the doorway, out of reach of the sun, then hurried on to his appointment.
FROM THE OUTSIDE, the villa looked much older than the Villa San Michele, around which Ian and Bettany had traipsed that morning. He had expected to find some paparazzi lurking, but the street was deserted. In the early days of Giulia’s twenty-seven-year-long singing career, photographers had been eager for pictures, but Eduardo had been fierce in protection of his reclusive wife. Not that she needed it—all she had to do was sing a few notes.
He tugged the bell pull. Somewhere inside, a bell clanged. After a few moments he heard the pad of approaching feet, followed by the sound of bolts drawing back.
The man who opened the door was short and built like a bull. Muscles filled out his crumpled blue shirt, open at the neck, and the thighs beneath the grey canvas trousers were like tree trunks.
“Si?” Small eyes peered suspiciously at Ian from a weathered face.
Bodyguard? Ian dug deep for his rusty Italian. “Buongiorno. Scusi. Non parlo molto
bene Italiano.” The man grunted but motioned him to continue. “I’ve an appointment to interview Signora Iammazzo. My name is Ian Wymark.”
Ian proffered his press card. The man took it. His gaze tracked between Ian and the photo on the card then, with another grunt, he returned it. He pointed to Ian’s shoulder bag and motioned.
“What? You want to look inside?” Ian eased it off his shoulder and handed it over. “It’s only a camcorder. For the interview.”
The man unzipped the bag and rooted through its contents. At last, he handed it back, and beckoned Ian to follow him.
“Grazie.” Ian wiped his feet on the doormat and stepped through. The cool of the interior struck him at once and came as a welcome relief—his shirt was sticking to his back. While the man closed the door and bolted it, Ian took off his sunglasses and waited for his eyes to adjust.
The man led him through a series of spacious rooms, whose whitewashed walls made the most of the light. In the centre of one stood a grand piano, but Ian was too far away to make out the score lying open on its music stand. A series of gaudy, amateurish paintings hung on the walls—on closer inspection they turned out to have been painted by Giulia’s husband.
Two stone steps led down into a corridor, which led past a kitchen containing a huge, old-fashioned range. A big-bosomed, elderly woman in black was preparing something at the table. She looked up as they passed then away again.
Yet more steps. Ian remembered Giulia’s wheelchair. Do they carry her everywhere?
At last they emerged into a tiled courtyard. A pleasantly pungent scent rose from four large terracotta pots crammed with Mediterranean herbs. Life-sized marble statues of figures from myth and antiquity mingled with plinths on which sat various heads and busts. Was that meant to be Emperor Augustus or Tiberius? Bettany would have known. A little apart from the courtyard stood a modern building, out of keeping with the rest—the state-of-the-art recording studio Eduardo had built? His guide ignored it and pointed to a stone-paved path winding beneath pergolas draped with wisteria.
“Signora Iammazzo on
terrace,” he said.
Ian nodded and put on his sunglasses again. “Grazie.”
The breeze was cool against his cheeks and carried with it a salt sea tang as he walked along the path. He made for a low parapet up ahead, which must mark the cliff’s edge, and stopped when he reached it. A shady terrace dotted with stone benches and tables stretched to his right but his eye was drawn to the view beyond the parapet. The crash of distant waves blended with birdsong and the chirp of cicadas as he gazed out over the precipitous drop. There were the Faraglioni rocks, and there the Marina Piccola, and farther out still the deep blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea, streaked white with the wakes of speedboats.
“Mr Wymark?”
A woman’s voice drew him back to his surroundings. He turned and looked along the terrace. Giulia Iammazzo was sitting in a wheelchair at its farthest end, in the shade of an oleander profuse with white blooms. A thin rug covered her knees.
He hurried towards her. “Scusi, Signora! I didn’t see you there.”
She waved his apology aside. “The view is captivating, isn’t it? I never tire of it.” She indicated the bench on the other side of the table next to her. “Sit. Constanza will bring us refreshments.” Her English was perfect, though thickly accented.
“Thank you.” He sat down, glad to take the weight off his feet, and set the shoulder bag on the ground before unzipping it and pulling out the camcorder. As he extended the tripod legs, he looked up. “I hope you don’t mind?”
Giulia shrugged. “Go ahead.”
He locked the tripod in place and positioned the camcorder, peering through the viewfinder to make sure she was in frame.
The clink of glasses made him turn. The woman from the kitchen was coming towards them, carrying a tray laden with glasses, jugs in which ice cubes tinkled, some soft cheese, and a bowl of figs. She placed the tray on the table and glanced at Giulia.
“Molte grazie, Constanza.”
The woman’s wrinkled
face broke into a smile. “Prego.” With a sharp glance in Ian’s direction, she waddled back the way she had come.
“Limoncello?” said Giulia. “Or iced tea? Do please help yourself, Mr Wymark. And pour some tea for me, would you?”
He did so, studying her covertly. She was a striking woman, with her raven hair, prominent cheekbones, and unblemished olive skin. She didn’t look a day older than in the photographs taken twenty years ago. Hair dye? Plastic surgery?
“Thank you.” She accepted her glass of tea and studied him in her turn, her dark eyes seeming to see right through him. “What do you think of Capri so far, Mr Wymark?”
“Very nice.” He resumed his seat and sipped his Limoncello. “It certainly makes a pleasant change from London.”
“You are staying on the island?”
“Just the two nights, yes. With my girlfriend. Bettany teaches history—loves anything to do with ancient Greece or Rome. She’s in her element here. All these ruins and statues.”
“You don’t share her passion?”
Ian shrugged and shooed away a yellow butterfly that had landed on the rim of the jug. “I’m a big fan of yours, Signora. I can’t tell you what an honour it is to finally meet you.” He was babbling—nerves always did that. Fortunately Giulia didn’t seem to mind.
She smiled at him and nodded towards the camcorder. “Shall we begin?”
“If you’re ready.” He reached over and pressed “record,” then pulled out his list of questions. In the distance, a bell rang—the church he had seen near the Piazzetta? “You haven’t given an interview for years. Why did you agree to talk to me, Signora Iammazzo?”
“It’s time.”
So any journalist would have suited her purposes. Ian hoped his disappointment didn’t show. He waited for her to elaborate, but she sipped her tea.
“Are you planning a new recording?” he prompted. “A change in direction, perhaps,
after your husband’s death?” Her face blanched, and he cursed himself for his tactlessness. “I’m sorry—”
She stopped him with a gesture. “The recordings were Eduardo’s idea. He said we needed the money.” She put down her glass and indicated her surroundings with a wry smile. “This takes a lot of maintenance. And then there’s Sergio and Constanza’s wages.”
Sergio must be the bodyguard. Perhaps he was her chauffeur too, though Ian hadn’t noticed a garage.
“At first, the royalties came from those who like my music. Now they come from dentists and anaesthesiologists.” Her lip curled. “Eduardo had no idea it would be used in that manner but—” She gave a very Italian shrug. “What I’m saying is, I have enough to live on, Mr Wymark. I need nothing more.”
A flash of green caught his attention, but it was only a lizard scuttling along the parapet, its forked tongue testing the air. “A live concert, then,” said Ian. “You’ve never done one, have you?”
“What would be the point?”
“But your voice,” he protested. “It’s unique!”
The smile she gave him was warm. “Thank you.” Then she sighed. “No one remembers it. Except me.”
He conceded the point. Each time, when he surfaced from one of her songs, its final notes were already fading from memory. Oh, he had seen the scores transcribed by analyser software, and heard others sing them too, but they were pale imitations of the original. On the page the melody became mundane, mediocre even. And other voices lacked “the Giulia Effect,” caused, so the scientists claimed, by the presence of ultrasonic harmonics peculiar to her.
“Do you ever wish your voice wasn’t unique?” he asked.
“Sometimes.” She stared out to sea, her gaze distant. “It isn’t really, you know. My sisters were born with it too, but they died a long time ago.”
The revelation startled him. Nothing he had read mentioned sisters.
But she was already continuing. “As everyone knows, its effects can be . . . inconvenient.” She threw him a rueful glance. “I have to be careful where, and when, I sing.”
He glanced at the camcorder to check it was running smoothly. “It must have helped then that your husband was deaf.”
Her gaze became shadowed. Then she nodded. “But Eduardo often said how much he regretted not being able to hear me.” She shrugged. “At least I knew it was me he loved, not my voice.”
“Why did you never let the throat and voice specialists examine you?”
Her chin came up. “They have my recordings. That should be enough.”
“But—”
A hard glance stopped him.
A gull called out, soaring high above them, and the scent of oleander blossom was strong on the afternoon breeze. Ian took another gulp of his drink.
“Did it bother you, when broadcasters banned your songs from their playlists?” he asked.
“Why should it? They were being prudent. People had died, after all.”
He shifted on the stone bench. “You didn’t feel responsible? For the crashes, I mean.”
She shook her head. “Eduardo warned everyone. He may not have been able to hear it but he witnessed the effect on the first sound engineer. After that, we stuck to instrument-only recordings. The mix suffered, in my opinion.” She shrugged. “That first radio station was trying to boost its ratings: ‘Can you resist the Giulia Effect?’” Her mouth twisted on the phrase. “They got their answer, didn’t they?”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she interrupted him.
“I don’t presume to take the blame for any deaths, Mr Wymark, just as I don’t presume to take the credit for patients who survive surgery that once would have killed them.” She frowned. “Surely the readers of your magazine can’t be interested in all this? It’s old news. And what has it to
do with music?”
He reddened. “I’m sorry. My editor wants a wide ranging piece. It’s been so long since you gave an interview, you see.”
“I understand.” She sighed. “Do you still listen to my recordings?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
He didn’t hesitate. “They take me somewhere wonderful.”
Her face softened. “Thank you.”
He glanced down at his remaining questions. “Do you think your life, your career might have been different if you hadn’t been . . .” He gestured at her covered legs.
“Crippled?” Her smile was mocking. “Of course it might. Have you no better questions to ask me than that?”
His cheeks warmed. On impulse, he crumpled up the list and stuffed it in his pocket. “Very well. What would you like to tell me, Signora? Or rather, my readers?”
“Bravo.” She regarded him with approval. “I agreed to this interview because I have an exclusive for you.”
“Yes?” He leaned forward.
“After today, the world will not hear from me again. The recordings—my husband’s idea, as I told you—have proved to be a mixed blessing, as I feared. Dear Eduardo is no longer here to share in the benefits, ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
