Milan
May 1958
Maria was in the music room one evening, accompanying herself on the elegant Bechstein grand piano she’d bought with her first paycheck from La Scala, when Battista came in. “They aren’t renewing your contract,” he announced.
She was horrified. “La Scala? But why not? They have to renew!”
“It’s a mixture of money and the trouble that’s been breaking out. Plus Ghiringhelli is being a bastard.” He shrugged. It seemed he was just going to accept it, as if this were purely a business decision and her feelings didn’t come into it.
“No!” She panicked. “Go back to them. Reduce the fee. I can’t leave La Scala!” She felt as if she’d been stabbed. It would break her heart to go.
“We’ve got no choice,” he said. “There are plenty of other opera houses, decent places where you won’t be intimidated by maniacs.”
“Are you sure about that? We’ve got lawsuits with Rome, Vienna, and San Francisco.” When performances were canceled for any reason, it always ended up in the courts. She hated it, couldn’t bear conflict. “If I can’t work with the best orchestras and top conductors, I would rather retire. I’ll give up singing entirely!”
She spoke out of passion, not meaning it. She would miss singing too badly. It had been her whole life. But she also knew that when she did retire, sometime in the far-off future, she would relish the peace. Being able to go out for dinner without dodging photographers would be heaven.
Battista was in a brusque mood, still riled from his conversation with La Scala’s manager. “Don’t be ridiculous! There are dozens of top places where you can sing: London, Paris, and New York, to name but three. Besides, we can’t afford for you to retire. Don’t exaggerate and turn this into more than it is.”
It was quite a speech for him, delivered with brio. Maria rose and paced to the window, picking up a porcelain vase from the side table. He looked wary, as if worried that she might throw it at him, but instead she stroked the delicate, hand-painted flowers on the sides. It was one of her favorites.
“I’ve always told you I want to retire at the top. I don’t want to be one of those sad old has-beens trailing round dingy clubs trying to remind audiences of their glory days. I’m not there yet, but we have to plan for it.”
“For the love of God, pull yourself together,” he snapped. “I never had you down as someone who quits at the first sign of trouble, and I’m not going to let you. Do you hear me?”
He turned and left the room, pulling the door sharply behind him. She stared after him, suppressing the urge to scream.
The following day the papers would report she had been “sacked” by the greatest company on earth, and they would blame her for being a “diva.” It was humiliating and deeply hurtful. La Scala had made her the star she was and now they were whipping the red carpet from beneath her, after all she had done for them. It was a rejection that resonated on many levels, taking her all the way back, yet again, to the little girl whose mother never loved her.
MARIA LAY IN bed fretting about what the future might hold. Should they leave Italy altogether and try to join the company at another opera house? It would feel like a comedown, because nowhere else was as prestigious as La Scala. The alternative was constant touring, living out of suitcases for more of the year than she did already, and that was a daunting prospect.
Battista was snoring, making a rumbling noise like a lawn mower, and she felt irritated with him. When they’d first been married, she’d relied on his support and his ability to handle her business affairs. She had felt protected. Now he kept alienating opera house managers, and it was a bone of contention that he refused to hire a publicist, as Aristotle had suggested. He claimed they couldn’t afford it. Why was he always the one who decided how her money was spent?
Months had passed since they had last had marital relations. They had become like brother and sister, bickering over trifles such as who hadn’t closed the door of their new American refrigerator. Tensions were exacerbated without the glue of passion. She often felt cross with him for no good reason.
Actually, there was a good reason. He knew she was approaching her thirty-fifth birthday at the end of that year and she was desperate for a baby, yet he never wanted to make love. She had tried everything: wearing sexy negligees and sitting on his lap, rubbing against him; sponging him in the bath in her most seductive manner; rolling over in bed to kiss him, then letting her kisses stray lower. Always he would return the embrace at first, then find a reason to push her away. “It’s too hot to make love,” he had claimed the previous night.
“But I like getting hot with you,” she whispered.
“I’m tired, darling,” he said. “Sleep well.”
She thought back to the early days of their marriage: even then, she had been the one who wanted more. She would have made love several times a day, given half a chance. Battista laughingly called her his “sexy puppy.” But back then he was still interested. Now, nothing.
Was it his age that made him less appassionato? Did he have trouble getting aroused? She rarely felt any hint of an erection. Was it because they lived and worked together around the clock, so there was no mystique? He saw her shaving her legs; did that dampen his desire? Even if he wasn’t attracted to her, could he not make the effort when he knew how much she wanted a child?
A realization hit her, with the undeniable force of truth: He doesn’t notice me anymore. I might as well not be here. She felt like crying once the words had formed in her head. She would never admit this to anyone, not even her closest friends, such as Biki, the Milanese designer, and Mary Carter, a dynamic socialite who lived in Dallas.
Stop it, Maria, she rebuked herself a moment later. He is your husband, your beloved. You are not in an opera now. This is what a real marriage is like. Pull yourself together and get on with it.
She leaned over and kissed his brow, trying to feel tenderness toward him. He didn’t stir.