Scherzo

finale.

1 Once upon a spring time at Forti Manor

It is said that the plot of a story begins with an idea. I would venture to say that a story can also begin with a cat – so long as the cat in question is able to open a door. The first theory hinges on the idea. My theory hinges on the cat… Oh, and the door of course.

So… As I was saying: the cat. The cat in question was a most handsome red tabby by the name of Rocco. Rocco had been rescued about four years prior by Conte Julio Forti. The good Conte had found him next to the rubbish bins in ‘28th February Square’ (I’ve never gotten my head around the mania for naming streets and squares after dates. Does anyone actually recall what the hell happened that day?). The poor kitten was on his last legs and, as Julio had been informed by the man at the Kiosk His brothers were poisoned, he’s the only one left. That was when the Conte named him Rocco… Rocco, without his brothers, fit in the palm of the Conte’s hand and didn’t stir a bit as he was carried tenderly to Forti Manor. No matter how small they may be cats have instinct. Julio placed Rocco gently on his bed and was practically moved to tears when the tiny creature curled up next to his cheek and slept through the night.

You can probably imagine what happened next: of course Rocco decided that the Conte should be his master, and then proceeded to take over the entire Manor and rule over all of its inhabitants as well. So far you are probably thinking that there is nothing unusual about that, particularly if you know a thing or two about cats.

This is where the door comes in. The door in question is what is known to chic carpenters (if you catch my drift) as one of four retractable French doors which formed the wood and glass barrier between parlor and garden. On a daily basis, from the moment it was first unlocked in the morning till it was battened down before bedtime, the door handle didn’t actually latch so the door was held closed by a gizmo near the lock, known to some handymen as a spring-lock, to others as a ball-lock. Whatever one chose to call it that gizmo allowed the door to be pulled open by the handle from the inside and pushed open from the outside. As it were Rocco had quickly mastered the pushing technique with his whiskered muzzle when he wanted to return indoors after a stroll in the garden. Could he talk he would have said, It’s just common sense, not science! He had devised however a far more sophisticated system for when he wished to go out. Senora Forti a.k.a. Marina (Julio’s wife), called it Rocco’s sound-activated patent. (She was the culture buff, but I’ll elaborate later). Rocco, in all his elegant red tabbiness, would set himself facing the interior with his tail stylishly wrapped about his forelegs. He would then turn his head from side to side toward all the interior rooms and start to meow. The first, and perhaps the second of his calls would seem sweet and lilting… meeeeow. When it became insistent though, and those who know cats are aware of how relentlessly persistent they can be, it could drive you mad. He would keep at it until some lowly human appeared to open the door for Messier Rocco. He would then stand languorously and tail erect saunter through the door out onto the verandah. Depending on his humor on a given morning he would either purr as if to say well done to his human slave, or pass in indignant silence as if the time he had been expected to wait was an outrageous insult.

Now let me tell you, and this is important, Rocco was a most conscientious landlord. Although he was quite capable of letting himself back in by pushing his whiskered muzzle against the door, once he was through it he would set himself down again and repeat his calls, this time facing the door, waiting patiently for someone to shut it. He simply couldn’t abide sloppiness.

This seems a good time to say a few words about the general décor – even though we will be re-visiting it many times throughout our tale – it is after all Forti Manor. As Senora Marina would say, it was a paradigm of eclectic architecture with just the right amount of reserved wear and tear to show its age with elegance. It had been built on the outskirts of Fortezza on the Adriatic coast. Now before you rush off to google Fortezza, I would like to remind you that the most beautiful places are those that only inhabit the map of our mind. As an aid to imagination however… I would venture to say it falls somewhere in Illyria. (Let us not forget that Will Shakespeare himself chose Illyria as the setting for his finest comedies, and I’d be willing to wager that he hadn’t the foggiest idea where or even if such a place existed). And something more: something fundamental… When I say Manor it is not to impress you with its spacial proportions but rather to point out the finesse and elegance which characterize the structure as well as its inhabitants.

Now back to our plot: Cat and door…

So, that particular spring day Rocco was waiting, clearly annoyed, for some blessed idiot to come and close the bloody door and just like that our plot was set in motion. You see on that very day poor Rocco had let himself in and dutifully meowed Ladies and gentlemen I am now in the house, what’s going to happen with the blasted door? But what is one lone cat to do when all of the humans of the house appear to be, as the saying goes out to lunch? And wouldn’t you know it but just then the sea decided to promote the theretofore gentle breeze to a frisky squall… which slithered in through that very door… then with hinges squealing threw those French doors wide open. That tempestuous current of air brazenly galloped through the room, careening from wall to wall in the giddy rhythm of a wedding dance building into a whirl-wind. Right in the middle of the parlor was a music stand stacked with the sheet music that Conte Julio studied, viola da gamba, whenever the mood would strike him. That naughty wind however swept those sheets up from their unsuspecting slumber tossing them blithely in the air as if counting them off one by one until they filled the room in a rustling cloud of swirling paper. Being a cat, Rocco found that unnatural fluttering most disturbing. He meowed and meowed with renewed vigor, caring not whether the humans of the house were thinking What is that cat on about now?

In truth it wasn’t Rocco’s meowing but rather the other, unfamiliar, rustling sound that captured Conte Julio’s attention and curiosity more than concern that brought him from his office to the parlor. Confronted with the peculiar spectacle of his sheet music performing a Dervish dance, he quickly rushed to close the door and shut out that mischievous wind. Conte and cat looked on as the sheets drifted to light upon floor and furniture. One even came to rest upon the forehead of Dona Clara, Julio’s mother the Contessa, who had been dozing in her wheelchair unawares. Though the fuss and flutter hadn’t disturbed her siesta, the touch of that lone sheet was sufficient to rouse her. Her hand shot up to snatch the offending page which she instinctively held out at the appropriate distance one would if they were actually able to see what it contained. Dona Clara was no longer able to read as her optical nerve had broken down. How was she to guess from within her gentle doze what on earth had landed upon her face? She could however gauge her son’s position in the room from the sound of his footfalls and turning towards him she held out the sheet in query:

-    Tesoro mio, what might this be?

Julio sorted the sheet music with the dexterity of a black-jack dealer as he approached his mother’s wheel chair. He leaned over her shoulder, his head next to hers, and taking her arm gently to still the quivering of her hand, he gazed at the sheet…

-    Let’s have a look…

…he pulled it gently from her fingers, and then began to hum the melody spelled out by the notes.

Now we Fortezzians, musical by birth right, would say that was from Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto.

-    La, la, la…

Dona Clara rested her head sweetly on her son’s shoulder, and Julio gazed down at her tenderly. Their eyes even met… yes really… all that Julio could see with his eyes, the Contessa could see with her soul. And to convey to you the tenderness of the scene, at that very moment Rocco leapt up onto the Contessa’s lap, driven by that instinct that is developed in animals which live with humans, to sense when love is flowing abundantly and to demand their share.

Dona Clara lifted her head from Julio’s shoulder and, as if she had suddenly put an order to certain thoughts in her mind, certain memories… she let one fly…

-    Aha! That great success of von Blüchen’s…

…I mean really… she tossed it out there… then waited a moment – but there was no comment, not a word, not a breath, no reaction whatsoever from the Conte so, she went on to complete the phrase which she had had ready right from the beginning but had opted to pause for dramatic effect…

-    So, my dear Liolio…

…she always called him by that term of endearment when she needed affection… it didn’t happen very often but she did have her moments…

-    There are only two Maestros that I have never seen wield the baton: Fürtwangler and von Blüchen.

…Julio knew all too well the importance of hearing every detail, yet keeping a straight face, while he waited for Dona Clara to salvage whatever it was she had intended to say, because she always intended something. In the psychological theatre they say that silence breeds intensity and the Contessa seemed to know that very well, as did Julio of course. They had both learned that in practice not by study. After a pause the Contessa pushed on.

-    I do hope to be hearing Fürtwangler conduct soon from beyond the pearly gates.

Julio relaxed it was nothing but a standard plea for reassurance that death was still a long way off. One of those occasions when all within ear shot would faun and say precisely what she wanted to hear: Why mother, how can you say such a thing? I’ve no doubt you will zero out the counter at 100 and start all over again. On that day however, perhaps due to the manner in which he had awakened, Julio decided to have her on – knowing of course that the Contessa had a sense of humor sans rival.

-    You don’t say mother… How did you manage to prearrange a post mortem command performance?

Dona Clara turned her head his direction with the coyness of a young gossip, feigning naïveté just to see what he was driving at.

-    My dear Liolio… are you suggesting that Herr Fürtwangler may not have gone to heaven?

-    Oh, I’m sure HE has…

…he cut his assurance short, just to give the impression that it had sort of slipped out. Another intense dramatic silence as the Contessa mulled it over "So he’s saying that I won’t!? My own son thinks I’m going to Hell!" The poor Contessa knew her life had been beyond reproach yet she was mortified by the fact that her own child apparently thought otherwise. The Conte, who could see the thoughts passing through her mind as if they were written across her forehead, was enjoying himself tremendously. It didn’t take her long however to sense his mischief and she scolded him playfully.

-    Have you no shame teasing your mother like that?

The she went right back to where SHE had left off, in support of her initial comment.

-    Von Blüchen however… I will never have the opportunity to hear. In my condition how can I be expected to gallivant around Europe to concerts?

But you see there are moments when the mind goes off on its own tangents. Later you may even ask yourself For heaven’s sake why didn’t I just hold my tongue? But there are those times when, with no prior thought, bereft of instinct and entirely out of the blue, you blurt out something truly ridiculous and then… how on earth can you possibly retract it? Were it you or I we could simply say to Hell with it. But a wise and learned man like the