Outside on the square the neighbours are nudging each
other and sniggering. The Rossis are at it again. Ah well, typical
artists. Antonio comes out to fill the carafe with fresh water from
the well and the crowd parts respectfully for him. He returns
indoors with the full pitcher, drawing a deep breath as he goes. He
fears it’s going to be a long afternoon.
The minute he is back in view his father launches into a
new attack, starting from the beginning and going over all the
same ground again. Antonio calmly pours out some water and
hands it to his father, who empties it in one gulp and holds out the
glass for more. The spring water, combined with Antonio’s quiet
demeanour, begin slowly to have a cooling effect upon
Giambattista.
‘What in heaven’s name did I do to deserve this?’ the old
man shakes his head in exasperation. ‘Go on then, let’s hear the
whole cock-and-bull story again.’
Antonio laughs, but not too ostentatiously. He would hate
his father to get the impression he did not take his views seriously.
‘Well,’ begins Antonio. He gives a short, nervous cough. ‘We’re
going to take over the theatre. Not literally, of course. I want
nothing to do with maintenance, only content. Choice of
productions, selection of the libretto, auditions for singers and
orchestra, stage design, lighting, costumes and ballet. In short, we
will have in our own hands all the ingredients needed for a
successful production.’
‘But it’s too daft for words. You’ll be taking over the job of
an impresario. Who’s going to pay for it all?’ his father wants to
know.
‘The public! As I said, it’s only the stuff directly to do with
the production that’ll be our responsibility.’
‘Your responsibility, you mean,’ his father interrupts him.
‘Fine, my responsibility. I have put a proposal to Modotto
whereby we pay him a fixed sum per month, plus a portion of the
takings per evening. Out of season we pay nothing, of course.
Look, father, I’ve reckoned it all up. Here.’
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