Antonio smoothes and hands his father the estimate.
Giambattista hesitantly accepts the sheet of paper and spreads it
out on the table before him. Antonio holds his breath while his
father runs an expert eye over the figures.
‘Hmm, does this fellow Modotto agree with the sum down
here?’
Grinning from ear to ear, Antonio pushes the note from
Modotto under his father’s nose.
‘You do understand that you are gambling all our money
on this scheme?’
‘Only if we fail,’ responds Antonio with confidence. ‘But
that won’t happen, father. It’s going to work, I’m sure of it! I’ll
make certain we have the best singers onstage, and by that I don’t
mean the most famous ones, with all their absurd salaries! Believe
me, the public will be queuing at the ticket-office once a fresh
breeze is blowing through the San Angelo. We’ll alternate new shows
with old favourites. Some I’ll re-write, give them a new title and –
voilà! Not a risk in sight!’
‘Don’t be too sure of it, my son. I’ve seen old shows in new
clothing before now. And it doesn’t always work.’
‘If we just break even. And look at Vicenza. That was a
great hit, but more for the impresario than for me! Yet I’m sure
I can do a better job. Surely we can try it for a season? If it works
we’ll all be the better off for it. There’ll be fatter earnings for both
orchestra and copyist. You’ll be knocking on our door in no time,
father,’ smiles Antonio.
‘Very witty,’ growls his father, still glowering over the
figures. He holds the paper up and runs his eye down all the
columns again. ‘That’s not right,’ he declares, pointing ponderously
at an item labelled ‘lighting’. ‘The income from the boxes is far too
low, and I think you can ask more for sales of libretti.’
Giambattista’s eyes are beginning to shine. They put their
heads together over the calculations again, inventing various
scenarios to test it, including minimal audience attendance and the
worst possible losses. Eventually they get an idea of what their
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