'Puccini works only at night,' I said, 'from about ten-thirty p.m. to three or four in the morning. At that time the rest of the household will be asleep. At midnight, you and I will creep into the garden of the Villa Puccini and locate his studio, which I believe is on the ground floor. A window will certainly be open because the nights are still warm. So while I hide in the bushes, you will stand outside the open window and sing softly the gentle aria "Un bel di vedremo" from Madame Butterfly. If everything goes right, Puccini will rush to the window and will see standing there a girl of surpassing beauty - you. The rest should be easy.'
'I rather like that,' Yasmin said. 'Italians are always singing outside each other's windows.'
When we got to Lucca, we holed up in a small hotel, and there, beside an ancient piano in the hotel sitting-room, I taught Yasmin to sing the aria. She had almost no Italian but she soon learnt the words by heart, and in the end she was able to sing the complete aria very nicely indeed. Her voice was small but she had perfect pitch. I then taught her to say in Italian, 'Maestro, I adore your work. I have travelled all the way from England...' etc., etc., and a few other useful phrases, including of course, 'All I ask is to have your signature on your own notepaper.'
'I don't think you're going to need the Beetle with this chap,' I said.
'I don't think I am either,' Yasmin said. 'Let's skip it for once.'
'And no hatpin,' I told her. 'This man is a hero of mine. I won't have him stuck.'
'I won't need the hatpin if we don't use the Beetle,' she said. 'I'm really looking forward to this one, Oswald.'
'Ought to be fun,' I said.
When all was ready, we drove out one afternoon to the Villa Puccini to scout the premises. It was a massive mansion set on the edge of a large lake and completely surrounded by an eight foot high spiked iron fence. Not so good, that. 'We'll need a small ladder,' I said. So back we drove to Lucca and bought a wooden ladder which we placed in the open car.
Just before midnight we were once again outside the Villa Puccini. We were ready to go. The night was dark and warm and silent. I placed the ladder up against the railings. I climbed up it and dropped dow
n into the garden. Yasmin followed. I lifted the ladder over on to our side and left it there, ready for the escape.
We saw at once the one room in the entire place that was lit up. It was facing towards the lake. I took Yasmin's hand in mine and we crept closer. Although there was no moon, the light from the two big ground floor windows reflected on to the water of the lake and cast a pale illumination over the house and garden. The garden was full of trees and bushes and shrubs and flowerbeds. I was enjoying this. It was what Yasmin called 'a bit of a lark'. As we came closer to the window, we heard the piano. One window was open. We tiptoed right up to it and peeped in. And there he was, the man himself, sitting in his shirtsleeves at an upright piano with a cigar in his mouth, tap-tapping away, pausing to write something down and then tapping away again. He was thickset, a bit paunchy and he had a black moustache. There was a pair of candlesticks in elaborate brass holders screwed on to either side of the piano but the candles were not lit. There was a tall stuffed white bird, a crane of some sort, standing on a shelf alongside the piano. And around the walls of the room there were oil paintings of Puccini's celebrated ancestors - his great-great-grandfather, his great-grandfather, his grandfather and his own father. All these men had been famous musicians. For over two hundred years, the Puccini males had been passing on musical gifts of a high order to their children. Puccini straws, if only I could get them, were going to be immensely valuable. I resolved to make one hundred of them instead of the usual fifty.
And now there we stood, Yasmin and I, peering through the open window at the great man. I noticed that he had a fine head of thick black hair brushed straight back from the forehead.
'I'm going out of sight,' I whispered to Yasmin. 'Wait until he's not playing, then start to sing.'
She nodded.
'I'll meet you by the ladder.'
She nodded again.
'Good luck,' I said and I tiptoed away and stood behind a bush only five yards from the window. Through the foliage of the bush I could still see not only Yasmin but I could also see into the room where the composer was sitting because the big window was low to the ground.
The piano tinkled. There was a pause. It tinkled again. He was working out the melody with one finger only, and it was wonderful to be standing out there somewhere in Italy on the edge of a lake at midnight listening to Giacomo Puccini composing what was almost certainly a graceful aria for a new opera. There was another pause. He had got the phrase right this time and he was writing it down. He was leaning forward with a pen in his hand and writing on the manuscript paper in front of him. He was jotting his musical notes above the words of the librettist.
Then suddenly, in the absolute stillness that prevailed, Yasmin's small sweet voice began to sing 'Un bel di vedremo'. The effect was stunning. In that place, in that atmosphere, in the dark night beside the lake outside Puccini's window, I was moved beyond words. I saw the composer freeze. The pen was in his hand against the paper and the hand froze and his whole body became motionless as he sat listening to the voice outside the window. He didn't look round. I don't think he dared to look round for fear of breaking the spell. Outside his window a young maiden was singing one of his favourite arias in a small clear voice in absolutely perfect pitch. His face didn't change expression. His mouth didn't move. Nothing about him moved while the aria was in progress. It was a magic moment. Then Yasmin stopped singing. For a few seconds longer Puccini remained sitting at the piano. He seemed to be waiting for more, or for a sign of some sort from outside. But Yasmin didn't move or speak either. She simply stood there with her face upturned to the window, waiting for the man to come to her.
And come to her he did. I saw him put down his pen and rise slowly from the piano stool. He walked to the window. Then he saw Yasmin. I have spoken many times of her scintillating beauty, and the sight of her standing out there so still and serene must have come as a glorious shock to Puccini. He stared. He gaped. Was this a dream? Then Yasmin smiled at him and that broke the spell. I saw him come suddenly out of his trance and I heard him say, 'Dio mio come bello!' Then he jumped clear out of the window and clasped Yasmin in a powerful embrace.
That was more like it, I thought. That was the real Puccini. Yasmin was not slow to respond. Then I heard him say softly to her in Italian, which I'm sure Yasmin didn't understand, 'We must go back inside. If the piano stops playing for too long a time, my wife wakes up and becomes suspicious.' I saw him smile at this, showing fine white teeth. Then he picked Yasmin up and hoisted her through the window and climbed in after her.
I am not a voyeur. I watched A. R. Woresley's antics with Yasmin for purely professional reasons, but I had no intention of peeping through the window at Yasmin and Puccini. The act of copulation is like that of picking the nose. It's all right to be doing it yourself but it is a singularly unattractive spectacle for the onlooker. I walked away. I climbed the ladder and dropped over the fence and went for a stroll along the edge of the lake. I was away about an hour. When I returned to the ladder there was no sign of Yasmin. When three hours had gone by, I climbed back into the garden to investigate.
I was creeping cautiously between the bushes when suddenly I heard footsteps on the gravel path and Puccini himself with Yasmin on his arm walked past me not ten feet away. I heard him saying to her in Italian, 'No gentleman is going to permit a lady to walk back to Lucca all alone at this time of night.'
Was he going to walk her back to the hotel? I followed them to see where they were going. Puccini's motor car was standing in the drive in the front of the house. I saw him help Yasmin into the passenger seat. Then, with a great deal of fuss and match-striking, he got the acetylene headlamps alight. He cranked the starting-handle. The engine fired and ticked over. He unlocked the gates, jumped into the driver's seat and off they went with the motor roaring and revving.
I ran out to my own car and got the thing started. I drove fast towards Lucca but I never caught up with Puccini. In fact, I was only halfway there when he passed me on his way home again, alone this time.
I found Yasmin at the hotel.
'Did you get the stuff?'
'Of course,' she said.
'Give it to me quickly.'