Leporello on the Lam

William Stafford

Description

Leporello on the Lam tells of the further adventures of characters from Mozart and Da Ponte's famous comic opera, Don Giovanni. Hapless manservant, Leporello seeks a new master but, still traumatised by events, finds himself on the run from the law and falling in love. Can Leporello make peace with those Don Giovanni wronged, clear his own name and start a new life for himself? This fast-moving and funny story is brimming with adventure and innuendo, and is an entertaining read for opera fans and non-opera fans alike.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 11 mars 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781781661154
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page

LEPORELLO ON THE LAM












By
William Stafford




Publisher Information

Leporello on the Lam published in 2012
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Copyright © William Stafford 2012

The right of William Stafford to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.




Dedication

For my folks
I miss them




Leporello on the Lam

I went to the church. Yes, that is how I am going to begin my story. It’s as good a place as any. It wasn’t my intention, when I set off, to go to the church; my first thought had been to head to the inn at the crossroads – there I’d be more likely to find a prospective employer but my feet must’ve had other ideas because there I was! I found myself outside the church.
It was quiet, it not being a Sunday and there wouldn’t be a mass for a good few hours yet. I sort of wandered around aimlessly in the little graveyard, gazing up at the tower, wondering what my next move might be. Why had I come here, of all places?
Perhaps I was hoping to find some kind of expert opinion. A know-it-all who could tell me it all. What I had witnessed, what had happened to my master, needed explanation and I thought perhaps the church was the best place for that.
I approached the heavy oaken door with the iron hasps and knocked – Who knocks on a church door?- There was, of course, no answer. There was nobody home. Not even Our Lord who, purportedly, keeps houses such as this all over Ispagna.
I sat on the stone steps and waited – For what? For whom? Yet I couldn’t tear myself away. I needed an answer.
Presently, (I don’t know how long after I sat down and I might have nodded off; come on, I’d been up all night and it was the hottest part of the day, I’m allowed a little siesta, no?) I became aware that a shadow had fallen across me, blocking the afternoon sun from my head. There was the portly figure of Father Lorenzo.
”What are you doing here?” His tone was unwelcoming, to say the least.
Rubbing my eyes, I got to my feet, arching my back, which creaked audibly. (I’m falling apart. It’s no wonder, what I’ve been through). Father Lorenzo’s tiny eyes glared at me, like smouldering embers that had fallen onto the fleshy cushions of his face. I’d seen that look many times as a boy when he’d catch me giggling inappropriately during one of his interminable sermons. I knew he could become aflame with rage at any second. I stepped back involuntarily and collided with the door. This gave me quite a knock to the back of my head. Unfortunately as I stepped away from the offending oak, Father Lorenzo chose to take a step towards me in that intimidating manner he employs to keep his flock in order, and, well, the outcome was, I head butted the fat cleric right on the nose.
He roared in pain and spat out a string of saints’ names, casting doubt upon their parentage. I tried to placate him, to calm him down so we could assess any damage he may have incurred from my poor noggin but, what with the heat of the sun, my general drowsiness, standing up too quickly and having had neither breakfast nor lunch, my poor noggin was in no fit state to assess anything. Neither could it keep me perpendicular. I flailed around and dropped to the step. Unfortunately my arms had somehow got entangled in his cassock and down he came on top of me like the sun falling from the sky.
Everything went dark.

***

”You’ve always been a bloody idiot and a fool, Leporello,” Father Lorenzo grumbled. He was dabbing at his nose with a damp handkerchief. He’d doused it in the font as soon as he’d clambered off me and got the door open, leaving me like a trampled insect on the threshold. I’d followed him in - Ah, the delicious chill that strikes you when you enter a church from the heat of an afternoon! Some say it is Our Lord catching our attention, reminding us we are in His house. I think it has more to do with the thick walls of old stone and the fact that not much sunshine can penetrate the pretty panes of stained glass.
I was leaning against the door frame of the vestry – I daren’t penetrate his inner sanctum – Ha! And there was the inappropriate giggling, just like when I was a boy. Something about Our Lord’s house makes me ticklish. It’s as though He wants me to get into trouble – which, I guess is true wherever I go and not just when I’m paying Him a visit.
”I thought you were a wrong ‘un when you were but a boy and you have done nothing in subsequent years to disabuse me of my initial assessment. I thought putting you forward for steady employment would settle your skittish ways and you’d become a decent man at last but it seems I was less than infallible on that score as well.”
I felt like I should interject. Yes, it was true he had presented me up at the Big House when I was twelve and the Old Master had agreed to let me sleep on the kitchen floor and turn his spit for him but let’s not pretend it was a retreat in a monastery. Not by any stretch of my overactive imagination. Then, realising I was the same age as the only son and heir, the Old Master had dragged me off the kitchen floor and had me schooled alongside the boy who would grow to be my master. It was something to do with the son learning better with a classmate, I don’t know. The arrangement worked well to begin with. I learned my alphabets and arithmetic and something of the classics but, as manhood blossomed like an inevitable mushroom, I more often than not became a scapegoat for the young master’s transgressions and an alibi for when he was missing from his studies and in the closet, fucking the governess.
”Let’s be honest with ourselves,” Father Lorenzo continued, warming to his theme. How lucky I was to receive my own private sermon! “In recent years, neither you nor your profligate master have covered yourself in glory, have you? Running amok around the countryside! Parties, endless parties! Gaming! Womanising! Hardly an example to set to the lower orders.”
Again I wanted to interrupt. Womanising? Me? The chance would have been a fine thing. I was always like the boy on the village green, never picked for the games, holding his friend’s coat.
”So what you’re doing here all of sudden and out of the blue, I can’t begin to imagine. What has he sent you here for, eh? What could the great Don Giovanni possibly require of me, a humble servant of Our Lord? Well, whatever it is, you can tell him from me and from Our Lord that he can go to Hell.”
”That’s just it,” I spluttered, managing to get a few syllables in sideways. “That’s exactly where he is.”

***

I told him everything, as best as I could frame words to describe it. He asked if I’d like to tell my story through the protection of the confessional and perhaps I should have taken him up on that – without it, he was free to do what he wished with the information.
”Hmm,” he said, pouring himself his third goblet of communion wine. “It’s all a load of poppycock, you do realise?”
”What is? Our Lord’s passion? The resurrection? Our salvation?”
”Your story, you fool!” Drops of wine sprayed from his plump lips. “Stone statues coming to dinner! Invisible choirs of demons! The floor opening up, swallowing a man and then closing again with not a mark upon it! You should be publishing scary tales for children. You always did let your imagination run away with you. You’re a fool and will remain so!”
”So, you don’t believe me.” It wasn’t a question.
”Do you take me to be a fool as well? Of course I don’t believe you. No one in his right mind would. Take a tip from me, Leporello. Keep this kind of nonsense to yourself unless you wish to find yourself ostracised or worse: burned as a heretic. In this day and age it pays to keep mum about such things and stick to the scripture word for word. Now, come here that I might bless you.”
I hesitated. He pointed imperiously at the floor by his feet and I knelt there. The cold of the flagstones found a new hole in my breeches I was hitherto unaware of. It was this that caused me to shiver not the sweaty slab of Father Lorenzo’s hand clamped on my forehead. He muttered something under his breath. It may have been a blessing but could just as easily have been a curse – although if he had been in the mood to curse me, I’m sure Father Lorenzo would have made more of a song and dance about it.
I looked up at him. His eyes were closed – he was not without his notions of the theatrical – and I could see his nose was still red and swollen from the blow my brow had visited upon it. I had to suppress another giggle. I guess he took this to be me trembling at the power of Our Lord – or whatever it is that’s supposed to happen; I’ve never felt it, that’s all I’m saying. If you have, well, good for you, I say. Good for you.
I was beginning to wonder how long this blessing-or-cursing was going to take when Father Lorenzo’s head lolled back on his shoulders. He oinked out a little snore and also, unfortunately for me on my knees at the time, let out a thunderous and malodorous (is there another kind? A fragrant?) fart that rippled the fabric of his cassock like wind in the sails of a galleon. I had to hold my nose to protect myself from the unholy stench and bite o