HIS MAJESTY'S SECRET DISSIDENT (PART 3)

Though there was no escaping the cold in Italy in November, it was still warmer than England, and Bond found additional warmth in the welcoming arms of Chiara—a woman who, like Bond, preferred non-committal relationships and the mystery of not knowing when they would see each other again. Of course, just like the foreign vessels that would arrive in her nearby port, James would invariably return from time to time.

After he’d showered from his flight and they’d made love in that transition between light and dark, James could see the inviting lights of Sanremo through the open window of the apartment, inspiring endless possibilities for their night ahead.

“What should we do?” he asked.

“I told you what we’re doing. We’re going to the opera.”

James winced, remembering the time that M had talked him into watching 'Das Rheingold' at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden.

“Do we have to?”

“Yes. I told you my friend is singing the lead role, and I promised her I’d be there. Besides, we can always leave at intermission—I just need her to see I was there so she doesn’t think I’m a bad friend. Besides you never warned me you were coming so what do you expect me to do.”

"Cancel."

She shook her head defiantly.

“I could always just stay here,” James speculated.

“You could. But you won’t.”

James smiled. He liked the way Chiara asserted herself when it came to making plans for them both. He had become an increasing introvert over the years and spent more time on his own than was healthy. On the other hand, he couldn't afford to make too many friends either. Just lovers.

“Well then, perhaps you could sing for me first, so I can prepare myself for the wailing ahead.”

Chiara smiled wryly, understanding only too well what James was implying and only too happy to indulge his insinuation.

Standing at the bar of the Casino di Sanremo, Bond felt grateful that this particular opera house also hosted a casino. If the opera proved too much, he could always retreat for a game of Blackjack or Punto Banco.

As he waited for Chiara to return from the dressing room, where she was wishing her singer friend luck, Bond found himself appreciating his distance from England’s dark storm clouds. Each time he thought back to his homeland, a twinge of anxiety stirred in him—a sense that the country he had always called home had been betrayed by its political establishment and a faltering monarchy. One consolation for Bond was his stubborn belief that an individual could carry the entire essence of a culture, society or civilisation within them at all times, wherever they lived. In this way, he could paradoxically be both fatalistic and optimistic.

“You look gloomy,” Chiara said, slipping her arm around Bond's shoulder and lightly stroking the back of his neck with her delicate, bejeweled hand.

“I already told you, I'm not a huge opera fan.”

“Well, you're a fan of me, so you can indulge one of my other passions for the next hour. Besides, this is Puccini. Everyone loves Puccini.”

It was true. Bond had fond memories of seeing La Bohème in Vienna one Christmas while on an excursion with Eton. Through cunning negotiation, he’d secured a box seat while the rest of his classmates were left up in the gods. His motivation had been a young woman he’d met earlier at the Belvedere, arranging a rendezvous that required some tactful distance from his teachers' watchful eyes.

She had been beautiful. But not as beautiful as Chiara, who looked as if she’d been sculpted by Dupré. Walking to their seats in the theatre, she clasped Bond’s hand tightly, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of warmth inside.

Watching the red curtain rise to the strident opening chords of Act One vanquished any remaining fatigue from Bond's flight or his earlier intimacy with Chiara. He soon remembered he had seen Tosca before and was glad to recognise some of the "tunes." Familiarity would make the opera go by faster, and soon enough, he would be alone again with Chiara after a late supper at their favourite restaurant, Taverna Al 29.

“You remind me of Cavaradossi,” she whispered halfway through Act One.

“Who?”

Chiara rolled her eyes at Bond.

“Well, it’s not Tosca you remind me of.”

For the rest of the opera, Bond began to understand why she had drawn the comparison. Cavaradossi, the story’s romantic hero, risked his life for his country and for love, though Bond was far more reserved and much less vocal (he had a terrible singing voice). Unlike Bond, however, Cavaradossi was an anti-monarchist, though perhaps with good reason— Ferdinand I of the Two Sicilies had ruled repressively over his citizens along with his royalist government. While Bond’s own suspicions about his own monarch and his government had not reached Cavaradossi's level of revolutionary disillusionment, they were certainly growing stronger by the day.

And as Baron Scarpia, the Chief of Police, tortured Cavaradossi in Act 2 in his office within the Palazzo Farnese, a grand Renaissance palace in Rome, Bond found himself further reflecting. He had endured torture many times throughout his years as a secret agent and had encountered his fair share of Scarpias—but until now, never from within his own country. Times were indeed changing fast, and as the opera reached its conclusion, he wondered if he might meet the same ill fate as his operatic counterpart.

When the curtain closed on the tragic final scene and the rapturous applause rolled through the auditorium like thunder, Chiara looked across at her partner’s face and noticed his intense, transfixed expression, as he seemed to ignore the fact that the opera was finally over.

"What's the matter, James? You look a little shaken."

When he did finally look back at Chiara, she could see that he was clearly affected by the production. But rather than deflecting with his usual dry riposte, he said nothing and signalled that he was ready to leave. She had never seen Bond like this before. It touched her somehow that he could be undone by art in ways he never seemed to be by events in real life.

Was she finally uncovering the real James Bond?

Only time—what little of it they shared together—would tell.