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FOUR
It was
nearing seven o’clock on a Thursday, and I was flat-footing the pavement down
Fifth Avenue, seeking out the sci-fi Polaris of the Space Needle to guide
me. For the last few blocks, I’d been
back-watching for a cab, but by now I felt like I must be pretty close, so I
continued pacing and sweating. This was
not the way I wanted to make my debut at the Seattle Opera.
The
needle-ray August heat had given way to waxy balls of September humidity, the
skies a long white shadow borne down with barometric pressure. I held my shirt away from my torso and
flapped it like a fly-line, trying to keep cool but unable to slow down this
power-walking that was causing the problem in the first place. I would rather be anything, anywhere, than
late to an opera.
It could be
that this was my punishment for deceiving my muse, my Euterpe, my Santa
Cecilia. Refusing to admit that I was
now residing on Bainbridge Island, I had told her that I would be doing some
book-hunting downtown, and would prefer to just meet her at the Opera House,
rather than having to plod back uphill to the Sheraton. I thought that I had left myself plenty of
operating room, but the ferry I was supposed to take out of Winslow had a
breakdown, and I had to wait for the next one, the Wenatchee, which arrived
forty-five minutes later.
My next
mistaken assumption was that once I found the Space Needle, and thus the
Seattle Center, finding the Opera House would be easy. The lady at the Opera had told me that it was
on Mercer Street, so I figured I would just keep walking north till I ran into
it, but I didn’t figure on a couple of things.
For one, the Center itself is about the size of a small city; for two,
that city contained more opera-size buildings than two square blocks of
mid-town Manhattan. I made my way like a
cockroach under the kitchen light, scattering one way to the Pacific Science
Center, the other way to the Key Arena.
Even after I conquered my XY chromosomes and asked for directions, I
passed the Bagley Wright Theater, the Intiman Playhouse and the Exhibition Hall
before I finally blundered into the Opera House.
And, of
course, I was too late, anyway. The lady
at the entrance handed me my tickets, informed me that the overture had just
ended two minutes ago, and signaled me downstairs to the buffet room, where my
fellow delinquents were watching the first act on a trio of television
monitors.
When I
rounded the corner, I noticed two things: the picture on the monitors was
coming to us courtesy of a fixed camera at the very back of the hall (a Ken
Doll-size Cavaradossi, applying swipes of paint to a postage-stamp portrait of
Maria Maddalena); and every single one of my fellow patrons, no doubt blessed
by the ocean-breeze transport of air-conditioned automobiles, appeared to be
five times as well-dressed as myself. I
even spotted a couple of guys in tuxedos.
Catching a glimpse of my blue jeans and wrinkled khaki shirt in the
mirrored wall, I thought, great, even here among the lepers, I’ve got bubonic
plague.
Then I
spotted Gabriella dolled up in a flouncy black pantsuit with sharp white piping
and a crushed-velvet wrap, and felt even worse.
Then she smiled at me, embracing the length of the room with her teeth,
and I immediately felt better.
She waved
me into a seat at her table and whispered, “What happened to you? You look like
you took the underside of an escalator.”
“Unexpected
distances,” I answered, and prayed the response was sufficiently vague.
“Well
here,” she said. “Sit down, sip some of
this water, watch Carol Vaness waltz around the stage in that floral red dress
(God I’m jealous!), and I’ll get you a cappuccino. The big advantage of being late is the ol’
downstairs espresso bar.”
“Thank
you,” I said. I wrapped my palms around
the glass of ice water and applied the cold moisture to my forehead.
After
watching the nondescript figures of Tosca and Cavaradossi wend their way into
their confluent fixes, Gabriella and I wandered up the wide, golden stairway
and down to our seats.
“It’s the
biggest house I’ve ever seen,” said Gabriella, noting the way my head was
pivoting from wall to wall. “The local
singers call it The Barn. I think that’s
why they do so much Wagner here; it’s the only stuff that’s loud and obnoxious
enough to fill the space.”
The bells
rang, the crowd reassembled around us and the curtain rose to reveal an
impressive but ridiculously ornate rendition of Baron Scarpia’s apartment,
featuring Greco-Roman touches like twenty-foot Ionic columns and a humungous
frieze of a glowering Zeus. The audience
reacted immediately with that amusing, only-in-opera phenomenon, an ovation for
the set. I’m surprised the designer
didn’t come out and take a few bows – and perhaps the audience could throw
blueprints at his feet. Gabriella was
apparently having identical thoughts; she turned to me and half-whispered the
word “money,” then repeated it a few times: “Money money money.” Then added a self-amused “moooooooooo-lah!”
“What are
you trying to say?” I asked.
All through
the second act, as poor Cavaradossi got the blood squeezed out of his forehead,
then, as the Baron and Tosca did their little boss-and-secretary decathlon
around the furniture, Gabriella would wait for high soprano notes and dig her
fingers into my forearm, then lean over and whisper the words “po-ta-to voice.”
Not wishing to disturb those around us any more than we already were, I took
the phrase as some kind of derogatory reference to Irish singers, and chose to
withhold response. After about ten of
these instances, however, Gabriella having worked her way to simply mouthing
the words and hiding her face in her hands, I will admit I was getting a little
curious.
After
Scarpia was safely dispatched with a kitchen knife to the heart, two Catholic
candles burning vigilantly over his corpse, I turned to my red-headed companion
and asked, “Okay. What the hell is a ‘potato
voice’?”
“Follow
me,” she replied. “And I will tell you.”
She performed a neat spin and led us into the aisle, waiting until we were
again side by side, descending the golden staircase into the lobby, before she
explained.
“Potato
voice, my friend, is when ill-trained singers attempt to produce big, dark
shouting-in-the-cave sounds by dropping their jaws to the turf and making an
exaggerated vertical shape with their mouths.”
I was
beginning to catch on. “So... their mouths are making shapes... like a big long Russet potato.”
“You are
shoh clevah,” she lisped. “Yes. And somewhere along the line, some highly
paid voice teacher told our Tosca that if she wanted to make it to the big
time, she was just gonna have to show some molars. You’ll be big and loud and impressive, you
will frighten children and small dogs, and you will get lead roles at the
Seattle Opera, where Microsoft executives will throw roses and laptop computers
at your feet.”
“So in a
sense, at least,” I said, “the potato voice works.”
Gabriella
came to a parade halt at the precise center of the lobby, patrons cutting
cowpaths all around us, and put a hand to my shirt pocket. “Yes,” she said. “But it’s ugly, ugly, ugly, and it cuts years
off your singing career, because no one has a throat that can handle that kind
of punishment. Except Domingo, perhaps,
and he’s a freak of nature.”
I hitched
my thumbs into the pockets of my jeans and made a conscious decision about my
friendship with Gabriella Compton: we were comfortable enough now that I could
pester her with some willful irritation.
“Let me try this out on you, Rosina.
Yeeeeeew... want nothing more in
this life than to put on big, filthy-expensive costumery and sing on stages
like the one past those stairs – am I right?”
“Si.”
“Soooooooh,
given your Kryptonic natural talent, couldn’t you adopt the potato voice, just
for a while, to appease the lions of fashion, and then, as you get more and
more successful and pri-ma-don-na-esque, slip your way right back to bel canto?”
Gabriella
took on her customary squint (more and more, with those almond-shaped eyes,
this gesture was reminding me of a young Lauren Bacall – which, if you think
about it, is not at all a bad thing to remind someone of), then opened her eyes
back up with ideas and gave my shoulder a triple tap, like a conductor on a
music stand. “Come with me.”
She
escorted me to the northeast corner of the lobby and past an easel and placard
marked Press Room. As we entered, she
put a hand over her mouth and said, “If anyone asks, you’re Harvey
Glassenderfer from the Santa Barbara Gazette.”
It was a
spacious room with that typically ecumenical decor of Northwestern interiors,
though the ornate wallpaper and broad-striped armchairs were trying really hard
to speak French (parlez-vous armoire?).
A Bosendorfer grand was squatting all over the southeast corner like a
big black musical rhino, while along the opposite wall stood various
underdressed media types (professorly tweed, diagonally striped ties from
college graduation, loose cotton pants, never ironed), grazing from a modest
buffet table.
Gabriella
split the crowd like a power fullback, leading me straight through to the
object of her intentions, a twenty-foot-long wall covered from stem to stern in
signed black-and-white photographs. She
pointed them out like a school teacher explicating phonetics.
“Elizabeth
Schwarzkopf. Tito Gobbi. Richard Tucker. Oh, and here’s Licia Albanese – ain’t she a
babe? Then some older ones over here – Lily Pons! Mary Garden, Enrico Caruso,
Pauline Viardot-Garcia. Ezio Pinza. Um, Luisa Tetrazzini – that’s the chick the
Italians named their white sauce after – and Beverly Sills. Joan Sutherland, Claudia Muzo, Anna
Moffo. Oh, and, of course,” she turned
to a picture of Renata Tebaldi, dressed alpine-style for “Guglielmo Tell,” made
a respectful curtsy, and laughed.
“Sorry. I always feel the need to
genuflect. But are you getting the
picture? The pictures?”
Not having
fully comprehended that this was part of her answer – in fact, most of her
answer – I gave Gabriella no more than a dumb stare.
She let out
a frustrated yip that almost turned into one of her renegade notes, then rolled
her eyes artfully heavenward. “Must I
transcribe everything for you, Billyboy? You see, I am a good soprano, right? I
am aware of the fact that I do have some substantial raw material tucked away
in this throat o’ mine. So, I’ve got a
choice here, two roads diverging in a yellow wood. I can take that talent, pump it up with that
cartoon jawdrop orangutan steroid therapy, and make of myself a dandy little
mediocre barking diva. Pay all my bills
on time, play places like Seattle, scare ninety percent of the audience into
thinking that I am one of the damned finest, loudest, most alarming singers they’ve
heard... why... in the last month or so, and hey! that’s jes’
fine.
“Or... I can stay true to my art, I can focus on
exactly what it is that I and only I want out of the music, I can spend hours
at the Trademark Cafe making bucks so that opera will not be my sole source of
income, and I can work my ass off on the bel canto treadmill of infinitely
subtler and subtler vocal gradations.…”
She raised a finger and dropped it down on the marcato beats of her conclusion. “And - get - my - pick - shure - on - that -
fuck - ing - wall!” then hitched a thumb to the sea of portraits behind her.
Gabriella
froze for a moment, like any great performer waiting to read the reaction of
her audience, then smiled with great affected charm and said, “Question answered?”
“Oh my,
yes,” I said. “And we’d best get back to
our seats, because I hear the bells a-ringing.”
Gabriella
took my hand and led me from the press room.
“Okay. I wish I didn’t have to
listen to that potato voice, though.
She’s giving me a headache.”
* * *
After
watching Tosca take her stunningly awkward dive from the parapets of the Castel
Sant’Angelo, Gabriella and I evacuated, stopping by the opera house dispensary
to obtain a couple of aspirins for her self-fulfilling headache. We passed by the International Fountain,
walked through the monorail terminal just in time to see the night’s last
departure, then crossed the big lawn in the direction of the Space Needle,
shining like a big round boat against the milky blue clouds of night.
“Let’s go
there,” I said.
“No-oh!”
sang Gabriella, on a descending fifth (coincidentally, Puccini’s favorite
interval). “That is too cheesy, much
too cheesy. And it’s a rip-off, too. Trust me on this one. Seven bucks for a glorified elevator ride,
and once you’re at the top all you’ve got is a jungle of tacky souvenirs and
the same boring fucking Seattle skyline you can see from any of the perfectly
free hilltops all over town. Spare me!”
“Wow,” I
said. “This is a sensitive topic, isn’t
it?”
“Yes! Every
friend of mine in the world who lives farther away than Olympia insists on
dragging me up this screwy thing!”
“One
problem, dearest Rosina,” I said. “I’ve
never been up that screwy thing myself, and it’s funny but I have this rampant
inability to pass up going to places I’ve never been. Come on – my treat.”
Gabriella
let out a sound like a congested lion and led me grudgingly across the
green. The elevator attendant warned us
that they were getting ready to close down for the night, but I reassured him
that my companion couldn’t handle more than a few minutes anyway. After a half-minute of excessive gravity, we
exited to find shiny cheap mounds of retail kitsch and a window-wide band of
lights. Gabriella shucked off her
contempt and settled into the old role of tour guide, taking my hand and
pulling me to the south window, where the skyscrapers of Seattle posed for us
like fly-eyed giants who slept standing up.
“Okay, the
tall, thin puppy at the far end there – sorta square on one side, rounded on the
other? – that’s the Columbia Seafirst Center, 943 feet, built in 1985, dark
black by daylight, almost a shadow, then swing just a little bit to the right,
with the pyramid on top, that’s the Mutual Tower, 730 feet tall and my
favorite, jade green tints and art deco stars, some groovy retro geometrics,
cause you know me, I’m a traditionalist.
Built in 1988. Then that ugly
concrete circus tent off in the distance, that’s the Kingdome, of course. Next! Well, just around the corner from that
you’ve got that little white thing with the nice spire, that’s the Smith
Tower. Not much now, but back when it
was built in 1914 it was the tallest building west of the Mississippi. Now, what really cracks me up, back over to
the, um, east here, are those godawful circular.… I don’t know, they kinda look like the
apartment building Mary Tyler Moore lived in – those are the Westin Hotel
towers. You can’t see the first one,
it’s hidden behind the other, but they built it in 1969, when all architects
were obligated to design ugly buildings, but when they built the second tower,
the one we can see, in 1982, well, they decided it had to look exactly like the
original, because why have one homely building when you can have two? And then,
if you swing further east, across I-5, you can see that big, gentle rise of
Capitol Hill, and right between that and the freeway there’s Pike Street and
the Trademark Cafe and First Hill, of course, where you’re... no longer living.”
How this
drawn-out spiel turned so quickly, I don’t know. But there it was – Gabriella’s brown eyes
melting me down not with anger, necessarily, but rather with a look of confused
impatience, one finger still pointed out the window toward Broadway.
I felt more
ashamed of this than I should have – the woman didn’t own me, after all. Right? I turned to finger a row of dangling
Mt. Rainier keychains, trying to come up
with a good answer. “How did you know?”
I asked.
Gabriella
slapped me playfully on the shoulder, trying to shake some of the overseriousness
out of my face. “You, pal, are a known
quantity. Certain islanders have
observed you sharing long conversations with a certain celebrated soprano, and
have set the bloodhounds loose. And of
course they all figured out the deal about your big ass check, too, which only
adds to the intrigue. All of which
means that I get daily reports on your whereabouts and behavior, whether I want
them or not. So what are you doing
staying at the Island Country Inn?”
“It’s a
nice island,” I said.
Gabriella
skipped over my lame response and continued her cross-examination, turning her
head away from me and toward her skyscraper sisters. “I don’t get it. If you were some kind of stalker – and
believe me, I’ve had ‘em – well, you were already in an ideal position right
there on First Hill, just down the street from the Trademark, where I spend the
majority of my waking hours, and where you could come in any ol’ time and run
into me. So why would you pick up and
move to Bainbridge?”
“It’s a
nice... island,” I muttered.
“God,
Billy! Open up, wouldja? Won’t you give me just one damned factoid about
yourself? If you really want to be opera-pals, you gotta give me one or two
little strings to hold on to here.”
“I’m in
love with your voice,” I said.
“Yeah,
that’s nice, I know, and I appreciate it, but what’s that got to do with.…”
The buzz
came up from my shoetops and rifled into my arms. I grabbed fistfuls of Gabriella’s velvet wrap
and pulled her toward me. Her eyes
popped out in surprise.
“Listen!
I’m - in - love... with your voice. Bainbridge Island is the place in which your
voice resides. When you perform in that
theater, your singing leaves a residue in the air, and the rest of the week… I
walk the streets of Winslow, breathing it in, letting it settle on my skin.”
The buzz
seeped back out of me and I loosened my grip on the wrap, smoothing out the
creases with small, apologetic movements.
Gabriella backed away to a safe distance, clearly unnerved. I hung my head, ready to take whatever she
would give.
“I was
right about you. You are a creep. I should have known, I should have.… Damn it!”
Her speech was beginning to slur, her eyes shining with water. “I was starting to like you, you know? It’s
not easy for me to find friends, Billy.
I’m weird. I’m constructed of
different... parts than other people,
and you might think that’s just great… but it’s not easy! It’s….”
She never
finished the sentence, but instead turned and walked quickly to the
elevator. If the idea was to get away
from me, it wasn’t going to work. The
elevator was still on its way back up. I
caught up with her just as the door slid open.
We seemed to have no choice but to get in, together.
“Ah, the
last couple of the day. You should feel
honored….”
The
attendant was punchy from the day’s work and didn’t seem to notice that his
well-meaning chatter was being ignored.
I stood on one side, Gabriella on the other, silent, both of us staring
down at the burgundy carpeting. The
quick descent, the steady escape of gravity pulled at my chest and stomach and
the old music came rushing back in, grandma and mom and dad and Bobby, and
Stephanie, poor Stephanie, and by the time we reached the ground the walls of
the elevator were moving in on me. The
doors showed a thin slip of light and I panicked, pushing past the attendant
and through, rushing out into the gift shop where I immediately lost my
directionals, running one way then the other down the rows of clothing and road
maps as the cashier stared on in horror.
She must have thought I had committed some sort of crime, and was
attempting to flee. Finally I spotted
the front door and spun in place, knocking down a rack of Puget Sound T-shirts
before sprinting for the door and bursting into the night air.
I thought
the outdoors would be enough for me, but they weren’t. I sucked in air but couldn’t breathe. I stumbled forward, dizzy, hyperventilating,
halfway across the big lawn and fell to my knees, knocked down by the wind off
Lake Union, by the lights of the Needle like a frozen helicopter at my
back. I raked at the grass with both
fists, throwing the blades over my shoulders, into my hair. The buzz gripped me with its seaweed hands
and threw me into sobs, great gasping waves, and I buried my face into the
lawn, the warm damp earth filling my nostrils with the smell of tobacco and
grilled fish and burning wood.
The rest of
it came to me through several feet of sand; I was buried somewhere, trying to
dig my way out, and I heard the sound of my name, a hand on my shoulder, fingers
around my forehead lifting me up. The
feel of skin against half my face. What
came next was song. As I lifted my ear
to the base of Gabriella’s neck, a warm liquid filling my head, and the world
came back to me.
Photo by MJV
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