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Eighteen
I am perched at the edge of
the fountain at Lincoln Center, watching the last of the tux-and-gown crowd
make their way across the square, into a taxi, down to the lounges along
Central Park South. I have come to believe that this fountain is the center of
the universe – or perhaps, like Maestro d’Umbra’s labyrinth, the meeting place
of heaven and earth. When I turn back toward the archways of the opera house, I
find three figures floating my way in clouds of dark fabric, their faces hidden
by hoods. They eventually arrive before me. The center figure speaks in a
booming, God-like baritone.
“Might
you be the one they call ‘Siskel’?”
Okay.
I’ll play along.
“That
I am.”
The
leftward figure speaks like a woman who’s pretending she’s Barry White.
“And
do you here, before these witnesses, confess to the crime of opera criticism?”
“Why
yes.”
The
third figure speaks in a quivering, angelic soprano.
“Then
surely wilt thou burn at the deepest levels of hell.”
“Very
likely,” I say. “Do I take it that you spirits three are opera singers?”
“Yes
we are,” says God.
“So
answer me this, oh vocalists from the great beyond. Have you not said much
harsher things about your fellow singers, in your private gatherings, then I
have ever written in a review?”
The
spirits seem puzzled. Angel lowers her hood to reveal a halo of blonde hair.
“Damn!
He’s got us.”
The
leftward spirit reveals herself as the red-headed Gabriella Compton. God is in
fact a tenor, the bald-pated Bill Harness.
“Bill!
What a fantastic surprise.”
Bill
smiles. “Well I wouldn’t miss the great debut!”
“And
may I say, Miss Compton, bravissima! The singing didn’t surprise me, but the
physical comedy. You were like Carol Burnett with coloratura.”
Gabriella
smiles. “I prepared for the role by watching every Carol Burnett DVD I could
get my hands on.”
“Nothing
gets past Mickey,” says Maddie. “And believe me, I’ve tried.”
“And
I’m fairly certain this is the last time I will see a didgeridoo in the music-lesson
scene.”
Bill
gives a throaty laugh. “Maestro hated
that thing. If he knew it would make it to The Met someday…”
“That
sound you hear is Maestro spinning in his grave,” says Gabriella. “Oh dear!
I’ve never used that expression for someone I actually knew.”
I
hold up a hand. “Excuse me a moment.”
I
walk over to Maddie, drop her into a dip and give her a smooch. I keep her
hanging there as I deliver my flatteries.
“My
God, honey. That Willow Song. Your phrases are as long and lovely as Irish calligraphy.”
“Amen!”
says Gabriella. “I think she has a third lung. You two are so adorable!”
I
pull Maddie to her feet and she answers. “That’s because we’ll never get
married.”
“It’s
a brilliant strategy,” I add. “The lack of an unconditional commitment means we
actually have to be nice to each
other.”
“In
contrast to every married couple I know,” says Bill. “Gabbie and I went to the
Oregon Coast last summer, and some lady at our hotel said, ‘You two aren’t
married, are you?’ I said no, just good friends, and she said, ‘I could tell,
because you treat each other with such respect.’”
“How
sad!” says Maddie.
“So
I’m guessing you stole the cloaks from Rigoletto?”
Maddie
laughs. “The Franco Zeffirelli production.”
“I
am un-married to a kleptomaniac. You wouldn’t want to know some of the action
her ‘borrowed’ costumes have seen.”
“Oh
yes I would,” says Gabriella.
“I
don’t think we know you well enough.”
“Well
tonight, we begin,” says Maddie. “I’ve invited Bill and Gabbie to our place.
Hope you don’t mind.”
“I
would mind if you didn’t. Shall we
begin the arduous trek?”
I
take Maddie’s hand and lead her across Columbus and Broadway onto 64th.
Our journey is, in fact, all of two blocks. The sidewalk is broad enough for a
four-wide conversation.
“Is
this your first La fille du regiment,
Gabbie?”
“Nope.
Did one in Minneapolis.”
“Were
you nervous?”
“I
depended on my impressive powers of self-delusion; I convinced myself that I
was about to sing at a hall in Iowa that looked just like the Met. Otherwise I
would have collapsed from anxiety.”
“Well,
you completely pulled it off. And
your extension gets better and better. My god, those pianissimo top notes. They
were injecting themselves directly into my veins.”
“‘Extension’
is Mickey’s latest word,” says Maddie. “I’m not entirely sure what it means,
but I think it’s a compliment.”
“Opera
singers!” I lament. “They spend half their lives dissecting their best reviews.
‘Brava?’ What exactly did he mean by ‘Brava’?”
“Well
thank you, Mickey,” says Gabbie. “But I am nothing compared to our Desdemona.”
“Oh no,” says Maddie. “Lady Hart has had
enough ego food for three lifetimes, and Metropolitan debuts come but once. You
were amazing, my dear.”
“I
humbly accept your adoration, and I eagerly anticipate more.”
“The
ballet with the long johns,” I add. “That was priceless.”
“Did
you know our choreographer worked on
that? We have a choreographer for our laundry. I saw him one night, long after
rehearsal, still working the clothesline, trying to get just the right moves.”
We
pass the awning for O’Neal’s bar and arrive at the wrought-iron entryway for
Liberty Lofts, framed by an archway of stonework and rococo ornaments. Being a
California kid, I never tire of this stuff.
Maddie’s
place is a $15 million top-floor loft with a garden terrace and views of
Central Park, two blocks away. Her living room is airy and white, like a
private extension of MOMA. The south wall is mostly windows, sectioned off in
Mondrian geometrics, the morning rays landing on a field of hardwood and a
black baby grand. Next to the hearth is a square of couches and chairs, its
boundaries marked off by a Persian rug of scarlets and golds. Above the hearth
looms a trippy painting, a vaguely Egyptian cartoon-monster painted in golds
and browns by a West Side artist named Scootie Jones.
Watching
Bill and Gabriella on the couch, it strikes me that they could have been uncle
and niece in a previous life. Bill is wearing a navy blue suit with subtle
pinstripes, quite a change from his biker togs. Gabriella wears a slinky white
pantsuit that accentuates her statuesque figure and red hair, very Katherine
Hepburn Philadelphia Story. That and
her eyes – the color of walnut shells – are enough to make me a little
uncomfortable, although Maddie and I have a tacit agreement on the discreet
appreciation of attractive people.
The
hostess warms up a plate of stuffed mushroom caps, and then presents us with a
bottle of Chateau Lafite.
“What
the hell, Maddalena!” I say in admiring tones.
“We
have a debutante,” she explains. “And debutantes get the good stuff.” She fills
our glasses and raises a toast.
“To
Marie.”
“To
Desdemona,” says Gabriella.
“To
Maestro d’Umbra,” says Bill, “and a dream fulfilled.”
“Maestro!”
I echo, and we drink.
“So,
Mickey,” says Bill. “Do you miss the West Coast?”
“Yes.
I sometimes gaze at Central Park and wish for redwoods. But Maddie’s booked in
San Francisco for the next three seasons, and we’ve even gone so far as to
maintain the rent on my old cabin.”
“The
love shack,” says Maddie, with her slyest smile.
“And
God bless her, she takes me everywhere she goes. I am zee world traveler. I am
zee pet Chihuahua in zee handbag of zee famous diva.”
“Well,
not to sound like an old fart, which I am,” says Bill. “But are you okay not
working?”
“Ah,
but soon I will be working. Maddie?”
(I
am under strict orders not to steal Maddie’s announcement.)
“As
a matter of fact,” says Maddie, “my agent got a call from Little, Brown, asking
about an autobiography.”
“Fantastic!”
says Gabriella.
“I
told them no.”
“Oh.”
“My
opera life is intriguing enough, but beyond the Sound of Music story, the way I got there is pretty mundane.
However, I did tell them I’d love to do a book on opera history and performance
technique – as long as they hired a certain colleague of mine to do the
writing. And paid him an exorbitant
fee.”
“Our
idea,” I interject, “is to pick out the most fascinating female characters in
opera and track their development – from the source material through the
librettist, composer, the role’s originator and all the subsequent singers and
directors who have influenced the way that the role is performed today.”
“At
which point I will step in,” says Maddie, “to describe how I incorporate all
this history into my performance. However, we’re feeling like we need an
additional perspective. A younger singer, someone just breaking upon the
national scene.”
“Perhaps
a red-haired lyric coloratura from Seattle,” I say.
Gabriella
is so thrilled that she leaps from the couch and envelops us in a group hug.
When she returns to her seat, she’s in tears.
“This
is it. This is the high point of my life. I’m singing at the Met. I’m going to
be in Maddie Hart’s opera book… I’m living on Mount Olympus. It’s all downhill
from here.”
“You
need more champagne,” says Maddie, but as she’s reaching for the bottle she
stops.
“Bill?
Was your stage name William?”
“Sure.”
She
drifts across the room to the television – which is, at all times, tuned to the
Classic Arts channel. Each clip is preceded by a freeze-frame of the performers
and a description of the work about to be shown. This one is a 1974 duet from
Donizetti’s The Elixir of Love
featuring a young William Harness, unwrinkled of face, hirsute of pate,
standing next to a red-haired soprano.
“Bevcrly
Sills!” Gabriella assaults Bill with a slap to the shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me these things?”
Bill
flinches and smiles.
“Honestly.
I just… forget.”
We
strip the couch cushions and gather on the floor, like a bunch of kids watching
Saturday morning cartoons. The music wells up. William enters with a warm,
lyric tone.
“Oh
Bill,” Maddie swoons.
During
an orchestral interlude I lean toward Maddie and say, “I don’t know how you
arrange these things, oh goddess, but I love you I love you I love you.”
She
takes my hand, her green album-cover eyes rapt on the screen. “I love you too,
honey. My god she’s beautiful. Oh!
This part, this part. Listen.”END
Photo by MJV
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