Operaland, p.11
OPERALAND, page 11
To make sure we get the point, he lurches over to his walker, grabs the handles, uses it as a kind of lectern, launching into a monologue in Italian. He’s yakking away a mile a minute, when his pants start sliding down. Let me tell you, this is not a pretty sight. I start seeing all sorts of things I don’t want to, his not very clean boxers, his bulging belly, his knobby banged-up knees. Strangely, he doesn’t notice what happened, even though by now his pants are bunched around his calves, god help him if he takes a step, which he fortunately doesn’t, he’s much too busy lecturing. Rigby listens respectfully, says si or no, like everything’s completely normal, not once pointing out that Maestro’s lost his pants, until, suddenly, without saying a word or making a sound, he slips behind the old guy, hoists his trousers back up and cinches the belt tight. He even zips up the fly without meddling with Maestro’s valuables, the sign of a world-class dresser. Rigby’s back on his piano bench in no time and Maestro’s none the wiser. He finally runs out of steam and ends his grand aria. “Ebbene, giovanotto, chiaro?”
It turns out Maestro’s insisting that Leoncavallo, the composer of Pagliacci, always felt singers speed up too much before the final ridi, Pagliaccio, and ruin its impact. Maestro B’s teacher at the Turin Conservatory knew Leoncavallo personally, so there’s a direct link between Maestro and the master himself and Rigby has to respect that. Sure enough, when Maestro finally plops back in his chair and I sing it again, Rigby does slow it down and Maestro’s in total bliss.
Maestro’s outburst seems to have worn him out. His cheeks return to their usual ashy color and bit by bit his eyelids flutter and before you know it, he’s taking a snooze, without snoring, thank god, while Rigby and I keep working. When my hour’s over, I ask Rigby if I have to pay Maestro for his comments.
“Oh no, it’s my session, not his. He just got carried away. Mind you, it only happens when he thinks someone’s talented. He’s very picky about who he gives advice to.”
“Wow, I’m honored.” I look over at the sleeping grandpa. “I guess I’ll thank him later.”
“Do it now. He won’t mind.”
I walk over and give him a light tap on the shoulder. He sits straight up like he got an electric shock. “Sorry, Maestro, I just wanted to thank you for listening to me.”
“Non fa niente, tenore. I tell you now some more.”
“Really? I don’t want to tire you out.”
He gives an impatient gesture for me to come and sit near him. “Anche tu, Rigby, vieni qui.” We scare up some chairs and fan out in front of him, like we’re sitting at the feet of the master. He’s very pleased by this: it’s not just me who likes an audience.
“Is a very long road you have, tenore, very hard, but important, eh? Importantissimo. They come to you starving, il pubblico, they want so much, need so much and in their little lives is nothing, niente, un deserto, and so with the opera you must be grande for them, immenso. You must give to them like the most great, most generous person and fill their empty souls with something magnifico.”
“Magnificent,” whispers Rigby, worried I’m not getting it, though the funny thing is I am.
Maestro B takes his right hand, the one that doesn’t tremble so much, and gives my shoulder a good strong shake. “Riccardo, I just now hear you.” Ear is how it sounds, he never says a proper h. “You have this power, eh? Questo potere and is no piccolino – no little nobody, who run after the diva, saying is now serving dinner. No, sei primo uomo. You real man, first man, carry on your back the opera, strong, strong like ox – but then suddenly, paff! No, no, must always be primo uomo, every momento, every minuto, not suddenly turn into un piccolino, like Rigby here, un finocchio, un fegatino.”
Rigby looks offended, and I figure Maestro said something nasty, so I go, “Hey, easy, Maestro, Rigby’s my main man and one hell of a piano player.”
“For opera you need giant figure, un eroe, un campione. So, what you want to be? Little niente, little comprimario, or big hero everyone remember forever?”
“Gee, that’s a tough one. Let me give it some thought.”
“You not hero? You not want?” His cheeks turn scary red again.
Rigby rushes to my defense. “Of course, he wants to be a hero, every man does. He was only making a little joke.”
Maestro shakes his head violently back and forth, his red scarf flapping like a tattered flag on the battlefield. “No time for joke, eh? Complete serious!” He can’t keep his rant going for long. He pauses, takes a few deep breaths and sags back against his chair. “Know where you are, Verdun? Know what this place is? Un tempio dell’arte...”
“A temple of art,” Rigby translates, though, honestly, I get it right away.
“And no joke, no stupidità, only serious, only devotion night and day to what the great masters make and we small people, we piccolini, try as hard we can to bring alive, keep alive, the glorious flame of genius.”
“Well, we’ll certainly try, Maestro, but in the meantime Richie and I still have lots to do on Vesti la giubba.”
This isn’t what Maestro wants to hear. His tiny eyes get that don’t fuck with me look. “Questo tenore not serious, not understand temple of art.”
“He will, Maestro. Give him time.”
“No, tenore must be strong, potentissimo!”
“He’s not weak at all. Far from it. If you just give him some time, he’ll...”
“Basta, silenzio! Va via, fegatino, va via!” He gives one of those Amneris type gestures, get out of my palace and never come back.
Strangely enough, Rigby does what Maestro wants and leaves. As for me, I’m fascinated. We don’t have folk like this in Graystone, Michigan.
“Vieni qui, tenore.” The old man obviously wants me to get closer, so I go over and kneel right by his beat-up old chair. He studies me closely, his coal-black eyes, Svengali eyes, I call them, are crawling all over me. “Senti, tenore, I hear something in la tua voce and it make me very much worried.”
“Am I doing something wrong?”
“No, you do just fine. But the others, they make problem. They hear una voce like you got and eat it right up, paff.” He mimes slurping down a forkful of pasta.
“You think the guys in opera are gonna ruin my voice? Maestro, I won’t let them.”
“Tenore, just you wait. They give you sweet words and good money and excellent contract and whisper in ear like Satana lui stesso, ‘Senti, Signor Verdun, Wagner...’” He whispers the name, draws it out like the last temptation of Christ. “Wagner. You perfect for Wagner, un tenore drammatico. It make you very famous.” His cheeks get all red again, he wags his finger furiously. “Ma no, Verdun, non si fa! Wagner no good for you. It completely kill the voice.”
“It does?”
“Assolutamente. It ruin you presto, prestissimo.” A lot of singers I’ve bumped into have said something similar, but this guy takes it to an entirely new level. “E la musica di questo Wagner, what is it? No beauty, no melodia, niente, niente di niente.”
At this point, I still haven’t heard a Wagner opera, though I have listened to a few famous excerpts. I mean, sure, I like the Ride of the Valkyries, everyone does, but that’s for orchestra, not singers. When he writes for the voice, look out, baby, Wagner doesn’t mess around. “Funny you should say that,” I go. “I don’t like his stuff either.”
He grabs my shirt and reels me in until I’m staring straight into those hard little eyes. “Attenzione, eh? attenzione. Always protect la gola, la tua voce. Voice is everything for singer, everything. What else you got on earth?” Then, like the high priest of Operaland, he kisses his hand and presses it to my forehead, like it’s a blessing, like he just gave me the best advice of my career. And who knows? Maybe he did.
It’s April. I’ve been pounding notes with Rigby for over two months and pounding the pavements looking for work. No luck so far. It seems you only get engagements if you have an agent and you only get an agent if you have engagements. In other words, they screw you coming and going. I try to keep positive by concentrating on the concert I’m singing next month with Doc. Finally, one fine spring day, the man himself calls. After the usual blah blah about how sorry he is that he never seems to be free on the few weekends I’ve been back in Graystone and I say it doesn’t much matter, since I’m so busy with Kit and the kids, Doc finally comes to the point.
“Richard, I’m afraid the church won’t able to present our concert next month.”
“What?!”
“I know, I’m disappointed too. When I proposed the date I hadn’t realized it’s the weekend of the volunteer fire department supper. We can’t compete with that. We’ll never attract a crowd.”
“Come on, we’re giant stars. We’ll pack it to the rafters.”
“The church seems to think otherwise. We have to wait till the fall.” I can’t believe how disappointed I am. I really wanted to show the folks back home how much I’ve improved. “Frankly, for my part,” he continues, “I need more time for the Mozart anyway, the rondo is beyond treacherous. The postponement comes as a great relief.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s just as well. It’ll give me more time for auditions.”
“Yes, you must be busy with them. How are they going?”
“Great, really exciting. I’m up for Luigi in Il Tabarro.”
“Really? That sounds wonderful.”
“I know, it’s terrific. Even though it’s a small company, all the reviewers cover it.” As a matter of fact, I’m not up for the part at all. I was just one of twenty-seven lunks who showed up to audition. I haven’t heard from them yet, so who can really say?
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do splendidly. You know I only wish you the best.”
“I know, Doc, thanks.”
I briefly consider suicide, then console myself by hunting through this book Rigby gave me, an enormous catalogue of opera companies, symphony orchestras, agents, competitions, foundations, conservatories, you name it, they got it. It’s about the millionth time I check through it. I want to be sure I’m leaving no stone unturned. I gotta follow through on even the remotest possibilities, since, to be perfectly honest, I’ve come to realize that my chances of making it are minuscule.
To start with, no foundation gives money to singers my age. We’re too damn old. Oh, there is one, but it’s for Wagnerian tenors and I’m absolutely not doing that after the lecture Maestro B. gave me. As for finding an agent, I’m a car salesman, right? I’ll call anyone for anything any time. Day in, day out, I’m on the horn to all the agencies in New York, asking if I could sing for them, and what happens? Send us a resume. Tell us where you’ve been singing. We’re not adding new people to the roster. We only hear singers in the fall. In other words, I get not one single audition, not one shred of interest, nada, nothing, nix. I have a bit more luck with opera companies, but only the small ones, not the Met or City Opera. It turns out that the little guys, bless their impoverished souls, are willing to consider novices like me. That’s how I got to audition for that Tabarro. Which is something, I guess, a tiny start. But of what, and headed where?
In the midst of all these cheery goings on, midway through the month of May, when everything’s blooming and beautiful and I’m stuck in my own personal December, I’m sitting in the kitchen sipping my morning coffee, getting the energy going, when I hear the front door open and after a pause, the soft thud of a body collapsing. Maestro’s been pretty wobbly lately, so I rush out, but when I get to the entryway, I find Rigby, his clothes torn and dirty, down on all fours on the carpet.
“It’s nothing, Richie. I’m okay.” He turns towards me and I see there’s a shiner over his left eye and streaks of blood across his cheek. Someone obviously beat him up, though why a hothouse type like him would get in a fight is beyond me.
“That eye looks pretty bad. Maybe we should go to the emergency room.”
“I just told you I’m okay.”
“Don’t fuck around, man. It’s your eye.”
“Thanks, but my vision’s perfectly normal.”
By this point I’m kneeling beside him, checking the damage up close and personal. There’s only the normal scrapes and bruises that come from a barroom brawl, nothing life threatening, so Doctor Verdun’s reassured. I reach under Rigby’s armpits and haul him to his feet. He’s amazingly light. Doesn’t he ever eat? “How’s your head, man? Any pain, any throbbing?”
“No, I’m just fine.” He leans against the wall and looks at me warily.
“Would you like to tell me what happened?”
“No.”
“At least let me get you cleaned up, you look pretty unappetizing.” I head into the kitchen and he follows, keeping close to the walls in case he gets dizzy.
Just as we reach the kitchen he puts on the brakes. “Is Maestro in there?”
“No, he’s back in his room, taking a nap.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. I really don’t want him to see this.”
“Well, lots of luck. That eye’s gonna be black and blue for quite some time.”
He slumps into a kitchen chair, while I go over to the sink and wet a towel with warm water. I go back to him and start dabbing at his cheek, trying not to press too hard. He takes it like a trooper, an occasional wince or two but nothing dramatic. I go to the frig, toss some ice in a plastic bag, cover it with another towel and hand it to him. “This should help with the swelling.” He puts the pack on his face, thanks me and sits there, looking away.
“Rigby, I know you’d rather not talk about it, but I understand, a guy’s got his needs. No big deal.”
He’s surprised, but all he says is, “Just don’t tell Maestro, okay?”
“Why would I?”
“I don’t know, just don’t.” Poor fella, he’s such a sorry sight, with his spindly legs and toothpick arms, he must be hopeless in a fight. “I should have known better, but he seemed nice, you know, dark and beefy, just how I like them. But this morning, when I got up to go...” Next thing I know the poor kid’s crying, sobbing his fool heart out, until suddenly, somehow, he’s in my arms and I’m holding him close, like I did with Billy when he lost his first fight and felt completely destroyed.
“It’s okay, guy. You’ll learn from this. You’ll be more careful.”
“It’s like I’m a magnet for them. They sniff me out.”
“I can’t say I blame them. You’re quite a catch.”
He gives a bitter laugh. “Maestro gets so judgmental, you know, so high and mighty.”
“I thought you were pretty much family with him, an honorary nephew or something.”
“Once in a while, maybe, but not when I need it most.”
“Ah, he’s just from another age.”
“And his daughter’s no better.”
“The one who lives on Long Island?”
“Yes, she didn’t even visit when he went to the hospital. I begged her to, but, oh, no, I’m the enemy.”
“Enemy? You do absolutely everything for him. You even pull up his pants and zip up his fly.”
He grins for a moment, then turns dark again. “As if he even cares.”
“Look, if Maestro makes you so uncomfortable, leave, stay somewhere else.”
“I live rent free, the piano’s mine to use. I can coach whoever I want whenever I want. And crazy as he is, Maestro’s great to talk to, especially when it comes to Italian opera.”
“Just not when it comes to you.”
“Yes, he’s an idiot on that particular subject.”
“Man, look, I can see how it makes financial sense to stay here, but maybe your folks could help you find...”
“What folks?”
His anguish gets to me, but before I can say anything, I hear the clomp and swoosh of Maestro’s walker coming down the hallway. Before you know it, he’s at the kitchen door. He sees us two at the table and in three seconds flat, his coal-black eyes zero in on Rigby’s shiner. He slam-bams his walker right over to us and bends down till his face is only inches away from Rigby’s.
“What I tell you, fegatino? What I warn?”
Here comes one of those moments where you just gotta trust me because, mondo bizarro though it is, it really and truly happens. Maestro reaches down and clutches his own balls like he’s milking them for all they’re worth and with the grip he’s got on them, they won’t be worth much for long. His entire face gets red, not just his cheeks, but absolutely every part of it. It’s like I gotta call the fire department before he spontaneously combusts.
He yells at Rigby, howls. “COGLIONI, FINOCCHIO, COGLIONI! Ox in field fuck cow. That what god want. That what god say. Ox fuck cow. Only cow. Not ox. Ox never fuck ox. GIAMMAI! Is wrong. Is terrible. Is sick. Understand, fegatino? You break god’s word! YOU FUCK TOO MUCH THE MEN!” He finally runs out of steam, thank god, releases his jewels and his face goes back to its normal chalk color.
I’m so stunned by this, I just stand there, thinking, wow, these Italians are some crazy motherfuckers. Rigby’s shattered face brings me back to reality.
I spring into action. “Hey, Maestro, go easy. Give the poor guy a break.”
The old man braces himself on the walker and swings his angry mug my way. “Why you speak, tenore? What you know? My daughter say get rid of him, boy too difficult, not real man.”
“Come on—”
“Tenore, you know nothing. Niente.”
“I know he’s a great guy.”
“No! Make trouble and do stupid thing.”
“Not stupid,” says Rigby.
