Operaland, p.15
OPERALAND, page 15
“Look, I came pretty close, but the odds are against me and the cost is horrendous. And after all that expense and effort, all I got was one lousy gig in Calgary.”
“It wasn’t lousy. Carol said the public went wild.”
“For the soprano, not me.” His voice was fading away, I barely could hear him.
“Darling, sorry, but I can’t believe any of this. It doesn’t sound right.”
“They’re doing a Carmen out in Calgary, okay? They need a Don Jose. I spent over a grand coaching it with Rigby. It’s a perfect part for me, right up my alley. But they don’t want me. They won’t ask me back.”
“Well, it’s their loss.”
“It’s mine. I don’t have any work.”
“But you’ve hardly even begun.” Richard was always the family optimist, his outlook always so bright. I was the one with doubts. “Darling, be patient. You’ve barely given it a year. As for the money, I’m getting a raise at the library, we’ll be okay.”
“Great, now I can sponge off you, like some kinda leech.”
“That’s just ridiculous.”
“Come on, I’m a guy. I’m supposed to support my family.”
“Lord, it’s not the Middle Ages. Women work, women earn. And why not.”
“Good for them. I still feel like shit.”
“You shouldn’t. You did all the big things, all the difficult things. You even paid for my degree. I’m just returning the favor. Why can’t you simply accept it?”
“Because it hurts, Kit, it really hurts.” He looked so beaten at the moment, so desolate, my heart ached for him. “And those auditions Erich sent me to? I had – what? – fifteen or twenty over the past month. I paid Rigby a fortune to prepare for them. All I got was two nothing roles at City Opera.”
“City Opera? That’s marvelous.”
“Not if you sing lousy parts.”
“Still, it’s a wonderful company. I’m glad you got in.”
“I’m glad you’re glad. I turned them down.” Another bewildering move from the man I thought I knew. “The offer sucked. I’d be losing money to sing with them.”
“But it’s the New York City Opera.”
“The New York Shitty Opera.”
“What does Erich Hirschmann say?”
“About what?”
“Everything. Your prospects, your future. What’s he going to do?”
“Nothing.”
“But he’s your agent.”
“Not any more. He kicked me off his list.” I stared at him in mute dismay. “He wanted me to go over to Europe on this big audition tour, but it’s a giant gamble and it costs an arm and a leg, five or six thousand bucks.”
“We could manage it.”
“Kit, please, the whole thing’s finished. When Hirschmann said he’d charge three thousand just to set it up, I yelled and screamed and called him a rip-off artist, so he threw me out the door. A little while later, I realized what I’d done and called to apologize. The moment he heard my voice, he hung up. He’s had it with me. I’m toast.”
I wish I could say I reassured him at that point, but frankly, I was so shocked by what he’d done, so amazed at his stupidity, I just sat there, dumbly staring at him. “I came close, Kit, incredibly close...” I reached over and pulled him towards me. He snuggled a bit, but didn’t embrace. I held him and felt his breath go in and out, slowly, mournfully. “What can I say? Your Richie’s a dumb fuck. And I want it so bad, I really and truly do.”
“Then keep trying.”
A few days later I was in New York walking down a tight hallway of opaque glass doorways, hunting for suite 706. When I finally reached it, I had a sudden attack of nerves. What was I doing here? Could I actually help at all? Only the other day I had an appointment with a far more important person than Erich Hirschmann and greatly enjoyed it. He was a powerful philanthropist, Ray Solomon, much sought after by all sorts of Michigan nonprofits, yet I never once felt nervous or on edge with him. We both loved books, cared about kids and had a wonderfully productive meeting. This was entirely different. All I really knew about Richard’s agent was his name and address. I had no idea what sort of person he was or what strategy I should use. I took a deep breath, wished myself luck and entered.
His “suite” was every bit the wreck Richard had told me it was, much more aging bachelor’s pad than office. Studying a large sheaf of papers, the great man himself was ensconced on the one decent piece of furniture in the room, a leather reclining chair of startling modernist design. He was physically unprepossessing, pudgy and on the short side, his thinning hair dyed a harsh and unnatural brownish black. He reminded me of Melville’s Bartleby, the morose obstructionist clerk who “would prefer not to.”
Clearly puzzled by my sudden appearance, he pointed vaguely in the direction of the hallway and said, in a harsh German accent, “The ladies’ room is that way.”
“I’m actually here to see you,” I said. “I promise it won’t take long.”
“Promises, promises. Always they give me promises.” He leaned forward and studied me a bit more. “You are not a singer, by any chance?”
“Oh heavens, no.”
“Good. There are far too many in this world. They make for me only problems.” I couldn’t help thinking they also made him money. “You would not believe how many walk in here, hoping I put them on my list.”
“Well, of course, you’re a major agent.”
“Not so major as you think.”
“You’re being much too modest. Everyone knows you’re extremely important.”
“From your mouth to god’s ear, Madame. So, what can I do for you? Why are you here?”
I closed the door behind me. “Actually, it’s not about me, sir, it’s my husband.”
He was suddenly on his guard. “And who might this husband be?”
“One of your singers.”
“Ach, singers, the curse of my existence... Does this singer have a name?”
“Yes, Richard Verdun. I’m his wife, Catherine.” A storm cloud scudded briefly across his brow. “I just wanted you to know that Richard is very sorry he offended you.”
“Do not concern yourself. It is all quite settled. He no longer is on my list.”
“But he wants to be. He should be.”
“So, why doesn’t he come here himself? Why does he send you as messenger?”
“I came here on my own. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“How do you think he feels when he finds out? He is a man after all, he has his pride.” It was a good point. I’d been uneasy about it from the start. “You know, it really is not nice to sneak around him like that.”
“I didn’t exactly sneak.”
“Of course, you did. You go behind his back and treat him like a three-year-old....” He leaned forward on his desk, laced his hands under his chin and studied me as if I were an exotic object, a delicate hothouse flower or delusional housewife. “Most curious. Even though you are American, you follow your husband all’ Italiana.”
“What’s that?”
“Most of the wives of the Italian singers follow their husbands everywhere, stick with them day and night, even in the rehearsal rooms, even the bathrooms. That way they stay in line.”
“You know very well Richard doesn’t need that sort of policing.”
“Doesn’t he?” He almost leered as he said it. Lord, did he have nerve.
“You’ve got the wrong idea. I know him inside out. He’d never behave like that.”
“I see, your husband is a man of virtue,” he sneered.
“He’s also a very good singer.”
“Who calls his agent a thief, or ganaf, as they say in Yiddish. We Jews do not like to hear such things. It gets us very much upset. “
“Look, you have every right to be angry, but I hope you can get past it. You know what they say about the quality of mercy.”
“There is no mercy in the opera.”
“Mr. Hirschmann, you’ve got plenty of compassion. You found him when he was no one and got him his first job.”
“His only one.”
“But there’ll be many more. He’s first-rate material. He’ll make you a fortune.”
He smirked and settled back in his chair. “You know, there is an opera, Alceste, it is not very popular. They did it maybe twenty, thirty years ago as a vehicle for the great Kirsten Flagstad. I am one of the five people who actually saw it. This opera tells of a wife, Alceste, whose husband, the king, is about to die. The gods take pity and decree that this much-loved man will be spared if someone will die in his place. Everyone refuses, of course. Who willingly gives up his own life? But Alceste loves her husband so much she becomes the substitute cadaver and goes down to the underworld so her husband might live – a symbol of female loyalty.”
“I’m not a queen and not a symbol and don’t plan on dying any time soon.”
“Yes, but this heartwarming image of the good wife giving up everything to save her beloved man is all well and good in an opera hundreds of years old, but not here, not today. It may be unfashionable to say it in this age of so-called women’s lib, but a woman’s place is at home and not in the office of her husband’s agent, sorry, former agent. You waste my time with this. Good day.”
“NOT SO FAST!” The words shot out of my mouth. The old man was shocked and frankly, so was I. “I didn’t take the bus all the way from Michigan just to be dismissed like that.”
“A bus? You mean to tell me you come all this way in a bus? That is most uncomfortable. Why not go by plane?”
Erich Hirschmann was the last person on earth I’d ever discuss my fear of flying with. “Flying’s much too expensive.”
“Ah, yes, money problems.” He gestured morosely at his cramped working space. “You cannot believe the rent they charge me.”
“Take Richard back. His fees can help with the rent.”
There was an excruciatingly long pause before Hirschmann spoke again. “How do I know he won’t insult me again?”
“I won’t let him.”
He regarded me steadily, like a dealer assessing a new painting. “Well, he is a tenor. Maybe it can work.”
“Oh, it will, I’m sure of it.”
“One can be sure of nothing in the opera. The odds of a career are against him.”
“The odds are against us all. And still we try. It’s who and what we are,” I said with considerable, perhaps excessive, passion. “He has it in him to be a big success, he really and truly does. Just give him one more chance.”
He seemed lost in deep thought, making complex, almost anguished calculations that I was too naive and untutored to comprehend. Finally, he gave a deep sigh, as if his deliberations had completely exhausted him. “You are quite impossible, Mrs. Verdun, you make it quite difficult to resist.”
That was it, the moment I hoped for. I grabbed both his hands and shook them repeatedly, compulsively. I was flooded by a warm wave of relief. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Hirschmann, thank you.”
“I take your husband back on one condition and I am not so sure you will like it.”
My anxiety came flooding back. “What’s the condition?”
“No one talks to Erich Hirschmann like your husband did, no one. But Richard Verdun insults me to my face like I am a crook, a fake, a liar. I do not allow this. I cannot. My fee is now five thousand dollars.”
Shocked doesn’t begin to describe my reaction. I was stung, stunned, outraged. I suppressed my fury and said in a tight small voice, “Richard told me your fee was three thousand.”
“Actions have consequences.” He smiled as he said it, smiled as he observed my stifled rage. “The tour is much harder to arrange now. I have to make many more phone calls and mailings and reservations, and all at the very last moment. This is a great deal of extra work, very time consuming. Five thousand dollars barely covers it.”
“It’s an enormous difference to us. It puts a big strain on our finances.”
“It’s a strain on me. I now have to call again all the Intendants and get them to agree to hear your husband, even though he insults me and behaves like an absolute idiot. Five thousand dollars, or the whole thing is off.” He put out his hand as if he expected me to give him his fee right then and there in one-dollar bills.
Furious though I was, outraged though I was, I had no choice. “Fine, five thousand dollars. I’ll get out my check book.”
“You know, you make the right decision.” He seemed very pleased with himself, while I stood there fuming. He had kept me standing the entire time. “Ach, mein Gott,” he said, “I completely forget my manners.” As he set up a folding chair for me, I suddenly was assailed by doubts. Had I given in too soon? Should I have fought for a lower fee? Perplexed, confused, disturbed, I sat down and took out my check book.
“Not quite yet. We make now a little celebration.” He opened a desk drawer and to my surprise produced a small bottle of champagne. I’ve never been much of a drinker. Richard always joked about what a cheap date I was. “I must apologize in advance. It is not properly chilled, I have no room for an ice box here.” Just what I needed, a hangover on top of everything else. “It’s never too late, or too early, for champagne in the opera, and you had such a hard time last night on the bus, and maybe also today. I drive a hard bargain, nicht wahr?” He gave me an ingratiating smile, which irritated me even more. “I cannot imagine how a charming woman like you can endure so many difficulties.”
“Oh, I’m tougher than I look.”
“Then drink a little champagne. Let your spirits soar.” He rummaged in one of the many battered boxes lined up against the wall and fished out two champagne glasses, whose delicacy and elegance contrasted with the grimy chaos of the room. “Don’t worry, I keep them always clean.” He returned to the desk with the flutes and wrestled off the cork from the champagne. Its hollow pop echoed through the cramped space. He offered me a glass almost as full as his, then stood up to make a little toast. “To all the beautiful women. Even with that ridiculous women’s lib and all the silly anger you hold against men, we adore you. You make us your slaves.” He clinked my glass and drank. I sipped cautiously. “Very frankly, you deserve Dom Perignon, but I have only Moët, and just the half bottle.” He smiled amiably and took another healthy gulp. His dyed hair bewildered me. It kept changing with the light from black to brown to royal blue.
“You know, it does not make me happy, charging the extra money. Maybe I find a way, maybe we find a way. My apartment is nearby, just a few blocks. It is very attractive, very neat, not messy like this place, with Kirchners on the wall, even a nice Max Beckmann. You know the artist Max Beckmann? A great German artist who Hitler drives away and finally ends up in Saint Louis, if you can believe it, Saint Louis. Anyway, he is a hero of my youth and I have this little etching. Also this nice douche, I think you could use it, after that terrible bus ride...” With this, he got up from his chair, wearing the crazed crooked smile of men who think they’re being sexy when they’re acting like total fools. Poor deluded man, he was twice my age and notably out of shape. As I rose to face him, he seemed unperturbed by the fact that he was two inches shorter than me. “It will be very discreet, Madame, very luxe...”
With that, he reached out and grabbed for my arm. I shoved him away with great gusto. He wasn’t expecting it, lost his balance and fell back against the desk. As I dashed out the door, I heard a thump and muffled shout, but Erich Hirschmann held no further interest for me. Richard would find another manager.
The elevator was a long time coming. As I waited, I heard him call my name. “Help, Mrs. Verdun, help,” he cried, “I need you.”
“Too bad.” Really, the man was beyond impossible.
“Please. It’s serious.”
“Nonsense.” By then the elevator had arrived and I was about to step in, when he shouted, “I can’t see!” That troubled me. The man was elderly, after all.
“What do you mean you can’t see?”
“I can’t. Please come back.” Maybe he really was hurt, brain damage, perhaps. I let the elevator go. Muttering to myself about manipulative senile men, I stomped back into his office and found the agent on all fours at the foot of his desk, frantically hunting for something.
“I can’t find my glasses.”
“Your glasses? I thought you couldn’t see.”
“I see nothing without them.”
“Find the dumb things yourself.” I turned to leave again, when I noticed his spectacles at the base of the door frame. “Here. Take your stupid glasses.”
“Thanks. You really save me.” He scrabbled over and reached out to take them. As he did, I noticed a big blotch on the front of his shirt.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Ach, it is nothing.”
“You don’t know that. Let me check.”
“You are suddenly now the doctor?”
“My boys keep sending one another to the emergency room. I’m quite well versed.” By now he’d put his glasses back on and was sitting on the floor, his back against the desk. He had this flattened look which struck me as completely appropriate. I knelt beside him and checked his left temple, which was still trickling blood. “Put your hand on it and press hard.”
“But it hurts.” Rather gingerly, he put his hand to his head.
“Harder, or it won’t do any good. I’ll get some water. Where’s the bathroom?”
“The key is in the desk.” I ran over to open it and was confronted with a welter of envelopes and ticket stubs and pencils and pens and staples and paper clips. The man lived in total anarchy. Shoving away piles of detritus, I finally spotted a key strung on a lanyard looped through a wooden paddle.
