by Anne Rice
“How much of a difference will that make, do you think?” The director nodded toward the singers as they came back from their curtain calls.
“The public is the mediator in our work, without doubt; it is public support that makes the program possible, and the public will determine how the gene grafts are used in society,” said the tall man as if addressing a diplomatic reception. “It ought to help, having such reactions.” He put his hands into his pockets, disrupting the flawless line of his dinner jacket. “Those singers of yours should prove the point we’re trying to make: that we can take the best that were and make them better.”
The director made a gesture of concession. “Well, these two are a hell of a lot prettier than the originals, and they know how to act. Cosmetically they read better in their roles than—”
The stage manager interrupted. “We need this space, gentlemen,” she said.
The two moved aside at once. “As I was saying,” the director went on, “they look better, but they get very tired. The talent makes demands.”
“Is that a problem?” asked the tall man.
“It could be, in time,” the director said. “If they don’t have enough strength to do the work, it might make all this gene grafting questionable for some of the current singers—the living ones, not the restored ones. You know there is a long tradition in opera of hefty singers, and many of them have said that the weight was necessary to have the voice. But these restored singers are in much more appealing bodies, and they don’t seem to hold up as well.”
“Well, with gene grafting we can always duplicate the singers again when these are exhausted.” He said it casually, as if he thought this was no more a problem than recycling glass. “Restoration is easily accomplished.”
The director stared at his guest. “Leo, we’re talking about great, legendary artists. I don’t see how you can just turn them out like so much sausage.”
“But why not? We lost two athletes to injuries this last year and already there are new hosts to take them over, so the playing contracts can be fulfilled. Red Grange has been restored in four hosts. So has Willy Jones, the rodeo champion and stunt trainer; his heirs are delighted.” Leo Holdstrom gestured toward the last of the chorus members lingering backstage. “We don’t bother with people like that; we only deal with the true greats, and we make sure that they continue their greatness, so that people who would not otherwise have the chance to see them will be able to know why they are great.”
“But if the hosts are so … sacrificeable?” the director asked.
Leo shrugged, saying, “We have more volunteers for the host program than we know what to do with already, and it looks like we’ll have many more over the next few years. I don’t think we’re going to have any trouble keeping up with the market, not for a while yet, until the market expands.”
Lauritz Melchior, a tall, fair man with a shock of light brown hair and bright blue eyes, stopped beside the director and sighed. “The second act is going to need real strength to top what we’ve already done.” He held out his hand to Helen Traubel. “You were great,” he said warmly and suggestively. “Just great.”
“I wasn’t that great,” she answered, moving his hand away from her. “You may get to paw me on stage, but you don’t get to do it here.” She was stunningly voluptuous, a blonde with green-tinted eyes and a full mouth. In her stage finery as Venus she had the appearance of a grand courtesan of two centuries ago. “You can do what you like on stage. Now keep your hands to yourself.”
Melchior put a philosophical face on. “If that’s what you want. You were getting into it for a while there; I could tell.”
“It’s what I want,” said Traubel, ignoring the director and her creator, Leo Holdstrom. “I know your reputation, Lauritz. I’m not going to be one of the many, not to satisfy your ego or your libido.”
“Can you imagine what opera would have been like back in the last two centuries with singers looking like these hosts Instead of the way most of them looked? And acted?” Leo said as much to himself as to the director, as Helen Traubel swept past him. “It would have been bigger than rock ever was.”
“There weren’t too many gorgeous singers, it’s true, not until later in the last century when film made everyone beauty-conscious, that is,” the director said as he watched Melchior and Traubel disappear into their dressing rooms.
“Now we can give them great voices and great bodies at the same time. Talent alone isn’t enough anymore, and gene grafting makes it possible to achieve the best of both worlds.” Leo Holdstrom beamed.
“You don’t have to sell me,” said the director. “But I have to admit that there are times I wonder about the wisdom of it.”
“What is there to wonder about?” asked Leo.
“The ethics of it, I suppose,” said the director, as if he were not entirely comfortable with the notion. “And the legality. Do genes ever enter public domain?”
“But what’s the matter with what we’re doing?” asked Leo. “We have the permission of the heirs, and contracts with the hosts. The world is full of beautiful people who are willing to trade their looks for being the host to monumental talent.” He strolled away from the space behind the stage manager’s station, getting out of the path of the stagehands who were moving the Hall of Song into position in the process. “The biggest problem is working out the royalties with the estates of the subjects we want to use. If they don’t mind, why should you?”
“I don’t know; it bothers me a little, still.” The director shook his head, then said rather sheepishly, “When you finally get Jussi Bjoerling, let me know. I want to use him with Mary Garden in Manon Lescaut and Nellie Melba in Andrea Chenier.” There was an eager light in his eyes. “I know we could do great things with him.”
“We have volunteer hosts for him already. But his heirs are very demanding. They want the money that the families of rock stars demand.” He sighed. “The jazz people are getting just as bad. Tell me how I can justify giving them what I’ve given Louis Armstrong’s heirs.”
“Well, the careers should be about the same length,” said the director. “I might be able to find a grant to help you out.”
“For Jussi Bjoerling, or for the program?” asked Leo.
“For Jussi Bjoerling.”
“All right.” Leo thought a moment. “If we make all three of the best of the host volunteers, we might be able to justify the cost, amortizing it over the three,” said Leo, taking up his position by the vast rear doors. “Milanov should be a great Elizabeth.”
“Oh, she is,” said the director, his tone growing warm. “You’ve done yourself proud on her. She sings like an angel and she’s lovely to look at. The host has a fey quality that comes across well.”
“The intention is to make the best combination possible.” Leo Holdstrom smoothed the front of his shirt, fussing with the studs as he did. “Coming into the formal music world was the biggest risk we’ve taken so far. And so far it seems it’s working.”
“You mean that music is harder than sports?” exclaimed the director in mock horror.
“Certainly. There are so many factors to be considered.” He puffed out his cheeks. “And we had to make sure that the hosts were very well prepared to receive the gene grafts. They needed the training and the mechanics of the job. We had half a dozen good violinists willing to host Menuhin when we brought him back. We had to audition them before we made our selections.”
“And you auditioned the singers as well?” the director inquired.
“Certainly. We needed the right voice range and some experience in voice technique, and a knowledge of the literature. Just as we’ve matched up our athletes carefully, too.” He chuckled. “What’s the point of putting a world-class swimmer into a wrestler? Or a first-class linebacker into a tennis pro? Or a weight-lifter into a gymnast. Or for that matter, why put Chaliapin into a tenor host?”
“Point taken,” said the director, who went on sheepishly, “Who do you think y
ou might have coming up?”
“Well, we’re getting Leonard Warren in a month or so; we have six good volunteers for him. And Marti Talvela in a year—Christoff and Pinza, too.”
“Basses are doing well,” the director said with a smile. “If you get me Bjoerling and Pinza, I could do one hell of a Faust. And if Tebaldi ever becomes available, let me know; she’d make it perfect.”
“Of course. And in the meantime, I want you to tell me whatever you can about the way the singers are working out.” He gave the director his vulpine smile. “I’m very proud of these restorations. We’re trying now to make arrangements in advance, to have the genes available for transplant while the artists are still alive, so that when they retire they can be continued. So far, none of the artists have been willing to cooperate, though most are willing to make contracts for after their deaths. We’ve been able to set up very favorable terms with some formidable talent, arranging in advance the number of restorations possible, and the length of time we will be allowed to make the restorations. There are questions of rights. We settle all this up front. We even let them choose the sort of host they want to be restored with.” He indicated the half-dozen chorus members on the far side of the rear door. “Don’t you think any of them would give up everything to be the next Kiri Te Kanawa or Placido Domingo?”
One of the chorus members who had overheard this said, “No. I think what you’re doing is obscene.” He straightened up in his Gothic finery. “Bringing back the dead this way is an act of sacrilege.” He glanced at the director. “Sorry, but that’s how I feel about it.”
Leo stared at him in disbelief. “But don’t you want to sing with the greats?”
“Sure,” said the chorus member with alacrity. “And I won’t deny that it is a real thrill to sing with Melchior and Traubel. But the truth is that they aren’t really Melchior and Traubel—they’re just pretty boxes for the talent to be put in. And it’s not the same as the real thing.” He looked abashed. “You asked.”
“I asked,” Leo agreed. He moved aside and said nothing more to the chorus member.
After a moment the director followed Leo Holdstrom to the edge of the cyclorama on which would be projected the images of the Venusberg orgy while Tannhäuser and Elizabeth meet in the Hall of Song.
“They look better in the roles than the originals: more believable,” said the director, attempting to compensate for what the chorus member had said. “It’s always been the problem with opera—getting the images straight so that the audience can accept what they see. Two middle-aged, overweight people carrying on about grand passions looks a little absurd, you know.”
Leo accepted this as his due. “That’s part of our purpose, of course, to make them the best possible.”
“And you’ve done a great job. Better than I expected you could.” The director tugged Leo’s sleeve and got him out of the way of part of the set as it was rolled into position.
“That’s a compliment, coming from you,” said Leo Holdstrom. “I know you have high standards to keep up.”
“Certainly. In opera, you have to be very, very good just to be acceptable.” He rubbed his hands together. “How long can you continue to restore the singers, do you know yet?”
“Not yet. The program’s still new. With the athletes we’re getting about ten years of solid work out of the restorations. And the prospects are good for extending that period.” He grinned. “That’s what made us think about going into the arts. We wanted to show that the principles work everywhere.”
“What’s next?” asked the director.
“You mean what area do we tackle now that we have the arts and athletics covered?” asked Leo with an I’m-so-glad-you-asked smile.
“You have other plans?” the director prompted.
“Certainly. We’re looking at the possibilities of restoring some of the real greats of academia and politics. We’d like to start with Lincoln, but there are problems with that.” He lowered his eyes. “You can’t believe the hassles we’ve encountered in that area. There are people who want Kennedy before Lincoln, and some who think we should leave well enough alone.”
“But you’re going ahead,” said the director with certainty. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“Of course.” Behind him the set was almost complete. The chorus was gathering at the rear entrance and the stage manager had given the call to Zinka Milanov and Lauritz Melchior in their dressing rooms to be prepared to get on stage.
“And when do you think you’ll have the first restorations ready? Of the politicians and intellectuals?”
“In the next two years is our best guess. It’s too bad that Dag Hammarskjold was killed the way he was. It would have been a coup to start the program off with him. As it is, we’re trying to get some of the former Secretary-Generals to commit to restoration before they die, so we will have access to their knowledge and experience when we need them.” He watched the stagehands check the set, then added, “We’re going to have Toscanini available in a year. Are you interested?”
“Certainly, if I can stand his temperament,” said the director. “I don’t know that you can get the talent without the temperament.”
“It doesn’t seem to be possible, as we’re finding out with Callas,” said Leo, making a gesture of defeat. “The same thing is true of the athletes. The ones who were hard to deal with when they were alive in the original form are still hard to deal with in the restorations. You don’t change the personality just because you house it in another person; the host becomes recessive to the talent grafted. It’s part of the process, it turns out. Whatever they were when the talent was alive is what they are when they’re restored.”
“What about the host personality?” asked the director with a trace of alarm. “Isn’t there some psychological risk?”
“Not that we’ve discovered yet. The host personality is still there, but it is subsumed by the genetic graft.” He opened his hands to express his innocence.
“Sounds pretty depressing for the host,” said the director, looking over his shoulder as the sound of chimes reminded them that the next act was about to start.
“The house is full tonight,” Leo observed as they made their way backstage. “Everyone wants to hear Melchior and Traubel. And I understand that you’re scheduled for three recital tours in the offseason.” Leo beamed with pride.
“Caruso, of course, and Kirsten Flagstad after, and then Beniamino Gigli. A trio to dream over.” He grinned. “You can be very proud of yourself for what you’ve done.”
“Oh, I am,” said Leo Holdstrom, as if the curtain-muted applause for the conductor was actually for him.
“What do you mean, they won’t sing?” Leo Holdstrom asked the woman on the other end of the line. “Is there something wrong with them? Have the hosts become ill? Is there some reason they’re doing this, other than money?”
“I mean what I said,” she answered. “The restorations are refusing to do tonight’s performance of I Lombardi. They all claim they’re too tired. They’re demanding an adjustment in their schedules. They say that they are being exhausted by the talents they host and they want compensation.”
“Compensation,” Leo repeated, as if he had only a vague notion as to the meaning of the word. He added in a mutter, “It’s about money. They’ve already made an agreement with this company. They’re supposed to host the talent, not agent for it.”
“They say that they aren’t going to perform again until they have a contract giving them the right to decide when the talent can be exercised.” The woman’s voice was tight from being upset. “The musicians union is looking into a sympathy strike. We can’t have this. It could ruin everything.”
“They’re as bad as the football pros,” Leo complained, having spent the morning dealing with representatives of the restored athletes, not successfully. The notion of more of the same soured his outlook on the day.
“They’re determined, I warn you. When you have half a dozen opera singers
in agreement, you have a formidable force to contend with.” She sounded annoyed now, and perplexed. “They’re insisting on conditions I can’t deal with.”
“They’ll listen to reason, if you remind them of their original contracts,” said Leo in the same tone he had used with the football players, hoping it would work this time.
“I doubt it,” she countered. “They want guarantees I can’t make in regard to their schedules and performances.”
“More than what you’ve told me?” Leo rubbed his forehead and wished his headache would vanish.
“More,” said the woman. “My boss is going nuts. You have to do something.”
“But what?” Leo asked. “We can take them to court, but there would be adverse publicity from a suit. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who started this restoration business. You should know how to handle this situation.” She paused. “If this is going to become a regular event, we’ll have to go back to living singers. Restorations are wonderful, but they aren’t worth this trouble. And we can’t afford to pay them more than we are already.”
This annoyed Leo greatly. “They’re worth everything we have to do to keep them going,” he said unsympathetically. “We’ve got something valuable here, and I don’t intend to throw it away.”
“That’s because it’s your baby,” said the woman in disgust. “All your profits and fame come from the restorations. You’d be the last person to want to discontinue using them.” She paused. “But something has to be done.”
“What? They aren’t slaves, are they?” asked Leo. “Restorations have certain rights we need to define, for their own sakes,” said Leo, thinking as quickly as he could in order to diminish his responsibility in the matter. “With the kind of restorations we’re doing now, it matters that we be prepared to negotiate with the restorations, so that the program can improve. Otherwise we might run into trouble. If we show that we’re willing to make reasonable accommodations, we can avoid trouble in future. That’s the way we’ll get current talent to contract with us.” He looked at the list of international high-power scientists he had been planning to approach to get them to make arrangements to restore them after they died. He had already decided to offer them a more comprehensive contract than what he had given the athletes and performers, including some say in what manner their restorations would be used.