Bantam of the Opera

by Mary Daheim

  Judith edged closer on the booth’s vinyl seat. She gazed across the table at her cousin. “You know—like what are you wearing to the opera tonight?”

  Renie laughed. Crumbs flew. Tartar sauce spilled. Coleslaw dripped. The cousins were back in synch.

  Judith had spent a busy afternoon, with trips to the grocery store, the liquor store, the bakery, and a quick call on Gertrude and Aunt Deb, who were arguing over which of their husbands had died with the most hair. Aunt Deb was right, but Gertrude had won by virtue of a phone call to Alice Wilinski, a mutual friend and longtime dipsomaniac who, Judith figured, probably couldn’t remember if her own husband, Gus, had ever had any hair at all.

  Upon her return to the B&B, Judith had worked like a whilrwind, cleaning the second floor, making a quick pass with the vacuum cleaner in the living and dining rooms, and doing two loads of laundry. Her attempt to organize the kitchen had to be postponed. By the time she came up from the basement, it was almost four o’clock and her guests had congregated for preperformance snacks. Judith grimaced as she witnessed the plundering of the refrigerator. Amina was boiling pasta, tossing salad, mixing dressing. Mario was sitting at the table, napkin tucked under his chin, knife and fork at the ready. Tippy was removing a pile of barbecued jo-jo potatoes from the microwave and smothering them with catsup. Bruno Schutzendorf was frying at least six sausages, ritualistically turning them every ten seconds, then adding a splash of water from the teakettle to increase their sizzle. Even Winston Plunkett was foraging in the bread box. Amina and Bruno vied for control of the stove, she waving a pasta ladle, he brandishing a meat fork. Judith decided it was too dangerous to stay in the kitchen. She could clean up later.

  By contrast that evening, Hillside Manor was singularly quiet. Judith was left alone in the house—no husband, no mother, no son, no guests, no cat. The Pacettis had gone to the opera house around five, with Mario muffled to his nose in scarves under his cashmere overcoat, and Amina carrying a sable muff that matched her hat. Tippy and Plunkett accompanied the Pacettis. A skimpy scarlet dress showed off every curve of Tippy’s figure, and the feather boa she had slung over her bare shoulders gave the impression that she was headed not for the opera house, but a cathouse. Plunkett, as usual, wore gray. Bruno Schutzendorf was the last to leave, resplendent in white tie, tails, and top hat, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the green Tyrolean cape.

  Judith had hoped to get some of her bulbs in, but ran out of time. The rain, which had begun on Friday, pattered softly against the windows. It was not sufficient to daunt a native Pacific Northwesterner such as Judith from working outside, but by the time she finished her other tasks, it was beginning to get dark. Wistfully, Judith looked through the kitchen window. In the garden, the remaining flowers drooped on their stalks. The grass, which had turned brown during the long, unusually dry months of summer, was restored to its lush green state. The old apple tree, a remnant of the original Grover orchard, still sported fruit. The rain kept falling, filling the stone birdbath, washing over the small statue of St. Francis and the birds, giving a silver sheen to the white picket fence that separated Hillside Manor from the Dooleys’ property.

  Fortunately, Joe had put the lawn furniture indoors before leaving for New Orleans. Unfortunately, he had never got around to raking up the leaves. Judith watched more of them drift down from the maples and the hawthorns and the mountain ash. Maybe Dooley would do it for her—if she paid him enough.

  After many mental gymnastics, Judith had decided on wearing a taupe high-necked silk jacquard blouse with a straight black flannel skirt under a black and taupe tiger-print jacket. Renie, she knew, was going with draped red wool crepe. Judith preened in front of the long mirror in her bedroom, wondering what Joe was doing about now. It was ten o’clock in New Orleans. Maybe he and Bill had retired to their hotel room. Bill Jones liked to keep strict hours; Joe Flynn wasn’t acquainted with the concept. Judith wondered who would win the war of wills.

  Heading downstairs, Judith paused on the landing between the first and second floors. She thought she heard a noise from somewhere in the vicinity of the guest bedrooms, but decided it was only the wind, making the old house creak. Since none of her guests had been at Hillside Manor when she returned from the airport, she had not shown them the piece of paper that had been slipped under the welcome mat. It was probably just as well, she reasoned, for if Bill Jones was right, perhaps only mischief was intended. There was certainly no reason to upset Mario Pacetti further just before a performance.

  As promised, Woody Price had sent a squad car by at regular intervals. About 3:00 P.M., Officers Perez and Doyle had stopped to collect the rock and the sheet of paper. Corazon Perez and Ted Doyle had both looked curiously at Judith when she’d asked them to get a musical expert to identify the five notes at the bottom of the page. But this was Lieutenant Flynn’s wife, they were following Woody Price’s instructions, and they might as well humor her. Still, Judith knew they thought it was a joke. She hoped they were right.

  Nonetheless, Judith checked the front porch again. It was pristinely devoid of threatening missives. The corn tassels stirred in the wind. Going back into the house, she settled onto one of the matching sofas and waited for Renie.

  In the corner, the grandfather clock ticked on toward 7:00 P.M. The curtain was at seven-thirty, but Renie said Maestro Dunkowitz never started until at least seven thirty-seven. The rain continued to spatter the window-panes. Judith glanced around the big, comfortable living room—the baby grand piano, the tall, crammed bookcases that flanked the window seat, the fireplace mantel with its array of family photos: Gertrude and Donald Grover holding hands in the early years of their marriage; Grandpa and Grandma Grover, cutting the tiered cake for their fiftieth anniversary; Bill and Renie posing in front of a Reno pawnshop; Mike as a baby; Mike on his first day of kindergarten; Mike in his high school graduation picture; Mike with Kristin by the Christmas tree; and the latest addition to the collection, Judith and Joe cheek to cheek next to the carved wooden doors of Our Lady, Star of the Sea. There was a picture of Dan McMonigle, tucked behind Uncle Vince and Auntie Vance sitting on the deck of their beach house. Judith had considered taking it down when she married Joe Flynn. But that wouldn’t have been fair to Mike. Dan had been Mike’s father—at least as far as Mike was concerned. Judith got up to scrutinize the most recent picture of Mike. The red hair was darker—and much thicker—than Joe’s. Otherwise, the resemblance was unremarkable. Mike’s features were the spitting image of his grandfather, Donald Grover. And, by coincidence, Dan’s mother was a redhead. Joe and Judith had agreed there was no need to tell Mike the truth about his parentage. At least not yet.

  Judith ambled over to the bay window, the three large panes displaying black silhouettes of a cat, a bat, and a witch. It was almost dark, with the lights of downtown glowing amber in the rain. Two big freighters were tied up in the bay, superferries crisscrossed the water, and a tug was hauling a big barge into port. In the cul-de-sac, Judith saw the headlights of Renie’s car. She shrugged into her coat, picked up her handbag, and started out toward the entry hall. A smile touched her lips as she took one last look around the living room. Warm. Cozy. Peaceful. Mike was content to be away at school, a solution for Gertrude’s dilemma was in the offing, and best of all, she and Joe were married. A sense of serenity came over Judith as she went out through the entry hall.

  It would, of course, not last long.

  “What,” demanded Judith with a gasp as she and Renie settled into their front row center seats in the first balcony, “did you and Bill pay for these?”

  “We sold one of the kids,” replied Renie, laying her black raincoat over the plush red chair. “Actually, I hammered out a deal when I designed that symphony brochure last summer. Bill and I weren’t that keen on going to the symphony more than once or twice a year, but we definitely wanted to upgrade our opera seats. I told Maestro Dunkowitz I insisted on having a better view than our orthodontist had. This is it. Dr
. Feldman is around the corner, to your left, second row. Ha-ha.”

  Judith cast a discreet glance in Dr. Feldman’s direction. He, like several of the other men in the boxes, was wearing a tuxedo. Judith couldn’t imagine Bill Jones, who taught his university classes in a sport shirt and wash-pants, going to such bother. She said so to Renie.

  “You’re right,” agreed Renie. “On the other hand, Dr. Feldman wears his tuxedo when he works on his patients.” Seeing Judith’s startled look, she laughed. “I’m kidding, but believe me, he could afford to. Not only is he raking it in as an orthodontist, but his wife is a throat specialist. In fact, she’s the family star, or so Feldman tells me. Pretty, too.” Renie nodded in the Feldmans’ direction.

  “At least you’re past the braces stage now,” said Judith, taking in Mrs. Feldman’s black shoulder-length hair, classic profile, and chic white evening gown. “So am I, thank God. I guess you finish off with teeth just in time to start with college.”

  “How true,” agreed Renie, glancing through her program. The opera house, which was located at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill only five minutes away from Hillside Manor, was rapidly filling up. The rich paneling gleamed under the houselights; the heavy red curtain shrouded the stage; the murmur of three thousand voices echoed around them. The air of anticipation was tangible. Not only was this the opening night of the season, but serious opera lovers knew how rare it was to hear two singers of the first magnitude perform on the local stage. Judith had not been in the opera house for years. Wryly, she noted that it had changed considerably less than she had.

  A wave of applause broke out as Maestro Dunkowitz stepped up to the podium. A moment later, the poignant strains of the prelude filled the opera house. Judith sat back to enjoy an exceptional musical treat.

  As the curtain parted to reveal a handsomely decorated Paris salon of the 1840s, the orchestra shifted gears into Verdi’s mood of revelry. A glittering chandelier hung above a long table set with crystal and china. Silver epergnes perched at each end, while in the middle a floral arrangement of exotic blooms held sway. Second Empire furnishings in rich green and blue velvet reposed against a backdrop of tall, arched windows. Half of the chorus was greeting the other half, while Inez Garcia-Green, in layers of white tulle, glided across the stage to welcome the mezzo-soprano. The mood on stage was festive, and Judith caught herself tapping her foot. Inez’s lyrical voice floated effortlessly into the farthest reaches of the house. As far as Judith could tell, Amina Pacetti’s claim that the soprano was in decline did not appear to be true.

  In the background, the servants prepared the table with food and drink. Renie had her opera glasses trained on the action. “Hey,” she said in a low voice, “is that Tippy de Whoozits as one of the supers? Gray and white maid’s costume, big frilly thing on her head.” She passed the glasses to Judith.

  Judith focused. Even with the opera glasses, it was difficult to be sure, but the young woman arranging champagne bottles on the supper table certainly resembled Tippy. “Could be,” said Judith, handing the glasses back to Renie. “Maybe that’s one of the perks.”

  Tippy, or her look-alike, melted in with the other supers. A moment later, Mario Pacetti and another man entered the salon. Pacetti was impeccably dressed in a black frock coat and a ruffled white shirt.

  “He’s lost weight,” Renie whispered. “Or else he’s wearing the world’s tightest girdle.”

  Judith gave a slight nod, then caught Pacetti’s first notes: “Mar-che-se…” She frowned, thinking of the rock.

  The revelers began to seat themselves at the table. Pacetti was next to Garcia-Green. A tiara sparkled on the soprano’s head; white camellias descended from décolletage to hem. Wine was being poured; plates were passed. Inez and the tenor who was playing Pacetti’s friend were doing most of the singing. It seemed to Judith that Inez’s exaggerated gestures with a huge ostrich-feather fan did much to obliterate Pacetti from the audience’s view. At last, he sang again, five short notes. Judith looked up at the supratitles. “Yes, it is true.” She wondered…

  Everyone but Pacetti now seemed to be taking turns singing as the guests exchanged flippant remarks. Inez was giving Pacetti a coquettish look as she poured him a glass of wine. The tenor made a gallant toast to the soprano. Everyone seemed to be urging Pacetti to sing a drinking song. He demurred, then surrendered. The rousing notes of “Libiamo” bounced off the opera house walls. Judith smiled; the set piece was one of her favorites. At the conclusion, enthusiastic applause erupted. The singers turned to the audience as if toasting their listeners, then drank.

  Renie nudged Judith. “Lucky us, both Pacetti and Garcia-Green are in good voice. I’m anxious to hear Sydney Haines when he comes on in Act II.”

  “That’s right, the father doesn’t appear until then,” Judith whispered back. “I was waiting for him to show up at the party in a Yellow Cab.”

  The choristers milled about the stage in various attitudes of convivial party attendance. Pacetti and Inez were left alone to argue over love and pleasure. From offstage came the sounds of another, smaller orchestra. Everyone began heading for the center door, presumably to dance. Or so Judith deduced from the supratitles.

  Inez Garcia-Green staggered and uttered an exclamation. Her guests evinced concern, but she sang her reassurances.

  “Don’t worry about me,” murmured Renie, loosely translating the opera singer’s phrase. “She sounds like my mother.” Judith grinned.

  Inez sat down, a hand to her impressive bosom. More concern, more reassurances. At last, everyone exited from the stage except the tenor and the soprano. Pacetti was ardent; Garcia-Green, cynical. They were close together, Inez in her chair, Mario at her side. Renie passed the opera glasses back to Judith.

  “Look—they’re kicking each other.”

  Judith adjusted the glasses again. Sure enough, it appeared that Mario Pacetti was trying to stomp on Inez Garcia-Green’s feet. She, in turn, was attempting to strike his shins from under the voluminous tulle hem of her ball gown. “Yikes!” breathed Judith. “Pacetti looks like he’s foaming at the mouth!”

  Verdi’s score, however, conveyed a much more idyllic relationship. Inez, as Violetta, was beginning to succumb. Mario, as Alfredo, was turning up the heat meter in his ardor. Stepping directly in front of his leading lady, he began to sing the familiar duet, “Un Dì Felice Eterea.” His body seemed to twitch and his voice sounded uneven. Judith tried to see if Garcia-Green was on the attack. But the soprano was getting to her feet, preparing to join in. Just as she faced Pacetti, his arms and legs seemed to go every which way. Before he could utter the next phrase, he collapsed at Inez’s hem.

  Judith, Renie, and the rest of the audience let out a collective gasp. Not to be outdone, Garcia-Green emitted an ear-shattering shriek. Maestro Dunkowitz put down his baton. The notes from the orchestra died away as the curtain was quickly drawn.

  “Is he sick?” asked Renie, half rising from her seat. “Did Inez stab him or something? What on earth…?”

  There was a great rustling and much murmuring in the audience. On the main floor, Judith could see several ushers moving uncertainly down the aisles. Maestro Dunkowitz had left the orchestra pit. The errant notes of a violin floated eerily across the house.

  Renie had sat down again, chewing on her lower lip. “Why don’t they tell us something? Where’s that effete yet ineffectual drip who manages the place, Creighton Layton?” She paused to flip through her program. “Why don’t they turn the houselights on? I want to see who Pacetti’s understudy is.”

  “Here,” said Judith, taking her keychain out of her purse. “Use this little flashlight.”

  Renie flicked the flashlight on. “An American, Justin Kerr. I think he sang the tenor lead in Don Pasquale here last season. Bill and I missed it because they did a modern production set at an AMA convention in Anaheim. There were Disneyland characters all over the place. I resent Goofy and Pluto singing Donizetti.” With a snort of annoyance, she handed the
little flashlight back to Judith.

  The audience was growing increasingly restless. Several patrons were now standing, stretching their legs, but keeping their eyes on the closed curtain. The orchestra members were also moving about, talking to each other, trying to look out into the wings.

  At last, a tuxedoed figure appeared on stage, entering from the left. “Layton,” whispered Renie.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Creighton Layton in a cultured, if nervous, voice, “we regret to inform you that there has been a serious accident. Mario Pacetti is very ill. Given the gravity of his condition, and the disconcerting effect it has had on the rest of the cast, we regret to inform you that this performance is canceled. Please retain your ticket stubs. You may call the opera house Monday after 9:00 A.M. for information concerning remuneration. Thank you.” Layton raced from the stage.

  “Drat,” said Renie, with a scowl. “What did the little twerp do, eat too much calzone?”

  Judith, her face etched with concern, turned to Renie. “We should go backstage. I need to know if any of them will be coming back to the B&B or if they’ll be keeping watch at the hospital or…”

  Renie waved away Judith’s suggestion. “Not a chance. It’ll be a zoo back there. Security, emergency types, the press. Somebody will call, I’m sure.”

  A single word had caught Judith’s attention. “The press? Don’t you know the music critic, Melissa Bargroom?”

  “Sure,” replied Renie as their seatmates in the center box swirled about them. “So what?”

  “She’d know what’s happening. Why don’t we try to find her?”

  Renie rolled her eyes toward the farthest reaches of the opera house. “She’s doing her job. She’s got a deadline to meet. We’d never catch her in this…”

  But Judith was already pressing her way up the steps that led to the nearest exit. With a resigned sigh, Renie trotted along behind her cousin. “‘Easygoing,’” Renie muttered. “That’s what they always called her when we were kids. Ha!”