Born to Sing, no. 1

by Donna Del Oro

  By the second half of the song, I’d surrendered to the phantom’s seductive voice and sensual hands. I’d let him move his big hands down my arms, around my midriff until they were brushing down my hips, clasping me to him as he sang the last verse. My head lolled against his hard chest as I inhaled a whiff of musky cologne…and sweat.

  D.J. McKay was nervous. The realization made me smile inwardly. He should be, I thought; if he blows this rehearsal, Prof Nits will never let him solo again. Still, I was just as nervous. And it wasn’t because another soprano wanted Christine’s part for the concert. Everyone was aware that local talent agents came to UT’s drama and music productions. One of them could launch a singer’s or actor’s career in ways one could never guess. Or one could relegate you to second or third rate regional opera companies.

  No, I was nervous because frankly, D.J. made me embarrassingly horny. It’d taken me a year to finally admit to myself that I was wildly attracted to this swaggering, spoiled rich kid. Then another few months to get tired of hiding it.

  “Fine, that’ll do, D.J.” Professor Woronicz had been holding one fist against his mouth during most of the song, his forehead furrowed in a perpetual frown. “We’ll have to work on your phrasing and timing…but not bad for a first run through.”

  “Thanks, Professor. Did you think the roving hands were over the top?” Although D.J. was asking the professor, he was leveling his vivid blue eyes on my face. “That’s how I see the phantom. A real frustrated horn-dog. When he gets the chance, he’s going to feel her up before her trance wears off.”

  A titter rippled around the class, positioned all over the first two rows of the campus music hall.

  “Yeah, one demented dirty ol’ man!” one of the guys hollered.

  “That’s D.J’s excuse!” another yelled.

  The older, silver-haired prof shuffled some music sheets at his work table on the stage, already distracted, ignoring their sophomoric comments.

  “You’ll have to ask Eva. If she doesn’t mind—this is a student production and naturally everyone expects a young interpretation. If you want to sex it up, go for it. The tenor I saw in London was creating a tormented but sensual character of the phantom role. And you certainly need to make your gestures larger than life for the audience. But I think a heavier baritone is more suitable for the phantom. Let’s give him a more sinister sound. D.J., you look and sound more like a young Raoul. Let’s have the Christine and Raoul duet. Your two voices together might be quite melodious. Frank, you have the music, don’t you? The ‘All I Ask of You’ number?”

  I’d already turned to the pianist, pretending to feel unmoved by it all. Whatever. Whether he sang the Phantom or Raoul, I was going to have to get used to singing with D.J. and deal with reining in my emotions. It was too easy to lose concentration and slip out of character, singing so close to him. Prof Nits was determined to feature him, no matter what, it appeared. And I certainly wasn’t going to let D.J. know that I was attracted to him. Girls threw themselves at him all over campus. I would have died rather than join that flock of dizzy-headed gold-diggers following him around, hoping to trap him into marriage.

  I was looking over the sheet music when I felt fingertips graze the back of my arm. Even a simple touch from him gave me the shivers.

  “So was it over the top? The touching?” D.J. was asking me softly.

  I nonchalantly shrugged, feigning little interest.

  “It suits the part. The phantom’s seducing her…or trying to. She’s innocent and naive and lets him. It doesn’t bother me. Either way…”

  “This duet, y’know, between Raoul and Christine should have them kissing at the end,” D.J. said, smirking. His fingers were still on my arms and so I shook them off with an abrupt turn of my body. It didn’t take a genius to know what he was up to.

  “You actually came prepared today?” I asked sarcastically, “And no, I don’t think it’s necessary, D.J. All the touching, I mean.” I said this as coolly as I could manage. He was goading me, teasing me into embarrassing myself but I was too clever to fall for it. I’d been in love before, or thought I had. I knew the wiles and seductive power of men and their predatory ways. Or thought I did.

  “How can you say that? They’re declaring eternal love to each other—’let me be your shelter, let me be your light’. You don’t call those declarations of eternal love? What DO you call love, Eva?”

  I was taken aback by his question, spoken so intently that only Brad, the pianist, could hear. The professor was speaking to David, one of the baritones vying for the Phantom role, now that it was vacant, and the rest of the class had broken up into their individual groups, each one beginning to prepare its concert piece. As usual, Prof Nits’ Advanced Voice class was a melange of controlled chaos and noisy vocalizations. Somehow, out of all this apparent confusion, a brilliant concert would emerge. I never understood how.

  “What do I call love? I have no idea.” I turned away, dismissing him. “Brad, are you ready?” I asked the graduate student, a talented pianist whose part-time job was to accompany the divos and prima donnas of Advanced Voice. How he must’ve hated us! We were all prima donnas in a way, for we had the best voices at UT and therefore assumed the world was holding its breath, waiting for our debuts. Later, we discovered how small a world the campus really was, and how talented the competition was out there in the real world.

  “Anytime you two lovebirds are,” Brad muttered. “Professor?”

  Prof Nits held up a finger in the midst of his earnest conference with David, his leading baritone. I’d dated David a couple of times and luckily for me, there wasn’t any physical chemistry between us. We were good friends and I wanted to keep it that way. I didn’t need any complications in my life, certainly didn’t need a Casanova like D.J. McKay screwing things up for me. I had to stay focused to get through this difficult senior year. Beyond June, the world of professional opera awaited. So I hoped, anyway.

  “Eva Villalobos, why are you ignoring me? I think we should kiss at the end of this number. Are you with me or not?” D.J. growled gently, a sly twinkle in his deep blue eyes.

  Until the professor hushed up the class, I had no choice but to respond to this skirt-chasing, wannabe leading man.

  “Fine, fine, whatever. Just don’t overdo it, okay? No tongue, for Pete’s sake.”

  He leaned over me, his face inches from mine. “Huh, kissing you’ll be like kissing cold marble. What they say about you is true, you’re an icy, prissy prude with a bug up her ass—”

  I gasped, flattening myself against the side of the piano to escape him. Brad snorted a short laugh and started tinkling the keys, honky-tonk style. He broke into a burlesque version of “Some Enchanted Evening”.

  D.J. was turning this rehearsal into a personal grudge-match. Fortunately, no one else but Brad seemed to notice.

  “Vain and vulgar, too,” I retorted coldly, lifting my chin, “A gabacho.”

  He stuck his face into mine and lowered his voice. His eyes were angry slits. I wanted to punch him in the face.

  “Don’t talk Mexican with me. I know what gabacho means. We’ve had Mexicans working for us for years. I hear your daddy raises dirt and your brother raises the tooting kind of grass.”

  D.J. was imitating a guy taking a marijuana drag. Now incensed—no one impugned my family’s dignity without a fight although most of what he’d said was true— I squinted up at this offensive upstart, laying on the country drawl as thickly as peanut butter. He was making fun of me but I’d never bow under the hurt that lanced through me just then. So my parents were hippie farmers, barely ekeing out a living raising hay, a few stud horses and Mexican donkeys on their sixty-five acres. So what? So I subsisted on a scholarship and two part-time jobs and wore three year-old, torn jeans and tee shirts most of the time. So what? So I was a Latina hick-from-the-sticks, so what?

  I lifted my right leg and began swinging my foot threateningly.

  “You back off and apologize, D.J., or
so help me, I’ll turn you into a falsetto. I was raised with a mean older brother so don’t think I can’t aim a good kick.”

  He widened his eyes in mock terror but did withdraw a foot or two. His expression changed in a flash, from smug to contrite. I think he’d seen how much he hurt me.

  “C’mon, Eva, it was just a joke. Let me buy you lunch, Evita…as an apology.”

  Well, that surprised me. Insulting me was his way of coming on to me? If he used that ploy with all his girls, how’d he get such a reputation as a lady-killer?

  “Save your breath, Mr. McKay. I wouldn’t take food from you if I was skin-and-bones starving,” I drawled dulcetly.

  Not too soon, Professor Woronicz called the class to order. A minute later, D.J. and I were Christine and Raoul, pledging undying love and devotion. In full character, we gazed into each other’s eyes, holding each other lightly, his hands on my upper arms, mine barely grazing his chest, alternating singing our lyrics.

  We ended together, blending the melody together with our very different voices in double harmony, singing: “Anywhere you go, let me go, too. Love me, that’s all I ask of you.”

  I stayed in character a moment longer, entranced by Christine’s and Raoul’s love and heartfelt words of devotion. Christine believed it with her whole heart. She could trust Raoul and love him for all eternity. He was the man for her, the love of her life. Staring into his blue eyes, I knew Christine could have no other man. In his face, Christine saw her own joyous love reflected there. And so, in complete rapture, Christine and Raoul came together and kissed. The kiss lengthened and deepened. My arms encircled his neck, his tightened around my waist. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the sensual fog.

  I stopped thinking as Christine and returned to myself, but the music still resonated deeply inside me. A lovely, stirring melody. This man tasted lovely, too. His mouth was smooth and warm and wet. We didn’t French kiss but rather explored each other’s mouth gently. His hard, lanky body fit mine like a perfectly contoured glove. We were both tall and slim, long legged. The way we fit together was like two puzzle pieces, interlocking hardness and softness, almost as if we were made to fit together. I felt I could stay this way forever…then I remembered who I was and what I was doing. I was kissing NOT RAOUL…BUT D.J. MCKAY. Everything I despised and resented in my little, biased worldview.

  Ever so slowly, like emerging from a drugged sleep, I heard the prolonged silence, which was suddenly broken by resounding waves of laughter. I ended the kiss and pulled away, not before recognizing the stunned look on D.J.’s face. A flush burned through his tanned cheeks. My own head and neck were on fire.

  “Well, that’ll work,” Prof Nits remarked matter-of-factly to the class as the laughter subsided, “We’ve found our Christine and Raoul. Though this interpretation, I must admit, is a bit—what did you call it, D.J.?—over the top.”

  More laughter. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s rehearse the ‘Masquerade’ number…Everyone on stage. Hank, come over and block this number for us. Frank, the music…”

  D.J. and I were still holding each other by the arms. Absolutely stunned. Shocked, we jumped away but our eyes never left each other’s faces. He looked stricken and surprised, like I’d slapped him without warning. My head felt like the top of my skull was going to blow off. My heart was beating a mile a minute. My ears were ringing.

  Oh, shit, I thought. I’m in big, big trouble.

  Chapter Two

  Eva found herself laughing. By now, she’d discarded her loafers and had curled her feet under her. They were drinking their second cups of coffee. Out of habit, Eva placed her coffee on the coffee table, drinking only half the cup. Coffee wasn’t very good for the voice; it constricted the veins and capillaries. However, it was a good source of antioxidants. Oh well, better stick to water or herbal tea.

  Oh, right. She wasn’t going to be singing professionally anymore. She’d forgotten. Force of habit, born of years of watching her diet, nursing her vocal apparatus like her very heart depended on it.

  “So that was the beginning of our romance, our love affair. That one song in Advanced Voice rehearsal. Oh, the gossip that flew after that. We actually didn’t begin seeing each other for another month, not ‘til after the concert. I don’t know why. I think we were afraid of a train wreck. We both knew we were on a speeding train…going where, we didn’t know. But somehow, we’d gotten on board. Quite involuntarily.”

  The girl reporter was gazing at the hotel window, a faraway look in her eyes. Ah, the girl knew what she was talking about. Anyone who’d been in love would know it.

  She smiled at the girl and pointed to an eight-by-ten framed photo on the side table. Eva carried it with her wherever she traveled. A reminder of the beginning, it was. A lovely reminder.

  “That’s us, D.J. and me as Raoul and Christine. The professor had promotional photos of all of us taken. They were displayed all over campus. D.J. gave one to his family, the McKays, his way of breaking them into his new world. And maybe breaking me into theirs, I think. Letting his family know that we were a couple.”

  “Was that difficult? I mean, since your family backgrounds were so different.” Serena looked askance as if she thought she might have unintentionally offended Eva by not mentioning their difference in nationalities.

  “I had no idea what I was getting myself into, believe me. Our worlds were indeed different. Not racially different. My family had European ancestry despite the Mexican stigma. You know, the ‘wetback’ stigma. Later, when D.J. found out that we could trace our ancestry back to Captain De Anza’s Spanish-born soldier, he brought it up whenever we were around his parents. I’m sure they got sick of it.”

  “McKay. Must be Irish,” Serena said.

  “Tough, street Irish, they were. They knew their pedigree wasn’t loftier than mine. Well, except for D.J.’s mother. Anyway, D.J. tried to prepare me but…you know, in some parts of this country those socio-economic differences don’t matter. In Texas, it does. A family’s history and class really matter. If you have an ancestor who fought at the Alamo or if you have D.A.R. membership, your status rises. How long a family’s been in a particular county, the family’s reputation, and so on—all of this matters. Whether they’re churchgoers or not, for example. Whether they’ve been in trouble with the law or not. Whether they’re financially responsible or not. Not many people outside of that state realize this. People who’ve lived in rural counties, especially in the South, know this to be true.”

  Eva stood up, smoothed down her merino-wool trousers. The matching sweater, trousers and short jacket she’d bought at Bergdorf’s that week might be warm enough for Texas in the winter but here in New York, if she went outside, she’d freeze her ass off. She walked over to the thermostat and turned it up, then went over to pick up the framed photo of her and D.J. as Christine and Raoul. He was such a gorgeous young man!

  “In March of our senior year, D.J. invited the whole group of us to his family’s ranch for a birthday barbecue bash. He was twenty-five. He’d fooled around his first two years and had taken five years to graduate to my four. Before that, he’d worked on his family’s ranch.” Eva paused to smile impishly. “I always teased him about that. He was an agribusiness major because his father wanted him to take over the ranch business someday. To keep his daddy happy, he took all these classes that he simply hated.” She shook her head at the wonder of it. “You just don’t defy a rich, Texas daddy—at least, not D.J’s. His three older brothers all had important positions in the McKay business empire and D.J. wasn’t going to be a sissy opera singer. If you know what I mean.”

  “Uh-oh,” commented Emily, grimacing. “Is this off the record, Miss Villa? It’s okay with me if you—”

  Eva pondered. “Well, with the exception of D.J.’s father, they’re all still alive. It’s a large family and they’re still powerful people. But D.J. already covered most of his conflicts with his father in his memoir. He did leave out my clashes with the ‘Dragon
Lady’, however. Not that I blame him. She is his mother. “

  Serena smiled and settled back in her tufted, overstuffed chair, sipping thoughtfully. Eva took a drink from her tall glass of water.

  Across the room on the far wall a lithograph of a woodsy landscape hung. Gradually, Eva let herself be pulled into those woods, recalling a similar, privately owned forest, dwarfing a mile-long driveway. The road to her parents’ farm was graveled and full of potholes; the McKays’ driveway was asphalted its entire mile. That’s what first struck her that day.

  * * * *

  We’d passed the gate which bore the Circle M logo in wrought iron. Brian, one of their Drama-major friends and D.J.’s best buddy, actually clocked 1.4 miles on the odometer.

  “No shit! Hoo-eee, these people must have beaucoup bucks!” a Voice major from Louisiana gushed.

  Cheryl, my best friend and roommate, elbowed me in the side. “Girl, have you struck gold! I’d latch onto this guy and hold on. Get pregnant if you hafta but get this dude to marry you. You won’t hafta work a day. Forget opera and just get married!”

  I blew air out my cheeks. Everyone was assuming too much about our relationship. Just because we were having lunch together every day, taking walks on campus whenever I didn’t have to work (I gave piano lessons to children and worked the evening shift at the campus bookstore). It had gotten out that we were dating every Saturday night. But just because we were seen by the Voice students as a singing duo didn’t mean we were getting engaged.

  “We’re just friends…more or less,” I reminded the car full of friends, “I’m helping him with his French and Italian. You know we’re doing Cosi Fan Tutti in May. And he wants to do an audition tape with arias from La Boheme, Carmen, Manon and Rigoletto.”