“Uh-oh, you and David—the SOB baritone that D.J. warned about? You and he performed together? How did D.J. react to your going there to Chicago? Especially since you’d be appearing with THE BARITONE. The David Fogel you spoke of.”
How very clever of Serena to put the two together, Eva thought. That her close college friend, David Fogel, was now identified as D.J.’s hated BARITONE, Eva had to concede. It was public record and there was no denying it.
“I called D.J. in Munich to give him the good news, that I had work but it was in Chicago. Needless to say, he was furious when he learned which opera company had hired me. At the time, he just couldn’t see beyond his own selfish needs and desires. And fears, I suppose. Anyway, after that call, I didn’t hear from him for over a week. When I called him at his flat, the answering machine was always on. I had one week to prepare for Mimi’s understudy but I already knew most of her lyrics, having performed La Boheme twenty times in Great Britain and hearing Mimi’s role sung so much. At the same time, I had to learn Violetta’s part for La Traviata. I was a little overwhelmed, having to learn two roles at the same time. I’d never done that before.”
Eva went over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and gazed out at the swirling snow. That winter in Chicago, heavy with snowfall, made her recall the enormous challenges of joining the Chicago City Opera. That she’d measured up to their faith in her made her flush with pride. Even today.
“But I got up to speed quickly and basically just had to learn the staging of Boheme, which is always different. Chicago had a brilliant stage director and the setting of La Boheme was the Depression of the thirties. La Traviata had been changed to the Victorian era and I had to wear a bustle for that role. It was exciting to see how such famous operas could be reworked for today’s audiences.”
Eva snapped her attention back to the heart of the matter. Her voice dipped in sorrow and remorse.
“D.J. did send a bouquet of roses on the opening night of Boheme…even though I was just the understudy. A month later, I think, after La Traviata had begun its run and I’d stepped into the role of Violetta…”
Eva looked away from the first snowfall of the winter. That was when she loved New York, when it was blanketed with snow. Like a cocoon of spun sugar and silence. That must have been what D.J. was seeing that day he’d sent that horrible card. Silently falling snow. It’s beautiful when you’re with someone you love. When you’re not, it’s just a cold, lonely place…
“Anyway, I received a card from D.J., a German card of friendship.” Eva drew a deep breath and sighed. “Inside the card, however, were three photos of him and a lovely girl with short, platinum blonde hair. Apparently taken earlier that fall, one showed him on a motor scooter with the girl behind him, holding him around the waist, her face pressed against his back. The second one showed the two of them holding each other in front of some cathedral, and the third had their arms intertwined as they drank from beer steins. He looked like he was having a great time, like he was smitten with the girl as she was with him. They were very hurtful photos and I thought it was so unlike D.J. to be intentionally cruel. But there they were. His way of breaking it off.”
She locked stares with Serena and what she saw in the girl’s young face was a mixture of pity and empathy. Probably, she’d been hurt in very much the same way. Maybe every woman has been. Eva reminded herself, she certainly had no corner on heartbreak.
“I must admit, Serena, I lost it. I just spewed venom all over the place. All the pain and grief and disappointment and heartache over those past three months just exploded inside me. I telephoned him, got his answering machine again and called him every vile name in the book, every lowdown Texas and Spanish cussword I could think of, and then some.” She covered her face with her hands, bent over at the waist, and groaned. “I could die every time I think of it—flipping out like I did. So shameful!”
“I don’t blame you one bit, Eva. I would’ve sent him a sack of shit in the mail,” declared Serena hotly before covering her mouth. They both smiled.
“D.J. called back, claiming he didn’t send those photos, that they were just publicity photos for Die OperWelt magazine, they were doing an exclusive on him and two other Fledermaus principals, that he and Annick were just friends, blah, blah, blah. We both said a lot of terrible things to each other in the heat of the moment. I called him a liar and cheater and he called me an insanely jealous bitch who’s never satisfied with anything he does. That I was probably already sleeping with David, that I’d always loved the baritone, not him—of course, he’d already found out that I was bunking on David’s couch until I could move into my furnished studio in December. Anyway, we broke up on the phone. I took off my engagement ring and threw it in the suitcase I was living out of. Months later, I put it on my right hand and have worn it ever since.”
“Did he ever call back?”
She shook her head, her mood turning glum. “I called him about a week later, caught him one late morning, Munich time. A girl answered, said in heavily accented English that he was in the shower. When I asked her who she was, she said her name was Annick. I told her to tell him, I was through with his sorry ass. That he could go to everlasting hell, that I never wanted to see or talk to him again.”
Steepling her hands together, Eva held them against her lips. IT WAS OVER. That impossible, star crossed, glorious love affair was over.
Serena looked stricken, too. “Ohh, I feel soo bad for you. Not him, though. What a royal jerk he turned out to be! Is this part about the breakup in his memoirs? If it is, I’d love to hear HIS side of the story…if it’s okay with you, Eva. It’s always interesting to hear how the guy justifies his cheating.”
She hesitated a moment. “Alright.” She picked up the book, rifled through the chapters until her fingers found the passage.
* * * *
Because the Germans still hated the Russians, I suppose, they didn’t seem to mind when I came on stage opening night of Die Fledermaus and played a slightly inebriated Count Orlofsky. They were happy to see him played as a drunken buffoon. Only thing was, I WAS a little drunk. After a damned, shitty phone message from Miss V, I went on a little bender. Opening night, I was hung over. Then, to overcome the anxiety that always overtook me before a performance, I had two shots of whiskey instead of my usual one. I went on and played Orlofsky loose and funny.
The Munich critics called my performance “hilarious, reckless, brilliant, original, exciting…HA, HA! If only they’d known the truth—the cast did. They were horrified. My director was furious, threatened to fire me—until he read the reviews.
I sent the reviews home with Mama, who’d flown in weeks before with a couple of her lady friends to sightsee and to be there for the first performance of Die Fledermaus. She’d come along on a promo shoot for a celebrity magazine and had contented
herself with taking her own photos, which she no doubt shared with all the society gals back in Austin. She was so inspired by Die Fledermaus that she went home and formed the James and Elizabeth McKay Foundation for the Arts. This Foundation gives grants to young, aspiring singers and actors as well as sponsoring productions which highlight the talents of those performers. I thought it was an excellent idea and it continues to exist to this day. My mother and I both serve on the Board of Directors and I am the Foundation’s official Creative Director.
Strange how life is. My motto has always been: You might not have a long time so you might as well have a good time. The men in the McKay family generally didn’t live past fifty or sixty, so my brother Matt and I’d decided to make the most of it while we could. As my professional life took off, my personal life took a dive.
Miss V joined the baritone in Chicago when a role opened up for her. I knew she was staying at his flat, for her mother had told me she was forwarding all the mail I’d sent her to his address. I can’t express what a slap in the face THAT was, knowing how I felt about that son-uva-bitch. She could’ve stayed in a hotel, I would’ve sent
money to her, given her a loan, anything to help her out. Instead, she did the equivalent of spitting in my face. All those months together, she just flushed down the john.
At least, that’s how I saw the situation at the time. When she accused me of sleeping with that model behind her back, I was at a loss. The only ones who took photos that day were the photographer, my mother and a few of her friends. I thought maybe someone was playing a practical joke, that maybe even the damned baritone had gotten his hands on a copy of the magazine and had sent them to her. At any rate, Miss V wasn’t about to believe any explanation I could offer her.
We quarreled—no, it was a blow out. Got down and dirty and fought like two wildcats. All the passion I felt for her erupted. It was bad. Really bad.
I decided to do what she’d accused me of doing. That was the nail on the coffin. When the girl—I can’t even recall her name now—said that Eva called and repeated the part of the message she had understood, I realized it was over. I knew the jealous Miss V was never going to forgive me.
I cancelled plans to fly back to Texas for Christmas, thinking what was the point if she wasn’t going to see me, and instead went skiing in Garmisch with some of the cast members from Die Fledermaus. When she didn’t send back the engagement ring, I called her and said some nasty things, like she could sell it and use the cash to buy some decent clothes for her poor wetback family. That was unforgiveable, I’ll admit, but I was missing her so much and was just so damned furious. She could’ve been with me, skiing in Garmisch, having a good time. Instead, she was living with HIM.
Upon my return, I received a kind of Dear John letter only it wasn’t a letter. It was a news clipping from the Chicago Tribune. Just a black-and-white photo with a paragraph of print. Miss V and the baritone, the leading singers in Chicago City Opera’s production of La Traviata, had eloped, gone to Vegas and gotten married. Found out later that the SOB had sent it without Miss V’s knowledge. Didn’t matter. It was a twisting knife in the gut.
From that point on, I lived my motto to the fullest: Have a good time no matter what. Move on and don’t look back.
I was pretty damn proud of my cavalier attitude although I think other people saw through it, especially when I got drunk and belligerent and nearly got shot by an East German guard at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin. An Aussie friend of mine, one of the basses in Fledermaus, saved my ass that time. Hugh and I became close friends and I got to return the favor and see him through a really bad patch a year later.
Anyway, I burned every photo and letter from her and decided, with a kiss-my-ass attitude, that was that. That chapter was forever closed. Good riddance and all that!
Boy, how wrong a man can be…
* * * *
“His MOTHER sent you those photos to break you two up, didn’t she?” Serena’s eyes were bulging with outrage.
Eva nodded sadly. “Yes, years later she confessed to me that she’d slipped the photos she’d had developed into the card he was about to send to me and mailed it without his realizing the photos were in there. She never would admit it to D.J. and I never told him that she’d been the one. He wouldn’t have believed me anyway because if he had one blind spot, it was his mother. She could do no wrong, she’d been his support during all the tough times with his father and he adored her. It was water under the bridge by then and I saw no point in destroying D.J.’s regard for her. To this day, he doesn’t know what she did.”
“Gosh,” Serena exhaled.
“Seeing it through his eyes, years later after all the rancor had passed, I could understand how he felt when he learned I was staying with David. He had no idea that I had no money to get my own place and…well, all the other circumstances involved. Just as I didn’t understand HIS circumstances. The separation soured us, to say the least. Soured our relationship and maybe, just maybe, we were too young and self-absorbed to appreciate what we had. Our careers took precedence over everything.”
Slamming the book shut, she rose to turn up the heat, feeling chilled again. Chilled to her very heart and soul.
The reporter’s sympathetic look had vanished and in its place an incredulous stare followed her. Yes, Eva had to admit, she’d married a man she wasn’t IN LOVE WITH and yes, there was plenty of blame to spread around. Perhaps Eva deserved to bear the brunt of it. What she did was inexcusable, hurtful, unfair and just plain stupid. Still, you had to be there and in her shoes to fully understand.
“And yes, I did elope with David to Vegas. Don’t ask me why. I didn’t even know at the time why I did it. It was a rebound marriage in the ugliest sense of the word, so unfair to D.J. and so unfair to David as well. It was truly, Serena, the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. A huge mistake.”
The reporter gave her a candid look, one that said, Yep, I’ve been there, too. Eva slanted her a remorseful smile, then glanced out of the window. The snowfall had quickened to flurries, making Eva wonder if her flight to Texas would be cancelled and she’d be forced to remain in New York another day or two.
She couldn’t. She had to get home!
Chapter Six
Feeling restless, Eva stood up and began walking around the hotel suite’s living room. The reporter, sensing her mood perhaps, remained silent. An ornate mirror in the entry way drew her attention and she paused in front of it. Something about it evoked another memory. Another time and place. Another ornately decorated mirror that drew out her emotions.
I—EvaVilla, the ingénue—stared at my face in the baroque mirror, listening for the familiar musical motif to begin. Involuntarily, a memory filtered through: D.J. was standing close behind me, wearing only his briefs. I was in my panties and sweater, braless, and he was taking full advantage, nestling in close, caressing my bare skin under the wool sweater. His long, slender hands reached my breasts and began to stroke both slowly in gentle, tender, circular caresses. Meanwhile, he was nibbling at the side of my neck, nuzzling away a lock of my hair with his chin.
“Watch out, Lestat the lusty vampire beckons you to return to his bed.”
D.J. had just read Anne Rice’s Interview of a Vampire and seemed to be caught up in a fantasy of his own. We were in his newly rented flat in Munich, just minutes before I took that phone call, breaking the news of my father’s death. Ignorant of all that was about to transpire, I giggled, resisting the pleasurable chills his lips and hands evoked and—
“Eva DARLING! We’re WAITING!”
Snapping to with a jolt, I whirled around and faced downstage. Clayton, the director, arms akimbo and a black cigarette-holder dangling from the side of his mouth, was standing to the side of the maestro. Both men were frowning but only the maestro was glowering. I glanced around the stage, mortified at my break in concentration. That had never happened before.
We were in the middle of Act I, in our first full dress rehearsal. The only missing elements were the performers’ wigs and makeup. I stepped back, forgetting the wire bustle under my gown and the long train behind me. I stumbled. I was having to learn how to move differently in these Victorian era clothes, as indeed were the male singers. Most of them were still chafing under their stiff, high collars and narrow-cut trousers. We were all walking woodenly on stage, trying to adjust to our period costumes, but that was not the immediate problem.
I’d missed my musical cue, so tuned out was I but a moment ago. Appalled at myself, I gushed an apology to Clayton and everyone within earshot of me. David, dressed as Alfredo in this scene, walked up to me and whispered in my ear.
“Eva, this is your big chance. Your first leading role. Don’t blow it.”
I looked up at him, then quickly away. My new husband. We’d been married barely a month. David had been instrumental in getting me the understudy position, and took pride in my substitute performance as Mimi when the principal soprano was ill. He as much as reaffirmed his confidence in my abilities as an actress and singer. Now, I was on the brink of disappointing him, the entire ensemble and most of all, myself.
“I’m so sorry, Clayton,” I said to our director, “That mirror distracted me—it won’t happen again, I promise.”
Clayton, a slightly built man in his forties, approached the stage and pointed to my right. He was obviously upset.
“Everyone, take ten. Eva, darling, backstage left.”
A few members of the cast groaned. Every delay meant a longer rehearsal period and a longer day with no overtime pay. I tucked my head down, picked up my skirts and threaded my way through the drapery. It wasn’t just my embarrassment; I was alarmed by my lack of focus.
Two months had passed since my phone call to D.J.’s flat, since hearing the girl’s voice tell me that D.J. was in the shower. Knowing that D.J. was living up to his college reputation as a womanizer cut me to the very core of my being. When he didn’t call back to beg my forgiveness, I’d had to reckon with the fact that our romance was truly finished. The result being, my nerves and concentration were shot, my emotions scraped raw.
To make matters worse, I’d gone and married my good friend, David Fogel, on the rebound. I was beginning to question my sanity at that point. It left me shaken and miserable.
Within a minute, I was standing next to the short, wiry director and wishing the earth would swallow me whole. He had taken the lit cigarette out of his mouth, ever mindful of the effects of smoke upon his singers, and had handed the holder to an assistant hovering nearby. He was wringing his hands with worry.
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