Born to Sing, no. 1

by Donna Del Oro

  The Merry Widow. One of Franz Lehar’s most famous waltzes. You heard it in movie musical scores, as the backdrop of romantic comedies, elevator music, wherever the waltz was enjoyed.

  “Yes, that’s it. Schmaltzy but a real crowd pleaser. For both men and women.” Nate was nodding by now but still looking confused at my abrupt change in topic.

  “Nate, I have a plan and you’re part of it. My mother, too. She doesn’t know it yet, but the McKay Foundation for the Arts is going to produce…in the spring…Lehar’s The Merry Widow. I’m not Creative Director for nothing. I’ll insist on it. My mother’s Foundation has been searching for a spring musical, an operetta. The Merry Widow’s perfect. I’ve heard there’s a good English version, and it’s just the kind of thing Americans would like. I’m going to sing the Count Danilo role and I want you to persuade Eva to play the widow. I’ll need four months—yes, one to rehearse and three to take it on tour. May through August of next year. We’ll go all over the States.”

  My mind was racing with the idea and the hope that I might be able to win her back, just as Danilo wins back the woman of his dreams, the young widow, Hannah. My hopes were rising like a giddy helium balloon. Nate was regarding me as though I’d lost whatever mind I had left, however. All the quickly tossed out American colloquialisms had thoroughly confused Gianni, and he wore deep frowns as he swivelled his head back and forth from Nate to me. Nate didn’t appear totally pleased.

  “Why, for God’s sake, D.J.? You have an opera already scheduled for the spring in Rome—”

  “No, I’m done by May fifth. Clear the rest of May for The Merry Widow. I can do that recording as soon as I finish here in Naples. I’ll squeeze it in, Nate, I promise.”

  “How am I, D.J., going to persuade Eva to go on tour with The Merry Widow? She has a contract with the Houston Grand Opera. Not to mention the fact that, maybe when she hears you’ll be playing the lead, she won’t take it.” Nate raised both hands in supplication. “D.J., please, come to your senses. Let it go.”

  I pondered a moment. Good point. She might hate me, might never want to set eyes on me again. My balloon threatened to deflate.

  “No doubt she needs money. She’s probably still supporting that family of hers in East Texas…yep, that’s it. We’ll make her an offer she can’t refuse.”

  Gianni suddenly cracked a knowing smile. “I see that movie, The Godfather. Make her offer she cannot refuse. I like that.”

  I turned to Gianni, my good buddy, and smiled. Yep, it was time to play dirty.

  “How would ya like to play The Merry Widow all over the U.S.? We’ll need a live orchestra. A horn player.”

  He beamed. “Ma Certo! D.J., but why you do this?”

  “I need to convince a certain woman to give me a second chance. I probably don’t deserve it but I’ve got to try.” I looked over at Nate. “That’s it, Nate. She mustn’t know who’s singing the male lead. Not until rehearsals start and the contracts are signed.”

  Despite his puzzlement, Gianni laughed. He was caught up in the sudden switch of moods—from hostile to ebullient. Nate just shook his head and looked skeptical.

  * * * *

  Eva closed her suitcase lid and glanced over at Serena, the book of D.J.’s memoirs still open in the girl’s hands. A broad, wry smile lit up her face.

  “I think I finally know where this is going. Oh my god, did Darren McKay win you back?!”

  Eva conceded with a nod, “He never really lost me, but do you think life is THAT easy to predict? Someone once said that sopranos—maybe he meant, divas—are like weathervanes. Unpredictable and fickle.”

  “Then he DIDN’T?” Serena looked thoroughly confused.

  “Well, I fought his charms with all my might. When I saw him again—it was like those five years after we broke up never happened.”

  “Oh, I want to hear how you two got back together,” breathed the reporter, sinking to the edge of the bed. She’d clicked her recorder back on.

  “As they say, the course of true love never does run smooth, isn’t that right? Oh yes, Shakespeare. He said everything that had to be said about love, and he was SO correct.” She paused as her eyes caught a glimpse of a large bag on the boudoir chair. It held some gifts she was bringing home for the children. And her husband. She’d missed them all terribly.

  Eva’s hands immediately rose to her head in exaggerated exasperation. All four of her suitcases were full to the brim. How was she ever going to get that bag and her carry-on and her large purse on the plane?

  “I forgot to pack the gifts!” The diva looked at Serena, who was momentarily distracted by Eva’s minor crisis. “What size are you?” Eva asked the reporter.

  “Eight.”

  “I’m a ten. I have something that might fit you, if you’d like to see it. I’ll give it to you and then I’ll have room in that suitcase over there for the gifts.”

  The girl smiled and nodded, then looked doubtful as the two women lugged the heavy suitcase on top of the bed. Eva knew Serena was wondering what could be so large as to take up so much space, something that she’d be willing to part with. When the older woman opened the suitcase lid and spread open the cloth covers, Serena exclaimed in delight.

  Eva pulled out a silver-fox coat and shook it out. The shawl collar and arms fell into place and the silver-gray satin lining shone. The fur was long, exquisitely cut, with dark striations in counterpoint to the thick, white fur.

  “I can’t!” Serena gushed breathlessly.

  “Yes, you can. Try it on.”

  Eva held it up for her as the reporter shrugged into the sleeves. It fit perfectly and she twirled around, running her hands down the luxurious fur.

  “I can’t, Eva. It’s too…lovely. Too costly. Don’t you want to give it to your daughter?”

  That notion evoked a chuckle from Eva. “Sara? My daughter’s in college in California. No, she wouldn’t wear it. Besides, her father dotes on her, gives her whatever she wants. And I don’t need it at home. I just brought it for the New York weather. An opera singer’s expected to look glamorous in public but furs and diamonds are not really ME. My husband prefers me in denim and tees, in all truth. Although when I come to New York in the winter, especially with D.J., I do wear the mink he gave me.”

  “Thank you, Eva. You’re too kind.”

  Eva hushed the girl with a wave of her hand.

  “I wasn’t that spring of ninety-two. Kind, I mean. I must confess, I gave D.J. a REALLY BAD time. Not that he didn’t deserve it, tricking me into that tour of The Merry Widow. I’d grown to like my independence. I guess I had a man’s attitude by then. A high-maintenance guy like D.J., one with Casanova tendencies, was the LAST thing on earth I needed. I had my daughter, the kind of pure love that a child brings you. I thought that Sara’s love was ALL I needed or wanted for the rest of my life. My career at the Houston Opera was going well. I was twenty-eight, thought I knew it all and had it all. I didn’t need a man to complete my life. So I thought…”

  At Emily’s questioning look, she added, “Read on. Perhaps getting D.J.’s perspective on our fighting and loving that spring, while touring with The Merry Widow, will give you a better idea.”

  Eva seized the bag of gifts and began stuffing them into the empty space left by the departed coat. Just the act of doing that reminded her of those months of touring and constant packing and unpacking. THAT truly was a headache but—OH! What a life-changing time that spring turned out to be!

  She’d learned something that spring and summer. If it has tires or testicles, it’s gonna give you trouble!

  Chapter Eight

  Serena opened the book of Darren McKay’s memoirs again. At Eva’s urging, she turned to Chapter Sixteen and began to read aloud while Eva finished her packing.

  “By the way,” Eva said, “in this chapter he reveals my stage name for the first time in his memoirs. I asked him about this and he said he wanted to keep it a mystery until the chapter on The Merry Widow.” Eva shrugged.
“My husband’s idea, not mine.”

  “Hmmm,” muttered Serena before launching into the chapter.

  That spring of ‘92, the Free World and the once Soviet Eastern Bloc was celebrating the demise of the Soviet Union. The Iron Curtain was gone. Also, the Berlin Wall, Checkpoint Charlie and East German guards. It was like the world as we knew it had shifted on its axis and everyone was having to adjust to a new way of seeing things. Communist Czechoslovakia was now a democratic republic. I’d be going there to Prague the following fall to reprise the role of Lieutenant Pinkerton in a joint American-Czech production of Madame Butterfly. I wasn’t renewing my contract with Napoli for the fall season because I wanted new challenges, a new city and country. The Pinkerton role was my concession, for I was promised the leading role in Faust following Butterfly.

  Damn, life was strange!

  But probably no stranger than what I was doing that spring with The Merry Widow. Although the operetta was a vehicle for smaller, regional houses, I thought it an excellent springboard for the McKay Foundation’s touring operetta.

  I arrived at the rehearsal hall ten minutes before nine and spent several minutes meeting the stage director, Travis Ball, and a couple of other principal singers who’d arrived early. It was May tenth, our first day of rehearsal, a kind of orientation for The Merry Widow cast. It was being held next to the theater in Austin in an upstairs hall, large enough for four rectangular tables to seat a cast of eighteen, a set designer and costume designer, including the music director who’d double as our conductor and musical coach and his assistant. The orchestra had been rehearsing for a week and featured the best musicians in central Texas. Now everyone else had to catch up.

  I’d just flown in from New York, where I’d completed the album for ArtDeco Studios. Keeping my promise to Nate, we’d cut the last track the day before. My bags were still unpacked back at our ranch outside of Austin.

  And I was a nervous, exhausted wreck!

  My mother had done her part after I’d convinced her that this was a worthwhile production and would be a great launch for young artists. That two experienced, fairly well-known singers would play the leads was the icing on the cake. Nate, on behalf of the Foundation, had offered Houston’s star diva, Eva Villa, enough money to lure her into the production. He had reported to me that she’d been excited about the possibility of paying off her family’s farm mortgage with her earnings.

  At her signing, she still hadn’t been told who would be singing the male lead, just that “established tenors” were being “looked at”. Which wasn’t exactly a lie, I admit, for up until the first of March I wasn’t certain I’d be able to get out of my contract with L’Opera di Napoli. I feigned a death in the family and chronic laryngitis, which Gianni’s doctor-father was only too happy to verify for me.

  In any event, I’d helped organize the planning of the project, spending enough time on trans Atlantic phone calls to break my personal budget for several months. In the end, before the Foundation directors would approve the tour budget, I had to put up half of my trust fund as collateral for a ten-million-dollar loan to match the Foundation’s. I was now co-producer of this tour, with enough at stake to make sure this production was successful.

  If it bombed, I’d lose half my personal fortune, the Foundation’s credibility for all time, and my reputation as a fledgling producer. I have to admit, I was scared shitless.

  The sheer logistics of moving an orchestra, cast, a stage manager and his stage hands, light board and sound techs, wardrobe and makeup masters and their assistants, sets and costumes, required a travel coordinator and production manager—a small-size town on big rigs and motor coaches. We were traveling cross-country on motor coaches, saving money on airfare, and the entire cast was compensated by per diem expenses. Most of the singing casts were young artists from various universities and small regional opera companies, which the Foundation’s directors, Travis Ball and our maestro had vetted months before.

  The two-performance debut in Austin would be followed by thirty performances scattered over fifteen states during a ten-week period. I’d been hoping for twelve weeks but the newly formed touring company just didn’t have it in its budget. However, things were looking up. Already, twenty-four of the thirty-two scheduled performances were sold out and more were expected to follow. With luck and a dedicated cast and crew, the Austin Opera Touring Company would gain a reputation for producing high-quality operas and operettas, perhaps even attain an international name for itself, as the London City Opera Touring Company had done. In the process, we’d launch the careers of a number of young artists as well as, we hoped, make a small profit.

  Even my mother was pleased and excited by the Company’s prospects although not as comfortable with my financial investment in it, nor my insistence that Eva Cook play the widow. She really had no choice as I made it clear from the start that if Eva didn’t play the lead, neither would I. Liz McKay was no dilettante; an astute businesswoman and patron of the arts, she’d do what she had to do to make it a success. I was an established European opera singer and would lend “cachet”, as my mother called it, to the production, so that was a foregone conclusion.

  Eva Cook’s role, however, my mother had disputed at first. Finally, under my stubborn insistence, she grudgingly admitted that Eva’s reputation with the Houston Grand Opera was superlative and her name and talent would add to our success. She was never really happy about it and I never understood why.

  Frankly, I didn’t know what my mother had against Eva, for I’d suspected long ago that she’d been the one who’d sent those photos of that model and me in that card to Eva., which lit the fuse of our blowup. She’d denied doing it and insisted one of the other ladies had sent them. That my mother was a first-class snob, I recognized. That she was prejudiced against latinos, I conceded—though our ranch house was kept running because of the Lopez family. That she’d been purposefully cruel and could lie to me, I couldn’t accept and so we’d left it at that.

  That first day at orientation, Travis indicated a table reserved for the seven principals and himself. He took a seat next to the female lead’s, empty at the moment. He sipped his hot coffee while making pleasantries with the four men and two women, aiding with the introductions. The young artists playing the minor roles were filtering in, as were the eleven members of the chorus and the six dancers, all recent college performers who reminded me of our first tour that summer of ‘86.

  The novices were eyeing the principals with a mixture of awe and envy, and I could imagine several of the young tenors itching to take my place one day. I was standing by the coffee-and-croissants table, helping myself to the fresh brew, watching the process of introductions.

  “Sorry?” I said to Travis, suddenly aware that he’d been speaking to me.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Darren McKay, our leading tenor and co-producer of The Merry Widow. He’s just arrived from Italy, where he’s been performing with the Opera di Napoli.”

  When everyone applauded, I held up a hand.

  “No need, please. Just do a great job for Mr. Ball and Mr. Fernandez, our guest maestro from Mexico. And for myself, since I’ve sunk a lot of my own money into this production.”

  People laughed and appeared a little more at ease. Travis nodded in appreciation and encouraged the maestro to stand up. We clapped as a welcoming gesture. Professor Woronicz had recommended him after our old prof turned down the work, having already committed himself to the university’s spring opera. Juan-Pablo Fernandez was a commendable substitute. He spoke fluent English and had conducted numerous productions of The Merry Widow in Mexico and South America, a definite plus for us.

  Travis Ball was a British immigrant, in his late thirties as was Fernandez, and so this was truly a “young” company. The average age of the cast was twenty-five although makeup and costume would age a couple of them to appear much older. Eva and I, at twenty-eight and thirty respectively, were among the oldest in the singing
cast.

  Which reminded me, where THE HELL was she? I kept looking at the door, wondering when she’d appear, what her reaction would be—she’d discovered a week ago, I learned, that I’d be singing Count Danilo’s role. Had Eva turned prima donna on us? Frankly, I didn’t know what to expect but I was hoping and praying she’d be the same young woman I’d fallen deeply in love with years before.

  I was sitting down when all of a sudden the men at my table perked up and straightened in their chairs, throwing their shoulders back like Buckingham Palace Guards. The two women looked in the same direction but with expressions of mild curiosity. Travis Ball gazed over my shoulder, the pale blue eyes behind his spectacles widening with a mixture of admiration and surprise. He’d never met Eva, evidently. Without turning around, I knew who’d just stepped into the hall.

  For the life of me, my stomach muscles tensed up, every nerve pulled taut like violin strings, and I automatically curled my hands into fists. The moment I’d been both dreading and anticipating had arrived. Inwardly, I braced myself for my first look at her in over five years. The woman I’d wanted to marry…back then, at least, was about to sit next to me.

  The other men at the tables, following Travis Ball’s lead, stood in a collective show of gallantry and respect. I stood, also, but kept my eyes averted, focusing on my cup of black coffee, as if staring at something tangible and mundane would settle my nerves. I told myself, she’s not Helen of Troy or Cleopatra, for God’s sake. She’s not Salma Hayek…well, she came a close second. As my Aussie friend, Hugh, would’ve said, she doesn’t have beer-flavored nipples, mate. She’s an ordinary woman who gets the flu, red eyes and a runny nose.

  She was standing beside me now, shaking hands around the table, murmuring greetings quietly in that gentle drawl of hers. When it seemed that I could no longer postpone a similar greeting—and reminding myself for the hundredth time that we were professionals and would not let personal animosities interfere with our work—I turned to face her.