Haunted Tenor

by Irene Vartanoff

  “Actually, he asked to do Don Carlo because he has a particular fondness for the role.”

  “He’s very tragic in it,” I said.

  “Audiences love him,” Ralph said. “The heroic spin he puts on Carlo, the edge of madness and recklessness, are what makes Vasquez such a knockout.”

  I silently agreed, although Ralph meant JC’s singing, to which I’d had no reaction at all. Tin ear. Tone deaf. Wait. I’d noticed the music of the auto da fé. Perhaps there was hope for me and music yet. Regardless, it was frightening how effective JC was at portraying the doomed sixteenth century prince. How completely that portrayal had rocked my world.

  My confusion was over for now. At this opera house, each opera was presented in short cycles of a half dozen performances. Months later, the opera came back for another round. After my crazy experience, it was a relief to not have the temptation of going to see Don Carlo again. For a while, at least. Hopefully, I would get over this weird head thing by the time more performances of Don Carlo were on the schedule. Still, a shadow, a portent of increasing doom, hung over me.

  ***

  Sean came into town to perform in Lucia di Lammermoor at another opera house across the plaza in Lincoln Center. The assignment had been a stroke of luck for him, as he’d been tapped to substitute for a baritone who took sick. I made myself attend one performance. Sean was quite villainous as the brother who forces his sister into a loveless marriage and causes her to go insane. The audience liked him and applauded enthusiastically. Sean’s career was in full swing.

  He was busy, and we didn’t see much of each other. He had his voice to pamper, and friends to catch up with, and opera houses to talk to. He also had a big meeting with the general manager of the Nat. Not that Sean told me about it beforehand. Maybe he was too nervous. Ralph let me in on it.

  “I can’t reveal what was on the table, dear,” he said. “It’s confidential. If your brother wants to tell you, that’s different.”

  “Is it at least good?” I probed. I knew Sean’s career was going well. Did this mean that superstardom was around the corner? Like JC Vasquez?

  “Of course. Sean Grant’s name is only getting bigger as his voice is maturing.” Seeing my look of incomprehension, Ralph explained. “Voices darken over time. Some magnificent opera roles are written for those darker, more mature voices.”

  “Sean is now entering into that, uh, vocal period?” I stumbled on the words.

  Ralph looked happy at my effort to comprehend. “Young singers should not attempt some roles. They can ruin their voices. Sean has been carefully nurturing his fach.”

  “Fach? What’s that? I keep hearing people use that word.”

  “It simply means area of singing voice. Sean’s fach is the lyric baritone roles.”

  Now that I inhabited the same adult world Sean did, I should pay more attention to the art that consumed him. I’d been the bratty younger sister long enough. The four years between us had been a big gap we filled with trivial chat. I should do better.

  After several days of negotiations, he was obviously happy with the results. He threw a party at a posh bar the night before he had to leave for Berlin. He invited me, too.

  It started late, so other singers could finish their performances. Guests dripped in all evening. He introduced several young women as up-and-coming sopranos and mezzos. I knew by now that a mezzo-soprano was a lower female voice and a contralto was the rare lowest. When Sean talked about coloratura, though, I had no idea what he meant. Something else for me to discreetly look up on my phone so I wouldn’t come across as ignorant. Ah, there was the definition. Coloratura was embellished singing.

  Two hours into the party, JC Vasquez arrived, stunning in white tie and tails. Only an opera singer could wear such formal gear and look relaxed. He wasn’t alone. He escorted a woman his age. She had at least a hundred pounds on him. She wore a little black dress that was half a dozen sizes larger than my own. Not a skinny girl. Her magnificent diamond necklace looked real.

  To my shock, Sean and everybody stood and applauded. Several people rushed up to the lady, including Sean.

  “Ms. Fisher. What an honor,” Sean exclaimed. He took her hand, and bowed over it in a very European manner, kissing it reverently.

  “Oh, call me Abbie,” she said, with a pleasant smile.

  Sean looked as if he’d been given the key to heaven. I turned to the girl standing next to me. Rachel, that was her name. I asked in a low voice, “What’s up with that? Who is she?”

  I wanted to know why JC was with her, but of course I didn’t ask that.

  Rachel gave me a pitying look, but then must have remembered I was Sean’s sister. “It’s Abbie Fisher. She’s the leading dramatic soprano of this generation. You know what that is, right?”

  I shook my head, chagrinned. In opera, my ignorance kept showing.

  “She’s the real deal, an opera megastar because of her fantastic voice.”

  “Bigger than JC Vasquez?” I ventured, hoping that Rachel would fill me in on their relationship, if they had one.

  Rachel giggled. “Big and bigger. JC’s doing great but he’s still striving. She’s established. She’s sung everywhere. Heads of state, you name it. If she’s mentoring him, or, if they’re together—you know what I mean,” she gave me a significant look, “it’ll be a huge boost to his fame. They must have just come from doing a concert.”

  Sean led the diva and her escort farther into the room to a large table. Everyone looked excited, but Sean most of all. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Was it Abbie Fisher’s star quality, or something else that attracted Sean?

  I asked Rachel, “Is she that important?”

  “You know the saying, ‘The opera isn’t over until the fat lady sings’?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, she’s the one.”

  I stared at Rachel, surprised. “That’s kind of cruel.”

  Rachel flushed. “I didn’t mean it that way. She is the living embodiment of opera jokes, a genuine diva. A singer needs a lot of stamina and a deep chest to sing Wagner.”

  Talk about a deep chest, Abbie Fisher was probably a double D cup. I looked askance at the admiring glances JC gave her. Sean visibly admired her, too, but I didn’t care if he liked the lady.

  Rachel explained more about opera roles and how Abbie was now slowly switching to the heavier roles, including Tosca. I made sounds of agreement, not understanding with what I was concurring. I focused on what JC was doing with her. Would he make up to a diva in order to further his career?

  I knew very little about JC. As Carlo, he made my heart weep. His real-life anger and suspicion were reasonable, given that I had somehow magically and semi-invisibly appeared on stage in his opera. His moods the few times we’d been together didn’t tell me about his character. Ralph’s praises were not about JC’s personality or behavior.

  I kept out of their orbit, but watched them closely. Abbie Fisher was bubbly and gracious, making everyone laugh and smile. JC sat next to her with a proprietary air. Sean was on her other side, equally possessive. Because this was his party, or did he have a thing for the diva? I kept in the shadows, which was easy to do in this dim bar. Our party room was merely a roped-off section with various nooks.

  When a bottle of champagne arrived, Sean picked up his glass and stood. “I have an announcement. This is a fitting moment, since we are in such exalted company.” He bowed in Abbie Fisher’s direction. “Today I signed the contract with the Nat to sing Scarpia in Tosca.”

  The room burst into applause. Even I knew that Scarpia was a star turn for a baritone. A contract instead of a replacement for a sick singer was a major step. The party notched up after that. In the chaos, I managed to go up to Sean and give him a kiss in congratulation.

  “You could have told me,” I mock pouted.

  Sean was visibly happy. “No way. We singers always go for the biggest audience.” He hugged me and then someone else grabbed his attention.

&
nbsp; Only a few seconds later, as I was refilling my glass, I felt the hair rise at the back of my neck. I turned. JC Vasquez had finally spotted me. He was scowling.

  Abbie Fisher and Sean were chatting happily in the background. JC came up to me purposefully. “I told you not to stalk me again.” His voice was a low growl.

  “I didn’t. I’m not.”

  “Last chance. I suggest you leave. Now.” He said it coldly, but I could tell that his ire was rising.

  As for me, I was tired of being treated like dirt. “Sean invited me. I’m staying.” I put as much stubbornness into my attitude as I could.

  “He’s a fool,” JC said contemptuously.

  I’d had enough. Time to set the record straight.

  “Sean Grant is my brother. I’m Kathleen Grant.” I offered my hand as if we were meeting for the first time. I enjoyed JC’s confounded expression, but it didn’t last long.

  He recovered too swiftly. He ignored my hand. “Then as his friend, I need to have a serious talk with him about his sister’s strange behavior.” He turned and walked away from me without a backward glance.

  I half reached out to try to stop him, but gave up. This noisy party wasn’t the right place to try to make JC see reason. His contempt stung, and he might get Sean mad at me. If JC would only talk to me, together we could solve the riddle of my emotional compulsion about Don Carlo.

  The next half hour was a blur of misery. The party couldn’t have been more disastrous for me if JC had publicly shouted that I was a weirdo. I tried not to look at him directly from then on. I stared at my champagne glass a lot. I would have done shots if I’d thought they would do any good. Drinking had never been my thing. Too bad. I tried to distract myself by ogling the waiters. They were my age, buff, with handsome features. Their uniforms showed off long limbs and well-proportioned torsos. Probably would-be ballet or Broadway dancers. I didn’t care. Even eyeing their attributes couldn’t pick up my low mood. It was difficult not to glance in the direction of the man who disliked me.

  JC Vasquez and Abbie Fisher did not stay long after our confrontation. After they left, the party lost its loud sizzle, although Sean was still flying high from happiness. Had JC warned Sean about me? I’d find out soon enough.

  ***

  Sean left town on cloud nine. Even though it turned out that the Tosca role was for five years in the future.

  “That’s so far away,” I said as he packed. “What if something happens between now and then?”

  Sean laughed. Nothing fazed him now. “My voice will only be more ripe for the role. I’ll be thirty-three, in my prime. It couldn’t be better,” he exulted. “I’ll try it out in smaller houses between now and then. Less strain on the voice.”

  He got the call that his cab had arrived, and took off after a brotherly hug and a “Be good.” Obviously, he had not been informed by JC Vasquez about how crazily I had acted recently. A relief, since I had no explanation myself for my incredible behavior.

  ***

  A week later, I was leaving the building when I collided with a man near the end of the long exit hall.

  “Wha—? Oh, it’s you.”

  JC Vasquez. Looking good enough to eat in a navy blue casual top and chinos, and that black leather jacket that gave him such a dangerous allure. Down, girl.

  “Now who’s following whom?” I asked, being pert.

  “Enough of that,” he said coolly. “Let’s get to know each other. Come have coffee.”

  It was an order, not an invitation. Must be from all the princes he played. I didn’t mind, if it meant we could actually talk rationally. I let JC take my arm and lead me to the nearest place, a café across the street from Lincoln Center. It was busy, but he found us a quiet booth.

  The waiter had taken his order for coffee and mine for tea and departed long before either of us spoke. Maybe I was staring at JC. Definitely, he was staring at me. Trying to figure me out, no doubt. Finally, he broke the silence. “Tell me who you are.”

  “I’m—”

  “Don’t waste time with what I’ve already learned from Ralph and Sean.” At my involuntary gasp, he went on dismissively. “I haven’t told either of them what you did. Yet. So talk.”

  “Thanks for nothing.” I could be angry, too. “I think you’ve got a hell of a nerve to threaten my job.”

  He made a gesture of annoyance with one hand. “Stop stalling.”

  With restless fingers, I crumpled my paper napkin. The truth was, I was aching to tell someone. How strange that it should be him.

  “I’m a historian, not some aimless groupie. I’d never seen an opera as an adult before I saw Don Carlo. It hit me hard.”

  I struggled to explain what I had been wrestling with understanding myself. “I was so struck by the tragedy of the first act that I went home and dreamed about it.” I recited everything that had happened next, finishing with, “I don’t know how I could have been the page Tebaldo in that scene. It is impossible. Yet you said you saw me.” My gaze implored him to confirm what had happened.

  “I saw you,” he said heavily. “No one else did.”

  “What about the singer who played Elisabetta?”

  “No.” He frowned. “Karen didn’t see you. I made discreet inquiries. Betsy, who played Tebaldo, did not see you. No stagehands saw you. The prompter and the maestro didn’t, either.”

  I offered more evidence. “The people sitting next to me said nothing about me leaving my seat.”

  “They would have squawked,” he agreed, with a wry hint of a smile. “Opera lovers are very intense.”

  “I’ve figured that much out.” I offered a tiny smile myself. Perhaps he was beginning to see that I meant him no offense. What a relief. “That’s why I had to stay through the second act that last time. I didn’t dare climb over them.”

  “You left after that act. I saw that your seat was empty.”

  I didn’t want to anger him again, but I felt I owed him the truth. “The reason I left is that I felt my body trying to levitate out of my seat during the nighttime garden scene with Princess Eboli.”

  His eyes opened in shock.

  “Perhaps it could have happened twice in one night,” I admitted in a low voice, ashamed that my control had been so shaky.

  He threw down his coffee spoon, disgust evident. “Levitation? You’re making that up.”

  “No!” I took an indignant breath. I could breathe fire, too. “I told you. I’m a historian. I deal in facts. If there is anything a historian is not, it is fanciful.”

  “Then explain how you were on the stage dressed in costume, and no one saw you but me.” His whole aspect was doubting.

  “I’m here talking to you because I don’t have a rational explanation.” I couldn’t tell him what I didn’t know. I shrugged. “Perhaps we linked minds in some way and both had the same hallucination.”

  He looked frustrated. “You’re saying you think it didn’t happen—not physically?”

  “Maybe not.” I denied the moment when Don Carlo was lying on the stage, prostrate with grief, nearly dying from it. When I touched his hand.

  JC wasn’t willing to pretend it had not happened. “Explain how I felt your fingers on my hand,” he insisted.

  I shook my head. “I can’t. I can’t explain it.”

  “You must have some clue.” His impatience was clear.

  “Nada. Nothing.”

  “How long have you been following me around?”

  “What? Never.” I put every bit of sincerity I could into my voice. “I’d never even heard of you or the opera Don Carlo before I got this job.”

  Trying to soften him up some, I smiled a bit, shakily. He seemed like a barely leashed tiger. Perhaps he was getting ready to pounce. “I hope you’re not offended. I guess you’re pretty famous in the opera world. I’ve spent most of the last six years in the university library.”

  That should have elicited a rueful laugh or at least a smile, acknowledging how limited fame could be. He didn’
t respond to my attempt to charm.

  I continued to trot out possible explanations. “What about the mutual hallucination idea?” Of course I had no clue how we both could have experienced the same delusion.

  “Including that our hands touched?” he asked, clearly disbelieving.

  “Okay, what else?” I was grasping at anything I could think of, no matter how absurd. “How about astral projection?”

  “Spirits don’t rise out of bodies and roam the world.” His sarcastic tone was crushing. “Despite that recent superhero movie about a strange doctor who could.”

  “Then I don’t have any explanation,” I said. “I don’t know what happened, or why.”

  A waiter came by and JC asked for the check. Neither of us said anything for a minute. Then I thought of something. “Let’s assume that somehow, I astral projected myself onto the Nat stage. Why did it happen?” I struggled to make my question clear. “I mean, what agent caused it to happen?”

  “You’re still trying to make it be a third party, aren’t you?” He smiled tolerantly. “What if this is strictly between you and me?”

  “Why?” I asked. “We’ve hardly met. I’m not a fan. Why?”

  “You tell me.” He leaned back in the booth.

  He had returned to his implied accusation that I was a liar. That this was all some elaborate device to get closer to an idolized opera star.

  “I have no idea.” I let my own frustration show as my voice rose. “Why do you keep accusing me of knowing? Give me a break. I’m completely clueless here.”

  He gave me a sardonic look. “But not, I think, innocent.”

  “That does it,” I said, slamming down my cup. “You’re not listening. I’m done explaining.” I started to gather my things.

  “Hold on.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you plan to attend the opera I’m singing this week?”

  “Not if I can help it,” I snapped. “What opera are you in?”

  “Turandot.” He eyed me, speculation in his expression. He still thought I was a stalker. If I were, he was taking a huge risk by sitting in a booth with me. A genuine stalker would turn this hour with JC in a café into a big love affair in her head.