Haunted Tenor

by Irene Vartanoff

  The guard shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “But—” I continued to argue, but the guard wouldn’t budge. My voice began to rise.

  “Is there some problem?” A higher level security person, a man dressed in a suit and wearing an earpiece, came down the backstage hallway. I turned to him.

  “He won’t let me in. I’m Sean Grant’s sister. He’s expecting me.”

  The man’s face closed up. “We’re sorry, but tonight we can’t admit you. Please enjoy the rest of your evening.” Remorselessly, he moved me back beyond the door. He didn’t touch me. He simply moved into my space, causing me to step back. With a firm gesture, he indicated that I must retreat beyond the threshold. Once I did, he made a curt bow, and shut the door in my face.

  They’d kicked me out.

  Chapter 7

  Minutes later, I found myself outside the building. I didn’t remember leaving. I wandered around the Lincoln Center fountain area, watching the last of the opera crowd hurry to the taxi line. Other people, mostly young ones, were hanging around the fountain. The plaza was very 1960s, all harsh architecture and cold stone, but also attractive because of its white marble in a dirty granite city. Romantic.

  Not to me, not tonight. It was just barely possible that I had been mistaken in thinking that JC had ordered the ushers to escort me out before the final act. In theory, my desperate ticket exchange maneuver might have been unnecessary. But being barred from the backstage area was utterly clear. I had been put on the list of undesirables. By JC, obviously.

  I could call Sean on my cell and complain, but he wasn’t the big influential star that JC was. I didn’t want to upset the balance of their friendship by making accusations. I settled for texting that I would meet Sean later at the uptown bar where he was having his opening night party.

  Sean always threw parties. He didn’t like to wait for the fun to begin; he started it himself. His role debut at the Nat was an event worthy of celebrating. I had to show, and JC would not be able to control that if he attended. I wouldn’t willingly skip any other part of my brother’s big night. But I hated the thought that JC was likely furious at me all over again.

  With a leaden heart, I left Lincoln Center and walked up Broadway to the bar Sean had designated. Typical of Manhattan, Sean’s apartment was too tiny for a party. Sean was definitely a party animal and I wondered where he’d gotten it from. Our parents never went out.

  I took my time walking, knowing that Sean would be changing and dragging some people over from the Nat. What were the odds he’d bring JC? Fairly good. I didn’t know if I was happy or sad about that.

  When I arrived at the bar, there already were some people I recognized as Sean’s friends. People who couldn’t stomach or afford an opera regardless of being his pals.

  A stunning blonde came up to me. “Hi, I’m Sabrina. Welcome to Sean’s party.” I introduced myself and Sabrina directed me to the drinks. She was acting like the hostess, though I had never seen her before. Sean was a charmer, but she wouldn’t last. They never did. Many women became fascinated by singers, only to stomp off in a fury after being given second place to the singing career. Sean had already figured this one out and according to my mother had been playing the field since he finished college. How Mom knew, I did not ask. I armed myself with a glass of wine. This was going to be a tough scene if JC came.

  Sean walked in with JC. No Abbie Fisher this time. The moment JC saw me he frowned. I ignored him and rushed to hug Sean.

  “You were great! The audience loved you!”

  “Yeah, and where were you? You didn’t come to my dressing room.” I knew he was proud of having one to himself now that he was in a lead position. He’d wanted to show it off.

  “There was some mix-up at the backstage door and they wouldn’t let me in. No biggie.” I shrugged. “I needed to repair my face after crying so much when they killed you. You were brilliant.”

  Sean smiled and forgot my slight. Sabrina ran up and kissed him.

  JC did not smile, but he must have realized that he could not publicly upbraid me at this moment. He said nothing as I went back to the corner I had staked out and grabbed my glass.

  “Here’s to Sean Grant, the new king of the baritones,” I said loudly. The crowd burst into applause, and we settled in to party.

  I kept a smile pasted on my face, circulating and hanging out in groups of people as far from JC as possible. I laughed when they did, drank when they did. I surreptitiously eyed JC the whole time, of course. He hung out with an older crew, the more established singers who had come to this party as a courtesy. Then I lost sight of him.

  “Come with me.” Suddenly he was at my elbow, drawing me away from the group. Somehow, he found a quiet, private nook where no one could see us.

  “What the hell were you trying to do tonight?” his words were said at normal volume, but they could have been shouted. He was angry. He looked at me as if he had never kissed or caressed me. As if he would never want to again.

  Something inside me shriveled up in pain. I couldn’t answer him.

  He continued, “I’ve warned you to stop.”

  “I can’t control this, I swear it.” I put my hand on his arm, pleading, but he shook it off.

  I tried again. “Please believe me. I even had my ankles tied together with my scarf.”

  He made a sound of disbelief.

  “It’s true. I did.”

  “How did you get onstage tonight? Tell me the truth.” Now he had a grip on my arm. He wasn’t being rough. It only hurt that he felt he must constrain me to get the truth.

  “Astral projection? A ghostly visitation? I don’t know. I was shocked that I was in Elisabetta’s body, not Tebaldo’s.”

  Seeing that he was listening to me now, I continued, “You can’t seriously believe I had a costume made for the queen, can you?” By now I had learned there was only one costume created for a production, despite the varying sizes of the sopranos who sang the role of Elisabetta this season. There wasn’t a spare I could swipe from the costume department, and Elisabetta’s elaborate costume would have cost thousands to duplicate.

  I pressed my point. “I was Elisabetta in that scene. It wasn’t me wearing her gown. There’s something paranormal happening. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “I don’t buy your ghost story. You must be performing some kind of stage trickery,” he insisted.

  “I’m not. I’m a ghostly vision only you can see.”

  He muttered something, still angry.

  “Neither Eboli nor Posa saw me, right?” I needled him. “Just you.” I admit I was a bit smug saying it.

  JC destroyed that small moment of presumption. He straightened. “I’m having you banned from the auditorium.”

  “What? You can’t do that. I have as much right as anyone to attend a performance.”

  He seemed to shut down. His words came almost without inflection. “The only reason I won’t swear out a restraining order against you is because your brother is my friend.”

  “You’re wrong about me,” I cried. I lost focus. Suddenly it was all about what we had shared that one night, about reminding him that I wasn’t a stranger. “Don’t you remember what we had together?”

  I pulled at his arm. His strength was much greater than mine, no surprise. He captured my wrist and pulled my fingers away from touching him. His expression was…pained.

  “I’m not your enemy, JC, I care about you.” I fought, pressing myself against him. I stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips with desire and desperation.

  Suddenly his arms went around me, crushing me against his chest and immobilizing me. “This is all wrong, Kathleen,” he said, in a deep sigh. Then he kissed me, perhaps as desperate to take as I was. I reacted by kissing him back, opening to his tongue and relaxing my softness against his hardness. It was heaven and hell, all mixed together. JC still held me tightly, but I could feel that his anger had drained away, replaced by passion. His lips began to caress mine with
the finesse that had ravished me two months ago.

  I needed more of him. I wriggled closer in his embrace, our bodies touching nearly head to toe.

  He broke away, breathing heavily. “No. You won’t seduce me again.” He stepped back from me, severing our bodies’ contact.

  “JC, I—” I floundered, not knowing what to say. I hadn’t seduced him two months ago and I wasn’t trying to seduce him now. I moved toward him again, but his raised hands warded me off.

  “Please, Kathleen. We can’t continue this folly. Stay away from me. I mean it.”

  He left me.

  Chapter 8

  I have no idea what happened during the rest of the party, because I got plastered. I switched from a mild wine spritzer to shots, and it was all downhill from there. I dimly recall Sean helping me back home hours later, laughing that it was his big night but I had done all the celebrating. Very funny.

  At dawn, I woke up a dead woman. My throat hurt. My stomach hurt. My eyeballs hurt. But mostly my heart hurt. I had behaved like the stupid fool in love that I was.

  Yes, I was in love with JC Vasquez, international opera star. An artist with song. A fine actor, too. He was a fully realized, grown man in his prime who had made love to me for one night and taken my heart as well as my body. I was all too aware of the vast disparity in our life experiences. He was older than me, for a start. He had launched his singing career straight out of college, and now was near the pinnacle. A position that, once achieved, he could stay in until his voice gave out from age or overuse. Ralph had told me all about how Plácido Domingo had famously demonstrated that it was possible for a tenor to remain a viable performer well into his seventies. JC was set, if nodes didn’t grow on his vocal chords, or if he didn’t wreck his voice by choosing roles too heavy for him too early in his career, or if he didn’t develop crippling stage fright or get into battles with opera management, or some other similar disaster. Ralph had filled me in on every possible thwart to an opera career, but so far, JC was not at risk for any of them. For now, it was simply a question of how hard he would continue to work, and how much acclaim and fortune would come his way.

  As for me, my adult life had yet to be launched. I wasn’t even done with my education. With only an M.A. and no clue what I wanted to do with myself, I couldn’t get a job good enough to support me. If I wanted to teach in academia, I needed a Ph.D. I’d have to return to school for another couple of years, at least. I didn’t know that I wanted to teach, either, which was something I should have thought of years ago when I had declared my Renaissance history major. My parents had never pushed me about it, but they were both college professors and they loved the life. I sort of knew all along that I wasn’t headed quite in that direction. I had enjoyed the knowledge I acquired, but no one, least of all myself, had lectured me about picking a practical college major or a STEM graduate degree, or anything sensible for today’s world. I was a nicely educated young woman without specific job training.

  I’d never been in love for real, either, never felt compelled to think about someone as I did about JC. I wanted to be with him all the time. I wanted to sit in the same room while he drank his morning coffee. I wanted to watch him check his social media feed and his email and read the local newspaper—online or in print—of whatever city he was in, looking for his reviews. I wanted to be in bed with him every night, too.

  How had it happened? JC was totally defined by his art, the esoteric world of opera. I had never paid any attention to opera or opera singers in the past. I knew opera existed, but Sean was so much older than me I had no incentive to check out what he was doing. We’d only gotten to know each other better as adults. Because of my job, I now understood a lot more about opera from having watched so many recently and from talking to Ralph. That still did not make me a star-struck opera groupie.

  JC was the only tenor I wanted to be naked with. I yearned to be lying in bed with him again, luxuriating in the masterful use of his tongue, then grasping him closely in the most intimate embrace of all. But I also wanted to laugh with him and be a part of his life.

  He felt passion for me, but he had rejected me. He didn’t trust me. He still thought I was nuts, or was pulling some kind of elaborate hoax, or whatever. I could not change his mind unless I resolved the continuing ghostly interference with my mind and body. I called it ghostly, but I didn’t know if that was the right term. Nothing I researched had shown me a clear parallel. Was I being precognitive in some way? What portion of me was being projected, and why only to JC?

  With these questions hanging in the air, of course JC was unlikely to look upon me as an uncomplicated love interest, a break from the difficulties of reaching and maintaining mastery of his music. Opera singing was a tough athletic event, as I had learned from Sean. JC was constantly gearing up for the big game, performing to the max, and then recovering from the effort. Then he went on to the next test of his skill and stamina.

  Aside from questioning Sean, I could only theorize about what minor or major problems could confront JC on a daily basis. He had not let me far enough into his life to discuss any of his issues. I didn’t know where his contracts for the next five years would take him, for instance. Yet I knew I wanted an ongoing passionate relationship with him.

  Under the most ideal conditions, assuming we solved this Don Carlo mess and became an item, what kind of relationship could we have? Would I return to finish graduate school, and only meet him occasionally? Would I quit school and follow JC around like a groupie? To be what? His wife? His girlfriend? Was I the kind of old-fashioned woman who would give up her career for a man? What career? I hadn’t started one yet. Wouldn’t he want me to have a career?

  I had no idea what JC preferred in his personal life. An occasional sex partner only? A wife? A steady girlfriend he seldom saw? Someone who traveled with him? A live-in lover?

  I was not likely to find out with the situation as it currently was. It was majorly crazy of me to think about a future with JC when the last thing he told me was to stay away from him. Yet how much of that rejection should a woman believe after a man had kissed her passionately and embraced her, and then visibly had to tear himself away from her? I believed JC’s actions, not his words.

  Perhaps I fooled myself, believing that his actions spoke of more than mere passion. That they spoke of love. Perhaps love that he fiercely denied because he still did not know whether to trust me or not. Or perhaps love he had not thought about at all. Did men spend hour upon hour thinking about the women they loved? Or was it only lovelorn women who did that? I wanted JC to think about me as I compulsively thought about him. Despite the lack of encouragement he showed me.

  This was so messed up. I hated how cliché my emotions were. Loving in vain was so not my style. Once past the usual first loves as a teenager, I’d never been hung up on any guy for long. If he lost interest first, I shrugged it off and dated someone else. Now I felt obsessed by JC, as if resolving our issues was the most important thing in my life. And he definitely was still interested in me, no matter how many times he told me to get lost.

  Was I only in love with JC because he played Don Carlo on the opera stage? That would be seriously wrong, but there was the possibility that I was in love with Don Carlo—at least, with the dramatic embodiment of him created by the playwright Schiller and put to music by the opera composer Verdi.

  JC played the role of a tempestuous youth convincingly. He had a taut, athletic body, and he was a talented actor who could convincingly portray a brokenhearted young man. Plus, of course, he had the singing ability to hit the right notes and to show the right emotions as he sang. Beyond that, I didn’t completely understand what else he did right. I had read reviews that talked about the silvery edge to his voice, but I could not distinguish it myself. True, my musical education was progressing because of all Ralph’s explanations and all the operas I attended. I was beginning to hear music as I never had. Regardless, whether or not I would ever attain an educated ear for op
eratic singing, somehow I had to resolve this crazy paranormal situation. Appearing on stage in the middle of an opera—yet invisible to everyone except JC—was not something I could just shrug off even if I left New York today and never saw another opera or JC again in my life.

  Was my love for JC Vasquez an illusion? But we’d spent time together, had reasonable conversations for hours at a time—that is, if I excluded his constant accusations that I was somehow deliberately causing the bizarre events. My attraction to JC stemmed from a normal, visceral connection. Complicated by a paranormal presence.

  My brain hurt this morning, but I knew it was morning. I knew I was Kathleen Grant, sometime graduate student and historian, temporary administrative assistant. I knew I was in love with JC Vasquez, the hottest man in the world, the only one I wanted to ever have sex with for the rest of my life. A man who sometimes kissed me as if I was his whole world, and who sometimes despised me because he did not believe in ghosts and thought I was a mentally unstable stalker. Or was that redundant? Did the word stalker cover it all?

  After the hiatus of two months, at least now I knew JC still wanted me. That kiss last night had proved it. Yet JC still thought I could mean him harm. I had no way of proving differently because I could only guess why the mysterious events occurred, and what would happen next. I knew there would be more ghostly visitations. I felt it in my gut.

  Sean was still sleeping. His bedroom door was closed. I had to get to my job if I still had one. JC had threatened to get me fired before. Would he make good on that threat now?

  I had to fight for myself. JC obviously had been behind the behavior of the ushers and the security guards last night, although I hadn’t accused him to his face. I must not lose my foothold in the opera world. Not when the ghost behavior remained unresolved. One thing I had as a researcher was tenacity. A good historian never settled for one side of the story, or for easy answers. I refused to walk away from a mystery that involved my body and spirit so massively.