The American Fiancee

by Eric Dupont

  You’re right when you say I’m Mom’s favorite. She opens up more easily to me. For example, the time she came back to Montreal after our twelfth birthday, we had a conversation I’ve never told you about, because I got the impression Mom didn’t want me to mention it to you. The photograph of our grandfather with that archbishop intrigued me just as much as it did you, you know, but not in the same way. Your reaction, which was to start hitting the weights the very next week, was merely a little boy wanting to emulate his grandfather. For my part, I was curious to get to know the man. And so I asked Mom one Sunday after my breathing exercises. I didn’t know how to bring it up. Since she never mentioned Rivière-du-Loup and had never taken us there, I had long suspected she had a painful past.

  “What did Granddad do?”

  “He drank gin and told stories,” she replied curtly.

  “But what job did he do?”

  “That was his job, Michel. He drank and told stories. He didn’t know how to do anything else.”

  I tried to insist, but she really didn’t want to talk about it. It took a few months for her to react. I don’t know why exactly; she brought it up again while she was decorating a little Christmas tree (the one we had in the dining room).

  “You asked me about your grandfather last summer.”

  I couldn’t believe it. She had a memory like an elephant. Then she told me a story. Read it carefully, Gabriel.

  “Your grandfather never tired of himself. He’d tell tall tales in the living room for hours at a time, for as long as the gin lasted. All you had to do was give him a glass and he’d be off. He was fond of the nuns, of Solange too. But what he loved most of all was telling stories. And stories, Michel, they’re good for kids, but then one day you grow up and you’ve got adult problems. That’s what happened to me. When I was eighteen, we were dirt poor in Rivière-du-Loup, my mama had to go work at the Hotel Saint-Louis laundry. I’d sometimes help her late at night, wringing out the hundreds of sheets she had to wash. Did you know your grandfather used to beat her? I heard him throw her to the floor one night. Anyway, in December 1968 Mama lost her mind. That’s what not having enough money does to you, Michel. It drives you crazy.”

  Then, since she’d finished decorating the little tree, she asked me to help her saw the bottom off the big tree we’d had delivered for the living room. It was usually Solange who did that kind of thing, but that day I could tell Mom was looking for a reason to keep me close by. It was a few days before Christmas.

  “Your grandfather used to say that in Germany they never decorate the tree before Christmas. On the evening of the twenty-fourth, they do it up while the children are asleep, to surprise them on Christmas morning. They get them out of bed and bring them into the living room to see the tree all decorated with real candles.”

  “How did he know all that?”

  “He was in Germany during the war. In Bavaria. Pass me the ornaments.”

  If I’d not been twelve, if I’d been just a few years older, I’d have poured her a gin myself to loosen her tongue, to find out more, though she almost never drinks. But amid the Christmas decorations, the tinsel, and the glittery birds, her eyes shone like those of someone who liked to drink. You should have seen her kneeling there in front of the huge tree we’d just attached to its pedestal, in among the boxes of baubles, tying the sparkling decorations to the tree and thinking back to Rivière-du-Loup.

  Her words seemed to be directed at me alone. She picked up each decoration and admired the colors in the light before hanging it from a branch. She passed me the things she wanted on the higher branches, and I listened to her as I stood on the stepladder. I was dying to find out what our grandmother had done in December 1968; a woman we’d never seen, not even in photos.

  “In December 1968, Mama decided I was to move to the city to earn a living. I had the choice between finding a job, becoming a nun, or getting married.”

  Getting married. I desperately wanted to ask her about our father. But such is my respect for her that I held back, for fear of offending her. I was anxious not to interrupt the tale she seemed determined to tell me.

  “Mama packed me off on a bus to Quebec City with Solange. She wanted us to work in the kitchens at the Château Frontenac. She knew people there. We’d earn more than in Rivière-du-Loup. One night, I came home with Solange to find Mama all alone. She told me I’d be leaving for Quebec City the next day. Solange offered to come with me. Mama said no. I didn’t want to go peel potatoes in some kitchen in Quebec City. Mama started shouting. Parents were stricter back then. They told you to do something and you did it. She sent me to bed. I knew that Papa was out drinking at the Ophir, that I’d find him there. As soon as I could hear Mama had fallen asleep on the other side of my bedroom wall, I slipped outside to go find Papa. She’d been drinking, so she didn’t hear me go out.”

  I pictured poor Mom, not knowing where to turn, off to find her father on that freezing December night.

  “I found Papa Louis at the Ophir, asleep next to his beer. There was almost nobody in the bar. Have you any idea how awkward I felt in there? I was the only woman. Word gets around a small town quickly. No need for a newspaper. I managed to wake him. I explained my problem. His eyes were lost in the distance somewhere, as if I was talking to him in a language he didn’t understand.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I’ll never forget. He said: ‘My poor little Madeleine, if you knew the things they did. The ones who died beneath the snow were the lucky ones, really. Dying of cold doesn’t hurt, they say. You fall asleep; that’s it. They packed them onto trains. For days, weeks. They died of fear on those trains.’”

  “That’s what he said?”

  “That’s what he said. Then his head fell back down onto the table. It was at that moment, dear Michel, that I realized I was all alone in this world. That all I had was Solange and my own two arms.”

  It was December 1968, Gabriel. She must have been pregnant with the two of us. Suzuki came in just after that. Mom went quiet. I took her silence to mean she’d just shared a big part of her secret. Never again did I ask her about Rivière-du-Loup, about our father, or about our grandfather. You know the rest of it as well as I do, which is to say you don’t have the faintest idea.

  Bruno-Karl came by Palazzo del Grillo just before lunch to plan rehearsals with us. A little chihuahua follows him everywhere he goes. Wotan is his name. It’s rather cute, more so since D’Ambrosio is quite a short man, thin and wiry, almost always dressed in black. He’s a good-looking man. Dark, brooding good looks. The dog doesn’t fit with his look at all!

  I’m a nervous wreck. My God, I can’t believe it! I’m singing Cavaradossi’s part in a Bruno-Karl D’Ambrosio film! Never has life seemed more delightful, more beautiful. I mentioned the Pinacoteca to Bruno-Karl. He knows it well. We discussed the nine paintings that Pius VII’s emissary never managed to recover in France. People have made all kinds of claims about them. Some say they were accidentally destroyed or that they never existed in the first place, that the Italians inflated the number of paintings that Bonaparte took, to try and get more out of the French. Not bad, as tactics go. Most experts agree that the nine paintings were stolen, plain and simple, either by the soldiers or perhaps even by noblemen, and that they’re somewhere in Europe, in some third-rate castle in Spain or Germany. Bruno-Karl is very familiar with this particular depiction of the Death of the Virgin. There are, he says, other versions in Padua in the form of altarpiece sculptures. The scene is relatively rare since the Church eventually decided to stop going on about Mary’s body decomposing. And guess what? Apparently there’s even a depiction of Mary’s entombment by Giotto di Bondone in Berlin! But he couldn’t tell me which museum. Why don’t you ask that Brünnhilde of yours? She could take you there in her Zeppelin!

  Bruno-Karl has hired a Brazilian man to guard the apartment block. A man of few words who spends his nights outside the door to make sure no one gets in. We’re safe here. Tomorrow
, they told us, our holiday is over and it’s time for the real work to begin. I’m ready. Let the stars shine!

  M.

  * * *

  Rome, October 4, 1999

  Dear Gabriel,

  Art does like to take its time. The production has just suffered a major setback. Fortunately, Bruno-Karl was equal to it! I knew something of the sort would happen. This morning, we were all set to meet the German baritone who was supposed to play Scarpia. A guy by the name of Mathias Kroll. You’ve surely heard of him. He’s just come off a remarkable performance of Werther in Berlin, at Unter den Linden if I’m not mistaken. A bit of a dandy. And get this: the gentleman is having artistic differences with Bruno-Karl D’Ambrosio! Does the fool realize he might never play a part like this again? It’s none other than the RAI National Symphony Orchestra accompanying us! Judging by what Bruno-Karl told us, Kroll was having none of his stagecraft. Who does he think he is? Since D’Ambrosio had the inspired idea of setting Tosca in German-occupied Rome in 1944, Scarpia is supposed to wear a swastika on his arm during filming. He refused and went home to Munich. Can you imagine? Scarpia as a Nazi. It stands to reason, right? It’s certainly a bold move, but clearly Kroll doesn’t realize he’s dealing with one of the most avant-garde creative minds of our time. Venise Van Veen said it herself: “What D’Ambrosio puts on stage today sets the trend for tomorrow.” There’s not a singer alive who isn’t insanely jealous of the lucky few who got to shine in his production of Macbeth in Zurich. Yet another stroke of genius there: Lord and Lady Macbeth as dictators. In Act I, Lady Macbeth sings before three thousand pairs of shoes, a clear and brilliant nod to Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos. The rest of the production was equally inspired, with the greatest voices a director could dream of. And in the theater, he’s just wowed San Francisco with Romeo and Juliet set in a Japanese internment camp. No one has ever willingly ended their contract for a Bruno-Karl D’Ambrosio production. I can’t get over that Kroll’s arrogance.

  It hurts all the more since Kroll is the Scarpia of his generation, as it were. He must have sung the role 150 times between Berlin and Rome. And he’s the perfect build: he would have made an excellent SS officer. Bruno-Karl, who is now insisting that Anamaria and I call him Bruno, did his best to reassure us. He has more than one trick up his sleeve. As soon as news of Kroll’s departure started to spread, Bruno’s telephone began ringing. Agents offering him their protégés’ services. I have no doubt that Bruno will find a worthy replacement.

  He was calm throughout. There’s simply nothing to all those rumors about his mood swings, his quick temper, or the tyrannical hand he wields over each production. I’ve never met a creative talent who’s so level-headed, down to earth, or more approachable. He reminds me a little of Mom.

  Bruno also took the opportunity, since we’re getting to know each other, to tell us a little more about that dreadful scandal that erupted last winter in Montreal. You were still living in Toronto, but it’s absolutely impossible the news didn’t make it that far! He was even defending himself to CNN, the poor man. There’s no denying it: you have to watch every word you say in this politically correct age of ours! It happened last January, you’ll recall. Auditions for the role of Tosca were underway in New York City when a local radio station asked to interview him. A marvelous opportunity to lay the groundwork for the film coming out in a city every bit as enamored with opera as Vienna or Berlin can be. When the presenter, a cheerful guy not overly concerned with ethics, began the interview, Bruno-Karl was under the impression it was a pre-interview, or so he thought his research assistant had told him. And so there he was on the phone with this guy from New York radio in what he took to be a preparatory discussion, not the interview itself. He didn’t even know he was being recorded. The presenter began by talking about the great American Toscas: Leontyne Price and Shirley Verrett, who were both black. They discussed the legendary 1965 season, when Rudolf Bing, then general manager at the Met, had seven Toscas back to back in the same season: Maria Callas, Renata Tebaldi, Leonie Rysanek, Birgit Nilsson, Dorothy Kirsten, Leontyne Price, Régine Crespin. Just imagine! They would each perform twice. A marketer’s dream! There were people, it seems, who waited in line for three days and three nights for standing-room-only tickets to see Callas! Can you imagine?

  Then the presenter asked which was his favorite of all the recordings, to which Bruno replied—and I can only nod in agreement—that in terms of voice, the greatest Tosca ever was Montserrat Caballé, the Catalan singer. Anamaria would no doubt have chosen Renata Tebaldi, but we weren’t the ones being asked. The discussion then took a dangerous turn when the presenter asked the following question: “Mr. D’Ambrosio, based on the abilities of the various Toscas we’ve just mentioned, how would you create the ideal Tosca?” Plain sailing until that point, Gabriel. And Bruno did fine. He knows what he’s talking about, believe me!

  “I must say I find the idea of a single mythical Tosca, of constructing a singer as one would choose the toppings for a pizza, most entertaining! It is my belief that the perfect Tosca would have Montserrat Caballé’s vocal prowess, Maria Callas’s gift for tragedy, Leontyne Price’s deep luminous tones, Leonie Rysanek’s power, and the sensuality of a Lisa della Casa.”

  Isn’t that a wonderful answer, Gabriel! But Bruno is one of those great minds who often thinks out loud. Nothing would ever have happened, if he’d stopped there. Since I know the man behind the words over which so much ink has been spilled, I will repeat those exact words with you here because everything you have heard is no doubt false. There are bound to have been errors of translation, exaggerations . . . His precise words were:

  “For my film I’m not looking for a Tosca who contains all these qualities together, but rather a woman the audience will fall in love with, just as Cavaradossi falls in love.”

  “And what do you mean by that?” the presenter asked.

  “I mean that, first and foremost, she must be beautiful, sensual, attractive.”

  “Which is to say that how she looks is more important than how she sounds?”

  “I’m prepared to compromise, if need be. Filmmaking, like opera, is the art of visual seduction. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. My Tosca would have to be a slim, beautiful woman. No one’s going to fall in love with a fat cow!”

  There was, it seems, a long silence, followed by a few questions about how the auditions were going. The interview was broadcast that very same afternoon! Since Bruno isn’t as well known in New York as in Montreal, no one picked up on his comments. It should also be said that he was speaking to WNYC, a public radio station that has a somewhat limited following. But some people’s ears pricked up! You know, Gabriel, some terrible things are said in newsrooms and behind the scenes at the theater or the opera, and they’re never revealed. But in this case it was Bruno, and, obviously, we always want to see the mighty fall, that’s how Quebec is! A two-bit place driven by envy and resentment! And I’d like to point out, Gabriel—because, knowing you, you’re doubtless judging him as we speak—you didn’t treat your little Stella any better! Is that the first stone you’re about to cast? A thousand dollars to help you get over your guilty conscience, dear brother? That’s your price?

  A few hours later, Bruno’s words reached Venise Van Veen’s ears in Montreal, which led to her kicking up a royal fuss, as you know. I’ve always been a big admirer of Venise’s, especially since it’s partly thanks to her that Mom’s restaurants have been so successful, but let’s just say that in certain areas, she can sometimes be lacking in judgment. Ever since the incident I’ve only been able to take her in small doses. The story was all it took to bring her back out of retirement. She was the one who gave Bruno-Karl the third degree on the news.

  “Mr. D’Ambrosio, today you are joining me on my show in the most unfortunate circumstances. Just to remind viewers of the facts, in an interview you gave to WNYC Radio, you said you hoped to find a singer to play Tosca in your new film, A Century with Tosca, who wa
s not, and I quote: ‘a fat cow.’ As you can well imagine, your insulting comments have caused no amount of distress to the women of Quebec, Canada, and indeed the entire world. Since I know you and have been a fan of your scenography for many years, this evening I would like to give you the opportunity to explain yourself, Monsieur D’Ambrosio . . .”

  She’d always called him Bruno-Karl up until that point. Even on air. He’d already apologized to the former presenter of Call Me Venise (now he refers to it as See Venise and Die). You have to admit he has a sense of humor! He told Anamaria and I he actually contemplated suicide when he returned to Montreal the following day. The poor man! Crucified for having dared to say out loud what so many were thinking to themselves! And his words were misinterpreted! He wasn’t pointing the finger at full-figured women with elegant curves, like Anamaria. No, he was talking about the ones who are absolutely enormous—who could crush Scarpia between their thighs! The whole thing is a tempest in a teacup. And the auditions were to prove Bruno innocent of the accusations brought against him! It was Anamaria and I that he chose. Shapely Anamaria with her voluptuous curves! And I, no beanpole, a man who has always remained faithful to the picture of the little boy who appears on the packaging of Mado’s frozen meat pies. You see, Gabriel, opera is all about the music. All that stuff you say about going on a diet before I get on stage, all that comes from your obsession with appearance. Bodybuilding is also a form of anorexia, you know. Did you ever consider that? What you’re advocating for opera singers is nothing short of aesthetical fascism. Bruno was caught out by an underhanded line of questioning. You have no excuse. Perhaps the time has come for a little soul searching . . . I refer you back to that photograph, the poisoned gift from your dear Suzuki. That is the source of your ills. You need to rid yourself of it, dear brother.