by D. M. Thomas
Having dressed for dinner, she sat at the writing desk overlooking the busy street, and wrote a postcard to her aunt in Vienna. “Dear Aunt,” she wrote, “it is raining rain outside and flowers in my suite. Yes, suite! I’m overwhelmed by their sense of my importance. I don’t mean the flowers! I shan’t be able to face dinner, let alone tomorrow’s rehearsal—or the actual performance! I am going to fall downstairs and break a leg. Love, Lisa.”
And there, at the dinner table which groaned with flowers, silver and cut glass, was the great Serebryakova, slim, beautiful and elegant, despite having her arm in a sling. One of the world’s great sopranos, and still in her early thirties. She had been booked to return to the Soviet Union yesterday, but had decided to stay to wish her successor well. Lisa was overcome by such kindness from such a star. Madame Serebryakova even claimed to be a fervent admirer of Frau Erdman’s voice: she had heard her, once, in Vienna, singing La Traviata. That was on her first tour abroad, when she herself was still unknown.
Her kindness and good humour set Lisa at ease. She was very funny about her fall, down the La Scala steps, and her attempts to carry on with the role. “I realized it was no good,” she said drily, “when the audience started hooting with laughter.” They could not “take” their romantic young heroine, Tatiana, having her arm in a sling throughout the opera, especially as the action covered several years. While complimenting Serebryakova on her courage, one leading critic had expressed concern at the poor standard of surgery in Tsarist Russia.
“So we tried the understudy,” said Signor Fontini with a sigh, spreading his hands. “Terrible. Within three nights we were playing to an empty house. But we won’t have that problem tomorrow evening, I can promise you. There’s enormous interest in your coming.”
He laboured the point so much, one might have gained the impression that Serebryakova had been very much a second best; the selection committee had really wanted Frau Erdman all the time. Lisa took all the flattery with a grain of salt, and a smile; and began to feel, oddly enough, that she could sing Tatiana quite as well as Serebryakova. She also stopped worrying about her age; for the fourth member of the dinner party, a Russian baritone previously known to her only as a respected name, proved to be older than she had imagined. Victor Berenstein, who was singing Onegin, had pure white hair and was surely well into his fifties. Running to plumpness, and sallow in complexion, he peered at her through horn-rimmed glasses, amiably sizing up his new leading lady. Lisa observed him too: reflecting that it was a blessing she was only a medium for Tchaikovsky’s music and Pushkin’s words, for in real life she could not conceive of falling in love with this man, friendly and charming though he was. The most attractive thing about him—apart from his voice, naturally—was his hands. They were slenderer than the rest of him, somehow; masculine but tender and expressive. His long slim fingers even cut up his beefsteak tenderly and expressively.
Like Serebryakova, he expressed deep admiration for her voice, and delight that she had been able to undertake the role at a moment’s notice. He had heard her singing Schubert on a crackly record. But as Lisa had never made a record, and told him so, he blushed with confusion and embarrassment, and became intensely preoccupied with a tough piece of steak.
Both he and Serebryakova (Victor and Vera, as they insisted) were with the Kiev Opera; and Lisa quickly turned the conversation to that beautiful city, where in fact she had been born. The interest aroused by her mentioning this fact, which was not included in her biographical note, allowed Victor to recover his poise. She had been taken from it when she was only a year old, Lisa explained, so she had no experience of it except for a couple of short holiday visits. She liked what she had seen. Her two Russian companions vied with each other in expressing enthusiasm for their city. Of course, conditions had been nightmarish, earlier; but, slowly, things were beginning to get better. Their presence in Milan was an indication of progress; their only previous trips had been in highly regimented teams.
“Don’t you ever feel like coming back?” asked Vera. “Don’t you get homesick?”
Lisa shook her head. “I’m not even sure where home is. I was born in the Ukraine but my mother was Polish. There’s even a trace of Romany, I’m told! I’ve lived in Vienna for nearly twenty years. So you tell me what my homeland is!” They nodded their understanding, and said it was almost as hard for them to tell. Vera was from Leningrad, and Victor from Georgia, and they were of course Jewish. “By race not religion,” added Vera hurriedly. Evidently thinking that Signor Fontini might feel left out of this conversation, she asked him what was home to him. “La Scala,” he said. Everyone laughed, and Victor offered a toast to their host’s native land, the beautiful La Scala.
There was a great deal of laughter, from then on. Vera had a dry humour, and Lisa surprised herself, and them, by being at her wittiest. Sparkling from wine and nervous excitement, she had them in stitches with her absurd—but true—anecdotes. Victor Berenstein had a terrible coughing fit when, in the midst of one of Frau Erdman’s stories, his wine went down the wrong way.
Serebryakova warned him not to drink too much, for he would have to sing at rehearsal in the morning and would not want a hangover. “He can get drunk on milk,” she explained to Lisa, while he protested it was all nonsense—he had never been drunk in his life. Vera rolled her eyes heavenwards. “You’re right!” he sighed, pushing away his still half full wine glass; and Serebryakova patted his hand approvingly. He responded by taking her hand in his, and stroking it. They looked full into each other’s eyes, and smiled affectionately. Lisa had already formed the conclusion that there was an intimate relationship between them. At first she thought it might be no more than a friendship, the comradeship of having worked together in the same opera house for several years, and now being in a strange land together. It certainly was not surprising that, when they searched in Russian for the right Italian word or phrase, they used the intimate form of the second person. But as time went on, and Victor became a little tipsy, she could see they were in love. She was slightly aghast that Serebryakova, with her flawless oval face, slanting green eyes, and long blond hair (as silver as her name), should have chosen to fall in love with a man so much older and so unprepossessing. There was no accounting for tastes. The discovery upset her, and she did not know why. It was certainly not prudishness, though she knew Serebryakova was married, and Berenstein showed all the signs of marriage also. Perhaps it was the openness of their behavior. For instance, after they had said goodnight to Signor Fontini and entered the hotel lift, Vera closed her eyes and rested her head on Victor Berenstein’s shoulder; and only her awkward sling prevented even closer contact. He put his arm round her and stroked her hair. When they stepped off at the second floor, bidding Lisa goodnight, he still kept his arm around her.
Lisa felt lonely and depressed when she was in her silent suite, surrounded by the meaningless flowers. She found yet another wrinkle in her face, as she prepared for bed. She slept little, and was down for breakfast before they had started serving. She was finishing her last cup of coffee when Victor and Vera came in—together.
When Signor Fontini called to take Lisa to the opera house, he pointed to the pile of suitcases and hatboxes waiting in the vestibule. “The diva’s,” he said; “you can see she travels light!” Serebryakova was to leave by the midday train, directly after the rehearsal, which she had begged Lisa to allow her to attend. Lisa, her breast fluttering with nervous excitement, smiled at Signor Fontini’s dry remark. Then she was out into the warm spring sunlight and stepping into the limousine which would take her the two blocks to the opera house. She had forgotten how Tatiana’s opening phrases went, and had to glance at the score to reassure herself.
There were still more flowers in her dressing room. She was rushed straight through into the fitting room, and spent the next hour being adjusted to fit Vera’s dresses—that was how it felt. She was too dazed by the unfamiliar star treatment to utter a word, and just let herself be dragged
about and prodded, like a queen bee. The beautiful dresses needed to be shortened, and also let out in various places. Then she was rushed to the make-up room, to have her wrinkles smoothed out into a young girl’s fresh skin, while the seamstresses made the necessary final quick adjustments to her costumes. Coffee was poured down her throat; she was poured into her dress. They weren’t happy with her long, dull hair, beginning to streak with grey. They were not happy with it at all. By this evening they would find her a wig. The ladies clucked also about her oily skin, because she was beginning to perspire a lot. Embarrassed, she confessed to a greasy complexion and a tendency to sweat, especially when she was nervous.
Then she was out on stage. She was being clapped by the orchestra, members of the chorus, hangers-on, and a scattering of people in the stalls (Serebryakova among them). Lensky, a handsome young Italian, doomed yet again to fall in his duel with Onegin, kissed her hand; as did her doting old husband of the last act, the Prince—a bearded middle-aged Romanian. Signor Fontini introduced her also to the conductor, a wasplike man, of whose reputation for unrelenting energy and unfailing brilliance Lisa stood in awe. Although he himself was past sixty, his manner seemed to be saying, “Why have they burdened me with cripples and old women?” In broken German (for some reason best known to himself), he delivered a few terse words of advice. Lisa went across to shake hands with the leader of the orchestra. Onegin beamed at her. She nodded that she was ready to start. All but her sister Olga and Madame Larina hurried from the stage. The conductor lifted his baton.
And later, when he tapped his music stand to call attention to a mistake, he had harsh words only for the woodwind. To Lisa, he muttered a brief compliment; and Serebryakova, from the stalls, had already given her a nod of appreciation, and a thumbs-up. The rehearsal continued to go well. There were obviously flaws in her performance, but she usually corrected them as soon as they were pointed out. Clearly, too, she would have to learn how to match her movements and gestures to those of the other performers. “That will come very soon,” said Victor to her, at the end of the morning session. “Anyone can see you’re a born actress. You move like a ballerina. Well, of course, you almost were a ballerina! It shows. And the most important thing is—you can sing! Thank God you were able to come!” And Vera rushed up on stage, and hugged her exuberantly with her good arm. “Chudno!” she said. “Magnificent!” She confessed tears had sprung to her eyes during the Letter Scene. “I was hearing it for the first time!”
Her generous praise moved Lisa so much that she could not even thank her. She had not yet recovered from the moment, near the end, when tears had sprung to her eyes. It was when she had to tell the remorseful Onegin that she still loved him, but his response had come too late: she could not betray her marriage vows. At the phrase “Happiness was so possible, so close!” she remembered a student in Petersburg whom she had loved with all her ardent soul, as Tatiana loved Onegin. And, like Onegin, the young man had cast away her love, her generous gift, and suppressed his own noble impulses, for the sake of a dream, an illusion of freedom. Lisa, even while she sang, had been overwhelmed with unaccustomed memories. For a moment they had threatened to get the better of her singing. She felt angry with herself. One wanted the audience to weep, but the singer must stay cold and dry-eyed.
However, she felt happy again, to have cleared this great hurdle with reasonable success. The conductor gave her a satisfied nod; Signor Fontini said “Bravo!” though with a lugubrious expression; and M. Moreau, the leader, tapped the wood of his violin with his bow, to show his approval. Several members of the orchestra clapped briefly, then everyone scattered to get a drink. There was to be another rehearsal in the afternoon. Vera and Victor invited her to come with them to their favourite little trattoria down a back street, where they could get instant service and good cheap food. Vera said she had no intention of leaving by the midday train; now that she had heard Lisa sing, wild horses would not drag her away from Milan till after tonight’s performance. Victor was obviously overjoyed at her change of plans: in full view of the stage hands he hugged her and kissed her firmly on the lips.
Over a light meal, Lisa asked them for their advice, and they made a few suggestions which struck her as excellent; in fact, she wondered why she had not thought of them herself.
In the midst of their happy and creative discussion, they were upset by the appearance of a gaunt, ragged urchin at their table. He held out his hand for coins. His face was being ravaged by some unsightly disease. Before the waiters could chase him out, Lisa insisted on giving him all the change in her purse. Of all suffering, she could least tolerate the suffering of children. Her new friends agreed with her, sadly; and Victor said, that was what was hopeful about the Soviet Union. “It can’t be done overnight, and there are still monstrous inequalities. But we’re heading in the right direction at last.”
Vera agreed; and Lisa listened, impressed by their balanced enthusiasm. They talked on, about music and politics—but mostly music—until it was time to return for the afternoon rehearsal. Vera excused herself, saying she was going back to the hotel to rest. Between Onegin and the former Tatiana there was an amorous scrimmage, which embarrassed Lisa, and she turned away.
When the curtain went up on her first night, she found all her nerves had gone; and no personal feeling intervened when she sang “Happiness was so possible, so close.” Instead, she found herself responding more and more instinctively and pleasurably to the dramatic voice and gestures of Berenstein. They took their bows to warm, if not tumultuous, applause. Backstage, everyone rushed to congratulate her; but the praise she most appreciated was a silent gesture from Onegin, who crooked his thumb and middle finger into a circle, as if to say, “It worked. We’ll be all right.” She said, with sincerity, how wonderfully he had sung. At the rehearsals she had not been sure how much she liked his voice, but during the actual performance it had “grown” on her. Of course his voice was in its autumn, as surely he knew; but the gravelly edge of physical decline only seemed to add to its spiritual richness. He turned her praise aside, with a shrug of dissatisfaction. “It’s gone off,” he said. “I can’t reach the top notes any more. This is my swan-song.” But Serebryakova, clutching his arm, said, “Nonsense!”
Bending, he whispered into Lisa’s ear: “We’ve fixed up a little party in our suite. In honour of your first night and Vera’s last. Do come.” Our suite! The effrontery took her aback. She preferred these affairs to be carried on with a certain discretion. Gratefully she accepted, beginning to feel (three hours too late, so to speak) the immense strain of the occasion. It would be good to unwind with a drink. So, having changed, they bundled into limousines and were whisked back to the hotel. “Their” suite on the second floor turned out to be even more spacious and elegant, and bedecked with flowers, than her own. Rapidly it filled and became overcrowded; the air thickened with cigarette smoke and the rumble of voices; waiters whisked around with trays of wine.
When she had drunk a couple of glasses, Lisa told Victor how much she had worried about being too old for the part. He roared with laughter; and said his last Tatiana, in Kiev, had had to be brought on stage in a bath chair! But he was certainly the oldest Onegin ever! “You’re just the right age. What are you? Thirty-five, thirty-six? Well, at thirty-nine you’re not even in your prime, not by a long chalk, and you could quite easily pass for an eighteen-year-old girl! Yes, yes, I mean it! But a white-haired old man of fifty-seven, playing a young man of twenty-eight—that really is straining belief! It’s a good thing the Italians are brought up to believe in miracles!” And he roared with laughter again.
Vera glided up, and Lisa explained the joke. “But you’re just a spring chicken, Lisa dear!” said Vera. “Truly, your voice is so much better than when I heard you in Vienna—and I loved it then. You must come to Kiev, mustn’t she, Victor? I shall tell the director about you as soon as I get home. Of course, he knows your reputation already and I’m sure he’d be thrilled to have you sing for him.
You must stay with us. I’m sure we can find room for you, even though”—her green eyes danced—“I’m having a baby! Yes, but it’s a secret. Only you and Victor know, so please don’t tell anyone. That’s why I’m going home—to rest—though I hate leaving Victor. Look after him, won’t you? We’re very happy about it. I’m almost glad I fell and broke my arm; though”—her smile dimmed momentarily—“it might have been serious. You see, I couldn’t have lasted the whole season anyway! I thought I’d mind having to give up my career, for a time, but now I find I don’t. I’ve never felt happier in my life! So I shall have a little baby when you come.”
Her joy infected Lisa too; and Victor was grinning sheepishly. The moral issue was none of her business, thought Lisa; she knew only that they had been kind and generous to her, and she liked them both very much. She squeezed Vera’s hands, and said she was happy for her, and would love to visit, even if she could not sing at the Opera. But they were sure there would be no problem about that: she would be welcomed back with open arms. Lisa was then whisked away by Signor Fontini to be introduced to two wealthy patronesses of the opera—old ladies whose bones rustled like dry leaves and who gushed over her embarrassingly. She was relieved when the director shouted for silence. Gradually the hubbub died away, and he began a slurred speech of welcome to the excellent Frau Erdman and of regretful farewell to the wondrous Serebryakova. Glasses were lifted, toasts drunk, and the waspish conductor called for a farewell song from the diva. This request was supported with acclamation, which grew ever noisier as Serebryakova resisted efforts to drag her towards the piano where Delorenzi, the conductor, was already impatiently seated. (The piano, a grand, went with the suite: Lisa had one too.)