“Too bad bookings work two and three years ahead. I’ll be sitting on my hands a lot for the next little while, regardless of how well I do here in Paris.”
“Don’t you believe it. I’m pulling out all the stops to let everyone know that you’re available and willing to come in on short notice. There’s always a certain amount of fill-in work. People get pregnant, have vocal problems, or just bow out for personal reasons, you know that. And I’ve just heard that the Salzburg Festival might be looking for a Pamina for next summer’s festival.”
At this, my eyebrows had raised. It was very flattering. “I haven’t sung that role in several years. Don’t you think thirty-six is too long in the tooth for Pamina?”
“With the weight you’ve lost recently? I just got the proofs for those new promo shots, and you could pass for twenty-five easily. You might want to start dusting Pamina off. My sources are pretty good. That’s why I’ve arranged for the Viennese paper to interview you. What’s a good time in the morning for you?
“I’m pretty well wide open. I’ve arranged for a coaching with someone from the opera early in the afternoon, then there’s a quick cast meeting before the performance. But my morning is completely free.”
“Good. I’ll call him back. Eleven o’clock okay?”
“Sure.”
“Talk about your time with Fosch. That’ll go over well. He was very popular in Vienna.”
“Relax. I’ll give him a full dose of the old charm. I know how important this is.”
“That’s it, then. Call me afterwards to let me know how it went.”
“Thanks for all the hard work, Alex,” I’d said before I hung up. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t.”
I wondered what Alex would have thought if he saw the state I was in earlier in the day. Gerhard, too, would have been very unhappy at my lack of control, which to him was an abomination.
It was midway through my second year of university that I found myself in the chorus for an opera, not the place you’d expect to find a percussion student. We all scorned singers of any stripe, but especially opera singers. To us, they were merely a target for infantile jokes and jibes. Perhaps it was a means of defence since there are probably more drummer jokes in circulation than singer jokes.
How did this turn of events come about? The flu was racing its way through the usual ranks of singers, and with the performance only five days away, they were very short on good, strong voices. Since I’d once sung in the faculty’s choir, and also had a reputation for quick memorization of music, they asked. I refused. They pleaded. I reluctantly agreed.
You know what? I found I really liked the gig. The opera bug had bitten. By the end of the year, I’d quietly begun studying voice. By the next fall, the word was out: Marta Hendriks had switched allegiances and was now a de facto member of the opera department, even though I continued on gamely with percussion, not convinced my musical career should take such an extreme left turn.
The reason I finally gave up thoughts of banging on things for a living was Gerhard Fosch. The famous German director, voice teacher, and world-renowned expert on all things operatic graced the old school with his presence for two days of master classes in mid-December that year.
You can imagine my shock when I found out the previous week that he’d chosen me to sing on the first day. I hadn’t even applied. Unbeknownst to me, my teacher and the opera department’s director had decided to send him a tape of me singing two arias, “Sì, mi chiamano Mimì” from Bohème and “Porgi, amor, qualche ristoro” from Figaro. Fosch must have liked what he heard. The singers who didn’t get selected really took it out on me, someone they regarded as a barely talented interloper.
Fosch had the reputation of being incredibly harsh with anyone slow in wit or lacking in talent, and I sat with increasing nervousness as he tore strips a foot wide off the first two students in the master class. By the time I got up on the stage to sing, I was contemplating repairing the burned bridges with the percussion department, thinking that Herr Fosch would inevitably send me packing.
Gerhard, well over six feet, still slender as he approached sixty and very distinguished-looking, had something in his demeanor that could make mere mortals tremble before he even opened his mouth. The man carried himself with an almost regal bearing. Even though he was dressed casually that day, his slacks and open-necked shirt were obviously bespoke. His blue eyes and swept-back, longish black hair (certainly dyed) did nothing to take away from his natural presence. Several of the female members attending his class were already seriously gaga over him. He was quite handsome.
With nothing to lose, I just let it all go, and at the end of the first aria, turned to find Fosch sitting in his chair, head down, eyes closed. I thought he’d somehow managed to nod off. I started to leave the stage to make my sorry way out of the hall and the opera singing world.
“Where do you think you are going?”
I froze, holding my breath, certain that I’d made a great faux pas. Toward the back of the room, someone tittered. The voice was definitely soprano, and it had a nasty edge.
“I, ah, I, ah ...” was all I managed to get out before being cut off with a wave of his hand.
“You have a very big voice, but you do not know how to use it ... yet. Your pitch and rhythm are very good, and I believe that you may actually be musical. You have something more to sing for me, ja?”
Oddly, I was a bit more relaxed when I began the Mozart, but that led me to be, perhaps, a bit too enthusiastic in the volume department.
Again, the decisive wave of the hand, this time only part way through. “No, No! You cannot sing Mozart like a rock star (more titters). This is not a tasteless Broadway entertainment, my dear. Mozart must be approached with delicacy, subtlety, and the voice with great warmth must be filled at all times. Do you not know what the words you are singing mean?”
“Yes, I am quite aware of their meaning,” I answered in what I prayed was fairly decent German.
Fosch actually smiled and answered back in the same language. “Oh ho! You are cheeky as well as showing a bit of talent. Begin again and Fosch will walk you through this work of genius. Stand tall. Taller! Look like a countess! That is good. Now begin again!”
The next half hour was a revelation of not only how to sing, but how to sing Mozart.
“No, no! My dear, you cannot bellow like that! Focus your tone. Find its core. You have good lungs, and you must use them properly to support the voice. To sing softly, you must fill them and use them as a pillow to gently let each note be produced naturally. Mozart, even when fortissimo, must not ever be harsh. Smooth. Natural. Cultured. Now sing that passage once more!”
At the end of my session, Fosch actually smiled, stood, and kissed my hand. “I would like to work with you again in the future.”
There was no snickering in the hall as I took my seat in the audience.
One month after my final year of school ended, by invitation I was staying at Fosch’s chateau in Burgundy. When August turned to September and autumn was in the air, he’d taken me on as his protege. By the time all the leaves had fallen, we were lovers.
My real education had begun.
Knowing that a lot was riding on every chance I got to speak with the media, that morning I carefully arranged the sitting room with a chair pulled close to the sofa for the reporter. The curtains had been drawn back, allowing the brilliant morning sun to flood the room. The little MP3 player I travel with was softly playing Beethoven piano sonatas, and on the table in front of me was coffee in a tall silver pot, with fresh croissants, jam, and butter at the ready. I’d gotten up early, done my hair, carefully applied makeup, and put on one of my nicest dresses, casual but elegant. Today, I needed to look every bit the diva. The only touch missing was a discreet “personal assistant” hovering in the background. With only three more gigs booked over the next year, there wouldn’t be much for a personal assistant to do.
Perhaps I
could go a good way toward making that a greater number. Die Presse was a well-thought-of newspaper, not just in Vienna but in all of Austria. Good coverage there would be noticed in certain places — the Vienna State Opera, for one. And perhaps the Salzburg Festival really would come calling. Thus far in my career, they’d ignored me.
Twenty-three minutes after eleven found me drumming my fingers on arm of the sofa, the coffee getting cold. No call apologizing for lateness. If I hadn’t needed him more than he seemingly needed me, his arrival would have found me not at home. Being late for an appointment is unforgivable in my book.
I sighed, but didn’t stop drumming my fingers.
A full half hour late, there was a knock on my door. Looking through the peephole, I saw a youngish man with overly long brown hair, glasses, and a very big nose, although that was probably mostly due to the fisheye lens I was looking through.
I made him knock twice.
Opening the door, I said, “Herr Theissen?”
“I got a late start this morning,” he said in faultless English.
I heard my voice saying, “Oh, that’s quite all right. I lay pretty low on performance days,” and hated myself for being such a damned phony. “Would you care for coffee? I’m afraid it’s not quite as warm as it was. I can order more, though.
He pulled a water bottle out of the knapsack slung carelessly over one shoulder. “I am quite all right, danke.” A notebook, pen, and small digital recorder came out next. He settled onto the chair without being asked and proceeded to get himself ready. “I do not interview musicians as a rule, but since I am the only reporter for Die Presse currently in Paris, I was told to do it.” His tone of voice made it clear he was not happy about this.
In an effort to apply oil to the troubled waters, as I took my seat on the sofa, I asked, “And what is it that you generally write about, Herr Thiessen?”
“I believe in English you would call me an investigative reporter.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Still,” he said pleasantly as he picked up his pen and notebook after switching on the recorder, “I have not been in my job long enough to complain too loudly. Shall we begin?”
I swallowed back at least three tart remarks as I poured myself some lukewarm coffee.
“So, Fraulein Hendriks, are you happy to be on the stage once again?”
“Certainly, and then being given the chance to sing in such a storied opera house as the Palais Garnier, how could I not be thrilled? As you know, most operas are staged at the Bastille now. Working with such a fantastic cast is —”
“And in the two years since the death of your husband,” he interrupted, “what thoughts were going through your head?”
I could only manage a “Huh?” in response.
“You were undergoing therapy for extreme depression, is that not true?”
Perhaps that’s why he’d been late. The little so-and-so had been on the phone to Toronto, trying to get some dirt on me. Just great. What the heck was Thiessen after?
In order to give myself some time, I grabbed my coffee cup and took a sip, then another. “I would prefer to talk about the production I’m in, or about my career. I do not wish to make my private life a matter of public record.”
“I am just attempting to give the story of your triumph a context for our readers, ja?”
I considered the reporter’s words, wondering what Alex would want me to do. I wished he were present to tell me. “After Marc’s death, I needed time to evaluate a number of things and come to grips with what had happened to me.”
“But you did suffer from depression?”
“Wouldn’t anyone when the love of their life is so horribly taken away?”
The little bastard just shrugged. “And you are better now?”
“Yes, I am,” I answered firmly.
“One of the reviewers said he felt your performance two nights ago had depths of which he did not think you were capable. Do you feel this was a result of the tragedy that befell you?”
Stay calm, stay calm. I could hear Alex’s voice as if he were in the room. Here I had been expecting a puff piece, something to build up my name in the Austrian press, not a goddamn interrogation.
“I cannot say, Herr Thiessen. It may just be the result of singing once more in front of an appreciative audience, rising to the occasion of an opening night in Paris. This production I’m in is quite inspiring enough to not need any reading into the whys and wherefores of MY performance. Are you aware of the changes of context the director has added to the opera’s libretto?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation into safer waters.
He didn’t take the hint. “I do not care for opera. Do you have a photo of your late husband? I would like to use it in the article I am writing.”
“No. I do not!” I shot back.
“He was younger than you, I understand.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Don’t you think it’s curious that I could not find a single photo of the two of you together? Didn’t he ever attend any appearances with you? None of the big parties? It is always you alone in these photos.”
“My husband preferred staying in the background. To be honest, he wasn’t much interested in opera, either. He was a man of simple tastes.”
Thiessen was relentless. “No one I have spoken to could tell me that they even met this mysterious man.”
“Who have you spoken to?”
“People who should have met him. They socialized with you. He was never there.”
“Plenty of my friends met Marc! It’s just that he preferred living in our farmhouse in eastern Ontario. That’s where his work was. He needed to be there!” I put down the coffee cup hard enough to make the spoon rattle on the saucer. “I will not answer any more questions about my private life.”
With an expression that clearly said he wanted to ask a question that he knew I wouldn’t answer, the journalist looked down at his notebook. My little outburst kept him on the straight and narrow for several minutes with general inquiries about what I was booked to do, favourite roles, and the sorts of questions I thought I was going to be asked in the first place.
It caused me to let my guard down.
I was telling a story of a colleague, a now-famous Canadian baritone, who had been all set to spend his life making cabinets and fine furniture until he appeared as a last-minute fill-in for an amateur Gilbert and Sullivan society in Montreal. Someone from the Met just happened to be in town visiting and was dragged to the performance. I was trying to work the story around to my situation of almost winding up as a percussionist.
Thiessen took a sip from his water bottle, and when I stopped for a breath, he snuck in his question. “Was your breakdown caused by tragically losing a second lover in a row?”
The way he did it was really quite artful, and I came very close to falling into his trap. I suddenly saw how easily people could be manipulated by skillful interviewers into saying things they later greatly regretted.
I actually began to speak, saying, “What does Gerhard have to do with all of this?” before realizing what was happening.
The stress of the past few days boiled out of me as I leapt to my feet, completely out of control. “Get out!” I screamed so loudly I’m surprised the windows didn’t rattle. “Get out of this room now!”
Surprisingly, Thiessen said nothing. He put all his things back into the knapsack, got to his feet and scurried from the room without a word. Maybe the volume of my objection had frightened the little weasel.
I slammed the hotel room door hard and leaned against it, shaking with anger.
Alex would just have to understand when I told him what happened.
Chapter Four
With my whole body shaking as emotions surged this way and that, I felt completely rudderless, unable to control myself. It wasn’t until I swallowed that it sank into my pea brain what I’d done. The saliva going down my throat felt like a dozen razor blades.
It was easy to feel that I’d just screwed mine up quite dramatically. I slid down to the floor and sat there, tears welling in my eyes. After all I’d been through, now this — and all because I couldn’t keep my temper with a stupid reporter.
Swallowing tentatively, I tried to feel just how bad things were. My throat muscles were very tight and it was sore past my voice box. “Hello. Testing, testing,” I said, with huge relief that something sounding fairly normal came out.
I read somewhere that a soprano at the Met screamed unadvisedly loudly during a rehearsal and knocked herself out of commission for several weeks.
Could I sing Violetta that evening? I couldn’t see how. It’s a vocally trying role at the best of times.
Among my toiletries in the bathroom was some special “mouthwash.” I hadn’t asked what its ingredients were when Gerhard gave a me large bottle nearly a dozen years ago, but it had gotten me out of a few tight spots in the past when my voice was tired or my throat was mildly sore.
“Use this very judiciously, my dear, and only when really needed,” he’d said. “You cannot rely on it for more than one or two performances. It only masks; it does not make the throat better. You are risking serious injury by using it.”
I said a silent prayer and crossed myself before gargling gently for twenty seconds, letting more than the usual amount of the potion slide down my throat. The soreness began to ease up within a few minutes, but the muscles remained stubbornly tight. The only solution I could think of for that was some sleep. Often those tender muscles relaxed when one didn’t think about them.
Surprisingly, I drifted off fairly quickly and awoke shortly after two. Reaching out, I took a couple of good swallows of water from my bedside glass, then rolled over onto my back, trying to judge the state of my throat.
Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle Page 4