Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle

by Blechta, Rick

  It still felt as if an unseen hand had a tight grip on it, but that grip had loosened somewhat.

  “How does it feel now?” I said softly, then repeated it a few more times at increasing volume.

  So far, so good.

  I had arranged to warm up with one of the opera’s vocal accompanists to get ready for the evening’s performance, and shortly before three I left the hotel. Even though it was a short walk to the opera house, I had the doorman flag down a cab. My heaviest scarf was wrapped carefully around my throat to keep it warm. In my pocket was the bottle of Gerhard’s magic mixture, and in my hand a large bottle of water, to keep myself hydrated.

  We met at the stage door and the répéteur led me to one of the claustrophobic rehearsal rooms in the depths of the old building. I was reminded of scenes from Phantom of the Opera, which actually is set in the bowels of this building, subterranean lake and all. Fortunately, the man leading me down didn’t have a mask.

  Jean-Pierre Godard was excellent at his craft, and we’d enjoyed working together quite a few times over the past few weeks. He noticed one measure into the first warm-up that things weren’t right.

  “Cher Marta, you are not yourself today.”

  That’s an understatement, I thought. “I’m sorry, Jean-Pierre.”

  “Your voice, it feels okay?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I told him. “Perhaps if we warm up very slowly and lightly?”

  I sang mezza voce for about five minutes, feeling things out at considerably less than full throttle. It was still tight, but might be doable.

  “Can you give me a little more?” Jean-Pierre asked.

  I took a few swallows of water and we tried some things that were higher and louder.

  I have this mental imagery I use when stressed. It involves a pump attached to my head by a large suction cup. In my mind’s eye, when the pump is turned on, all the bad “sludge” in my brain starts coming out — sticky brown crud that looks quite disgusting. Probably smells disgusting, too, but I’ve never carried the imagery that far. At that point, I tried switching the pump on, and the process actually started working. As my voice rose through a series of ascending minor arpeggios, I could visualize the crap starting to leave my consciousness. Maybe it was the professionalism Gerhard had drummed into me over and over again, or maybe it was desperation, but behind the keyboard, Jean-Pierre finally began smiling.

  “Much better, my dear!”

  I smiled triumphantly, mentally blocking the return of any of the thoughts I’d just managed to flush out. My throat also felt slightly more relaxed. “Could we do those passaggio exercises you showed me last week? I wasn’t quite satisfied during the first act the other night. I was thinking they might help.”

  “I think you must be more aware of supporting the notes right at the bottom of the passaggio. Ease into them more and feel the air coming from your toes.”

  Jean-Pierre liked talking about toes in his mental imagery.

  By the time our forty-five-minute session ended, I was feeling a lot more confident and centred, but still apprehensive about the evening’s performance. My reserves felt perilously low.

  “I cannot attend this evening,” Jean-Pierre told me as he kissed my hand, “but I know you will sing like a goddess. I do not think you should push too hard, though. Your voice still sounds fragile, but you may have enough petrol.”

  I smiled. “The word you want is ‘gas.’ Thank you so much for your help, Jean-Pierre,” I said as I kissed both his cheeks.

  “And remember your toes at the bottom of the passaggio!”

  I often wonder what someone who knows nothing about singing would think about the bizarre way we talk sometimes.

  Back in the hotel room, Alex had left a sputteringly indignant message, outraged by the disastrous interview and promising to do something about it. Whether he could or not was another matter. I put the whole thing out of my mind. Another hour of napping was what I needed most to recharge my batteries.

  At six o’ clock, I had a light meal in the hotel’s dining room, keeping to myself at a table in the corner. Even though I don’t normally touch alcohol before I sing, I thought it wise to have one glass of wine to further relax me.

  When I arrived at the Palais Garnier, the cast briefly met with the director backstage before the performance. One of the more temperamental cast members, Gutterand (my Alfredo), gave me a chilly reception. He’d been one of those raked over the coals by the critics, and obviously resented the fact that I’d gotten most of the kind words. Tough. There was no way I should feel guilty about a good review. I just hoped his petulance wouldn’t carry over onstage. The stories of one singer trying to scuttle another’s performance because of a grudge, for a lot less reason than a bad review, are legion in this business. I’d be well-served to keep on my toes, and decided it was best not to tell him about the three huge bouquets (one from the general director, one from Alex back in New York, and another from Lili, bless her!) that had been waiting in my dressing room when I’d arrived.

  I felt hesitantly confident that I might squeak through the performance. I’d have to watch my volume, hold a mental image of keeping my still-tight throat muscles relaxed — and only resort to the magic potion hidden in my coat pocket as a last resort. It would be better to bow out of one performance than to wreck my voice for heaven knew how long, perhaps permanently.

  By the end of the first act, I wasn’t so sure I’d made the best choice. Gutterand seemed determined to redeem himself by singing louder and with more intensity than anyone in creation, taking enormous risks in the process — primarily with my voice. I had a natural edge since the human ear detects higher pitches as also being louder, but in order to match him in our duets, I was forced to push harder than I had intended. My throat muscles were feeling more and more tight, the soreness nearly overwhelming. I began to fear causing something drastic like a throat hemorrhage, the worst thing that can befall a singer.

  In a quick moment while the orchestra had several measures to themselves, I whispered to him, “Can you back off a bit? My voice isn’t up to this tonight.”

  His eyes narrowed and he shook his head, making his intentions clear.

  I scrambled for some way to avoid impending disaster. Singing from my toes be damned, I wasn’t going to make it.

  Then it came to me: Violetta was already supposed to be suffering from consumption, right? Maybe I could compensate for easing back on the vocal throttle by some fancy acting. But how?

  I could make it seem as if Violetta was even more frail than is usually the case. It might be natural for her not to stand there and belt it out toe-to-toe with Alfredo. Make her bravely stoic, but already failing, fanning herself, stumbling a bit against furniture, perhaps rubbing her throat? Hmm.... Why hadn’t I thought of that before? It would be tricky to do on the fly, but I might be able to pull it off.

  In the end, I just made it through the act, singing the final aria, “È strano,” in a somewhat choked mezza voce as much as I could get away with, and saving a last major blast of full voice for the section around the “Sempre libera” reprise.

  That curtain could not come down fast enough. I’d survived the act but I was perilously close to the edge.

  The roar of the crowd was deafening when Gutterand and I came out for our bows, increasing in volume as I curtseyed — which wasn’t lost on the tenor. I crossed my fingers as he bowed and indicated my approval to his performance with a smile and wave of my hand, acknowledging him. Thankfully, the applause level stayed the same.

  Bullet successfully dodged.

  I beat a hasty retreat to my dressing room and took another swig of the magic potion. Things felt better almost immediately, but I knew it was only the irritation being anesthetized. The problem of muscle tension still remained and was only going to get worse. Maybe I was a fool to go on, but I felt I had to at least try.

  The first scene of the second act was more of the same but with almost no chorus to hide behind fo
r a bit of a break. Toward the end of the scene, the thin ice I’d been skating on finally shattered when I cracked on a high note. An expression of concern crossed the face of Simon DeLong, the American baritone who was singing Germont that evening, and he cuddled me in his arms more than usual, immediately cutting back on his volume, the old sweetie. Hopefully he’d talk some sense into Gutterand during the intermission — if I even lasted that long.

  I had a longer break between acts thanks to the fact that the second act ends without Violetta onstage. During that time I stayed resolutely silent, drank tea with lots of honey, gargled with salt water, and about five minutes before hitting the stage, administered the magic potion once again.

  In the third act, Violetta is in the final stage of consumption, so my mezza voce scam could work really easily, and I played it to the hilt. I’m sure everyone in the cast was rolling their eyes discreetly as I lurched around the stage, but I really had to sell the consumption aspect. It would be a simple matter for the Paris critics to take back their kind words about opening night if they thought my voice really wasn’t up to snuff, and I knew for a fact that one of them was in the audience, ready to give a second opinion. DeLong and Gutterand (finally) came to my aid and played along with the overacting. My death scene was even more touching than usual.

  The audience demanded five curtain calls that evening, something that had never before happened to me, and their volume as they cheered and shouted and clapped was simply deafening.

  With restrained happiness, I went back to my dressing room.

  DeLong stuck his head in the door shortly after. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  I shook my head.

  “You were very brave tonight — and also very clever. That was a dangerous game.”

  I shrugged.

  “Get lots of rest tomorrow for the matinee on Saturday.” He raised an eyebrow comically. “As the father in this production, I demand you listen to me!”

  My dresser fussed over me as several more people stuck their heads in the door, voicing both concern and congratulations. Oddly, there was no appearance by the general director. Maybe he was trying to avoid bad news from his starring soprano.

  Everyone invited me out for supper, and on a better night I would have gladly accepted, but why go out with friends when all I could do was pantomime? An early night was certainly called for. My throat felt simply awful. I also had a splitting headache. But I felt like an Olympic champ, having against all odds jumped over every hurdle cleanly.

  I had my dresser call down to the artist’s entrance, to arrange for a cab to take me back to the hotel. When I got down there, it was ready and waiting. So were autograph seekers, and I knew I couldn’t stop. They’d expect me to speak to them.

  DeLong gallantly saved the day as he followed me out with Gutterand and the conductor. “Madame Hendriks is very tired and not feeling completely well. I hope you will excuse her tonight. But Monsieur Gutterand, I’m certain, would be most happy to sign autographs for you!”

  As DeLong helped me into the cab, I whispered to him, “You’re very bad. But from the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

  “I’m surprised that ham hasn’t hired people to pose as autograph seekers to impress the rest of us. I’m going to have to talk to him. He has a great career ahead of him if he can keep his head on straight. Now, you get out of here. And no unnecessary talking tomorrow!”

  DeLong slapped the top of the car twice after closing the door and it pulled out of the courtyard.

  As we circled around the opera house to pick up an eastbound street back to the hotel, I was idly looking out the window, bone weary and daydreaming about nothing in particular, when I sat up with a gasp.

  Among the crowd milling around the front of the opera house, I could clearly see that horrible phantom again. This time he was looking directly through the window at me.

  “Quickly, stop the cab!” I croaked, then realizing I’d said it in English, repeated my command in French.

  The cabbie shrugged and stopped. Behind us, someone jammed on the brakes and honked angrily.

  I opened the door and leaned out, looking back at the crowd.

  Marc was nowhere to be seen.

  I will never remember the rest of my stay in Paris fondly. Basically, I barricaded myself in the hotel between performances, the curtains tightly shut, not answering the phone unless I recognized the number, hardly even going downstairs to the dining room for meals. I can’t imagine what the staff thought of me.

  No matter how much Lili reassured me, I was more than halfway convinced I was losing my mind. All that hard work for nothing. How else could you explain the two instances where I’d seen someone whom I knew to be dead? The carpet in my room did actually begin to look worn where I paced for hours at a time — or was that my imagination, too?

  On the other hand, I was determined to keep going with what I’d been hired to do, and the time that I spent on the stage of the Palais Garnier over the next ten days was the most satisfying of my professional career thus far. Each performance was a triumph, and once recovered vocally after that unfortunate incident with the reporter, my voice got stronger and more supple. I was sorry to see the string of performances come to an end, but they were already talking to Alex about getting me back in three years’ time to sing Tosca.

  As for the article in Die Presse, it was not quite as bad as I’d been fearing. That damned reporter obviously worked it as though I’d been teetering on the edge of insanity, but the overall tone of the piece made me out to be more of a heroically tragic figure than anything else, someone bravely determined to carry on in the face of insurmountable odds.

  Alex, a manager who can lie with the best of them, truth be told, claimed it was all his doing. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, but the coverage only increased the buzz around the name Marta Hendriks. The Chicago Lyric Opera signed me for two roles, San Francisco one, but there had been no word out of Salzburg yet.

  Regardless of the positive turns of events, I felt as if I were walking on eggshells during the remainder of my time in Paris.

  Whenever I stepped out of the hotel, I deliberately kept my eyes down, or unfocused so that details around me were a blur. I wouldn’t come down from my suite until I knew the limousine was there and waiting. It cost me a pile to be chauffeured the few blocks to and fro the opera on performance nights, but I didn’t think I could survive one more time seeing Marc staring at me.

  At the opera, I would barricade myself in my dressing room and always tried to have someone with me, either my dresser or another cast member. The excuses I made for this became a bit ridiculous.

  What I would have done if Marc had appeared to me at those times I was forced to be alone I cannot imagine.

  It was with a profound feeling of relief that I watched the French countryside drop away on my flight back to Canada. I doubted that all my troubles were over, but I instinctively knew things were going to be better once I was home and in familiar surroundings again.

  Part of the deal Alex worked out with the Opéra National de Paris was first-class plane travel, and with a sigh I leaned back into the wide seat, feeling a little guilty about all those who had to suffer through economy class — but it was only a passing thought. I’d earned first class with what I’d been through.

  I couldn’t wait to be home and safe.

  Chapter Five

  Dusty, stale air assaulted my nasal passages as I walked into my Toronto condo, bringing on a sneezing fit within five minutes. If I had half a brain, I would have called ahead to my cleaning woman to have the place cleaned and aired out. A shocking coating of dust lay on every surface due to my five weeks away. There was no food. The heat was at a subarctic setting. Some homecoming.

  Mañana. Right now I was too jet-lagged to worry about anything.

  Flopping onto the sofa, I picked up the phone. The flashing light told me I had messages waiting. It felt like some sort of rebuke — there couldn’t be many, since I’d cleared th
em from Paris the evening before. Maybe there was notice of another booking.

  “Hello, Marta. Your manager gave me your number in Paris, but I missed you. This is the dean’s assistant at the Schulich School with a courtesy call to remind you that you’re giving two days of master classes here this coming week. We’ve mailed train tickets to your home and booked you into the Courtyard Marriott just down the street from the school. Please let me know if there’s anything further you need and when you’ll be arriving. First session is at nine o’clock on Wednesday morning. The dean also wanted me to tell you that he read some of your Paris reviews, and extends a brava to you for making the old school look so good. He’s also looking forward to greeting you personally when you arrive. Bye for now.”

  Geez, I’d forgotten all about that. The opera department at McGill had gotten in touch with me four months earlier to say that they were arranging a series of master classes with various high flyers in the opera world. I distinctly got the feeling they were having trouble getting people at such short notice. At that point, I wasn’t sure I could handle it, so I turned them down. The next day the dean himself called and applied a little gentle pressure to get me to accept.

  Digging my agenda out of my purse, I checked. Sure enough, I’d entered it for the wrong week. Lovely. It might be time to computerize all these sorts of things and carry a laptop, or buy myself a more advanced cellphone and shove everything on there to keep myself totally organized. I’d resisted most electronic gadgets so far. My father’s Luddite tendencies ran strong in his youngest child’s blood.

  The second message was a hang up, but the third was most welcome.

  “Hi, baby sister! It’s Narissa. I’m going to be in Ottawa this week for a high school reunion. I looked it up on the Web and I know you’re done in Paris. Any chance you have some free time between engagements? I’d love to see you. Call me at the very least so we can chat. Congrats on the great reviews. We’re all so proud of you!”