“He is getting stronger every day,” she told me hopefully.
The man had undergone three operations since I departed Paris the previous November: one for his internal injuries, and two for his badly broken leg. But now he seemed to be firmly on the long road back.
“Has the Canadian government told you when the trial will be?” I asked.
“There have been delays, but they think it will begin before the summer is over.” She looked at me for a moment, searching my face. “We have had many talks while he has been recovering. He told me all about what happened between you two.” Again, she stopped. “You have been very generous and forgiving.”
“Our lives have moved on. Even if you and Gaston hadn’t come along, things would have been over between us.” Reaching into my purse, I held out a fat envelope. “These are the divorce papers and everything my lawyer thought Jean-Claude —”
“He has decided to use Luc,” Marie said almost apologetically. “We are all used to it here.”
I nodded. “Tell Luc that if he wants his old pickup or anything in it, it’s out at the farm. I also have a few cartons of his personal effects. I will be putting the property on the market soon, so he doesn’t have much time to make a decision.”
“Won’t you go out to see him?”
“When I arrived, I thought I might, but no. I think I’ll just take my leave.” I gave Marie kisses on each cheek. “And I wish you all the very best.”
The train trip back into Paris was a melancholy affair for me. The tender greens of spring in the market gardens of the Picardie countryside giving way to the clutter and graffiti of northern Paris did nothing to brighten my mood. Staring out the window, I forced myself to focus on the future where brighter things would happen.
Did I wish I’d never started down the path that had led to a bomb on a Paris street and near-death on a rooftop? Certainly. Almost every day.
But Lili, in one of our continuing sessions, had recently told me, “If we could see the consequences of our actions, no matter how small or large, before we did them, we would bring ourselves to a state of complete immobility. Marta, you did what you felt you needed to do. The outcome was not all that you wanted, but you started with the best of intentions. Could you have lived the rest of your life not knowing, thinking that you were maybe not right in your head? No.”
Most days, I believe what she told me.
Acknowledgements
The author would like to acknowledge the help of several individuals in bringing this novel to its final form. First to Vicki Blechta for her help with research, French translation, and her great eye in spotting my “excesses” and errors. Thanks must also be given to Robert Kuenzli, a great singer and traveller in the opera world who was very generous sharing his expertise and experiences. Cheryl Freedman again took a first look at the manuscript and brought her editor’s skill to bear on my unruly prose. My expert in all things French was the redoubtable Louise Pambrun. Ellen Gurwitz looked it all over with fresh eyes and discovered several things no one had considered. Allister Thompson and Sylvia McConnell believed in this novel from the very beginning and have my heartfelt thanks for that. And finally to my editor, Matt Baker, who oversaw the final work and asked the hard questions: this novel is better because of you.
Pursuit
Prelude
I had to admit, Leonardo Tallevi, general manager of the Canadian Opera Company, had the touch when it came to getting the press out in force. Maybe it was the Italian charm (his accent was always thicker at these events), maybe it was the fantastic finger food and open bar, or maybe there actually was this kind of interest in today’s announcement. Whatever it was, the lobby of the Four Seasons Centre, Toronto’s opera house, looked pretty darn full.
I’d never seen Lenny in anything other than a suit, and all of them were gorgeous. I knew nothing of his personal life, and couldn’t think of anyone who did, but to those who had contact with him he seemed married to his job. Even the recent profile and interview in Opera Canada focused only on his rise from humble beginnings in Italy. The COC had certainly scored a coup when they’d lured him away from La Fenice, Venice’s legendary opera house.
He had not disappointed. Tallevi had the golden touch when it came to big opera productions, and the world premiere of the first grand opera by wunderkind composer Andrew McCutcheon was the biggest of the big. Not even completed yet, there was already considerable buzz around the work. It had been rumoured that The Met in New York and La Scala in Milan were very interested. Hometown boy McCutcheon had been successfully wooed by the Tallevi charm. This was the big time in the opera world, and Toronto was making a bold play to enter it.
The head of the COC finally stepped to the podium on a small stage that had been set up at one end of the lobby. Behind him, covered by a curtain, was a large banner headed by the new opera’s name. Below it was my current promotional head shot — in which I actually look pretty good. Next to it was a brooding portrait of McCutcheon, who actually was movie-star handsome. As Tallevi held up his hands for silence, cameras flashed and the TV guys rolled tape. Showtime.
“Ladies and gentlemen, and members of the press,” (the usual laughter), “thank you all for joining us this afternoon. The COC is extraordinarily pleased to announce that we have been chosen to premiere the first opera written by world-renowned Canadian composer Andrew McCutcheon.”
Here the curtain was whisked dramatically upward and I actually heard gasps.
“In two years, our main spring production will be The Passage of Time. It is the first world premiere the company has hosted in many years, and certainly our most important. We are honoured Maestro McCutcheon has chosen us to stage his masterwork. He will also be conducting.” This was news to me. “In a work where the opera’s soprano is so much the centre of the plot, it is only right that Canada’s reigning spinto soprano, Marta Hendriks, will be creating this role. I cannot think of anyone better suited to the part.”
Eventually, McCutcheon and I were called to the podium where we spoke. I knew the composer wasn’t convinced about me being completely right for the part, and I wasn’t convinced about having to work closely with him. He was reported to have a volcanic temper to go along with a very high opinion of himself. There was no doubt he was exceptionally talented. I’d really enjoyed his two symphonies, numerous chamber pieces, and song cycles. But grand opera? A lot of great composers had found their Waterloo there.
The opera orchestra had recorded the finished overture, and it was played for the audience. Like all McCutcheon’s compositions, it was surprisingly accessible. My husband Tony likened him to the current crop of movie soundtrack composers: well-orchestrated, lots of brass and percussion, and while the harmonies and melodies were definitely cutting-edge, they were melodic in their own way. Everyone in the lobby seemed to be listening very closely.
When it was my turn to speak, I ramped up the charm and told everyone how honoured I was to be cast and how much I was looking forward to actually creating what would most certainly be an iconic role for years to come. That might have been laying it on a bit thick, but McCutcheon had always delivered the goods on his commissions. Imagine a composer of contemporary music who actually had attained rock-star status.
The opening scene was finished, and McCutcheon, being from a wealthy family, had paid to have it recorded. The previous week I’d worked with him on it and found it was not difficult to sing over the instrumentation. Clearly, he was looking for sonority in his scoring, not volume, although with a fourteen-piece brass section he could get that in spades when he required it. I came away deeply impressed with the quality of composition, but ambivalent about the composer. It was hard to tell if he was just extremely awkward socially, or deliberately being offensive when he spoke to me.
The last person to be called to the stage was the production’s patron, Peter Grant. Famous for his largesse in the Canadian opera world, his investment firm had been part-sponsors for a few other productions over the years. His late w
ife, Rosa Latini, generally got one of the soprano roles — not that she didn’t deserve them. She had been an excellent singer, but possessed a regrettably small voice. With her dead for several years now, I guessed Peter had felt left out of the game, so he’d agreed to pay the lion’s share of the production costs for the new opera — and with all the whizz-bang electronics and multimedia called for, that meant a hefty price tag for the honour.
I liked Peter. Tall, still young-looking at sixty-six, and reputed to be a wickedly good tennis player, he wore wealth and importance easily. A self-made man in the investment industry, he nonetheless fitted in comfortably with the old-money crowd who were well-represented at the gathering.
Earlier, I’d chatted with him briefly.
“Marta! How good to see you, my dear. Lovely as ever.”
I leaned forward for a kiss on each cheek, the old smoothy. “Peter, still as handsome as ever.”
“I am so pleased you will be in our production. As a matter of fact, I insisted you be considered. Happily, they agreed at once.”
“As did I.”
“What do you think of the boy wonder? I understand you sang for him last week.”
“He’s, ah, very interesting. The music is absolutely fascinating.”
“So you think we may have a tiger by the tail? I must admit my own tastes run to Verdi and Puccini. When Lenny approached me, I did take a good bit of convincing. That is, until I heard the music. Absolutely stunning. Andy may be the next great opera composer. And we’re all in on the ground floor.”
“Yes, we are.”
“So what do you think of your part?”
“I’ve only seen a bit of it, but I’m really looking forward to working on it. And I get to sing in English.” I leaned forward. “I have never sung in English in my entire professional life.”
“Amazing.”
A young man was standing behind Peter, who suddenly seemed to remember he was there.
“This is my son, Alan. Alan, this is Marta Hendriks.”
“I know, Dad. I’ve been standing here listening to you talk.”
Alan was in his late twenties or early thirties and looked very much like his father. I shook hands, we exchanged a few pleasantries, and he was off, following a waitress carrying a tray of champagne.
Peter watched him go. “He didn’t want to come. Since his mother died he hasn’t wanted to be around opera very much.”
“Understandable. We lost a very fine talent when Rosa passed away. You must miss her greatly.”
Peter nodded. “It was a great shock to us all.”
It had never made the news, but the scuttlebutt was she committed suicide. Officially it was “died after a brief illness,” an oft-used press phrase to cover a multitude of tragedies.
We passed over the awkwardness quickly, chatted about my upcoming season, and soon parted.
Tony sidled up. “What did Grant have to say?”
“Well, dear husband, I think I owe it to him that I’m at this little shindig today. He as much as said he insisted I get the role of Naomi. I was wondering why they didn’t get one of the really big names to do it. I’m a pretty big fish in our little Canadian pond, but hardly one of the stellar name sopranos. You would have thought they’d go for the brass ring by bringing in a heavy hitter, given McCutcheon’s status.”
Tony leaned forward and kissed my forehead. “You always underrate yourself, my dear Marta. You’re going to be absolutely amazing in this role. And watch, it will be a stepping stone for even bigger and better things.”
“I’d hate to be forced to wait nearly two years for bigger and better things.”
Chapter One
“It’s all rather romantic, Marta.” My friend Lainey panted out her words in time with her trotting feet.
“Maybe at first,” I answered, equally out of breath.
“I sure would like to have someone sending me roses now and then. That would be absolutely lovely.”
Below us at the busy intersection of Wellington and York, Toronto businesspeople hustled themselves through the January cold to yet another day in some hermetically sealed cube farm and a job many of them probably tolerated at best. I was fortunate enough to be doing exactly what I wanted: literally singing for my supper. But that lucky life as an operatic soprano came with its own set of obstacles and problems — like the small one I was facing now. Somewhere along the way, I’d picked up a mysterious and rather persistent fan.
I heaved a large sigh, not easy to do when you’re running faster than you should on a treadmill. Ah, the wages of sin — and the temptation of Viennese food, especially those pastries. I’d put on four pounds during the six weeks I spent there before travelling to Rome and all those lovely plates of pasta. Visiting the gym was definitely needed.
Then, two days before my flight home for a too-brief five-day break, I’d received an email from my old school chum Elaine Martin, who was head of the performance department at our alma mater, McGill University’s Schulich School of Music. She’d landed this plum job because she was dedicated, smart, and most of all, capable. She also had horrible luck with men, but that was another story, and maybe why she thought getting roses under any circumstance was a worthwhile thing.
I’d read her email with slumping shoulders:
Marta! I’m coming in from Montreal on school business for a few days next week. Tony said you’ll be ducking back from Rome about the same time. This is just great! I really hope we can spend some time together. It’s been too long and I have lots to tell you!
What I said under my breath after reading that was definitely not ladylike.
Part of me wanted to spend time with my old friend. I still owed her because of something that had happened a few years earlier, but I needed to relax and Tony deserved my undivided attention. We’d had so little time together the past few months.
Tony’s grandmother sealed my fate when she’d invited us to dinner on my first evening home, something not to be missed on any account. Nonna Lusardi, besides being an unstoppable force of nature, is also a cook of inspired genius, assuming you enjoy Italian food — and who doesn’t? Since I’d been going on and on about her meals to Lainey, it wouldn’t have been particularly nice not to invite her along, too.
So I’d struck a deal with myself: spend Monday with Lainey, then focus my attention on Tony before I had to return to Rome on Saturday. Since she was staying at the Royal York, we’d agreed to meet at my nearby gym, then have a bit of lunch, maybe do a little shopping, and a whole lot of gossip before we went up to Little Italy for dinner.
Feet back on solid ground after twenty minutes of treadmill torture, we both spent a moment wiping our sweaty heads with towels.
“Okay now, tell me all,” Lainey said. “When did this thing with the roses begin? And how many bouquets have you received? I want to know all about your little mystery.”
“It’s not that big a deal. Some joker likes to send me anonymous bouquets — very beautiful anonymous bouquets, actually — but he’s probably just shy or something and doesn’t want to approach me.”
“How many other people do you know who have had this happen?”
“Well, none.”
“There! That’s what makes it mysterious.” She threw her towel at me. “Tell Lainey all, dear.”
I sighed, sorry I’d brought the whole thing up.
The first time it happened was eighteen months earlier while I was singing the role of Amelia Grimaldi in a terrific production of Simon Boccanegra in Philadelphia. Of course, there are always flowers on opening night, especially if you’ve had a full-page interview two days before in the Philadelphia Inquirer. That had put a bit of extra pressure on me to give a superb performance, but oddly, I’d been able to stay relaxed. My mentor, the late Gerhard Fosch, had constantly pounded it into my hard little skull that relaxation is the essential key to any great performance.
Since it was my first appearance with the company and only the second time I’d sung the role,
the artistic director had presented me with a lovely bouquet before I went out for my final curtain call, another one had been sent by my manager in New York, and small bouquets were tossed from the audience, but that was it. Since I’m not the kind of opera fan-favourite who gets showered with flowers, I was quite tickled with what I’d received.
After the long performance, I was ready to get out of my costume, ditch the wig, and go out for a small supper with a few cast members. Imagine my surprise when I found a third large bouquet in my dressing room. On the counter in front of the makeup mirror lay two dozen of the most exquisite, blood red, long-stemmed roses I had ever seen. The air fairly shimmered with their heavenly fragrance, something that’s not usual. They were cradled on pink tissue paper and loosely wrapped around them was a wide ribbon of the most delicate ivory lace.
The makeup lights blazed down on this artistic presentation, and I paused in the doorway, breath completely taken away. Never had I received a bouquet like this.
The arrival of my dresser snapped me out of my reverie.
She, too, stopped in the doorway. “Lordy! Would you look at that!”
“Who put this here?”
“No idea. I was in one of the other dressing rooms gossiping. Is there a card?”
I found it underneath. Like everything else, it was exceptional: an expensive envelope enclosing a note card, the words written by a fountain pen in a beautifully fluid hand.
“What does it say?” Suzanne asked, peeking around my shoulder.
I passed the card to her.
“‘Roses for a diva’? Who would write something like that and then not sign it?”
“It might be my husband.” Taking the note back from Suzanne, I looked at it again, turning it over to see if there was something else. “Though this certainly isn’t Tony’s handwriting.”
Suzanne laughed delightedly. “You’ve got a secret admirer!”
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