During the first piano run-through in the upstairs rehearsal room, he immediately got into it with the chorus.
“Nein, nein, nein! Sie sind nicht der Mittelpunkt der Vorstellung! Und Sie singen als würden Sie hier sein um Lärm zu machen. Mehr Musik und weniger Geschrei wie ein verletzter Esel, bitte!”
The poor soul who’d been tasked with translating immediately jumped to his feet, a sad look on his face since his unenviable task was to tell the singers they’d been likened to braying donkeys.
I looked at our Alfredo, the excellent, but turbulent Ettore Lagorio. He shrugged and made a disgusted gesture, which unfortunately Ebler must have caught, because during our first aria together, “Un dì, felice, eterea,” he was stopped three times for piddling reasons. None of this boded well. Lagorio was rumoured to think a lot of himself and it was only a matter of time before he’d blast off at Ebler.
Based on what had happened in Rome as a result of my run-in with De Vicenzo, I made sure there was no friction between me and anyone. That had to include Ebler, even though I soon longed to give him a piece of my mind — as did everyone. So whenever he addressed me, I was suitably subservient.
The news from Rome followed hard on my heels. It didn’t help that shortly after my arrival in Venice, it was revealed the police in Rome were now investigating De Vicenzo’s death as a possible homicide. Mercifully, my name hadn’t been mentioned in the reports, but of course everyone asked what I knew. I made the appropriate comments about the tragedy of the situation, but nothing more.
Outside the safety of the opera house, things were less enjoyable. Dan kept himself discretely away from me, but I knew he was always close, except when I was in rehearsal. During those times, he cautioned me to never be alone. Going back the few steps to the hotel, I could always see him watching from a distance. I began to chafe at what seemed more and more like confinement to quarters since I had to beg off from going out to dinner with members of the cast or spending any social time with them outside the opera house. I used the excuse that I needed to work on memorizing my role for the opera I was premiering in Toronto in less than a month’s time — which was to some extent true. With that deadline staring me right in the face, I was terrified I wouldn’t know it well enough and spent my evenings working on it.
Sad to say, I sort of took it out on Tony, since he was the only one who understood all I was dealing with. Our nightly phone calls became one long gripe session from moi.
“And tonight, they were all going to Piazza San Marco to have dinner and listen to the music, while I’m stuck in this miserable hotel room!”
Even to my own ears I sounded like a whining child, but I couldn’t stop myself. Here I was part of this great production and I couldn’t take part in the fun bits.
“Have the Roman police been in touch with you at all?” Tony asked.
“Not since the night they questioned me, thank the lord. I don’t need that distraction. Have you heard anything?”
“The Toronto cops aren’t saying much since De Vicenzo was murdered. Shannon is getting pretty frustrated by the stonewalling.”
“Has she gotten any further on who owns that apartment?”
“Toronto cops again. To put it simply, they don’t want her in the way. Any sign of our friend?”
“Nothing so far, but Dan has me so separated from everything and everybody, I don’t see how this bozo could get near me. Every day he sweeps my room for bugs. It’s sort of comical.”
There was silence on the phone for a moment. “Where is he now?”
“I suppose he’s in his room.”
“Which is where?”
“Right next to mine, of course. Why do you ask?”
More silence. “I just don’t like the fact this guy’s practically living with you.”
“Do you honestly think something is going on between Dan and me?”
“Well, you do keep talking about him a lot.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Tony, for God’s sake! Don’t you trust me? Sure, I like Dan. He’s good company, but he has a job to do, and our relationship goes no farther than that.”
“Relationship? You have a relationship with him now?”
“Oh, for the love of God, Tony, get a grip. When I go to bed at night, I’m alone. Period!”
My temper got the better of me — as it often does — and I slammed down the phone. It rang almost immediately, but I didn’t answer.
Chapter Seventeen
I felt absolutely wretched as I paced in my dressing room waiting for the curtain that Saturday evening. It wasn’t just pre-performance jitters.
No, they had done everything humanly possible to get us ready for this live opera broadcast. The dress rehearsal two days previous (to allow our voices to rest) had gone frighteningly well, and yesterday we’d run a sotto voce one so the camera angles could be improved a bit more. That went incredibly smoothly, too.
We all should have been calm and reassured. Right?
All it did was make the more superstitious of us feel that we might be courting disaster, using up all our luck before our performances really counted.
“Just forget the cameras are there,” the director had told us at our final meeting that afternoon. “Perform this opera as you would perform any other.”
Next to me, Ettore Lagorio mumbled, “Easy for him to say.”
Surprisingly, after all I’d heard, he’d kept his legendary temper in check. I enjoyed the way our voices sounded together and he was a splendid Alfredo. I was sorry we were only doing this one performance.
I put my arm around him. “Relax. You are going to be just great.”
“But my entire family will be watching,” he’d answered. “That’s real pressure.”
“I’m the same way. My husband’s family are all opera crazy. They’re watching it on the Internet.”
He put his arm around me, squeezing me against him as he landed a big fat kiss on my cheek. I wondered what Tony would say seeing that. Lagorio was very handsome. Then my pursuer flashed across my mind.
Pushing myself to my feet, I scurried to my dressing room, regardless that the director’s meeting hadn’t completely finished.
Tony and I had patched things up within twenty-four hours. I couldn’t understand where he’d ever gotten the idea there was anything between me and Dan. He said there was some talking backstage at the opera. Of course, our craft is exceptionally incestuous. Everyone knows everything and most singers are shameless gossips.
Word had gotten back to Toronto that I had a rather handsome man, supposedly a writer, constantly with me in Rome and also in Venice. Of course, hanky-panky was suspected. Why someone would have been tacky enough to ask Tony about it was beyond me. But there it was, the source of his jealousy.
Then there was my cabin fever. I love nothing more than to stroll around Venice. There are so many surprising little alleys opening onto hidden piazzas. Marvelous shops are tucked away all over the place, many having been in the same family for generations. For entertainment, you can sit in Piazza San Marco and watch the world go by. Later at night, there’s Harry’s Bar. Dan had kept me from doing any of that, and I really missed it. I understood the reasons, but that didn’t make it any easier.
The producers had planned a cast party at the Hotel Danieli after the performance, and I talked Dan into letting me attend. He’d become more and more jumpy since there was no sign of my damn “shadow.” Every morning he’d checked my room for bugs and cameras. No roses had shown up on my doorstep. There had been nothing.
“Oh, he’s out there, never fear,” Dan had told me that morning after breakfast. “Maybe he’s keeping his distance because of Rome, but I will be shocked if he doesn’t try to leave another bouquet or some other sign.”
We didn’t think it was a good idea to bring him into the opera house, and security was pretty tight anyway, so under Dan’s direction I wired up one of his little cameras and a broadcast device, so he would be able to monitor what was
going on in my dressing room. I only turned it off when I was changing.
“Maybe we’ll catch a break. I don’t see how he can spot where you’ve put that camera. And if he’s watching us — which I’ll bet he is — he’ll know I haven’t been inside so he won’t suspect anything.”
“I really hope this nightmare ends soon. I wake up at the slightest noise. I can’t be anywhere without constantly looking over my shoulder.”
Dan put his arm around me. “Relax. We’ve got everything covered that we can cover. I spoke to Shannon last night and she told me they should shortly have the name of whoever owns that apartment overlooking your building. All we need is a lucky break, some footage here in Venice, or news from Hong Kong about the ownership of that condo, or something else, and we’ll have this clown.”
“Have you heard anything from Rome?”
“Nothing. Shannon is working to get one of her old friends on the force to give us news. You watch. She’ll come through.”
I got the feeling Dan was whistling past the graveyard just a bit.
Two hours later, over the backstage intercom, someone said, “Attenzione, mancano dieci minuti. Per favore vi preparate!”
I felt my gut tighten. Only ten minutes before we met our fates on the stage of one of the world’s most storied opera houses.
Despite everything going on around me, I had to clear my head and replace all the crap with the glorious music of Verdi I was about to sing — in the same theatre where the world had first heard it (even if the place had burned to the ground in the interim). The crew was ready, the auditorium jammed with those lucky people who’d managed to get tickets. We had the best cast I’d ever been part of. All I had to do was be perfect.
Heading for stage right where I’d wait for my cue, I was wondering where the inevitable cock-up would happen and how bad it would be.
I love the opening act of Traviata above all operas. It just sparkles throughout as Verdi and his brilliant librettist Piave draw you into what is actually a rather sordid tale. And that was the composer’s problem at the start. Yes, he was Italy’s — and arguably, Europe’s — greatest opera composer at that time (though Wagnerites would violently disagree), but the subject matter was pretty out there for the society of the day. Courtesans, living in sin, sticking up a middle finger to much of what people thought proper, had certainly been shocking.
There was also the problem that the opera in its original form dragged. Its worst sin, though, had been casting a famous but rather old and very overweight soprano as the consumptive courtesan Violetta. The audience back in 1853 at La Fenice had understandably let Verdi know in no uncertain terms, even though the bad casting wasn’t his fault. Critics savaged Traviata, and Verdi was saddened and angered by what he saw as everyone’s misunderstanding. The opening was a disaster, but the composer recovered, did a bit of pruning, got a more appropriate cast, and a new production was mounted in 1854, but at a different Venetian theatre. This time, the opera was a triumph and is now loved by millions — me among them.
So that night, we didn’t have to face a hostile audience, we just had to get everything perfect because we were live on air throughout Europe and eventually around the world. We couldn’t stop if someone messed up. Not that you can do that for any live performance, but this was being recorded and any mistakes anyone made would be digitally hung around their necks for all eternity. You can bet everyone involved was very aware of that fact.
I heard my cue and breezed out of the wings dressed in a perfectly gorgeous gown, the belle of the ball, the hostess with the most-est, and greeted my party guests with “Flora, amici, la notte che resta.” I was off to the races.
I absolutely adored singing with Ettore. He was so musical. We gave each other the space and support we needed, and Ebler had the sense to stay out of our way. My voice that evening made me feel I could do anything, so I reached as far as I dared. Since I was so familiar with the production — unlike the rest of the cast — I could just relax and let it rip. The auditorium gave lovely feedback to our voices, so we didn’t feel as if we were singing into the vast unknown. In short, the first act was magical and I enjoyed myself immensely.
Judging by the response of the audience as the curtain came down, they loved it, too. I gave Ettore a huge hug and headed back to my dressing room a happy camper. It was only as I approached it that I remembered what might be waiting there. I took a deep breath, turned the knob, and went in to find … nothing.
Before the dresser arrived, I pulled my mobile out of my shoulder bag and dialed Dan, who was waiting in his hotel room. “Coast seems to be clear. Did you see anything while I was out?”
“Not a thing,” he answered. “So far, so good. How’s the performance going?”
“Didn’t you hear the bravas in your hotel room?” I teased.
“No. I had a soccer match on,” he shot right back. “I’m glad it’s going well.”
I was back in the wings a good five minutes before time, ready, willing, and able to go. I couldn’t wait for Ebler to strike up the band.
The second act is far more intimate, with only two singers on stage most of the time. Violetta is there for most of it, so the weight of the production was firmly on me. The blocking was also a bit more complex, especially in the party scene that closes it. That had been the only place we’d stumbled during our dress rehearsal. Everyone was a bit more tense, so I don’t think the performance was our very best. There were no train wrecks, but to me it felt tentative, as if we were all expecting a disaster at any moment.
They had included the dance sequence in this production (scaled way back in the Paris production) so the stage was crammed between the singers, chorus, supers, and over a dozen dancers. I had a chance to catch my breath and look out at the house. Every seat was full, and I was wondering who the lucky sods were, sitting in the royal box in the centre of the first ring.
One of the chorus members sidled up, and noticing where my eyes were fixed, said from the corner of her mouth, “I heard the German chancellor is here, along with the president of Italia.”
I was about to ask who else might be there, when I heard my cue coming up. Time for Alfredo to throw money at me, the ultimate insult to what he perceived was my infidelity. It’s the dramatic high point of the opera and Ettore did it very well indeed, almost going over the top — almost. Knowing the effect of his acting and singing, I was waiting to hear gasps of shock from the audience, it was that powerful.
The opera gods smiled on us and everything went off without a hitch. Ettore was brilliant, and sadly, I couldn’t hear any gasps of horror — which he deserved.
Violetta’s exit for the act was to run off stage left, humiliated beyond bearing by Alfredo’s harsh words and actions in front of so many people. It is all the more poignant because the audience is well aware of the reason for Violetta doing what she did because of her promise to Alfredo’s father. I had just turned to watch the last few minutes of the act when I stepped on something.
It was a single rose. Around it on the floor I counted eleven more, along with a small note.
How I managed to keep from screaming is beyond me.
Somehow I did the curtain call, but I was pretty wobbly and out of it.
“What is wrong, my dear?” Ettore asked.
I curtseyed to the audience, then answered, “Something happened in the wings. I’ll tell you later. I’ll be all right. I’m just a little shaken up, that’s all.”
I prayed that I was telling him the truth.
Back in my dressing room, I had my phone out in record time.
“Dan! He was here! He may be backstage even now.”
I told him what had happened.
“I know you’re really upset, Marta, but can you do something for me?”
“I can’t stop shaking. The bastard! Goddamn him. Doesn’t he know what this is doing to me?”
“That’s precisely why he’s doing it.”
“Is he trying to ruin my performance?�
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“Probably. Now, take a deep breath. Pull yourself back together. I need you to do something for me.”
His even tone and calmness began to have an effect on me. “What?”
“Can you go down to the stage and ask anyone on that side if they saw anything? I need to know. I’m looking at the stage entrance right now, and if anyone comes out in the next few minutes, I’m going to be all over him.”
I took a few deep breaths. “I have to get ready for the last act.”
“Once that’s done, go down to the stage. Can you do that for me?”
“I’m really freaked out, Dan. I don’t know …”
“C’mon, Marta. I know you can be a real tiger. You’re not going to let this bastard beat you, are you?”
It was just what I needed someone to say to me.
“No. I’ll pull myself together. What I could really use is a good belt of something strong.”
“I’ll buy you two after the performance.”
I could feel my breathing slow down. “I’m going to keep the phone line open, Dan, so you can hear everything, and I’m keeping it with me until I walk on that stage.”
“Good idea.”
“My dresser, Sabrina, is coming in. Can’t talk anymore. Just stay with me, okay?”
“I’m here, Marta.”
I’m used to acting onstage, not in my dressing room, but I put on a pretty good show for the dresser. Just as she was putting the finishing touches on the fall I wore in the last act, there was a knock on the door.
Ettore stuck his head in the door. “Is everything all right, my dear? You were as white as a sheet.”
Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle Page 43