Death of an English Muffin

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Death of an English Muffin Page 7

by Victoria Hamilton


  Lizzie looked miserable, Alcina excited, and Hannah serene—an illusion, I would have bet. Shilo clung to Jack, and Sonora Silva was off on her own, trilling and cooing a few of the notes from her part as the lovely Pamina. The whole castle was a pandemonium of energy, nerves and action, shouts about missing costume pieces, the occasional fit of weeping and a few raised voices.

  Set decoration in the great hall was sparse, to say the least, effects mostly created by draperies and a giant hanging sun, as well as a matching quarter moon. After consulting with Barbara and Lush, who both had an interest in theater, Pish had made the sun and moon out in the garage on the property using chicken wire and papier-mâché. The draperies served as representations of the elements, so orange and red for fire, blue and green for water, and so on. Hannah’s mother had whipped them up in a day or two. Pish had rigged several wires from the high galleries so that Gordy and Zeke could affect the set changes by drawing different draperies to the fore, concealing the movement on my grand, two-directional staircase that split, climbing to the galleries that overlooked the great hall on both sides. It was acting as the stage, giving height to some characters, like the Queen of the Night, and leaving the earthbound ones like Papageno and Papagena (Jack and Shilo) at the base of the steps.

  Also, the gallery above gave adequate preparation space for the actors to move and change costuming and await their cue. Tucked around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, concealed by draperies, a table held the props, like the serpent—a giant rubber snake with flashing emerald eyes—Papageno’s bells and the magic flute itself, a pan flute that started life as a tourist piece from South America. Pish had sanded off the Welcome to Peru burned into it, painted it in gilt, and decorated it to make it catch the light with stick-on jewels.

  There were two large papier-mâché columns that would be moved in near the climax, to represent a temple where the finale would take place. They apparently came from a high school Greek drama from years gone by and had been stored at Janice’s warehouse. My dear friend Pish had put a lot of time and effort into the production, and I hoped it went as well as he expected.

  Zeke did most of the final setting up, while Gordy spent much of his time regaling anyone who cared to listen about the Freemasonry aspects of the opera, which he had read about on the Internet. Other than believing every story told him by his great-uncle Hubert Dread, Gordy was increasingly relying on the Internet, avidly blending conspiracy theory and pseudoscience mumbo-jumbo, as well as some Illuminati and Templar references. His conversation was often a weird melange of the aforementioned, as well as random references to chemtrails of mind-control drugs, big pharma, and GMO crops, for good measure.

  His latest theory was a doozy, and he explained to anyone who would listen that the members of the British royal family are actually wearing a human disguise. In fact they are, he says, members of a race of reptilian creatures; none other than Princess Diana herself had confessed it all to a friend in a taped interview. They feed off fear, he claims.

  Distracted by the thought, I wondered if Cleta was secretly a member of the British royal family.

  But honestly, he believed it all. Gordy is an example of a fellow for whom the Internet is a treacherous superhighway of dangerous misinformation, given his gullibility. I always have a sense that Zeke, both quieter and quicker, just smiled and nodded a lot when Gordy hoisted himself up on his multiple conspiracy theory bandwagons.

  But back to the opera; I had early on put in my two cents’ worth of advice to Pish. The Magic Flute was ridiculously difficult and out of reach for the amateur voices he was dealing with. However, he is immovable once he has seized an idea, and everyone else must bend to his will, including his friend Stoddart, who was singing the Sarastro part. I had heard him sing it, and he was middling at best.

  This was the cast list:

  Janice Grover as Queen of the Night; it is a part meant for a stunningly talented coloratura soprano. Her most prominent piece is one of the most difficult of all opera arias. I feared for her, I really did. I’ve heard that particular aria before and there are top notes that are staccato and precise, biting through the air like ice crystals. I had gone for a walk the day before during their dress rehearsal, because if Janice was as bad at it as I feared, I’d be dreading her performance.

  Sonora Silva, the lawyer’s wife, was to portray Pamina, a soprano part. Her longest piece is commonly called “Pamina’s Lament.”

  Pish was playing Tamino, a tenor role. He’d sing the aria “Tamino’s Portrait.”

  Stoddart, as I have said, was donning a bushy fake beard and playing Sarastro.

  Andrew Silva had another tenor part as Monostatos, the villain. He’s a lawyer. I told him he should be playing against type, not with it, but he just smiled and said he felt it would make people laugh. He was only doing it for his wife’s sake.

  I had been pleasantly surprised by Shilo and Jack’s enthusiastic reception of Pish’s plans. Jack was set to play Papageno (baritone), and Shilo was to be Papagena, a soprano part. Theirs is a touching, if comic, love story, and I thought it was a perfect fit for the two newlyweds. Alcina, Lizzie, and Hannah were to play the Three Boys (treble, alto, and mezzo-soprano) and would sing “Look East” . . . in English, thankfully.

  There were inevitable alterations. They had to do without the Queen of the Night’s ladies and the slaves, so that required rewriting. In light of that, and the fact that he didn’t want the event to take more than an hour, Pish had diligently transformed The Magic Flute into a shorter opera, with fewer singing sections and more narration—in English—that he would use to explain the story and connect the songs. I told him it took some cojones to rewrite Mozart, but he said he had no choice. I resisted being given a part, since I was the hostess of the evening, and Pish did not insist. He’s heard me sing. I wasn’t sure whether I was mostly insulted or relieved not to be pressed.

  The moment finally arrived. The Legion of Horrible Ladies descended wearing their evening gowns and long gloves, glittering with jet beads and diamondelle tiaras. Lush even had a pair of opera glasses in her hand. She’d only be five feet from the action, but oh well. They were given the best seats, a row of dining room chairs set immediately opposite the staircase. The townies arrived: Gogi and Virgil Grace, Doc English, Hubert Dread, Elwood Fitzhugh and his sister, Eleanor, Binny Turner, who unexpectedly brought her father, I was overjoyed to see, and various others from Golden Acres. Jack’s brother, a pleasant fellow as pleasingly plain as Jack, accompanied them. Also attending were Isadore Openshaw, Hannah’s parents and grandparents, Sonora and Andrew’s children—their daughter was in the same class as Lizzie—and some other of Lizzie’s schoolmates. That made a reasonable audience of twenty-five, give or take.

  My “staff members” were also present, helping out wherever necessary. Emerald seated folks, and Juniper zipped in and out tidying whatever got untidy. Zeke was running the audio portion of the opera—a purchased background instrumental played on the sound system Pish had installed in the castle—and he and Gordy were, of course, doing the set changes.

  I greeted everyone, then stood in front of the curtains as the audience hushed. “Hello, all, and welcome.” Nice acoustics, I thought. At least we had that going for us, though good acoustics of bad voices was a mixed blessing. “I’m so happy to see you here at Wynter Castle, gathered to watch the Autumn Vale Community Players’ production of The Magic Flute by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.” I nodded off to my two helpers, who leaped into action. “Emerald and Juniper are passing out programs that will give you the parts, who plays them, and a synopsis of the opera’s story. For those who would like to know, in brief, The Magic Flute is an allegorical tale of human awakening and maturing, sacrifice and love.”

  Since I didn’t understand the action of the opera all that well myself, despite having read several synopses, I kept my précis simple and to the point. They could read Pish’s more complete
explanation in the program.

  “After the presentation, we will adjourn to the ballroom for a light evening repast, which I hope you will all enjoy. Without further ado, here is Pish Lincoln.” Somehow, when one is introducing an opera, words like ado and repast flow freely.

  I sat down at the end of the front row by Vanessa. Pish, dressed in costume—an embroidered long vest over tights with a simple crown on his longish hair—took my place and bowed, with a flourish. He spoke briefly of The Magic Flute and its importance, then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, opera is exceedingly difficult, so I plead with you, be kind to us; we are but amateurs. That said, I hope you enjoy our little production and will join with us afterward to talk about it! Have fun, everyone.” He bowed to light applause and hopped behind the curtains.

  The overture began, and with the swelling music my hopes rose. It sounded so good! It gave me grandiose ideas for hosting opera weekends, and even maybe small string ensembles.

  I was clearly delusional and getting ahead of myself.

  The first set of curtains drew back and Pish, as Tamino, began. He struggled with the “serpent,” and I had to smother laughter. Unfortunately, not every member of the audience was as kind as I, and giggles rippled through the group, swelling to chuckles and guffaws, the whole repertoire of laughter, as the rubber snake flopped and flapped, jeweled eyes winking in the light. By the time he started singing—he’s really pretty good, with a clear, steady tenor voice—it was too late to recapture the audience and it all went downhill from there. I won’t say the whole thing was bad. There were even moments that were above average; Sonora Silva as Pamina was sublime. The woman had hidden talent, and her children, in the audience, were noisily appreciative.

  But the standouts for me were the “children.” Hannah is a stern taskmaster when she has a goal in mind, and she had been rehearsing Alcina and Lizzie relentlessly for two months, ever since she’d found out about the production. The fact that they were better rehearsed than anyone else, and that their main song was in English, gave them an advantage. Hannah’s voice was clear, light, and pretty; the crowd hushed, spellbound.

  “Look East” was sweet, threaded through with Sonora’s lovely voice as Pamina, who is saved from suicide by their hopeful refrain. It earned them a standing ovation from at least some of the crowd. Okay, so it was Hannah’s parents and grandparents, along with Emerald and Lizzie’s schoolmates, who gave the standing O, but it was no less touching for that. Hannah turned her wheelchair and with Alcina and Lizzie did a little bow at the end as Pamina began her next part.

  And then there was Janice Grover’s turn as Queen of the Night. What can I say about it that is accurate but not cruel? Her aria is a pivotal moment in the story, when all comes to a head. It kind of did, only not in the way anyone could hope. I have a feeling she rehearsed her part so much that she damaged her vocal cords, which resulted in a screeching, squawking, sad attempt at the climax of the aria. I was literally on the edge of my seat, gripping so hard my fingers hurt, I felt so bad for my friend, who struggled gallantly not giving up. This time besides the laughter there was heckling, which I would have understood among the children in the audience but was unforgivable from the adults. The worst among them were my guests in the front of the audience.

  When the laughter died, as Janice coughed and struggled on with the singing, Cleta’s voice rang out, as she said, “Now I know what a hippo would sound like singing opera.”

  Chapter Seven

  JANICE STOPPED ABRUPTLY, no doubt having heard the woman. Simon Grover, sitting just behind Cleta, struggled to his feet and looked down on her. “Madam, you have insulted my wife. Not by your cruel remark, which, from what I have heard about you is merely the nastiness that you constantly spew, but by interrupting her heartfelt performance. Please keep your mouth shut and let her finish.”

  In a movie this would have been followed by a slow clap, swelling into thunderous approval. All he got was a few smiles and murmurs of assent. However, when I looked at Janice, standing in front of the curtains, hands clasped to her generous bosom, gratitude shone in her eyes. I felt shivers down my arms and tears prickled behind my lids. She relentlessly made fun of her husband, but in that one act of gallantry, unexpected as it was, I thought he had gained enough hubby points for a lifetime of devotion. It was one of those moments when I was grateful to know them all and to be a part of their community.

  Cleta turned and gave him a loud raspberry, spoiling the moment. Any remark I made would just prolong the moment, so I stayed silent. Janice soldiered on and the opera stumbled and staggered to an end. Papageno and Papagena were united, as were Pamina and Tamino, and all was well in the operatic world.

  We adjourned to the ballroom, which I had hastily turned into a kind of reception room once I realized there would be far more folks attending than I had anticipated. A long table held a couple of punch bowls, one with a wine punch and the other containing fruit punch. Pish had purchased a couple of cases of inexpensive champagne-type wine, bubbly and cheerful, which had been chilled just right. We served sparkling cider to those who abstained and to the kids.

  Juniper circulated with trays of goodies. It had been several months since the party in October that went so horribly wrong, but I still kept a close eye on everything. No smoking pit debacle this time, and nobody who hadn’t been invited. I drifted from group to group, listening to conversations.

  Lush, Pish, and his friend Stoddart were sitting with Hannah. “Merry, darling, there you are!” Pish said, grabbing my hand and pulling me down to sit in the chair next to him. “You must tell this angelic creature that she should sing again. I want Hannah to become a permanent member of the Autumn Vale Community Players, but she resists.”

  She stared at me, alarmed. “I’m not a singer. I thought I was going to faint and then when people applauded I didn’t know if I wanted to smile or hide!”

  “Darling child, the inimitable Barbra herself has awful stage fright,” he declared, in full Pish mode. When he spoke in italics I knew he was excited and pleased. Stoddart looked on, an amused and indulgent smile on his lips. “Barbra, of all people!” Pish continued. “You know, I was at the concert in Central Park in sixty-seven when she forgot the words. Poor dear girl.”

  Hannah looked blank, and I wanted to laugh. “Barbra Streisand,” I murmured to her, and her clouded expression cleared as understanding dawned. “She famously forgot the words to a song at a concert in Central Park in 1967 and got stage fright from the experience.”

  “I’ve heard Adele is afraid onstage, too,” Hannah said.

  It was Pish’s turn to look puzzled, and I offered, “You know, the English girl who you thought sounded a little like Dusty Springfield. She did ‘Skyfall,’ one of the more recent Bond songs.” Now his clouded expression cleared. I felt like a generation gap bridge. I stood. “I have to circulate,” I said as Hannah’s parents and grandparents approached. Her grandmother sat in my vacated chair and proceeded to clutch Pish’s sleeve as she spoke earnestly about what sounded like the beginning of a long list of every opera performance she had seen in her life.

  The Legion, minus Lush, was sitting in a line along one wall, presenting a solid front of disapproval at the influx of townies. Vanessa, who introduced herself as a countess whenever she had the chance, kept her chin up and used the professional glazed look I had seen on some stars who wished to appear aloof and mysterious. It must be left over from her days as a noir film actress, I thought, though she hadn’t been in a film in many years.

  Barbara Beakman, a sour look on her face, glanced around the room, then whispered to Patsy, who sat next to her. Juniper brought a tray to them and leaned over, letting them see the selection. Barbara picked up one item, took a bite, and then threw it back down on the tray, making a choking motion and clutching her throat. I darted over, only to have her stop just then with a malicious sneer on her face.

  Juniper’s face wa
s red. “That was so fricking rude, you old buzzard—”

  “How is everyone?” I asked, interrupting an outburst that I knew was going to be far worse than calling Barbara a buzzard. I snatched the tray from Juniper. There was a disgusting lump of half-chewed something on the tray, and I tamped down fury at the woman’s over-the-top theatrics.

  “We’d be better if you didn’t try to feed us junk like that!” Mrs. Beakman stated. “It was spicy. You ought to know better than to feed old people spicy foods. You trying to poison us?”

  Her loud voice carried even over Pish’s music selection for the evening, a medley of light opera playing on the sound system. Some folks were beginning to take notice. “Not yet,” I muttered under my breath, before saying more loudly, “Of course not, Mrs. Beakman. How about I get you a digestive biscuit or scone? Nice and bland. Perfect for a delicate constitution such as your own.”

  If she suspected sarcasm, she didn’t show it. “I’m not hungry,” she said, folding her arms over her stomach, under her shelf of bosom.

  Juniper, still trembling with anger, said, “Then why did you take—”

  “Why don’t you take that tray to the kitchen, dump it, and bring out fresh food,” I said, widening my eyes and glaring at her, pushing the tray back into her hands. “Binny’s in there; she can help.”

  Cleta, seated next to Barbara on the other side, was watching the whole scene with amusement. As Juniper retreated mumbling under her breath, a spark of fury lit in my stomach. I was tired of bending over backward for this crew, so I straightened, took a deep breath and said, “Miss Sanson, I have to ask: why did you feel it necessary to insult one of the singers so viciously?”

  “I don’t think it is vicious to merely point out the truth.”

  Ah, yes, the fallback for every tactless, rude, spiteful person on earth. But I was just being honest! A few people gathered, but I didn’t care. I was angry at Barbara for her disgusting little charade, but more angry at Cleta for what she had said to my friend Janice, who had been nothing but kind and welcoming to me in Autumn Vale. I took a deep breath; to speak, or not to speak?

 

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