Mephisto Aria

by Justine Saracen

  “No, no, no. You keep missing the cue.” Exasperated, Radu Gavril signaled the pianist to stop. Sixty years old but with the energy of a man possessed, he marched toward Katherina in the center of the rehearsal room. Hans Stintzing sat next to her, as perplexed as she was by Radu’s action.

  “I’m having trouble getting off Hans’ lap fast enough to start my line,” Katherina said. “It’ll be even harder in costume.”

  Radu gave a little puff of impatience. “Try it a beat earlier, then. And sing the line with more staccato. I’ll show you.” He called to the pianist. “Heinrich, take it from the first measure.”

  The stage director sat down on the knee of the bass, who sang his line unfazed by the man on his lap. At the specified moment, Radu leapt up and sang Sophie’s line in a lively falsetto, mimicking girlish annoyance. An instant later he was himself again, somber, authoritative. “Do you see what I mean?”

  Katherina nodded. “Yes, I think so. Sharper, with a notch more outrage.”

  “Yes, exactly.” He signaled the pianist. “Start again from one.”

  Katherina was acutely aware that the piano rehearsal was for her benefit, as latecomer, since the rest of the cast had already begun rehearsals with her predecessor. Intensely focused therefore, she worked her way through the second act, getting to know the rhythms of each of the other singers, interacting physically, dramatically, and vocally. It was a joy to work with singers at the level of skill and professionality of the other cast members.

  Hans Stintzing exuded a carefully calibrated lasciviousness for his Baron Ochs without losing the air of a nobleman. Anastasia maintained a subtle presence at the edge of the scene without drawing attention away from the Baron and Sophie.

  Back and forth she went with Hans’ Baron Ochs—he singing lewdness in short waltz motifs and she responding with dissonant rejection. Then it was Katherina’s time to linger at the periphery while the two “men” had their duel.

  To the general amusement, Anastasia proved far more skilled with the foil than the burly bass. Finally, exasperated, Radu took the Baron’s foil.

  “The orchestra gives you plenty of time for this, Hans, so you don’t have to get too excited. There are only a few steps before Octavian pokes you.” He assumed position, toe to toe with Anastasia. “Start on your cue,” he said to Anastasia, and the brief duel began.

  After assuming the en garde position for a fraction of a second, Anastasia feinted and then advanced in a series of lunges. Radu parried each one, talking all the while. “You see, Hans. You just have to match her steps backward, and…parry…parry, then, riposte.”

  “Now, you try it.” He handed the foil to Hans.

  The two singers practiced the choreography until the stage director was satisfied. At the right moment, Octavian flicked the foible of her blade across his upper sword arm and Hans’ comic genius took over. Clapping his meaty hand over his wounded arm, he stood gawking in astonishment. His lips quivered hilariously for a moment; then he sang out “Mur-der! Mur-der!” and swooned into the arms of his servant. “A doctor. Bandages! Police!” he sang. “I’m hot-blooded. I’ll bleed to death in a minute. Stop him! Poliiiice!”

  It took another hour to block the remainder of the second act: servants conspiring, Sophie protesting, father ranting. But finally, the outraged Baron was placated by a “fine old Tokay” and was carried off, murmuring naughty innuendo in the melody of a waltz.

  The air outside the festival hall was biting cold and Katherina spoke through the layers of scarf that covered her mouth and throat.

  “Radu Gavril is amazing, isn’t he? He’s got so much energy. He seems to be running on better fuel than the rest of us.”

  Equally muffled, Anastasia pressed close to Katherina to be heard, taking hold of her arm. “A good thing, too. Hans needed work on his fencing. I’ve been worried all week that he might put a hole in me.” She laughed.

  Katherina felt like a schoolgirl, walking arm in arm with Anastasia, and though thick layers of wool separated them, the pressure of Anastasia’s shoulder seemed to add warmth. “You want to stop for some coffee?” she said suddenly. “The Café Tomaselli is just around the corner in the Alter Markt.”

  Anastasia shook her head. “It’s apt to be full of tourists. Let’s make it supper and go to the Triangel. The headwaiter is a sweetheart. He’ll give us a quiet table if the place is not too full.”

  The Triangel was full, but the headwaiter lived up to his reputation. A round ruddy face with wide nose and gray handlebar mustache radiated grandfatherly charm. Katherina thought of a somewhat aristocratic St. Nicolaus. He kept a pristine dishtowel folded over his arm as if part of a waiter’s costume. His step was buoyant, and his eyes shone with pleasure when he recognized Anastasia.

  “Ah, Madame Ivanova, what a pleasure to see you. And you brought another lovely lady.”

  “Looks busy tonight, Willi. I don’t suppose you have a quiet table anyplace.”

  “Tja. It will be difficult I’m afraid. Friday evening, you know. But let me see what I can do.”

  Katherina scanned the café. The unpretentious room had only basic wooden tables and a few sets of goat antlers on the walls. The clientele was obviously from the Festspielhaus. Katherina recognized several of the administrative staff. Detlev from the wig department caught her eye and waved, and in the far corner, with her back turned, Sybil was having dinner with Hans.

  Willi the waiter had returned. “Glück g’habt,” he said. “Gerda was folding napkins at the table in the back and I convinced her to move. If you don’t mind being next to the kitchen.”

  They both shook their heads and he led them down the narrow space that branched off from the main restaurant. As the level of noise dropped off, the kitchen smells increased. A pleasant mixture of warm potatoes, sausage, and coffee.

  Unwrapping meters of woolen neck scarves, Anastasia hung her coat on a wall hook and sat down. “I recommend the schnitzel. Best in Salzburg.”

  Katherina exhaled luxuriously in the warm air. “Sounds wonderful. Order for us both.” She was still exuberant from the rehearsal. “Seeing you only as Marguerite, I wouldn’t have guessed you were so good in a trouser role. And you fence like an expert!”

  Anastasia laughed. “I only know those three steps, but that’s all you need for Octavian. It’s not much of a duel, after all. If I ever have to sing a pirate or musketeer, I’m cooked.”

  “Are there operas with pirates or musketeers? Outside of Gilbert and Sullivan, I mean.”

  “I can’t think of one, but in any case, I’ll stick with Octavian and Cherubino. In fact, strike that. I’d prefer Mozart’s Cherubino any time. So much easier to sing.”

  “He’s fun to watch too. I saw my first Nozze di Figaro when I was ten, in German, of course. A birthday present from my parents. I was already studying voice.”

  “Really? I’ve always wondered what children think of him. Cherubino, I mean.”

  “I was bored at first. You know, the opera starts with Figaro measuring a room for a bed, and I couldn’t get interested in that. But then Cherubino, this fantastic boy-girl creature in blue satin knee pants, burst into the room. It was like I myself was suddenly on stage.”

  The schnitzel arrived and Katherina bit into something exquisitely spiced. She chewed for a moment, reminiscing. “I didn’t know what a trouser role was, and it was confusing to see a woman singing as a boy. It also was exciting, a kind of lawlessness.”

  Anastasia nodded, raising her fork for emphasis. “That scene is real comic theater. Then it gets even funnier, when he starts switching back and forth between the sexes. He’s a boy, then a soldier, then a woman singing a boy disguised as a peasant girl.”

  “Yes, in every scene, Cherubino was all I looked at. He always came and went through the window, as if he lived in the air outside, not on earth. Frankly, I was smitten. You can imagine how thrilled I was when my mother took me backstage to meet the singer.”

  “That didn’t destroy the illusi
on?”

  “Not at all. Backstage was a magical place. Men carrying flowers knocked on doors with nameplates. When the doors opened, divine light seemed to shine out from the rooms.”

  “Oh my, you were smitten.”

  “I was so excited, wondering how this otherworldly being would look up close. Then the door opened. It was a woman, of course, but she wore slacks and a blue shirt, almost the same color as her costume. Her hair was shorter than the wig she had worn, but some of Cherubino was still there in her face. She seemed to look through me.”

  “Who sang that Cherubino?” Anastasia asked.

  “Claudia Martin.” I never saw her again after that performance.”

  “Oh yes, she was a good mezzo. Almost a contralto. She stopped singing early on and went to live in the country with her girlfriend. The Cherubino that stepped into her shoes was of course the American Frederica von Stade.”

  Katherina ignored the “girlfriend” remark. “Yes, I love von Stade, too. But the meeting with Claudia Martin changed my life. She asked me if I wanted to be an opera singer and at that moment, I knew with certainty I did. Strange, isn’t it? I was ten years old and I was ready to sell my soul. In fact, she warned me that I had to make sacrifices and asked me what I was willing to give up. I told her everything. And it was true. Something had happened to me that night and I was willing to abandon everything I knew and run away to ‘join the opera.’”

  “Not the circus?” Anastasia mocked gently.

  “Not even close. Anyhow, that was it. Just then my mother showed up to fetch me and we went home. I’m sure I babbled on and on about Cherubino, but my mother seemed to understand.”

  “The opera bug was from her side?”

  “From both sides, actually. My father loved opera and my mother was a singer. Of popular songs, like Hildegard Knef or Edith Piaf. She died when I was young and after that, there was just my father. But opera was always in the air, as long as I can remember.”

  “You lost your mother. In my case, it was my father. He was killed at Kursk.”

  “So many died in the war and in the hard years right after. There must have been millions of children on both sides raised by one parent, or none.”

  “That’s true, though I did have a second father for a while. My uncle Georgi, my mother’s brother. We heard that he had been lost at Stalingrad, but he showed up five years later at our house. He had two artificial legs, but he was alive.”

  Katherina shook her head. “The war, the purges. It all seems such an appalling waste. We had Hitler and you had Stalin. A hundred million dead. How many people did the Soviets lose? Twenty million? So much sacrifice and the Kremlin still is imprisoning its own people. It’s hard not be cynical.”

  “That’s so true. No sign of a god, but it’s very easy to believe in the devil, isn’t it?” Anastasia poured more coffee into both their cups. As if they were a couple, Katherina thought.

  “Well, there’s plenty of evil to go around, that’s for certain, but I think we make a mistake to see it only as something alien and absolute. We are sometimes its victims, but I think we carry it around inside ourselves too, and it stays docile only as long as the going is good and we’re not threatened.”

  “Let’s not talk about good and evil. You are far too somber today, and there’s no reason for it. Here, this is what you need.”

  She held up a cube of sugar for a moment and then dropped it into Katherina’s coffee. Was it flirtation or just silliness, Katherina wondered as she lifted the cup to her lips. Whichever it was, the over sweetened coffee was, in fact, delicious.

  XIII

  Duetto

  “Er kommt! Er Kommt!” On the upper floor of the stage set, the maidservant sang as she ran from window to window, describing the street, the gathering crowd, the ornate carriage, and every movement of the arriving cavalier.

  Below, on the main stage, Katherina gathered the crinoline of her Sophie costume and turned in circles of girlish joy.

  Then the double doors flew open. Two lines of Hussars entered, with high fur hats and pale green, fur-trimmed jackets hung on one shoulder. Scimitars swung from their sides and elaborately ornamented white boots rose to their knees. They stood at attention, forming a phalanx on each side of the open doorway.

  A fanfare sounded, and the rose cavalier appeared. Abruptly, the orchestra dropped away, leaving only the violins on a high, sustained tone, full of suspense.

  Octavian glittered like an ice sculpture at the center-rear of the stage. His left hand rested at his waist on the bejeweled hilt of a ceremonial dagger, and his right hand, raised slightly above his head, held the silver rose. His immaculate white satin knee pants and rhinestone-studded jacket caught the various spotlights and he sparkled.

  He began hesitantly, “I have the honor…most noble lady…” and stepped slowly with lowered eyes toward the waiting Sophie. Little by little he neared her. At the words “this rose” he bowed from the waist and, keeping his eyes averted, held out the silver flower.

  With measured hesitation, Katherina took the rose, touched it to her nose, and sang her reply to the silver-white top of Octavian’s head. “It has a strong fragrance, like living roses.”

  “Yes, a drop of Persian rose oil is on it,” he sang, and the lovely head rose slowly, mist-gray eyes capturing her.

  For an instant, Katherina felt as if the ground had dropped away and she was suspended, held in place by Anastasia’s eyes. Sensing the rose slip through her fingers, she tightened her grip and sang, “It pulls me, as if chords were around my heart.”

  They sang together to the thrilling climax of the duet, then moved downstage for the sweet dialog in which she sang his baptismal names to him: “Octavian, Maria Ehrenreich, Bonaventura, Ferdinand, Hyacinth.”

  How delicious it was to play at falling in love with Octavian, letting her Sophie character ramble on while the glittering rose cavalier sang back, “My God, how lovely she is.” That they were on a brightly lit stage in front of press and dress rehearsal invitees did not dilute the thrill of playing at romance.

  Anastasia sang with the full conviction of a young man falling in love, looking directly at her and then away, as if caught in too great an intimacy. Then she faded back, stage left, to allow the husband-to-be to ply his troth. Hans von Stintzing played the boorish Baron Ochs with gusto, and his hands were all over her.

  Then Octavian was at Katherina’s side again, and the satin-clad arms held her for their next duet as they looked into each other’s eyes. Their vocal lines interwove, tone for tone, the brief dissonances resolving into thirds, their two agile voices in tense and thrilling interplay. “Your eyes, your noble air…I know nothing more of myself, only you. Oh, stay with me, stay by my side.” Katherina had never sung a love duet with a woman before and was unprepared for the effect it had on her.

  Then the Baron returned for the duel, which Hans had finally learned. Baron Ochs was made for him and he milked every drop of humor from the scene. At exactly the right moment, Octavian administered the wounding prick and Ochs collapsed. “Mur-der! Mur-der!” he called out, and was carried away, singing of martyrdom and the need for a nice aged Tokay.

  Finally the dress rehearsal was over. Bone weary, Katherina slipped out of her costume and emerged from her dressing room looking for Anastasia. How nice it would be to walk back to the hotel together again, arm in arm, talking about intimate things.

  Radu Gavril was suddenly in front of her, still full of energy, as if the day had just begun. “We need to re-block a little bit for the lighting,” he said, urging her back onto the stage to show her the exact spot. “It will just take a moment.”

  Ten minutes later she was free again and hurried backstage.

  “Oh, Miss Marow, do you have a moment?” A slender man minced toward her.

  Katherina exhaled in resignation. “Yes, Detlev?”

  “I am so sorry. I know everyone’s leaving, but the director has decided that Sophie’s wig doesn’t go with your face an
d he wants me to fit another one. Can you spare me just a teensy bit of time?” His voice grew playful. “Or are you late for evening mass?” The tips of his long fingers formed a little tent and his eyes rolled heavenward.

  Her annoyance evaporated and she poked him gently on the shoulder. “Does anyone around here go to mass?”

  “Not in my circle of acquaintances.” He turned away with a slight flourish and she fell into step behind him, following him down to his subterranean workshop.

  The wigmaker’s shop was small and cluttered. On two sides, glass-covered cabinets held Perüken of every size, from mass-produced spear-carrier wigs to flamboyant Baroque monstrosities. On a table to the right, wooden dummy heads wore the various Rosenkavalier wigs, natural-colored ones for the first and third acts, formal white for the second act.

  Katherina sat down on the chair at the center of the shop and drummed her fingers on the armrest.

  “Just sit still and it will be over before you know it,” he said, tugging her hair back into a tight ponytail and tacking the tail flatly on her head with hairpins. With a single adept movement, he slid a tight nylon cap over the entire mass.

  “Here is your new Sophie look,” Detlev announced. He set the wig on her head and adjusted it back and forth until he could match it to her hairline. Though it was pure white and made her look doll-like, it was less extravagant than the previous one, and for that she was grateful. She sat patiently as he traced her hairline with a brown marker, moving only her eyes to study the wigs in her field of vision. One of them caught her attention.

  “Is that the Queen of the Night?” She gave a faint tilt of the head toward the wig that took up a whole cabinet shelf.

  “Oh, yes. Don’t you just love it?” He finished his work and fetched the wig dummy from the cabinet, setting it on the table in front of her. The wig was enormous, as if inflated, and was surrounded at its edges by glistening white curls. In among the filaments that made up the hair was a sort of metallic confetti, which caught the light and sparkled. A dozen thin wires jutted from the crown like spokes in a wheel, each with a tiny diamond at the center and on its tip. The effect was a sparkling double halo around the wig. On a dark stage, with dramatic spotlights, it must have been scintillating.