The Metropolis Case

by Matthew Gallaway

  “Wear your love like heaven,” he whispered to the unfamiliar man in front of him, who stared back with silent but knowing eyes.

  17

  Dial M for Motherfucker

  PITTSBURGH, 1977. From the backseat of her airport taxi, Anna admired the pale green fringe of the ancient hills of Western Pennsylvania, which rippled past her in the April sun. She was here to serve as a judge for a state high school singing competition and, despite some minor qualms about the hotel she had booked, was looking forward to it. Having retired from professional singing four years earlier, she now taught at Juilliard, which, as she liked to tell her friends, offered a “balance” that had been lacking in her career, allowing her to remain immersed in the opera but without the associated indignities. By this she did not mean the actual singing, which she would always miss. Even after she had appeared in most if not all of the major houses in the world (and often repeatedly), there was something astonishing to her not only about stepping out to perform in front of thousands but also the entire process leading up to these incredible nights, the theatrical alchemy by which it all came together—though inevitably at the last minute, and just when she would find herself on the verge of despair about some facet of a production—the backstage crew, who created the lighting and costumes and sets; the stage managers and directors, who dictated everything from the position of her hands to erupting walls of fire with the precision of army generals; the conductors and musicians—many of them musical prodigies in their own right—who immersed themselves in the scores of the (mostly) dead composers whose spirits seemed to hover in the theaters in which their works were performed.

  It was rather other facets of the life, even beyond the expected pangs of loneliness—which had not failed to materialize but for which she learned to brace herself—that had increasingly tried her patience; the way management—and always after opening night, when she was most exhausted—required her to share a ten-course meal with the biggest patrons, who invariably liked to interrogate her about the most intimate details of her life; or how she couldn’t go outside—particularly in Europe—without sunglasses and a scarf over her head, unless she wanted to be accosted by an autograph hound or relentlessly subjected to the details of one of her past performances, as though she had not been there herself. These were not things that had bothered her in the beginning—to the contrary, she had been charmed the first hundred or so times she had been approached by a stranger—and she understood that such nuisances were inseparable from the kind of career she had always sought. Over time she began to understand why so many famous singers were notoriously “crazy,” and rather than succumb to the same impulse—and with her voice by this point showing some wear, as more than a few critics were eager to point out—she decided to walk away completely, knowing that, after more than a decade in the spotlight, she no longer had the same drive as she had ten or twenty or thirty years earlier. She was proud of her career; she still received her share of notes and letters, along with the occasional entreaty from an autograph seeker, but all in moderation, allowing her to respond with the patience and grace she felt the great majority of her fans deserved. Her students also inspired her; she worked hard to prepare them, both vocally and emotionally, for the future they so desperately wanted, even if they could barely explain why, which of course was just the way she had been at their age.

  She was dropped downtown at the Soldiers & Sailors Memorial—a monolithic Beaux Arts auditorium designed to recall the tomb of Mausolus at Halicarnassus—where inside she was introduced to her fellow judges. As she took her seat, she contemplated the dusty, unused quality of the theater—as if it had spent the past seventy years in someone’s attic—and wished there could be a middle ground between the stifling and history-laden intransigence of Europe and the reactionary disregard for the same that seemed to be the rule in her adopted country. But one of life’s pleasures at fifty-seven was to have relinquished such epic battles: helping one of her students master a difficult passage, taking a twilight walk along Central Park, or (because she now collected them) finding a rare manuscript or painting—these were the smaller, more obtainable victories that satisfied her most.

  THE COMPETITION BEGAN, with each singer taking a moment to shine—though some more brilliantly than others—before giving way to the next. Perhaps an hour had passed when they reached the final entrant in the soprano division, a striking but ungainly creature named Maria Sheehan, who—poor thing—tripped while making her entrance and had to windmill her arms a few times to catch her balance. It would have shattered anyone’s nerves but in Maria’s case created a perverse magnetism, so that, for the first time in the day, Anna detected a palpable suspense. She could hear paper rustling and the crossing and uncrossing of arms and legs; a few rows behind her, someone coughed, and she resisted the urge to send a nasty glance.

  Maria regained her composure and took her position with an improbable if no less alluring stillness; she did not look nervously at her shoes or at the piano, or concentrate with furrowed brow on some point in the middle distance. Her expression was both less aware and more self-absorbed than those of the other girls, almost as if she were granting each member of the audience the honor of entering her cocoon. Anna wondered if this girl would be the first of the day to possess a voice to match her intriguing aura, and—though barely conscious of this—also began to formulate a question about who Maria might really be; at this point, it was mostly in the spirit of curiosity, such as sometimes happened when she saw an attractive young man or woman on the street, perhaps walking out of a store, hailing a cab, or even standing beside her on an elevator.

  She remembered her tryst with Lawrence Malcolm, which occupied the same realm as the Isolde debut with which it would always be linked, existing somewhere between a memory and a dream. For a second she was there, in the back of his store, overflowing with confidence about her burgeoning career and a belief that she could bring this kind of serendipitous, passionate love affair along with her, so that her future had seemed like a precious metal untarnished by any difficulty or regret. In the weeks after Lawrence left for Europe, she wrote to him several times and he responded with cheerful postcards from abroad, the stamps of which she caressed as though touching his lips. Which is not to say her interest in him was obsessive; as he had predicted she had too much else to think about between singing and the endless complications of her new life, which—intoxicating as it had been to consider in the abstract—was nerve-racking in the actual flood of offers, counteroffers, and agreements, not to mention unceasing demands for interviews and information said to be required by the insatiable public in light of her new status as a “sensation.” But to know it was just a matter of time until he returned had been—just as she had hoped—a kind of palliative or life raft in these first few months, as she—like any singer who had ever gone through this phase of initial scrutiny—struggled to keep her bearings amid the turbulence of so much attention.

  When complications—if one could use such a term to describe an unexpected pregnancy with twins—had arisen, their lives together, albeit largely imaginary at this point, became fraught with difficulty, and Anna could no longer envision them together on a sort of oasis. She debated whether even to tell him—this was part of a larger and more painful debate about how to proceed, if at all, with the birth—and ultimately decided to write to him, less with the intent of gaining his approval than out of her consideration of what it would be like to be in his position; she would, she reasoned, want to know. So she informed him of her intention to give the children up for adoption—though not opposed to abortion in theory, she hated the illegality of it—while offering the hope that he, as someone who seemed to appreciate the demands of her art, would understand; as she wrote these words, she began to feel a new hope that the event might even bring them together in unexpected ways.

  On the day she mailed this letter, fate again intervened and delivered to her a notice from his law firm informing her that Lawrence had d
ied in a car accident on his way back from Capri. She had dropped the sheet of paper and—filled with a bitter premonition—thrown the crumpled envelope across the room. For a second she detested her voice, which—like one of those beautiful but destructive flowers in a garden—seemed to have blossomed only at the expense of her capacity to love; it didn’t matter that the mere existence of Lawrence would appear to disprove this idea, or that their love was anything but certain given that they had spent only a few hours together; what mattered was that he was gone, and nothing could bring him back.

  This angry bitterness had not lasted but—as Anna reflected upon it now—was quickly transformed into a more wistful sadness (albeit one that had never completely faded). She could now appreciate what had happened; not his death, certainly, but the way it had brought into sharper relief the choices she had made and ultimately—despite the momentary doubts—reinforced her understanding of where she still needed to go. It had been an emotional turning point, a recognition of the strength and self-reliance she needed to march forward with an almost fanatical conviction about her relationship to the opera, one she now understood—in addition to the most practical kinds of focus and discipline—was necessary to sing at the most competitive levels. It was not that she had sworn off men—if anything, her rise made her more attractive—but after Lawrence, she always viewed them with impatience, as if they were a baser part of life, a necessary diversion before she took her true nourishment from the stage.

  THERE WAS ONE concrete element to Lawrence’s death, namely the Tristan manuscript he had lent to her. After she recovered from the shock of the news, she called the firm to ask what she should do with it; the attorney in question suggested she keep it, given that Lawrence’s actions could just as easily be construed as making a gift as they could a loan, and Lawrence had no heirs making claims on his estate. So she kept the manuscript but not the twins—fraternal, a boy and a girl—a decision that, as difficult as it had been to make, was not one she had ever been inclined to regret; to raise them herself would have been as unfair to them—she knew she never could have provided the kind of home she felt they deserved—as it would have been to her, making her career an impossibility.

  Still, at this second, to note Maria Sheehan’s black hair and the blue tone of her skin—so similar to her own—along with her unusual height, made Anna’s heart pause, if not quite skip. She probably would have disregarded the idea completely had she not been in Pittsburgh, the closest city to where she had given birth. She reminded herself to concentrate, and the logical part of her mind reasoned that there were probably hundreds of girls in Pennsylvania alone who fit the same description. But as soon as she heard the voice, her questions went from a trickle to a flood, one made all the more powerful and intoxicating—if alarming—by the thrill of discovery, the certainty that this girl had something to offer. A quick glance at her fellow judges confirmed the obvious talent on display, and Anna leaned forward, swept away by a wave of remorse as she considered that this could be her daughter, the same one whom she had given up seventeen years earlier but whom she had never touched or exchanged a word or a smile with, much less changed a diaper for or punished. It threw her entire life into doubt, and she could not stop the tears from spilling down. She did not so much fight this emotion as let it pull her into the deeper waters, where just floating and breathing, she became aware of other currents—hope, desire, resolve—that slowly brought her back to more solid footing; perhaps if she had been given two lives, she might have also been a mother, but with only one at her disposal, she would never regret the choice to be a singer. If anything, to see Maria only reinforced the certainty that if she had to do it again—even at this second, confronted by this voice and the staggering possibility that it was related to her own—she would make the same decision.

  As Maria finished her song, Anna knew she would do everything in her power to bring this girl to New York and, with any luck, transform her into a singer for the history books. It hardly needed to be said that she would never whisper a word to anyone about a biological relationship; this was not a second chance to be a mother but a first to be a teacher. Anna dried her eyes, ran her fingers through her hair—these days she kept it short—and repositioned her scarf around her shoulders. She felt something familiar pass through her, a queasy sense of anticipation, and realized that she was quietly singing to herself, just as she had always done in her career during those excruciating, delirious minutes before taking the stage.

  18

  The Psychology of the Transference

  PITTSBURGH, 1977. After winning the Heinz Recitals, Maria—with Kathy Warren’s help—prepared her application for Juilliard. She recorded a selection of songs and arias, and in early September sent them in with the necessary forms and essays. Less than a week later, Anna called to let her know that everything was in order. “We’re inviting you to audition. The committee was very impressed …”

  Maria had not enjoyed the recording process, particularly the playback, which to her ear made her voice sound shrill and forced. “Really? I thought the tapes were”—she caught herself before she said “crappy” and substituted—“less than outstanding.” When she spoke to Anna, she liked to think she had swallowed a pill that had already transformed her into the famous singer she wanted to become.

  A few days later, Anna called again to inform Maria about a few administrative details pertaining to the audition before she asked about Gina. “Will your mother be coming to New York?”

  To Maria’s consternation, the two women had developed a surprising rapport at the awards ceremony and had talked several times since about tuition and other practical arrangements. “She might,” Maria answered, “although she hasn’t mentioned it.”

  “Please let her know that I’d be happy to answer any questions,” Anna offered.

  “Okay,” Maria responded, “but—just so you know—my mother doesn’t really like New York, and Kathy’s been there, so—” Maria realized as she said this that she didn’t want her mother to go, and she wanted to see how Anna would react to this possibility.

  “Whatever you and your mother decide is fine with me,” Anna said in an efficient tone that left Maria with the impression she wouldn’t interfere.

  After hanging up, Maria went into the kitchen, where Gina was making dinner. “That was Anna,” she said, as she sat down and absently began to shred a napkin. “She wants to know if you’re coming to New York.”

  “I will if you want me to.”

  “Well, sure, but I didn’t think you really wanted to go, and well—since Kathy’s driving, I already asked her.”

  Gina frowned. “I’m sure Kathy would be happy to drive both of us.” She sighed as she set down her spoon and walked toward the door. “But if you don’t want me to go, just say so.”

  “I didn’t say that,” insisted Maria, annoyed that Gina was taking this in exactly the wrong way.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “I don’t know—just that it might be easier if—”

  “Does that sound like an invitation to you?”

  Maria shook her head but, having gone this far, found herself unable to stop. “I think it might be better if we all went up together after the audition, if I get in.”

  “Honey, you’re getting in,” Gina muttered as she tossed a dish towel on the counter and left for the living room. “But if you don’t want me there, that’s fine. Just let me know if you need any help from your mother before you leave.”

  Maria had second thoughts and chased after Gina. “Are you really upset? Because if you are, I could call Anna and make sure—”

  “I’m not upset, Maria. Please—just do what you have to.” Gina paused. “I mean it.”

  This thin display of stoicism provided the justification Maria had been looking for all along, so with equally exaggerated pretense, she stormed off to her bedroom.

  An hour or so later, Maria crept past the living room, where Gina and Bea were watching telev
ision, and she was only mildly surprised to find them both crying, since the news often had this effect on them. She stopped for a second to watch with one foot in the hall in the event her earlier perfidy had caused these tears, but when her mother looked up at her, Maria’s heart stopped: something was really wrong. “What’s going on?”

  “Mia bella.” Bérénice raised her wrinkled face to Maria. “La Callas! Elle est morte,” she whispered.

  “But she’s not that old, she’s only—” Maria paused. “How did she die?”

  “Fifty-three,” Gina said. “They think it was a heart attack.”

  To see her mother and Bea in tears, and to digest the news about Callas—whom she had secretly been hoping to meet now that she was Pennsylvania’s top high school soprano—also caused something in Maria to snap, so that seconds later she was sandwiched between them on the couch, sobbing along through the aspirin commercial that preceded a short retrospective on Callas. She had apparently died alone—a recluse—in her Paris apartment, which made no sense to Maria and for the first time made her question whether the fruits of her own artistic dreams would make her happier than she was now. She saw herself at fifty-three and wondered if her own mother would be alive, and considered that most certainly Bea would not, and felt bereft at their prospective departure in a way that made her regret what she had done that afternoon.

  “Ma,” she sobbed to Gina. “I didn’t mean it—I want you to come to New York. Anna said to call—she wants you to come, too!”

  “It’s okay,” Gina stroked Maria’s head, which now lay on her shoulder. “We can talk about it later.”

  THOUGH GINA’S OFFICIAL position toward her daughter was forgiveness, she, too, had been frightened by the specter of Callas’s lonely death, and felt that it was only right that Maria get a true taste of the life she so desperately sought. “I thought about it and decided that I’m not going to New York,” she declared to her daughter a few days later. “I don’t want to distract you.”