Haunted Tenor (Singers in Love Book 1)

by Irene Vartanoff

  When I saw Ralph later that morning, I said nothing about my weird dream. I hid my unusual emotional reaction entirely and made a humorous complaint. “Princess Elisabetta got sold to a higher bidder. It was all wrong.”

  “Typical of arranged marriages of state. Verdi didn’t make the story up.” Ralph always wanted to explain the facts.

  “It was so sad,” I said. “That awful old man, stealing his son’s bride.”

  “In real life it wasn’t,” he argued. “Philip of Spain was only thirty-two when he married Elisabeth de Valois.”

  “The opera shows him as an old man with a gray beard,” I frowned. My history studies had not dwelled on royal personages.

  “That’s Friedrich Schiller’s artistic license. The opera is based on his play. Although to a teenager like Elisabeth, Philip might have seemed like an old man.” He picked up a paper from his desk and handed it to me. “Here’s the request for your next ticket. I’ll want another report.”

  This was easy. Not like grad school, where I might be expected to write at least fifteen to twenty pages, double-spaced, carefully citing references in the scholarly manner. Ralph merely wanted to talk about these operas with me. Sweet. I could handle this.

  Now that the opera season had begun, his work was slacking off for a while, and so was mine. Soon, he’d be traveling to analyze the big opera productions and singers in European opera houses. Perhaps my new assignment to watch operas was his plan to keep me from getting bored.

  “What if I go see Don Carlo again?” I asked, not really teasing. The idea appealed tremendously, although I hid my eagerness. I had been so struck by the first act of Don Carlo—whether the singer or the character, I still did not know—that the rest of the story had passed in a blur.

  “You have my blessing. See as many as you like. Consider this part of your regular work assignment. At least one performance a week. No excuses, either.” He waggled a finger at me, rightly suspecting that I was tempted to duck out on the free operas in favor of going to museums and libraries.

  My esoteric field of concentration and my academia-oriented parents had long ago put me on the path of constant cultural self-improvement. I was already a museum junkie. Did I now want to become an expert in opera? It was notoriously the enthusiasm of the elderly. Still, there had been something about Don Carlo. Something I had never felt before when watching a play or even a classic movie.

  A vivid dream could reside as an emotional undercurrent throughout one’s day, and I did feel the hangover from the dream in which I was the princess about to be kissed by the handsome prince. Strangely, the emotion I had was apprehension. Fear of something coming that perhaps I could not handle.

  ***

  My next experience of Don Carlo had me in tears. I started crying when Elisabetta had to renounce him in the first act, and I never stopped. Why? I didn’t know. It was so sad. So sad. Don Carlo was so noble, and so mixed up. His grief got to me. He was so handsome and wonderful. A perfect prince. Why didn’t everyone else see that he was the one who should marry Elisabetta? That he was the one who should be the king? His father was an old man, and a cruel one. Youth should mate with youth.

  Luckily, that was an evening performance and I didn’t have to show my tearstained face at work afterward. Instead I found myself at the garage level, waiting with two dozen hardcore opera fans at the stage door for the singers to come out. I didn’t ask for any autographs. I simply stared at the handsome man who played Don Carlo. JC Vasquez was wearing casual clothes now, chinos and a black leather jacket hanging loosely over a turtleneck sweater. His hair was the same as in the opera, brilliant and black. He looked altogether harder and more mature than the sympathetic prince he’d played onstage tonight. Although several women pushed toward JC, eagerly seeking his attention, I hung back. Yet he saw me. There was a question in his eyes. I turned away and left.

  Three nights later, I was back again at Don Carlo, crying again. I stood at the stage door again. Again, I found I had no words. Perhaps I simply wanted to look at the artist who made the historical person live. It was that other man I needed emotional contact with, yet Don Carlo only lived on stage. And in my dreams.

  After each performance of Don Carlo I saw, I dreamed about it again. Each dream started off like many a dream I’d had in graduate school after a long day of poring over Renaissance history. I would fall asleep and find myself in Venetian garb at the Doge’s court. Or in some blackened hall far north, watching men in kilts plot against Mary, Queen of Scots. Those were fun dreams. These were not.

  I was Elisabetta, in the tragic Fontainebleau scene again. I happily confessed my love. Don Carlo rushed to embrace me, and we sang. The music was all around me, and in me, and it poured from me naturally. We looked into each other’s eyes and expressed the love in our hearts through song.

  Even though we were embracing, we hardly felt each other. Layer upon layer of clothing kept our bodies apart. Except our lips. As our song finished triumphantly, celebrating the wonder of our love, we slowly moved closer, to kiss at last and feel our joy in our bodies directly. But the kiss never happened.

  The interruption came that destroyed our happiness. The page, Tebaldo, returned with my attendants, chirping about me being the queen of Spain. Tebaldo happily explained that I was now promised to marry the king. Not Don Carlo.

  In that instant, my life was ruined. I looked to Carlo, and I could see how deeply he was wounded, too. How I wished we had been alone for one second more. The loss of Carlo’s kiss on my lips would haunt my life. Not even once was I to feel the rightness, the utter bliss. My body ached for his. Carlo saw my look of sorrow, the way my eyes pleaded for his forgiveness. Such was my suffering, I could do nothing to ease his. I never would again.

  I woke from the awful dream and found myself drenched in real tears. The pain still swirled around me, in me. I stirred restlessly, trying to beat back the effect of the tragic vision. To dream the same dream twice in one week was…strange. I had never had such a personal, vivid fantasy and been somebody else, somebody specific, either. I was glad to be awake now, away from the tragedy I had inhabited.

  Perhaps this was the connectedness to opera Ralph wished for me, but if so, it was way over the top. Why should I get so emotionally involved in a story whose romance wasn’t even based on real history? Why had I gone to the stage door repeatedly and stared at JC Vasquez, the tenor who sang Don Carlo? Was I turning into a stalker? Going to the stage door didn’t feel weird at the time, but thinking about it, yeah, it was weird.

  I was at an odd, unsettled point in my life. I thought I might be done with my education, but I wasn’t sure. Most of my friends were still at the university, or else they’d gone on to other places or started careers. At twenty-four, I’d been in love a couple of times, but the relationships hadn’t lasted. There was no old boyfriend I pined for. And except when I was at my job, I was alone in a big, cold city. I’d just barely found my feet here. Stupid metaphor. I kept tripping on the uneven sidewalks in this city. Anyway, I hadn’t tried to connect with any kind of local dating scene yet. Perhaps my life situation was causing my dreams.

  What I knew so far about the real-life Don Carlo was sad, but not romantic. Far from a hero, he was severely mentally challenged due to the constant incestuous marriages in the Spanish royal family. Nobody knew much about genetics back then. They thought they were keeping their bloodline pure. Don Carlo never was right in the head.

  No wonder King Philip kept marrying new wives. He needed an heir who was mentally competent. The heroic, tragic Don Carlo of the opera was entirely the invention of the German dramatist, Schiller.

  I’ve never been much for fiction, so why was I so caught up in this tale that I dreamed about it repeatedly? This pretty fabrication about Don Carlo should have offended the historian in me. Instead, it kept grabbing my emotions. Crying during an opera? I’d bet other patrons did, but that was because they had the ear and the operatic education to appreciate a superb musical perf
ormance. I didn’t. As a child, I failed repeatedly to develop any appreciation for music, which made my reaction to Don Carlo all the more baffling.

  Did I care about the tribulations of royalty? Not really. I chose history as my field, but not because I was excited by kings and queens or thought them glamorous. The miserable fates of princesses used as political pawns never interested me particularly. So why did I dream twice about being Elisabetta? Although she was an adult woman by the standards of the day, to me her perceptions seemed like those of a lovesick teenager. Love at first sight, and all.

  In the middle of the night, these questions seemed very important. I rose from my wrinkled bedding and padded over to my computer. I didn’t bother to throw anything over the cotton nightshirt I wore. Although autumn was closing in, the steam heat of the radiator kept the apartment warm and toasty. Just as well, since my whole focus was on information. For an hour, I reviewed what the net could tell me about the true history of Don Carlo, King Philip, and Queen Elisabeth de Valois, the unhappy Elisabetta of Giuseppe Verdi’s opera.

  My weird reaction to the opera had nothing to do with true historical facts. My bizarre fixation—no, it was a compulsion—centered on the frustrated romance in the opera.

  Getting back to sleep was difficult. I tossed and turned, trying to relax, wondering why I felt so restless. A residual ache permeated my body as if I truly was the lovelorn princess deprived of her prince.

  I shifted position yet again, feeling stifled under the single sheet. I would attend another performance of Don Carlo. Despite these dreams. Despite my confusing reaction to watching the live performances. I wasn’t sleeping, so I gave up and called my brother. He was still in Prague, where it was fully daytime.

  “Why are you calling at this ungodly hour?” was his greeting. Of course he recognized the number and knew it was me.

  “Isn’t it ten a.m. there?”

  “You should never try to talk to a baritone before noon. We work late. We sleep late.”

  “Whatever. I’ve got something to ask you.”

  “You expect a coherent answer this early in my day? You’re dreaming.”

  I grimaced. He’d hit on the truth by sheer chance, but I didn’t want to go there.

  “What is it with Don Carlo?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen the opera multiple times now and it’s overwhelmingly sad. Yet it’s not based on historical truth. Why is this opera such a big deal?”

  “Verdi’s music is very, very good, that’s the main reason.”

  “You know I’m tone deaf. It can’t be the music.”

  “God give me strength,” he replied. “Try this. Many people are forced to make choices in life against what their hearts dictate.”

  “Who? Even modern royals do what they please.”

  “I’m not talking romance. I’m talking freedom of choice. People always have less than they think.”

  “And the higher their station in life, the fewer choices they get?”

  “Everybody pays a price, and the most privileged pay the biggest price. That’s what this opera is about.”

  “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

  “In the spring, I’m scheduled to play Posa, the best friend who sacrifices his life for Don Carlo. Posa must have a moral code that makes the sacrifice make sense.”

  “That’s why Elisabetta marries King Philip and then behaves herself. She has accepted her position in an ordered universe, and has to see it through,” I said. “The usual medieval ‘chain of being.’”

  “Right. Do you see that Don Carlo is the rebel figure, the malcontent? You know about that kind of dramatic character, right?”

  “From Shakespeare.” I recited dutifully, “The malcontent resists his preordained role and specific place in the social order that is based solely on birth.”

  “Don Carlo strains against all the rules. He loves where he’s not supposed to. He lets his emotions override his judgment and his self-interest. He acts rashly, dangerously, emotionally.”

  “Which leads to catastrophe for others, like Posa.”

  “Yes. Now you’ve got it.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why people are so nuts about this opera.”

  “Sure it does. Carlo is a modern figure—one who places his desires above tradition and common sense. He speaks to a modern audience, because what is in his heart is truth. Everyone else in the opera, even Posa at times, is living a lie, being a hypocrite, pretending.”

  “Yet Carlo dies. He loses.”

  “It’s only in modern times that malcontent figures have been able, here and there, to effect change. They still have to fight all the forces of custom and entropy.”

  “I think I understand.” Which did not explain my tears. I wasn’t about to tell Sean about them, though.

  “Good, because as interesting as this discussion is, I need to rest my voice for tonight.”

  “Rest up. Thanks for talking through Don Carlo with me.”

  “You’re welcome, although I don’t know why you’re awake at five a.m. thinking about Don Carlo.”

  I didn’t know, either.

  We said goodbye and I lay back in bed. If I were a smoker, this would be a perfect moment to light up. Because obviously, I wasn’t going back to sleep.

  Perhaps I was overdramatic about Don Carlo. But I hadn’t gone around the bend. I could still hold a coherent conversation. Did I want to get further involved in opera? I could avoid seeing another for a while, give Ralph some excuse. If he pushed the issue, I’d make sure the next one I attended was a comedy.

  A good plan, if I had any free will left. Seeing Don Carlo had become a compulsion for me. I still did not know why. Sean’s lecture on free will versus duty had no relevance to me personally. I was young and unattached. I was free to choose the life I wanted, and to love whomever, too. So why did I dream repeatedly about almost kissing the prince? Why did I keep going to see this same opera over and over when I could have chosen to see one of the other operas the Nat put on each week?

  In school, I’d been taught to dig deep, to research facts and learn the truth of events for myself. Perhaps my fascination with Don Carlo the opera character, who was so different from the real historical Don Carlo, simply was a puzzle that engaged my intellect. That didn’t explain the crying or the dreams, or the yearning for his kisses.

  Chapter 2

  Three nights later, during the next performance, I took a bold step. I used my employee pass to go backstage and talk to JC Vasquez, the Spanish tenor who was singing Don Carlo. I intended to discuss the differences between the character he played and the historical figure. Or so I told myself.

  When I knocked on his dressing room door, JC Vasquez himself opened it.

  He frowned down at me. “It’s you. The stalker at the stage door.”

  “No. I’m…”

  “A stalker.”

  He spoke perfect English. Upper-crust, British-accented English. Perhaps he’d learned his disdainful expression at the same time. What was I doing outside the dressing room of a world-famous opera star? Why was I bothering him between acts? And why couldn’t he be doing something mundane like eating a ham sandwich, instead of staring at me with haughty disdain?

  This was no pleading, half-mad, impetuous young man. Or confused foreigner struggling with English as a fifth language. This was a self-assured, poised, grown male with nothing of the boy left in him.

  He looked me over and evidently was not impressed. “The silence, the yearning gazes, and now this intrusion. It all adds up.” His dark eyes bored into mine. “You ought to get a life.”

  “I’m not like that.” I wanted to sound indignant, but my tone of voice was pleading. “I work for the Nat, in the international office. I’m Ralph Janus’s assistant.”

  “You are here to deliver a message from him?” His cynical expression belied his suggestion.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Then why are you stalking me?”
<
br />   I shrugged, defeated. “I thought, if I met you, I wouldn’t confuse you with Don Carlo.”

  No way could I now. JC Vasquez was even more handsome and impressive up close. He had casually loosened his velvet jacket to reveal a flowing white shirt underneath. His dark Spanish looks glowed in contrast. The contempt on his face told me he thought I was lying. Yet I heard an insistent voice in my head saying I cared about him. Which was crazy. I didn’t know this man.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and turned and fled. I don’t know if he called after me. I negotiated the halls and quickly made my way to the connecting door back to the auditorium part of the opera house. As I slunk back through the luxurious red velvet rooms, I cringed at my inexplicable behavior.

  How embarrassing. He thought I was a crazed fan. Perhaps I was. Crazed. Why was I suddenly obsessed with an opera I hadn’t even heard of a month ago? Why did I feel compelled to repeatedly see the tenor who sang the role of Don Carlo?

  ***

  That night, after the performance ended, I did not go to the stage door even though something kept pressing me to. What had seemed a mere impulse during my unpleasant meeting with JC had coalesced into a voice in my head, a voice urging me to go see him. Telling me I must.

  I’d had plenty of time during the rest of the opera to think it through. JC Vasquez was nothing like Don Carlo. He was self-confident where Don Carlo was emotionally overwrought. JC Vasquez was in charge of his fate, an audience favorite and rising star. His mastery of English meant all doors would be open to him and his darkly handsome features made him even more attractive. A hot body and a slight British accent was so sexy. JC Vasquez had it going on.

  By contrast, the Don Carlo of the opera led a life under his father’s control. Don Carlo was young and foolish to seek a private audience with his father’s wife, which in the strict Spanish court was in itself a no-no. Worse, Don Carlo importuned Elisabetta to admit she loved him. An act of desperation I could not imagine JC Vasquez performing. He did not impress me as the kind of man who had to beg any woman. He had sexual confidence. It was ineffable yet distinctly recognizable, and he had it. Nothing could make a starker contrast with Don Carlo’s frantic emotionalism.