Haunted Tenor (Singers in Love Book 1)

by Irene Vartanoff

“You can see it online. Opera lovers can be brutal.”

  “Why did you think the audience at La Scala would boo JC Vasquez?” I asked, trying to keep my extreme interest out of my voice as we made our way to the curb to hail a taxi and return to the Nat offices.

  I had watched JC’s every moment on screen like the crazed groupie he’d frequently accused me of being. When the camera focused on him, I felt a physical pang in an unmentionable place. I had bitten my lip and controlled myself, of course. The thought that we might never make love again was a torment. I shouldn’t allow myself to see JC again even in a live stream if there was no hope for a relationship. And probably there wasn’t.

  “Everybody hates this new Carmen.”

  I struggled to recall what Ralph was talking about. Oh, right. Booing. “But JC wasn’t booed.”

  Ralph beamed. “Correct. It’s good for the Nat that his singing won over La Scala.”

  I must have looked puzzled, because he continued, “When we contract for a singer’s services so many years in advance, we’re betting that his reputation grows, or at least stays good.”

  “Would being booed at La Scala damage his career?” It hurt to think that JC’s career hung by such a slender thread. Vocal chords were fragile enough.

  “Not being booed is a big positive,” he replied, obviously still delighted at the reception JC had been given on La Scala’s opening night. “But that production…” He described the reasons critics and audiences didn’t like it. I didn’t understand any of them except the sexism involved, Carmen being thought of as a slut merely because she owned her own sexuality.

  What a strange world opera was. I was happy for JC, too, but for my own reasons. We went back to the office, where Ralph spent the rest of the day on the phone with people rhapsodizing about the La Scala simulcast. I thought about JC. When work was over, I took a bus home in the setting rays of the sun, which still shone brilliantly on the snow we’d had the day before. The nearly horizontal rays of early winter sunset made the piles of nasty dark snow at the corners sparkle like black diamonds. Across Central Park there were many pristine vistas. The temperature in Milan, Italy, was the same as New York today, and they had snow, too. I felt close to JC, although I had no genuine reason for the feeling. It was the media effect, of course. The simulcast had been full of close-ups of his face as he sang or acted. Even hours later, I still felt the intimate hangover.

  I wondered if he liked snow. I’d learned that Barcelona was temperate most of the year, so snow might be an unpleasant downside to his international career. Or maybe he loved it and went skiing when he was in Europe. I wished I could ask him if snow made him smile.

  After a long, lonely evening, I decided to send him a congratulatory email. I’d gotten his contact info from Ralph’s database. A text wouldn’t do because I wanted to make the best impression with what I wrote. I struggled, deleting numerous tries. Finally, I settled on a simple note.

  Hi, JC,

  Ralph and I watched the simulcast of Carmen. Congratulations on your success with that tough audience.

  Kathleen

  That said nothing. I tried again.

  Dear JC,

  Congratulations on winning over the La Scala audience.

  I’ve been busy researching ghostly phenomena, but still have no answers.

  Hope to see you in a while.

  Your friend,

  Kathleen

  That said too much.

  The honest email that I wanted to send was

  Darling JC,

  I miss you terribly even though we hardly know each other yet. Still, we know the most important things, don’t we?

  I can’t wait until we meet again, so we can have more of that super-amazing sex. You’re the best. I think of that night with you and I am overwhelmed all over again.

  Please reply and tell me again that you care about me. Please come back soon and be with me again. I’m dying of loneliness here without you.

  Love,

  Kathleen

  Totally pathetic. Totally true. Of course I deleted it.

  I sent the most restrained email the next day, after I’d had plenty of time to overthink it. Would JC believe I was pursuing him? If so, he’d be right. Not open pursuit, but I wanted him to remember me, and remember us together in bed, satisfying each other deeply.

  I received no email in return. It was a valid email address. There was no bounce. JC was busy and he didn’t have time to do email often. Maybe in a week or two, he’d reply.

  A month later, he still had not. Sean emailed me often from his own opera tour of Europe, since email was more economical than texting or phoning depending on where he was. I couldn’t fool myself into thinking JC had no opportunity. The message from him was clear. He didn’t want to keep in touch with me. I tried one more time, though, because I was a besotted idiot without much pride.

  Hi, JC,

  I hope you’re enjoying the holiday season in Sydney. No snow here right now, but it’s cold. Must be strange to be in such warm weather in January.

  Your friend,

  Kathleen

  There was no reply, of course.

  Twenty-first century women weren’t supposed to care about men who didn’t care about them. I’d seen old movies in which women pined over men, yearned for them, and acted lovelorn—usually, as calendar pages artfully drifted down to indicate the passage of time. That was totally old school. Today, we women had lives of our own, and better things to do than sit at home hoping some man would call.

  I tried the dating scene again. Nothing.

  Chapter 6

  I spent Christmas alone in the city, feeling very sorry for myself. I talked to my parents on the phone. They were concerned about how I was doing. Of course I lied myself blue in the face and claimed I was having a great time. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come home for a while?” my mother asked. “I could probably arrange some campus job for you.”

  “I’m enjoying working in the real world,” I insisted. My mother undoubtedly suspected something was up, but she didn’t raise a fuss. There was nothing I could tell her, anyway.

  I also went out yet again with Rachel from the costume department. We did the bar scene here and there, but no one caught my interest. I was trying, but when was the dating scene ever wonderful?

  Aside from yearning over JC, during the winter I listened to all the versions of Don Carlo and Don Carlos Ralph could supply. There were a lot. I went back on the net and read page after page on Don Carlos, the Schiller play, and both the French and Italian versions of the opera. I even read the play in the original German, a language I had studied as an undergrad. Research took up my plentiful free time, but I learned nothing to explain how or why I could react so strangely to this one opera and no others. I read up on ghosts, too. Wasted effort.

  I was tempted to email JC again, to try to continue our debate over what had caused my weird masquerade as Tebaldo. Pointless. Even if he didn’t delete it unread, my email would have come across as another desperate communication from a dumped one-night stand. I had already made enough of a fool of myself, trying to create a relationship where none existed. So I held in the many things I wanted to say to JC. If we ever spoke directly again, maybe I’d tell him some of them.

  The more I learned about the opera Don Carlo, the more I understood why it moved me so much. Every main character was caught in the trap of circumstances. Even the exalted, supposedly all-powerful King Philip was at the mercy of the Grand Inquisitor. But the Grand Inquisitor had no mercy. Although ancient and blind, his music was spine chilling even to my ignorant ears. He was a terrifying figure, the true arbiter of life and death throughout Philip’s vast lands. He even ordered Philip to kill his own son.

  The king’s chief lament—his big aria, too—was that his young wife did not love him. Since he was played as an old man in the opera, I thought it was pretty ridiculous of Philip to hope that his
teenage wife could care for him. Still, his cri de coeur showed his humanity as little else did. Wanting what he couldn’t have, he longed for happiness where nothing was likely to bloom—in what was a political union first and foremost. How strange, to find that this shrewd ruler of men had this personal blind spot. He had been the younger spouse when he’d made his political marriage to the old maid queen of England, “Bloody” Mary Tudor. Yet he didn’t have the imagination to realize that to Elisabeth de Valois, he now was the unappetizing older spouse.

  As for the others, I already knew that Elisabetta was a helpless pawn of politics, and Carlo was rash, impetuous, and miserable. Then I discovered that Eboli, the other woman, was miserable, too. Was anybody happy in this opera? No, and the opera began and ended—in the four-act version at least—with words about the vanity of the world and how only love of God was important.

  Even in the five-act version, I began to see that Carlo was wrong to hope. He was wrong to languish at the court and see his former fiancée turned into his father’s wife. He was wrong to openly challenge his father at the auto da fé. It was presented as political, and supposedly Carlo was championing Flanders. But a direct, public confrontation with one’s father was always about the power dynamic between parent and child.

  As for Eboli and her fatal gift of beauty, I found the lack of an intimate scene between her and the king made their supposed relationship unreal. Verdi wanted us to believe that Eboli was a mistress only, although she was already a highly placed person, and a princess, too. Maybe it was the very strict censorship of the nineteenth century that kept the librettist and composer from being more explicit about the relationship. Or maybe Verdi wanted the audience to think Philip had given up his mistress once he had a new young wife. As often happened, for a while at least. Everybody liked to play with a new toy. Look at Prince Charles and Lady Di. They were all smiles for the first couple of years.

  Harsh. As the winter weeks wore on, my thoughts grew increasingly dark and cynical. I remembered how smoothly the doorman had a cab waiting for me and paid for after my hour with JC. At least JC hadn’t handed me cab fare directly. I should have had more pride and insisted on paying.

  ***

  Sean returned from Europe and started rehearsals for the next run of Don Carlo, casually mentioning that JC was back, too. “He’s in great voice. We’re having fun with the brotherhood duet. This role was a lucky break for me. Unplanned substitution.” He named another baritone whose lingering illness had caused the Nat to reach out to Sean as a replacement.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Sean cast me a look. “Sure, dear sister. I know you’re not an opera fan. Is the job for Ralph too boring? Are you desperate to get back to the university?”

  “No. I’m enjoying learning something new.” What an understatement, but Sean bought it. I didn’t want him to know about my involvement with his friend. “Ralph is a sweetie.”

  Sean winced. “Don’t let him hear that. He thinks he’s very dashing. Haven’t you noticed his opera cape?”

  “Ralph’s one sartorial affectation? Of course.” I thought it was cute when he came in wearing it.

  “Is he still insisting that you force yourself to see operas?”

  “You won’t see me dragged in kicking and screaming.” All my research and constant opera going was beginning to make me a fan, but I certainly didn’t want to give my older brother an edge by telling him so.

  “You don’t have to see Don Carlo again just to see me. I’m letting you off the hook since you’ve seen it before.”

  “No way are you talking me out of going,” I replied in my best younger-sister-as-pest manner. “I have to represent the family, since Mom and Dad will never leave Ohio.” This was said demurely, to rile him.

  Sean laughed. “Don’t expect to throw me off my stride. Usually, I can’t see beyond the orchestra pit, so I won’t see you if you stand on your head.”

  I hoped not. What if astral projection (and I winced inwardly at the term) happened in the garden scene, where Sean as Posa would save Don Carlo from Eboli? What if my unruly mind or body sent me hurtling to the stage to rescue Carlo, unaware that Posa would arrive mere seconds later? And come to think of it, how had JC known where I was sitting that night he sent the demand that I come to his dressing room? If the singers couldn’t see the audience, he couldn’t see me, so how did he know where I was? Maybe through the psychic link he claimed did not exist?

  To say that I was worried about seeing Don Carlo again was no lie. I was terrified. Yet if nothing out of the ordinary happened, then whatever pathetic, one-sided relationship I had with JC was over. We would have no reason to see each other again. Not that I was being so high school as to throw myself in JC’s path. I’d gotten the message from his lack of response to my carefully worded emails. I made sure to give Sean and JC a wide berth during rehearsals. Once, Sean phoned me from down in one of the rehearsal rooms, wanting me to bring him something. I made up an excuse and said I couldn’t. I avoided the other areas of the opera house as well, now that I might encounter JC again.

  Ralph confounded my plan. He was so impressed that I was keeping my nose to the grindstone that he insisted on sending me to their first performance even though it was supposedly sold out.

  “No, no, you can’t refuse,” he said. “You’ve been working so hard, and it’s your own brother.”

  I couldn’t think of a reasonable argument to justify saying no to Ralph’s generosity. This day had to arrive. I could handle it. Especially since JC hadn’t made any effort to contact me. Casual hookups suck. No more sex before a relationship for me. Ever. From now on, the relationship comes first. Unintentional pun.

  At least I could still laugh. I wasn’t very happy, but no one who saw me daily asked why I was so down. I had a touch of acting ability after all.

  On the day of the first performance, Sean was totally caught up in his nerves and his voice routines. I tried to stay out of his way, except when he needed reassurance.

  “This is big,” he said, after spending at least half an hour in the apartment’s one bathroom gargling. “My first stint at the Nat. I can’t screw this up,” he continued, clearly fretting. “It’s a major role.”

  I’d never seen him like this. “You’ll be fine,” I said, surprised at his sudden insecurity. Did JC freak out like this before each performance?

  “You don’t understand. Posa is major. My career is on the line,” Sean said. “If I’m not ready, it’ll be a disaster.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  I trotted out more soothing words, but finally realized that my brother was wrapped up in his feelings, and nothing I said would reach him. He didn’t even have a steady girlfriend to be a source of emotional support. Although perhaps he liked Abbie Fisher more than he would admit, he was too busy traveling the world pushing his career to get seriously involved. In fact, my brother’s life was much like JC’s. Constant travel, and the constant requirement to give standout performances regardless of how well or rested he was, what the weather or the local opera house was like, how the audience behaved, or anything. Sean seemed to have girlfriends in every city. Nothing serious. The career, the singing, that was the obsession. Not a woman. I suspected JC was exactly the same.

  ***

  I took my seat for the first performance of Don Carlo without enthusiasm. I worried that Sean’s fears would come true and he would not sing well, or worse still, would choke. I worried that JC could be going through the same self-doubts and at risk for the same consequences. Notes wrong, timbre wrong. Whatever. With my semi-educated ear I wouldn’t hear their mistakes, if they made them. Others more versed in music would.

  Then there were my fears for myself. Would I experience another psychotic break? I suffered no other division from reality in the rest of my life. Unless one called it insane to spend years in graduate school studying a field that would only lead to teaching graduate school.

  Would another astral projection occur? Not tha
t I believed in it. All my research had produced nothing that would convince a sensible person that ghosts existed, or astral projection, or telepathy, or whatever. Stories of such were without scientific confirmation. They made for good fiction only.

  Then there were the odd feelings I’d had on first watching this opera. Before the wild impersonation of Tebaldo. I’d been hyper-empathetic with Don Carlo in his misery and love for Elisabetta. I’d had dreams that I was she. Last night, I’d had another extremely vivid dream. In this one, I was Elisabetta again, wandering the garden of the palace, alone and miserable. Carlo found me, and embraced me desperately. Then he knelt at my feet, professing his love. Suddenly I was lying naked in his arms, and he was making love to me in that special way again. He was JC, not Carlo. I woke with a strong hangover of yearning to be in JC’s arms. That dream probably wasn’t connected to any odd goings on in the opera itself.

  Ralph had come through for me again even though I didn’t want the favor. I was in the front row. Luckily, the bright stage lights, not to mention the maestro’s podium light on his score, would keep JC and Sean from seeing me during the performance. The Nat auditorium was so huge an actor standing in the wings beforehand wouldn’t see the audience well. Not that JC would bother to look.

  I still did not know a lot about JC Vasquez. By now I had read all the internet gossip I could find. Formal media interviews with an artist told very little about the person. Journalists were trained to watch the eyes, the facial tics, the hand gestures, and so on. Despite that, they missed a lot, and anyway, the purpose of the interview was usually to hype a new project—in JC’s case, a new CD song collection.

  From Sean I had learned that such CDs, along with concerts, were how the top opera singers got rich. Their fees from opera houses increased with their fame, but the significant money was the large cut of profits from a concert and then a CD. Sean’s career wasn’t big enough yet to merit a solo recording contract. JC already had a couple of albums out and did sold-out concerts, mostly in Europe.