I intended to guard my temper today and be a model performer. Carmen was off and on stage during much of Act I. When I was on, I had two major arias to sing. I was ready.
Unlike the Metropolitan Opera in New York, the Potomac Arts Center didn’t allow the public on the main floor for rehearsals, so today we didn’t have the worry of tripping over audience members. We came down two main aisles and then intersected along an exceptionally large lateral aisle. We passed by each other and then each group paced down the opposite aisle leading toward the stage, finally moving across the front aisle close by the musicians to gain the sides of the auditorium. Steps had been erected on each side to enable us to ascend directly from the auditorium to the stage.
Once there, we mingled and flirted with the chorus members playing townsmen. As the act wore on, I began to feel…odd.
Dress rehearsals were different from actual performances, in that we could be stopped at any moment and asked to repeat something. Or the action could be halted while the maestro or the lighting director made notes. Meanwhile, we had a real audience filling the balcony, and on the orchestra level, a small contingent of patrons and the press might also be invited to watch. Staff members populated the close-in seats, consulting video screens and notebooks, checking lighting cues, talking to the maestro, and milling around. Or so it seemed from the stage. The house lights were up sometimes and down at other moments. The maestro now and then stopped the music, or the director did. I’d been in dress rehearsals where we were asked to sing a bar over, or a bigger section, or even an entire aria. Then there were the rehearsals where we were allowed to sing the act straight through, only to be given notes later from the director or the maestro on how to act or sing various bits differently.
Why was I comparing dress rehearsals? I should have been focusing on my cue. I felt strange. I wasn’t irritated at other singers, although the chorus, consisting of three dozen women dressed as languorous factory girls on a break, had been a bit slow getting onto and across the stage before my first aria. Only after they moved into their final positions could I walk forward and start the intimate action of the story with my first solo lines. I had to move fast, as I had learned days earlier. I tried not to notice how peculiar I felt.
My limbs were brittle and achy. My eyes didn’t focus properly. I was nauseated, too. I put one foot in front of the other, knowing I was behind the music, not in step with it. When I finally reached my place, I’d already begun singing about my love being free as a bird. I hadn’t missed the musical cue, but physically, I was behind and sinking fast. It was all I could do to keep from vomiting.
I hoped the maestro or the director wouldn’t stop the music every few minutes and make us repeat. I was barely hanging on. Régine was no more or less particular than any other director, so she might stop us. Although I kept up what was expected of Carmen when it came to singing, the increasing lassitude that enveloped my entire body slowed me to barely moving. I began to “park and bark,” as the singers of last century did. I was supposed to move around the stage and fake interact with the cigarette girls and boldly posture at the soldiers lusting after me, but instead, I stayed in one spot and sang.
I did my “Habanera,” teasing the men as I did, noticing that Don José studiously ignored me. As the star of the cigarette factory, and a free-living gypsy with great self-assurance, Carmen would not stand for being ignored, even if she suspected it was an act. All men must bow down before my charm. Don José, the corporal who would not look at me, must be taunted. I threw my rose directly at him.
As Don José, Louis acted suitably outraged. I laughed at him, my new victim. I had selected him over the other men as my next romantic conquest despite himself. I would prevail.
But José struggled against my allure. He had a sentimental scene with Michaëla, the goody-two-shoes village girl. This time around, Régine had instructed the soprano to be Carmen’s aware rival. Not a word or musical note changed, but Michaëla showed her scorn for the gypsy in Act I, and she was even more direct during their later encounter. In this reading, Michaëla’s air of innocent virtue came across as a deliberate act to entrap Don José into caving to his mother’s wish that they marry. Not that it mattered. No one would have thought it odd in nineteenth-century Europe that a mother arranged her son’s marriage to a suitable girl, or even that he might be in love with someone else. Back then, marriage was a practical arrangement, and love was merely the rebellious bird of Carmen’s song, landing on people unbidden.
I usually could concentrate on my role’s demands without any problem. Today, as the dress proceeded, I was glad the other singers had so much stage business. My mind felt strangely unfocused. After my “Habanera,” I had another challenging solo aria coming up, my seductive “Seguidilla,” which I sang to coax Don José to let me escape going to prison after I’d attacked another girl with my knife. Too bad Carmen didn’t use her knife on Don José.
Near the end of my first aria, I stumbled and nearly fell. Louis, waiting for me to toss him a flower, looked horrified. I managed to stay in character and finish my song and hit my Don José with the flower, but I was about to faint. Luckily, the story called for all us factory girls to leave the stage immediately after I ended my song. I lurched off into the wings and practically begged the assistant stage manager to get me food. What a comedown for my pride in being self-sufficient.
Someone handed me a protein bar laced with sugar. I grasped it gratefully and ate it faster than was ladylike. I took deep breaths. My stomach settled and my eyesight cleared up. I daren’t close my eyes, though, because I still had enough vertigo to fall down.
No principal singers stood near me. The high soprano singing Michaëla, and of course Louis as Don José, were on stage, bleating about his dear old mother and his sweet little village. Or maybe it was the other way around, his sweet little mother and his dear old village. If he’d only stuck to his intention to marry that willing village maiden, Carmen would have lived.
My breathing settled and I relaxed. The crisis was over. I was my usual energetic self again. My sudden weakness must be due to feeling my age a little, although thirty-three was hardly old. I’d given up all-nighters after college, but this feeling was similar to the pain of staying up far too late and waking far too early. Apparently, I now needed to give up skipping meals. No diabetes here, just carelessness. I was fine.
I was on cue for my next big aria and the extended scene that closed the act. My voice acted completely normally as I seduced Don José into untying my ropes and letting me escape being taken to prison.
When the act was over we were all called back to the stage. The maestro and Régine each gave us a few instructions. Régine said nothing to me about having been slack in my footwork. I’d dodged trouble yet again. It was a relief.
Because this was a dress, we had a real intermission, although it was only fifteen minutes. I asked an assistant to run upstairs and get me a lunch. I wanted to conserve my energy for the stage. Of course by the time she returned, I barely had a moment to eat. What a ridiculous situation. Was I truly physically desperate for food? Or had other people convinced me that food was the answer to a sudden lack of energy? No time to ponder it, as Act II was about to begin. I had a moment of feeling a bit faint after that, but then I was okay again. I hustled back to the stage for the wild gypsy dancing that Frasquita, Mercédès, and I as Carmen had practiced at length under Régine’s and the dance master’s tutelage.
Act II went well. James swaggered in as Escamillo and didn’t even sneer at me once. It was unprofessional to willfully make enemies. Undoubtedly, we’d sing together again. We all sang on the same stages across the world. Every singer had an off day or night. My nastiness to James in rehearsal had been uncalled for, even though I was still mad at him for putting that video online.
I rested in my dressing room between acts and then we did Act III. It started with the gypsies smuggling and Carmen and Don José briefly bickering. Their relationship was falling apar
t. After he left, Carmen played cards with her gypsy girlfriends, Frasquita and Mercédès, and they read the resulting cards as foretelling the future. Frasquita hoped for a romantic lover, and Mercédès for a rich old man to marry her and then leave her a wealthy widow. They interpreted their cards happily, but Carmen kept turning up the death card—the Ace of Spades.
My voice should have been suitably resonant with the foreknowledge of death, grave and articulate, yet filled with tonal beauty, my expression solemn and accepting. I had no trouble acting out Carmen’s acceptance of her fate, but my voice refused to cooperate immediately. I fought down my panic and worked to clear my throat and sing my next phrases correctly. The card song was my biggest piece in this act. I could take it easy through Michaëla’s overly sweet but poignant aria and then Escamillo’s return and his clash with jealous Don José. Then I merely spat a few nasty lines at Don José, and the act was over. But right now, I must sing.
I struggled, not with shaping the sounds I should be making, but with getting enough breath to emit them. I was near exhaustion again. This was crazy. I’d never had this difficulty before, ever. Or was it the lack of sleep Hannah Lochte had delicately hinted at, so typical of the beginning of a love affair? Dex and I hadn’t done much sleeping this week. More like dozing between bouts of intense lovemaking.
I was losing my concentration. I had to sing, and right now. Finally I managed to command enough breath to get my words out, but my voice wasn’t strong. I doubted the small audience in the orchestra section of the auditorium heard me. Ironically, those were the patrons and staff, the people it was important to impress with my vocal facility. The acoustics of the auditorium automatically sent sound to the balcony without the need for big volume. Régine would come down on me like a ton of bricks, and I would deserve it. Why was I so weak today?
I struggled through the card song, feeling like the death I prophesied.
Once that was over, I gasped for breath, but discreetly, as the scene switched to Michaëla singing her aria about not being afraid alone in the mountains searching for Don José. What a beautiful, pure high soprano voice she had. I could never reach those notes easily. Training to become a soprano would be a struggle, and singing demanding soprano roles would be tough and probably short-lived. But I could be the star of many other operas. Tantalizing thought.
My mind was drifting, something it never did during a performance. I was still short of breath, and I was nauseated again. I held it together through the next few minutes, and managed my last sneers at Don José, but it was touch and go. I was a mess, and we didn’t have another intermission. I dragged myself back to my dressing room to change into my costume for the last act. Walking was difficult with my arms and legs hurting so much and my stomach roiling. What was wrong with me?
In the last act, I paraded with Escamillo to the bullring, and we sang a few loving phrases to each other before we parted. My gypsy friends warned me José had been seen nearby. When I was alone outside the bullring, he confronted me.
Don José demanded and pleaded to be Carmen’s lover again. She turned him down, finally tossing away the ring he had given her in happy days. She tried to end their scene and go to the bullring, but he would not let her pass. When she pressed the issue, they struggled physically and José knifed her. Louis and I had been carefully coached on how to choreograph our moves. I knew this scene so well I could do it in my sleep. Yet my acting and singing in this passionate act were nearly sleepwalking because my body was trying to collapse. I used every ounce of my willpower to stay upright and keep singing my lines. Louis’s eyes showed his shocked understanding that I was ill, but he continued without pause while I struggled. Never was there a Carmen so eager for her own end as I. When Louis as José knifed me, I gratefully collapsed at last.
José sang his last words, and the audience applauded. The curtain dropped. Louis helped me up. “What’s happened to you? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” At his inquiring look, I said, “Maybe some kind of sugar imbalance.”
“You’ve had a crazy month. One trouble after the next.”
“You’re right about that. I solve one problem and another pops up.” The curtain rose and we took our bows, since there was an audience. Then we listened as the maestro and Régine cited sections and small bits they’d like us to do differently. Louis listened, and I pretended to. I concentrated on remaining upright. Finally, we were released. Louis kindly linked his arm in mine and escorted me to my dressing room. I might not have made it there on my own.
After the costume department collected my outfit, I sat in my one padded lounge chair and rested. Exhaustion washed over me. For a while, I didn’t think at all. I zoned out. Then my brain began to put together thoughts again. What on earth had come over me? Everyone said I should eat, and I did eat before the dress. I ate more food between the acts. Was it the wrong kind of food? The wrong amount? Why should food affect me this way? Perhaps I should have fasted. I always preferred to fast before a performance, and this series of episodes was convincing proof that merely eating was no cure for whatever was bothering my body. I would have to do something about my body, but I didn’t know what. Maybe even see another doctor.
Or maybe this was nothing, merely another adjustment my body and mind were making after the departure of the demon. Yes, that was probably the origin of today’s near fiasco. I’d be fine for the opening night on Monday. No need to bother with a doctor.
I had the entire weekend off to spend intimately with Dex, if he didn’t pressure me about eating, or about the direction in which our relationship was headed. Perhaps it was his goal-oriented personality that drove him to want to manage my life for me. He’d built his company from the ground up and that meant he’d made many important decisions. It must be irksome to him that I had my own ideas about my health, that I was neither under his command nor suggestible. My personality was too strong to allow others to sway me easily.
Or perhaps I gave him too little credit. Perhaps he simply cared for me and was determined to make sure I was all right. What a lovely idea, that someone cared that much. I seldom let people that close. Even Gayle, the sister of my heart, knew not to step over the boundaries of friendship I had delineated. My mother loved me, of course, but she had long since granted me full control over my life. Although she had been the one to introduce me to the arts, my level of achievement was so far greater than she had imagined possible that she refrained from attempting to give me advice about my career or any other aspect of my life.
I was the one who had drawn those lines, keeping myself on my own private island, immune to feelings, concentrating only on my artistic career. After the experience with Michael, it had been safer, but I had that tendency long before our unfortunate relationship. The complexities of singing opera were enough to engage me fully on all levels, physical, emotional, and intellectual.
Until I met Dex. What did he do when we weren’t together? What were his business meetings like? Was he the kind of man who listened to others politely, or did he lead with a forceful edge? I had mostly seen his pleasant side, but to make his business successful must have required tough calls, and even some tough talk along the way. Yet he had been charming to the opera patrons and to my fellow singers. Was the charm merely a tool that hid his unyielding will?
Although I had accused him of trying to make decisions for me, it wasn’t true. He always allowed me my space. He didn’t try to countermand my decisions and he never tried to use his physical strength to win an argument. Most important, he wasn’t rough with me physically. Dex touched me gently. Even in the throes of passion, his body appreciated my slighter build and made allowances. I felt wooed, not conquered. When he had me in his arms, he held me tightly, but his urgency never was harsh. I was cherished with his every stroke and caress.
Was this love? Did Dex have tender feelings for me? Did I love him? Could I even recognize love when I experienced it?
I hardly recognized myself. Thoughts a
bout Dex held me in thrall when I should have tidied up my personal things and left the dressing room long since. Instead, here I was, still lying in the easy chair, daydreaming about my lover. I must get myself moving.
When I finally turned on my phone, I saw Marcus had called and left a message asking me to return his call. Very courteous and old school. My contemporaries did not leave messages, although they might text. In the opera world, we adhered to many old-fashioned standards. I called him back.
Marcus got right to the point. “I heard from Hannah Lochte that you’re experiencing some negative behavioral symptoms similar to those inspired by the demon.”
I chuckled. “At our first meeting you told me I was to blame for them. It appears you were correct.”
We discussed the difference between the demon’s impulses and my own. I said, “An application of self-discipline, and soon the impulses will fade.”
“You sound very sure,” Marcus said.
“I have never failed to achieve a reachable goal once I’ve get my mind to it.”
“That’s reassuring to know.” He cleared his throat. “I got the impression that you’re also experiencing some distressing physical symptoms, symptoms of what could be a serious disease. And that you’re consistently refusing to seek medical treatment.”
I made an exasperated noise. “Everyone is piling on me about my eating habits. My problem was solved by the exorcism. The odd physical symptoms are probably holdovers from the exorcism.”
“I’ve never heard of any physical symptoms relating to successful exorcism.”
“How else do I account for feeling suddenly weak during the dress rehearsal today? I made sure to eat. What went wrong?”
“That’s a question only a doctor can answer. All I can tell you is that you should not reject out of hand whatever help medicine offers. The Holy Spirit imbues doctors and other experts. You should feel free to seek their aid, just as you reached out to me even though your own version of Christianity is somewhat removed from mine.”
Defiant Diva (Singers in Love Book 3) Page 14