Aloha, Mozart

by Williams, Waimea

  She asked the man with the French horn where Professor Jann’s teaching studio was. He flipped the brass mouthpiece into the air and it spun between them before landing back on his palm. “I doubt you will find him there.” He pointed to the right. “Jann retired last month.”

  Alarmed, Maile walked toward a tall white door with an enamel plaque inscribed ALEKSANDER JANN, KS. Inside she heard muffled footsteps. She had not known that Professor Jann was actually Sir Jann. The abbreviation at the end of his name stood for Kammersänger, Court Chamber Singer, the Austrian equivalent of a knighthood. A flash of nervousness made her diaphragm contract.

  If Ks. didn’t accept her, she would not get a residence visa or be allowed to stay in Austria more than thirty days. If no other teacher at the Mozarteum took her, she would have to try Vienna, Berlin, or Paris—on her own—because Madame Renska, for reasons never explained, had severed her other contacts in Europe.

  Somewhere outside, a church bell struck the hour. Maile wound herself up to knock on the door, one medium-sized thump. On the other side a deep voice called out, “Herein.”

  Her collarbones bones tingled. She shuffled her music scores, Aida on top, Madama Butterfly next, then Norma and a collection of Wagner. What she knew about Professor Jann came from a thumbnail sketch in the conservatory’s little catalogue: renowned basso in the years following World War II, Boris Godounov, Don Giovanni, Scarpia. He was performing in fabled opera houses while she was climbing mango trees on her way home from grade school.

  Taking a deep breath, she entered and said, “Grüss Gott, Herr Professor.”

  He stood up from a concert grand that stretched from the middle of the room to the windows at the back, a slender and unusually tall man, well over six feet. His thick white hair had a slight wave. His face was dominated by a high forehead, large blue eyes, and lines and dimples that had folded into expressive creases. His elegantly tailored suit looked dismayingly European. The overall effect was of an intimidating maturity. At the base of her tongue Maile tasted a trace of stomach acid, a voice ruiner.

  “Shall we try that again?” Professor Jann said in German. “You look scared to death, which is a poor start. A singer’s nerves must vitalize, not terrify. It is also surprising since you have come by way of New York. I expect students from there to ‘kick down the door.’ Which is a rather good attitude for the theater.”

  Maile retreated, desperately translating what he’d said. A rather good—what? Einstellung. Attitude. Kammersänger Jann had just tossed her out.

  In the hall the blond man sat watching her. She gave him a frightened, haughty look and turned away. Tiny fish nibbled at her ribs. She concentrated all her energy on a small white spot, the singer’s candle flame, a technique of Madame’s. Go, Maile, she told herself. Holo-holo, big-time. You look like a diva.

  Pulling the door wide, she swept inside, drew a quick circle with her right foot, dipped her left knee, held an imaginary voluminous skirt out to the side with one hand, and with the other offered the music scores. “Maestro?”

  Professor Jann smiled and folded his arms. “Your transformation has a touch of wit. You place us in the eighteenth century. Will you sing one of its masterworks?”

  Maile straightened up, warmed by his slight approval. “No, Verdi. Aida.”

  “Close the door, would you, please?” His tone was formal again, less encouraging. He picked up a yellow application form.

  She shut the door and pretended to be interested in the long black concert grand. Aida was not listed on the form as an audition aria. She wanted to risk it because of the womanly power in O patria mia, the exiled princess grieving over her lost country. For lunch she had eaten only toast and tea to avoid a heavy stomach. She smoothed the skirt of her Nile green linen sheath, feeling alert, primed, beyond stage fright.

  “Full lyric soprano,” Professor Jann read aloud, “with a leaning to-ward larger roles. Although . . . Verdi? I would be surprised if Madame Renska had suggested Aida.”

  Maile shrugged, not trusting her German enough to explain that although Madame occasionally allowed students to experiment with arias, Aida was her own idea. What else would he consider questionable? She struggled to keep her stomach muscles from turning to gel, and studied a collection of silver-framed photos on the piano: Herr Kammersänger taking curtain calls, being toasted at a banquet, program shots in full makeup. The Mozarteum’s catalogue listed other teachers—a pretty Hausfrau who had been a celebrated soubrette, an obscure composer who favored mezzos, a lieder specialist—none of whom could match a knighted artist.

  “You will not sing me Aida,” Jann said. “At twenty-six you are still too young. Let me hear something less demanding. Afterwards we can talk.”

  For one reason or another he rejected everything else she offered. The book of Wagner received only a doubtful glance. Too young. Less demanding. Her pride smarted. Finally she insisted, “Norma. It’s the one aria I’ve practiced the most.”

  Jann hummed the opening phrase. “That is also a very ambitious piece. Although easier on the voice.” He opened the score and sat down at the piano. In an impartial tone he added, “Please ignore me now, except for cues. I am simply your accompanist.”

  Maile backed into the curve of the grand and slid her right elbow onto the lid, a move so familiar she could have performed it in total darkness. The simmering in her chest returned. She focused on a large antique clock staring at her from across the room.

  “The stage is still,” Jann said, “cloaked in mist. A moonlit night. You enter through an enormous rock crevice. Your gown is pale. You are a great pagan priestess.” He began playing the soft arpeggiated chords of the introduction.

  Maile turned slightly so he could see her profile and follow the motion of her breathing. She envisioned a towering split stone, inhaled, and felt her diaphragm slip down like a diver entering the water. Silently she counted the beats preceding her first phrase, then glided through an invisible frame into a parallel world of magic. “Ca—sta. . .”

  Jann lifted his fingers from the keys. “Start over.”

  The sound of his voice jerked her back through the frame into a room with a large clock. Irritably she puffed out her cheeks.

  “Breathe again,” he said. “You will not reach the end of even the first phrase, let alone the entire piece. This is one of the longest openings ever written.”

  All right, all right, she thought, I was a tiny bit too breathy. But I would have made it.

  He repeated the introduction.

  “Ca—”

  “Too much aspiration on that first syllable. Never rush this.” He played.

  “Ca—”

  “Better. Continue.”

  “—a—sta . . . di--va.” She breathed in, relieved, poised for the next phrase.

  “Not so much tension.” Again he stopped. “You have the whole aria in front of you.”

  His constant interruptions angered her. All this for two words! The snippet didn’t amount to anything resembling music. Madame Renska at her most picky had never dissected a phrase like this—yet Maile sensed that his criticism was reserved for an advanced student who understood painstaking subtleties. Professor Jann seemed to be already teaching. Although he would not accept her on the basis of a few notes.

  Once more she began, calmly immersed in the music, and opened her mind to anticipate technical shifts several beats in advance. This time he did not stop her. Her nerve increased, and the entire beginning of the aria felt good, and an exhilarating phrase gave her the courage to sing directly to him: Tempra tu de’ cori ardendi, Calm the ardent spirits. . .

  He met her eyes until the accompaniment demanded his full attention.

  From the midpoint of the aria she moved on toward the climactic A and let it fill the room in a flood of sound: Ah, riedi ancora qual eri . . . Return to me! Her lungs inched out a flow of air that spread under starry skies ruled by divine forces. She feathered the last note until it dissolved into a hot, thrilling silence.
I did it, she thought. All the way to the end. Priestess and singer.

  “Now, your A,” Professor Jann said. “That was quite a tone.”

  Maile stared back and waited for more. Singing demanded immense control, immense sincerity. She had conquered armies and deserved a crown. “One good tone, that’s all?”

  He stiffened like a man who was not used to rudeness and did not tolerate it. She bit her lips, sensing danger—but opera was driven by passion, and all she wanted was the praise she had earned. Professor gave her a new, keener look and said, “Sing that A again. Top of the aria.”

  She leaned back and threw the tone at the ceiling. “AaaAAHH—”

  He motioned, cutting her off. “Basically the voice is healthy. Marvelously large. Lyric progressing to dramatic, indeed.”

  Maile felt her lungs and diaphragm relaxing.

  “For today only,” he said, “I shall continue in English.” He went on, speaking in a refined accent that reminded her of Professor Chaimowitz. “You are not expected to immediately understand complex terms in German.” He stood and tipped her chin up to examine her profile. “The physiognomy is good. The nose comes off the forehead well. A fine jaw.” He walked around her. “A slim figure but a wide torso, which is necessary. The stance when singing must be that of a dockworker. Your tone comes up through the floor. Excellent. However . . .”

  He paused, with the hesitant expression of a doctor about to deliver an unwelcome diagnosis. “You lack subtlety of technique. Of feeling. This is critical, especially in Europe, where so much superb singing is heard. Americans have great brassy strength. As with many of your countrymen, you are unaware of vocal shading. Your piano effects go only from single to double, no delicate regression to a whispered tone that still carries. There is a certain brutality to your forte production.”

  Maile’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. Brassy strength. Brutality. Like being compared to a lady wrestler.

  He gestured at the application form. “I must admit to blatant curiosity in asking you to audition. Hawaii. Good gracious. I am led to believe such an unusual background has not prepared you for the nuances of the opera world. Of Mozart, for example. Or Richard Strauss. On stage a soprano must convey everything from the suave power plays of the Baroque era to the aesthetic instability of the Romantics. Vocal artistry goes far beyond merely producing fine tones.” He sat down at the piano again and pinged an E-flat. “Sing me some trills.”

  Maile faced him, concealing a slump of disappointment. Her beautiful singing was no more than a first step. She matched his tones and worked her way up the scale with full- and half-tone twists, laboring to keep the notes clear and light.

  When she finished, Jann handed her a book of Stockhausen pieces. “Sight-read, please. Use solfeggio.”

  She eyed the first composition. Screechy modern music. More than hard. Killer stuff. Killa, killa. “Mi . . . fi . . .” she sang, scrambling for each interval. “So . . . re-si-di, ra!”

  He gave her another book. “Can you accompany yourself?”

  Glumly she took his place at the piano. The Schubert song was un-familiar, but she plowed through it, sight-reading both vocal and piano lines. Madame had accepted her as a student after only half an hour of scales! Her concentration unraveled. She made mistakes she couldn’t ignore, then clenched her hands in her lap. Since leaving the stage, supposedly Alexander Jann had taught only eight students, all now established in careers. He accepted one singer at a time. None paid more than the conservatory’s annual fee of two hundred dollars. But according to that horn player outside, Herr Professor was retired.

  In a quiet voice Jann said, “For a singer to succeed, six things are necessary. Talent. Intelligence. Obsession. Those are obvious. But an artist must understand cruelty as well as joy. Otherwise characterizations have no depth.”

  Maile nodded, glad to hear him admit this. Madame had claimed to despise cruelty on stage or off, but lived by inflexible rules and was often mercilessly sarcastic.

  “A singer must also have connections, or you languish alone with your gift.”

  Good. Another thing Madame would never discuss.

  “Last and most important is being able to embrace success, and at the same time to resist its excesses. A singer who consumes a bottle or a lover between each act becomes a piece of wreckage. Every triumph breeds new doubts. Every fine review creates new judges of one’s next performance. Willingness to accept challenges must remain constant. If any one of these six qualities is lacking, you will be only second-rate. Or a comet lasting no more than a few seasons.”

  He pulled up a chair and sat next to Maile at the piano, his manner still reserved. “Your voice is of such size, you could go to Vienna tomorrow and sing Aida in a class-B theater. But no one under thirty-five does justice to the role. Worse, a singer competing on stage against an orchestra of sixty or more instruments before she is ready is like a ten-year-old competing in the Olympics. I am interested solely in students who have the discipline to hold back.”

  Again Maile nodded.

  “Young dramatic-weight voices debut every season. By age thirty-five their vocal cords are often peppered with nodes. Pianists and violinists can be child prodigies, not singers.”

  Nodes. A word as deadly as cancer.

  “If you study with me, you must sing only what I give you. If you audition for some agent with Aida, or engage in similar foolishness, we are immediately quits. During next summer’s Festival, conductors will be on the lookout for a future soprano at our student recitals. You will probably attract their attention. Just inform me. If you progress well, I shall enter you in the Mozarteum’s summer competition. Now, enough lecturing,” he added. “Perhaps I don’t suit you. Do you have questions?”

  Maile felt overwhelmed by his knowledge, directness, courtesy. So different from Madame, who had not been a performer, who was fanatical about etiquette and never invited questions. But a singer staked her future on a teacher, and the wrong one could mean years wasted, or lead to disaster. “How does a bass teach a soprano?”

  Jann got to his feet, nodded slightly like a gentleman asking a lady’s permission, then took off his suit jacket and strode to the center of the room. He breathed in with sudden force. His shirtfront rose, his waist tightened, and his mouth dropped open in a huge “Rooooaaargh!” that shivered the glass on the clock.

  Maile jumped in surprise. The sound dissolved into echo and then silence.

  “When I was a student,” Jann said, “I often went to the zoo. The lions fascinated me. They have the most incredible diaphragms, and phenomenal sustaining power. I can still hear their wonderful beastliness.” He pressed a fist against his stomach. “That gross example of tone is technically the same as this. Boris Godounov, Prologue, Coronation scene.” Again his shirtfront swelled. He opened his arms to proclaim, “Skorbit du—sha!!”

  The tones struck Maile like sheets of light. His expression and stance had a czar’s radiance, and vaulted her into another world.

  As the room absorbed the vibrations, he came to himself again. “A bass teaches a soprano with exactly the same techniques. Many are simple. Only the repertoire differs. Whether singing imitates a scream, a sob, or a whisper, it must be heard by an entire audience. Yet however extreme, theatrical emotions must never harm the voice. Singing is a very natural activity.”

  Simple. Natural. What he described had the sound of freedom. Not the throat diagrams Maile had dozed over in the Juilliard library, not the charts outlining the path of a conductor’s baton. Instead: lions.

  “Other questions?”

  She wanted him to take her on so badly she could have flung her-self at his feet. “No,” she murmured. Lessons with him would be virtually free. Rent and food her only expenses in Salzburg. Their mutual silence told her that the audition was over, but he had not signed her application form. He might simply gave it back and thank her for coming, or pass her on to a mediocre teacher with whom she could spend years in graduate student limbo as
nothing more than a promising voice. The room around her faded as though someone had dimmed the lights.

  Professor Jann stepped forward, put on his jacket, and extended his hand. “With pleasure,” he said, “I accept you as my student.”

  In a daze Maile took the signed form to the registrar, not noticing the horn player or the girls staring at her as she passed them. Outside the conservatory a raging hunger rose from the pit of her stomach. Her voice was, quote, marvelously large. Roo-aar! She imagined a mound of fresh fish and rice that filled a mixing bowl, a platter of grilled meat sticks, and poi, she wanted poi flavored with salt and sea-weed, to scoop up and suck off her fingers. No one had ever under-stood the size of her appetite after singing.

  “Tok-tok!” she called out, and went in search of a restaurant.

  6

  MAILE RUSHED FROM the Mozarteum’s opening ceremony to look at a room for rent. Seventy-two dollars a night at a hotel meant that money was slipping away in handfuls, and another day had passed into twilight. Each morning she followed Madame Renska’s advice to dress well and never, ever wear her hair loose. In Austria, braids or flowing tresses were acceptable for girls, but a woman’s unbound hair was highly erotic, to be seen only in private by her husband.

  All week Maile had expected to find a little room with a bed that folded to the wall, a mini toilet, and a fridge-stove combo the size of her trunk. But except for the river villas of the wealthy, everybody seemed to live above a shop or behind a church, a school, a bakery, a mortuary, in a house full of relatives, with a door to close if you were lucky. That was too much like her family’s home in Papakōlea. The latest address, from the conservatory’s bulletin board, was in a good location, no price given.

  She crossed the river to the Old City, prepared for disappointment. The effort of constantly speaking German exhausted her. Streets were narrow and curved, a spider web rather than a neat grid, everything the opposite of Manhattan. Among Salzburg’s grand marble buildings, plazas, cafés, and alleys with courtyards and potted flowers, she had looked at several appealing rooms for a hundred dollars a month. She could afford thirty. The only place for that price was an hour away by bus, in an ugly concrete building next to a Puch motorcycle factory.