Defiant Diva

by Irene Vartanoff

  Marcus’s expression became more interested. He opened his laptop.

  “You will find it under the title, ‘Diva Meltdown.’” I shuddered at the vulgarity.

  Marcus watched the video twice through before shutting the laptop cover. “Thirty thousand views. Amazing. I must show it to the bishop. He’ll be very interested.”

  “Why is that?” Hearing all over again my shrieks while the demon had been in possession of me had been painful, but I refused to show it in my expression.

  He tented his fingers. “The Catholic Church receives many complaints of demon possession. Usually, the only evidence is personal testimony.”

  My mouth curled in a grimace. “Perhaps then I should be grateful to the man who filmed me and exposed my situation to the world.”

  Marcus smiled slightly. “I’m guessing not.”

  I allowed myself a small smile in return. “You are correct. I am not pleased.”

  “Can you get the video taken down?”

  I shrugged, “The damage has already been done. The opera world is a small one and gossip spreads quickly.” I did not mention that Ralph had called me this week to say that Berlin had canceled my performances there this fall. More fallout from the video.

  He wrote something on a notepad. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “No.”

  He looked up, an expression of surprise on his face. “Why not?”

  “There is nothing wrong with me physically. I am healthy.” Why did I have to keep saying it?

  “When was your last full physical? Before or after the first manifestation?”

  I tried not to show how irritated I was by his intrusive questions. “I do not see the relevance.”

  “Disease can directly affect behavior. Before investigating your series of manifestations as a spiritual malaise, physical and psychological ailments must be ruled out. When did the demon make its first appearance?”

  “A year ago.” Seeing him write more notes, I asked, “Would you like me to describe every incident?”

  He consulted something on his desk and asked, “Have you seen a doctor for a complete physical since then? Or sought psychiatric help?”

  The same question, but phrased differently. I did my best to avoid doctors. I shook my head. “Only that one consultation with Hannah Lochte to get a referral.”

  From the frown on his face, one short chat with a psychologist did not constitute sufficient psychiatric evaluation. Marcus wrote down more notes. Then he closed his notepad and glanced over at me. “You will be considered seriously for exorcism only if you complete the necessary steps that lead up to it. You should revisit Hannah Lochte or see another psychologist to finish the psychiatric evaluation, and you should make an appointment for a complete physical. Before an exorcism can be performed, thorough psychiatric and physical examinations are required.”

  My hands made fists. “You and everybody else say there is something wrong with me. Yet when I tell you what it is, you insist I am not describing my symptoms accurately?”

  “Those are the rules.” He considered my growing anger dispassionately. “I can see you’re getting quite annoyed. Merely being asked to take a few basic tests before receiving targeted spiritual help bothers you. Why is that?”

  “How dare you question me? Who are you to tell me what I am or what is wrong? There is nothing wrong with me. It is the demon.” The urge to rise up and smite him began to creep over me. I stood. “Obviously, we are at cross purposes. You do not want to help me.”

  “Ms. Fedora, you’re taking offense where none was meant.” His words were calmly said, but his eyes were watchful.

  I leaned on his desk and practically snarled at him. “You have no knowledge of how angry a demon can be.” I picked up the stapler on his desk, intending to hit him with it. The demon’s thoughts told me to slam Marcus O’Flaherty with his own stapler.

  His eyes narrowed. “Please put the stapler down. If this is what you call the demon in action, it’s not an outside force. It’s a twisted part of your own personality that needs re-educating. Otherwise, exorcism or not, you’ll keep on doing yourself harm by raging at people who are trying to help you. Such as me.”

  I took a deep breath and put the stapler back on his desk. I clenched my hands into fists to keep from leaning over the desk and slapping him. How dare he?

  At my angry expression, Marcus O’Flaherty’s expression grew colder. “Go home, Ms. Fedora, and think this through rationally. Your behavior is sufficiently volatile to convince me that you must complete the steps I have outlined. For starters, you appear to be in dire need of emotional discipline.”

  My eyes widened at his insult. Me, in need of self-discipline? My hands curled into talons again.

  Marcus O’Flaherty did not wait to see if the demon would cause me to leap at him and attack him physically. He rose from behind his desk and carefully kept a distance from me while calling out to the young priest who served as his assistant. The door opened. “Please show Ms. Fedora out,” Marcus said.

  The demon growled. Did I make a sound?

  “Good day to you, too,” Marcus had the nerve to say.

  Chapter 7

  Marcus O’Flaherty had closed off my one promising avenue. I was nearly desperate, but I was determined not to show it to anyone. I wanted to smooth over the situation with Régine, even apologize to her, but I was unable to. The demon had specific rules for how unbending I should be. I knew all this intuitively, without words. If I tried to undo whatever damage the demon created, it would whip me into a new rage. I knew it would destroy me unless I found help.

  In such straits, I went home to think. Dex Morgan’s next invitation caught me at a weak moment.

  “Delightful Daylia, come to lunch tomorrow?” Dex asked. “It’s just a meal, not a commitment.”

  “I—all right.”

  “Wonderful,” he said. “I knew I’d wear you down eventually.” He named a restaurant and a time.

  The low pitch of his voice soothed me. What we had between us was an oasis of peace and possibility, and I needed that as a respite from the chaos of my situation. I had never met a man like him before. I had met rich men, confident men, but his combination of qualities unnerved and tantalized me. Should I give in to his obvious lure of naming a foundation in my honor? What did he want from me, beyond the sheer animal pleasure of sex? An affair? A relationship? Or merely one night? In the past, I seldom had to consider a man’s motives because I flat out was not interested. When I said no, men went away. All but Michael Rather, that is.

  I would not think about Michael. He did not deserve one minute of my thoughts.

  We were already in the second week of rehearsals. I needed to get back into them, so I would know if the director and the maestro were making any significant changes. I had performed this very version of Carmen, which was a co-production with the Santa Fe Lyric Regional Opera, eight months ago, but there probably were tweaks. If I could arrange for Ralph to mediate with Régine, I could skate past the contretemps caused by the demon. Shortening the number of rehearsals I must attend would give me breathing space, although what could I do now that Marcus O’Flaherty had turned me down?

  I called Ralph and explained the situation the demon had created with Régine. “Can you call her off? You can tell her I need to take time to see some professionals.”

  “Like a doctor?”

  “I do not want to see a doctor.”

  “Why not? Everybody should see a doctor once a year. You pay a fortune for your health insurance. Why not use it?”

  “Ralph.” The displeased tone of my voice told him my opinion of that.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll call Régine and see if I can get you mornings off the rest of the week. Is that good enough?”

  “Yes. I must have surcease from the urgings of the demon.”

  “You could just come out and say you’re tired and need to take it easy.” He said it whimsically, knowing I never admitted to flaws like lack of energy.
Indulging in weakness was for other people. I had to deliver excellence at all times.

  As we said goodbye, I discovered tears flowing on my cheeks. Why was I unable to admit I was like other people, in need of relief from stress? Possibly even afraid of being fired by Régine? She would have to run it past the board and the manager of the Potomac Arts Center, but she could have my contract broken if she was determined. Ralph had warned me.

  I wiped away the tears and went to the bathroom to see if my makeup had run. I routinely checked myself in a large three-way mirror before leaving my condo. As a public figure, I did not want any unflattering candid photos circulating and possibly reducing my professional renown, which was why I always dressed very carefully. My hair, my makeup, my nails, my shoes, my garb, and my jewelry had to be perfect. Not for me the sloppy rehearsal clothes other singers favored. No jeans, not even ironed jeans. I had an entire wardrobe of beautifully tailored garments meant for rehearsals, carefully matched with arty, one-of-a-kind jewelry. No diamonds for daytime. I didn’t go over the top. I did not trowel on my makeup or sport outrageous hats or furs, but it was my invariable rule to look like the diva I was. At any moment, someone might take my photograph. I did not want to disappoint my legion of fans with an overly casual appearance. I had to keep faith with them and with my family, my teachers, and myself. Greatness was expected of me. I should always appear impressive, as befitted my God-given talent. Was this egotism? Possibly, but pride in myself must be displayed in how I appeared in public.

  Did the demon seek to destroy my pride? Was that its purpose? Was I a sinner, and my sin of pride had allowed the demon in? If I could not find relief and exorcize the demon, it would most certainly destroy my career, and with it, any claim to pride I had. It was a dire consequence to contemplate. I texted Gayle, asking if she had found another exorcist. I needed a new lead, since Marcus O’Flaherty had flat out refused to help me.

  Of course Gayle wanted to know how the session with Marcus had gone. We met up that night at another trendy bistro, this time near the courts. After I told her about the encounter, she was silent for a minute.

  “This makes at least four people who say you should see a doctor, four people who have your well-being at heart, either because they care about you, like me and like Ralph, or because their ethics require them to care about you, like the therapist and the professor. Or is he an exorcist himself?”

  “I’m not sure.” I fiddled with my drink, then caught myself making the unaccustomed nervous gesture. “The demon almost attacked him.”

  Gayle’s face took on a disbelieving expression. “It’s unreal how you talk as if the demon is a separate person. I don’t believe it.”

  “You think I’m making this all up?”

  “Not exactly. But I still think there’s a denial of personal responsibility happening.” She pulled out her phone. “I’m sending you the name and phone number of a doctor.”

  “No way.”

  She tilted her head and stared me down. “Are you three years old or thirty-three?”

  I reluctantly dug out my phone. “Aren’t you supposed to sync the number to my device or something like that?”

  She smirked. “I’m sure you don’t have the app, and I’m not here to do a tech demo. You call this number tomorrow and get an appointment for a physical. No excuses.”

  “I might ask for birth control.”

  “What? You’ve been holding out on me?” Gayle’s face lit up. “Tell me everything.”

  I didn’t. But I did reveal that Dex had kissed me. Also that he’d been calling me all week and I had finally agreed to a lunch date tomorrow.

  Gayle had the last word, as usual. She rummaged through her large lawyer’s portfolio and pulled out a tiny leather container, handing it to me. “Condoms.”

  ***

  Dex Morgan asked me to meet him for lunch at a popular foodie restaurant in the Marine Barracks district southeast of the Capitol. I was a little reluctant to go foodie, because the chefs mixed up the ingredients. Even though the waitstaff always recited them, it was hard to know what food value was involved. I could have argued with Dex by text and suggested someplace in the business district near the Potomac Arts Center, instead. The Watergate was nearby, as well, but I preferred not to lunch with Dex where people I worked with might see us. A trendy restaurant in a super trendy neighborhood was where we met.

  Dex was waiting for me at the bar, a sleek, curved affair of edgy ambiance, its metal surface contrasted by suede wrapped around the sides. The room itself was black and white décor themed. My eyes lit on Dex, and from then on I paid no attention to the bar.

  He stared at me the same way I suspected I stared at him, with suppressed hunger. He wore a suit again today, more proof of his monied upbringing. The bartender addressed me respectfully by my name and asked my preference. I absently answered. A few minutes later, Dex very carefully escorted me to our table in the restaurant. He deliberately did not touch me.

  Heads turned, and people whispered my name. I was proud my carriage was ladylike, and my garb was immaculate and suitable to the upscale venue. One or two people seemed to know who Dex was, but I was the cynosure of all eyes. This surprised me a little, until I remembered the YouTube video. Those who recognized me might not be opera fans.

  “I appreciate that you are being careful,” I said. I settled on the banquette against the wall. Scrappy pieces of modern nonrepresentational art floated above us and were mounted on the walls, all carrying out the black and white theme.

  He smiled, but it was a cruel smile. “I’m meeting you in public. That’s enough of a strain. I didn’t expect the lunch crowd to recognize either of us. My mistake. If you’ll agree to come to my office, we can explore our feelings in privacy.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “In an office?”

  “My own private suite.” His voice was low. “It has a very comfortable couch.”

  That was going too fast. I shook my head. “No.”

  “No?” His question hung in the air. “Are you sure?”

  Now it was my turn to show my teeth. “Are we meeting today to discuss the foundation? Or merely to tease each other to complete madness?”

  Dex burst out laughing. “Touché.”

  He signaled the waiter, who had been hovering just out of earshot—I hoped—and we got on with the complexity of ordering a tasting menu. Drinks and dishes began appearing almost immediately, each accompanied by a lengthy discourse about the ingredients, their sourcing, and how they had been combined. On another day, I might have listened. Possibly, Dex was interested in the food, but since he spent almost every moment staring at me, I doubted it. Although I did not know him well enough yet to be sure. Would I ever? Relationships based on intense sexual heat usually burned out very quickly and ended badly.

  I did enjoy the food, although I usually preferred much plainer fare. Lack of control over what I ate bothered me. The nutritional content of this lunch was difficult to calculate. I had no way of knowing the true contributions of the many spices, glazes, remoulades, sprinkles, plate dustings, and so on that constituted our meal. On the positive side, we experienced interesting tastes and textures, not too much of any one item, and excellent service. A few people came up to me and asked for my autograph, which I graciously provided, reminding them that Carmen started next week. “Be sure and come see it,” I said. “It’s a new production for DC.”

  “Oh, we will!” My excited fans backed away amid profuse thanks.

  Once they were satisfied, Dex and I were unmolested by other diners or by waiters for a bit. He described how he would set up the foundation with seed money, and what I would be required to do to front it and keep it going. “In return, you would grace a few of my charity events.”

  I shook my head. “I am very busy. My schedule is heavily booked. I do not have time to run a foundation.”

  Dex said, slowly, “I’ve heard some things lately, things that suggest you may need to repair your public image. Being a pa
id performer at a charity event won’t do it. Running a charity, and helping me run mine, will.”

  That video. Although I shouldn’t have been surprised, I was aghast that he knew, and affronted that he thought he had the answer to my problem. I drew myself up. “I do not need your help. My reputation is fine. Once a certain problem has been taken care of, any gossip you may have heard will subside.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that. Talent is important in this town, but so is reputation. This is not New York, as I think you know. Money is not all that talks.”

  “Are you suggesting that I need your connections? You are mistaken. I am not a would-be. I am a diva. I have arrived.”

  He clapped his hands softly. Mocking me? “And you’re singing the famous femme fatale?”

  “Given that she’s the one who dies, I don’t think so,” I said, roused to defend the eternally sinned-against gypsy. I leaned forward and spoke with intensity. “What Carmen does not know when she picks out Don José for her next affair is that he has already killed a man. He is violent, and when their romance inevitably palls, he acts like a typical possessive man who does not respect a woman’s right to choose. He stabs her to death.”

  Dex sat back and contemplated my words while the waiter set more unrecognizable food in front of us and described it. Once he had departed, Dex asked, “You like Carmen? Have you sung it often?”

  “I am a mezzo. We all sing Carmen sooner or later, but I specialize in the role.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I relate intensely to the character.” I hesitated for a bit and then added, “Remember the man from your party who was bothering me?”

  “An ex-boyfriend? Does he stalk you?”

  “Yes.” The word hissed from my lips. I put my cloth napkin to my lips, which I pressed together. “I’ve told him repeatedly that it’s over, but he keeps pestering me.”

  “Were you together a long time?”