‘Yep. Seems like he’s coming around to you being a songwriter.’
‘I can be both. A soprano and a songwriter, can’t I?’
‘Of course you can.’ We link fingers and cross the roads toward the Met.
‘I can’t believe Maestro did that. It was his way of saying he’s okay with me choosing my own future, don’t you think?’
‘He’s done the right thing by you this time. Has he tried to get in touch since yesterday?’
‘We’ve exchanged a few texts. I’ve asked him to give me some space. And he is.’ Astrid steps around a squashed hotdog on the pavement.
‘He’s changing then. For the better.’ I lean down and kiss the top of her head.
We climb the steps toward the square in front of the Met and watch the fountain dance. It’s programmed to change its heights and rhythms like it’s making music of its own. We’re leaning in to take a selfie, the impressive Met building in the background, when an elderly couple approaches us. The woman, petite and wearing a simple black dress, her light grey hair clipped short around her neck and ears, steps forward. A kind of desperate joy dances over his face.
‘Astrid?’ she asks.
38
Astrid
When the slight woman who resembles my mum says my name, her voice is light and sing-song, and how I once imagined my mother’s voice would sound when she said, ‘Astrid’. I somehow don’t need to ask who she is.
‘We’re Veronika’s parents,’ says the man with her, stumbling over the words and stepping forward to support the woman by her elbow. ‘I’m John Miller and this is my wife, Esmeralda.’
Blood whooshes into my ears.
‘I should explain, everyone,’ says Jacob, his grip around my waist tightening. ‘I sent the flight tickets. Astrid didn’t know.’
‘What?’ I turn to Jacob, feeling as though my body is flickering, like in the old silent movies. It’s as if everyone here used up all the oxygen before I could suck any of it in.
‘I didn’t want you to regret not meeting them,’ he says into my ear. ‘They’re your blood.’
The old anger I’ve nursed for my grandparents most of my life wakes. I look over their heads toward the Met.
‘And you’re a singer just like your mum,’ says Esmeralda. ‘When we got the tickets and a photo Jacob sent, we had to come and hear you sing. And at the Met. We’re very proud.’
‘And we’re so happy to meet you,’ adds John.
There’s a delay between my mouth opening and the words coming out: ‘You flew here from England to hear me sing?’ They nod in unison. ‘But you didn’t agree with singing as a profession and it’s why Mum fell out with you. It’s why you abandoned her.’ I start to weep. ‘You hate music. You wanted nothing to do with your own daughter.’ Somewhere inside me I’ve felt that because Mum’s parents didn’t want her, that’s why Mum didn’t want me.
I can’t stop shaking. The man wipes the sweat from his forehead with a hanky from his inside jacket pocket. The woman’s face crushes as she leans into him.
‘I don’t wish to speak ill of your mother,’ says John, breathy with emotion, ‘but that’s not exactly the truth.’
‘Let’s sit,’ Jacob says, gesturing to the circular ring structure that surrounds the fountain. I’m grateful because my legs are buckling like a collapsing music stand.
‘I’m afraid your mum told some fibs,’ John eventually says. ‘We did fall out, but not over her music. Her singing was an immense joy in our lives. We’re both singing teachers after all.’
I examine his face. It doesn’t seem like the kind of face that would lie. He seems wholesome and normal and not an ogre at all. But I need to understand.
‘Why did she say you threw her out then?’
‘I can understand she didn’t want to tell you what happened. But it’s best you ask her. It’s not my story to tell.’
‘No!’ I’m on my feet, sick of the lies, the mysterious history of my family. ‘I’d like the truth, now. Please.’ I’m not ready to tell them that their daughter has taken her secrets to the grave.
John glances sideways toward Esmeralda.
‘It’s not possible to ask her now.’ I tear up. ‘I’m nearly eighteen. I deserve to know. I need to know. Before I perform. It may help. I get performance anxiety, and Mum’s part of the reason why. Please.’ I’ve never admitted that out loud before.
Esmeralda nods to John. He clears his throat. ‘Your mother is spirited and wonderful and inspiring, but she got herself into trouble when she was eighteen.’
‘He means she got into the family way,’ says Esmeralda, her voice stretched.
‘We pushed her to keep it, but it was the worst thing we could’ve done. There was a lot of arguing. That, along with her dreams of a more glamorous life. Well she –’ He swallows hard and glances at Esmeralda before continuing. ‘She . . . lost the baby. Then disowned us. She told us never to contact her.’
‘Lost the baby? You mean she got rid of it.’ By the way he shuffles and averts his glance, I know I’ve nailed the truth.
‘We wrote to her at all the venues we knew she was performing at,’ continues John. ‘But the letters came back unopened. Then when we learnt through the musical press that she married your father we were thrilled. He was an amazing and respected tenor. We wrote to her via the Sydney Conservatorium of Music because we knew he had ties there. But the letters came back telling us to stop writing.’ Esmeralda sobs, strapping a hand over her mouth. John leans forward to pat her arm. ‘And then the letters stopped coming back. Eventually, we stopped writing.’
‘You could’ve come to visit,’ I say.
‘We are not moneyed people, dear. We knew Veronika would reject us. We needed to build a bridge first, then we would’ve come. But she didn’t want that.’ His expression roils with the pain he’s felt all these years, puncturing a hole in my anger. ‘And then it was like she disappeared after you were born. We have worried about her ever since.’
‘She left me, too,’ I whisper, more to myself. Everything they’re saying fits with what I now know about my mum. It seems she made a habit of abandoning the people who loved her most. For some reason, they made her feel trapped.
‘Where’s Veronika now? Is she in New York with you?’ asks John.
I blink at them, glance at Jacob.
‘I think we’d better find a café, don’t you?’ he mumbles to me.
I turn back to my grandparents. ‘It’s a very long story. Do you have time for coffee?’
39
Jacob
The day before the concert we’re allocated orchestra time. We also walk through the staging, learning our entrances and exits. As we’re leaving the stage, none other than Yolanda Gustav enters the wings. She’s wearing a huge faux fur hat and four-inch heels.
‘Ah, Miss Bell. Mind the stairs on your entrance,’ she says, air kissing first one of Astrid’s cheeks, then the other. ‘Lift your dress or you could end up on your knees. I have seen it happen.’ She chortles as though it’s a hilarious thing to have happen to you at your debut at the Met. She pats Astrid’s arm. ‘Good luck. And I’m slightly sorry we changed the programme. Ah, when people are sick. But I hope the idea of closing the evening with me is a teensy bit tantalising.’
Astrid makes sounds that seem as if she’s agreeing with her while Yolanda shifts her attention to me. ‘Meine Güte. You are even more beautiful close up, Mr Skalicky.’ She extends a limp-wristed hand and I go to shake it, awkward because her hand is palm down. She pulls it away. ‘You are meant to kiss a lady’s hand, darling. It’s how we do it in the theatre.’ I try to laugh, and this time when she extends her hand, I kiss it.
‘I am excited to entertain the audience with you both. Vienna was extraordinary. You have a special bond and watching you – it made my chi sing. Many duets, they sing in isolation. But no
t you two.’ She beckons Astrid with a crooked index finger. ‘Come, child, we have a quick rehearsal now, me and you.’
They’re singing a few bars together to finish the performance, so it’s over pretty fast and Yolanda hugs Astrid goodbye. ‘I must go. But you are both under my wing,’ she says. ‘See you tomorrow.’
The moment she disappears backstage, Astrid makes wow eyes at me. ‘Seems like Maestro didn’t interfere with the programme – it was due to a drop out.’
Unable to get Yolanda’s warning out of my head, I ask, ‘Is your dress long?’
‘Yep. The longest. I’m shorter than Mum was.’
‘It’s one of your mum’s?’
She shrugs. ‘Maestro kept all her dresses – her jewellery, shoes, hats. He said she wore this one right here on this stage.’
Wincing, I say, ‘Tell me you’re not wearing her shoes.’
‘They were made to match the dress. We have the same size feet.’
No way. I take her hand, and glancing at the map, I lead her along several narrow passageways and into one of the workrooms. It’s packed with about twenty people going about their tasks; ironing fabric, pinning outfits on mannequins, sewing on machines, storing rolls of material. I approach a woman who’s ironing a men’s dress shirt. The iron has the electrical cord coming from the ceiling and puffs enough steam to start a locomotive.
‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I’m hoping you can help. This is Astrid Bell and she’s performing tomorrow night, but the airline lost her dress. I thought maybe you could help locate one.’ I gesture to the room around us. ‘From the costume department.’
The pale woman, her fair hair pulled into a ponytail and her top lip covered in sweat beads, inspects Astrid up and down, then nods. ‘I don’t see why not.’ She flicks a switch and disappears down the other end of the room.
Astrid pulls at my shirt and shout-whispers, ‘What are you doing? I haven’t lost my dress.’
‘How can you not feel overwhelmed wearing your famous dead mum’s outfit? Talk about literally treading in someone’s shoes.’
Evelyn, the woman who’s helping us, pins and fits Astrid into a full-skirted aqua blue dress. It has a beaded strap over one shoulder and reaches her mid-calf. ‘I don’t think Mum ever owned an aqua-coloured dress, never mind one that didn’t touch the floor,’ says Astrid.
‘It’s a new arrival and it’s young and fresh,’ says Evelyn. ‘And yours will be the first name sewn into it.’
‘It’s traditional to sew the soprano’s name onto a tag on the costume department dresses,’ explains Astrid. ‘Maybe one day someone will slip on this dress and be excited about wearing a dress Astrid Bell wore.’
‘You look like Cinderella,’ I say. ‘Now I need to find you some glass slippers – by tomorrow night.’
Evelyn raises a finger. ‘We might have some if –’
‘Thanks a lot.’ I cut her off. ‘But Astrid needs her own shoes this time.’ I bend to whisper in Astrid’s ear. ‘No more walking in someone else’s shoes.’
Evelyn rummages in a drawer and gives me a business card. ‘This shop is nearby.’ I skim the picture of the diamante sandals on the card. Evelyn adds, ‘They make fairytales come true.’
‘I might need a fairytale,’ Astrid says.
‘The dress will be finished for you by tomorrow,’ says Evelyn, shooing us away.
We exit the Met, and I punch the address of the shoe shop into my phone. I link arms with Astrid, and sing ‘These Boots Are Made For Walkin’’ as we march down the road.
‘People are staring. Stop it,’ says Astrid. But I don’t stop. ‘You need to wash your T-shirt, you nut,’ she adds, pointing at the spot of tomato sauce.
‘It won’t come out.’ I chuckle as if this is the best news I’ve heard in a while. ‘I have washed it.’ By accident, but the stain didn’t come out.
‘New York suits you,’ Astrid says. ‘It’s as if you’ve left behind everything that pulled you down in Sydney.’
I stop on the pavement and pull her against me. ‘It’s not New York that suits me. It’s you.’
40
Astrid
When I’m led into my changing room the day of the Met performance, the first thing I do is ask where the toilet is. Despite not having eaten since last night, I’m soon holding back my newly styled hair as I dry heave into the toilet. My eyeballs roll into the back of my head, beads of sweat break out over my skin.
Here we go again.
Back in my changing room I scan the small space and my aqua dress, which is hanging on a hook. The shelves are lined with skin creams and Vaseline, old make-up and paperbacks. The sound of other singers rehearsing in their dressing rooms seeps through the paper-thin walls. I click on a humidifier for white noise, unpack my new translucent shoes, then check the time. I’m due in make-up in fifteen minutes. Inside the shoe box I’ve stored a plain black jewellery box. I check inside for the diamond ring Mum bequeathed me, snap the box shut. Someone knocks at the door and I pack the ring away again. When I answer, the huge bouquet of pink and white flowers hides the person carrying them.
‘Miss Astrid,’ states someone from inside the flowers.
I accept the delivery and search for a card. It reads Number One. Five minutes later the same guy knocks, this time carrying pink gerberas with white daisies from Maestro and red roses from Jacob. Maestro’s card reads, I’m holding on too tight, and instead of keeping you close, I’m pushing you away. I’m sorry. I love you. I miss that he’s not standing beside me now, but it also feels sort of good. I like being in charge of myself. Jacob’s note reads, There’s only one Astrid Bell and she’s amazing.
I arrange the flowers in the small room; they overpower the smell of old make-up and sweat. Still in my jeans and T-shirt, I fetch my map. As I’m leaving for make-up, the flower guy returns with another bouquet.
‘I owe you a big tip,’ I say, thanking him. This card reads Number Two.
Intrigued by who the numbered flowers could be from, I walk down a low-ceilinged concrete corridor lit with fluorescent lights, its dark red carpet worn down by the footsteps of thousands of performers over the last 146 years. I block out the sound of other singers vocalising on scales and practising their songs. A loudspeaker crackles and calls ‘time’ for Yolanda. A vice squeezes around my neck and my belly feels dizzy. I push forward anyway, my legs feeling boneless, until I find another bathroom.
When I get to make-up, Jacob is already there, but the clock tells me I’m not late after all. The room is an open space with mirrors and vivid lighting and numerous stations to cater for multiple performers. I go to Jacob and air kiss both his cheeks. ‘Thanks for the roses.’
He catches my fingers. ‘You didn’t dye your hair. Or straighten it.’
‘Au naturelle tonight.’ I missed my appointment when we went shoe shopping, so I went for a quick looped-up curled style instead.
‘I dig it.’
I move on to my make-up station, still trying to figure out who the flowers are from. While I breathe slowly and deeply, a woman applies my foundation, chattering about how she did Renee’s make-up earlier. She sorts through little boxes until she finds one labelled A. Bell and inside is the pair of false eyelashes I chose the day before. A necessary evil on stage. After she’s applied them I notice my little box is mixed in with boxes labelled R. Fleming, Y. Gustav and V. Urmana and the idea that my falsies were there, mixed in with theirs, makes me feel as if I belong here a little more.
Jacob joins us when he’s done, his eyeliner darkening his eyes and making them appear more intense. His smile shakes my heart. When I’m done he’s in no rush to get dressed and we chat to the make-up woman, then one of the other male singers. It’s a change to the usual pre-performance routine Maestro has me follow, but I decide to go with it.
‘How many people work here every day?’ Jacob asks a stagehand on
the way back to our changing rooms. Jacob’s is next to mine.
‘’Bout fifteen hundred of us,’ answers the Irishman. He adjusts his grip on a lamp he’s holding. ‘Sometimes there’re two hundred of us backstage on one performance. Tonight’s queer easy – only three set changes. Plenty of time to wet the tea.’
Jacob corners another stagehand and I join in with the discussion about how many sets they’re storing under the stage, the cost of the average opera, the fact his missus works in wardrobe and reckons she irons at least a mile of fabric per opera and there are twenty-eight operas a year. The next person we chat to also works in wardrobe. She estimates that the most costumes she’s worked on in one opera is 700. Everyone is friendly and happy to talk about their jobs. They wish us all the luck in the world and I truly feel as though I belong here.
‘You’re Mr Social tonight,’ I say, when we get to our dressing rooms. Inside are three more bouquets of flowers. I pick out the note attached to a dozen white roses. It reads, Break a Leg. Love from your adoring grandparents. Happiness splashes through me, knowing they’re here for me, but then I realise it’s more pressure to overcome, more reason to get stage fright. Nerves scuttle through my chest. Nausea claws at me. I should run to the toilet, but Jacob hands me the cards from the two other bouquets. They’re numbered three and four.
‘Is this you, or Maestro’s doing?’ I ask.
Jacob’s grinning like a ventriloquist’s puppet. ‘It’s not me. I’m happy for you, but jeez, I should be jealous. You have a few secret admirers.’ He fakes a frown.
‘I doubt it. Maybe it’s Dex.’
‘He wouldn’t have the cash.’ Jacob examines the latest card then kisses me on the top of my head to avoid smudging my make-up. He adds, ‘I’m going to get dressed and warm-up.’
After he leaves, I step around the flowers, now taking up floor space, re-check the time on a wall clock with missing roman numerals, and get dressed while doing my vocal exercises. I unzip the aqua dress with shaking fingers and catch sight of the tag: Astrid Bell. As it slides over my skin, a gazillion goosebumps prick across my skin. My belly tickles, but I think more out of excitement than nerves. Another knock with bouquet number five interrupts me. They must be from Jacob, but he seemed genuine when he denied it, and it’s not Maestro’s style. Jacob’s parents wouldn’t send so many. I’ve never even met them.
The Astrid Notes Page 23