The Astrid Notes

by Taryn Bashford

  I’m warming up my voice and trawling through possible admirers when another bouquet arrives, followed by another. I barely have a moment to slip on my new shoes when Jacob knocks a rhythm which keeps going until I open up. He’s handsome in a tux, his golden hair framing his face.

  ‘Wow!’ he says, stepping back to admire me. ‘That dress with your hair all loopy and long – stunning.’

  Tonight, I feel like a princess, but not one who’s locked in a tower.

  Even though we must be twenty minutes early, I follow Jacob past the waiting area where others pace while listening for the loudspeaker to call them. We walk down a low-lit corridor toward the stage. People with clipboards and headsets skirt around us, others talk on mobile phones and ignore us, guys wearing black T-shirts and jeans carry scaffolding and props and boxes of tools. I get the urge to run for the toilet again.

  ‘I heard more knocking. You didn’t get more flowers, did you?’ Jacob asks.

  ‘Another two. It’s you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not me. I sent the red roses.’

  ‘It’s a mystery.’ I’m aware we’re nearing the stage. My guts knot.

  A guy with a grey beard beckons to us. ‘You’re late.’ Jacob nods and steps up his pace.

  ‘How is it we’re late?’ I ask. ‘We haven’t even had our call.’

  ‘I changed the clock in your dressing room,’ says Jacob. ‘And cancelled our call. No time to be afraid. This is it. Ready?’

  ‘Right now?’

  He squeezes my hand and before I can say ‘toilet’, we’re walking onto the stage.

  41

  Jacob

  The lights in the auditorium are like groups of exploding fireworks frozen in time. They dim as Astrid and I near the centre of the stage. Although the size of the Met is cosmic, seats stretching four or five tiers up into the sky, I don’t let myself focus on the thousands of people watching – only two people matter anyway: Mum and Dad.

  Worrying I might freeze like Astrid did in Vienna means I’ve barely slept. Worse, what if she freezes too and we’re standing here, two petrified statues, the music playing and our mouths silently framing the first note.

  ‘The Phantom of The Opera’ music starts. Breathe. You’ll be fine. Breathe. This is a job. Do your job. Butterflies are good. They’re releasing more awesomeness into me, more oxygen with every flap of their wings so I have perfect breath.

  I’m terrified and in awe at the same time.

  When I’m surfing, I take one wave at a time. Now I need to take one phrase at a time. And I’m not the only one performing tonight. We’re all in this together, even the make-up people and the stagehands. It’s similar to a sport team. Trust my voice and be myself.

  I check in with Astrid. Her smile slaps at her face as she scans the rows of faceless people that seem to stretch into the horizon. She cuts to me with terror in her eyes. My stomach lurches into my throat with every note played.

  I watch the conductor for my counts.

  Do your job. Breathe.

  The first line is pure as I sing about forgetting the darkness and my wide-eyed fears and how nothing can harm me. The words couldn’t be truer. Astrid’s gaze wallows in mine; she reins in her breathing.

  The start is soft and I tame the need to unleash the lyrics rather than control my voice. But by the fifth bar I figure I’ve got this; the fluttering of the butterflies melts away. My voice knows what it’s doing. I shove all my confidence into my expression and sing to Astrid. She needs to join me in three.

  Two. One.

  She’s on time with her first lyric. She does it. We map each other’s faces.

  I relax a bit more and sing the building melody, engaging with the audience and remembering to not appear wooden, to allow the emotion to enter my voice, and to put drama and character into the music. I think of the boys, wondering if they can hear me. I think about staying alone in a hotel room for the last two nights and never even opening the minibar fridge. I think about Mad Dog’s Instagram page, the only one left, but maybe it’s better someone takes it down; he’ll be staring at nothing and nobody forever. And I think of taking a risk and leaving home now, because home isn’t always the place you currently live.

  We move to the crescendo. Astrid has switched her focus to the audience. She’s in her zone, letting her body and voice do what they have practised for years. We turn to each other for the finale. I sing to her with every ounce of love I feel for her. The orchestra swells and we rise to the final notes and Astrid hits the highest note in the show – an E6.

  It’s flawless.

  Before the music fades, the audience explodes onto their feet. I pull Astrid into a hug, which is probably not the right etiquette, but I don’t care. Laughter rumbles around the auditorium. We approach the front of the stage and can appreciate the sea of people – because of the spotlights it’s impossible to make out specific faces, but there are thousands of heads. I bow and step back to watch Astrid execute her deep curtsey. The thunderous clapping increases when I take her hand and we bow and curtsey in harmony. Then we leave stage left.

  Yolanda is waiting in the wings. She braces Astrid and kisses her forehead, then squeezes my cheeks. The audience hasn’t sat down and their applause isn’t easing, but the Met has a strict policy against encores.

  ‘Go,’ Yolanda says, ushering us back onto the stage. ‘You deserve their love.’

  We hurry back into the spotlights. The clapping builds. Cheering and bellowed messages make the rounds of the theatre. We curtsey and bow, and as we leave the stage, they shout for more. Yolanda catches Astrid’s hand, then mine, and walks us back onstage, raising both our hands to the sky. Another ripple of cheers and escalating applause.

  Finally, we are released. In the wings, I pick up Astrid and spin her. She’s laughing and crying at the same time, and telling me Purple Daze would be proud.

  And I believe her.

  We trot down to our changing rooms. I’m shimmering from the inside out; if I took a selfie now it’d seem like I had a bunch of glow sticks under my skin. When we arrive another bouquet is being delivered for Astrid. This time they’re from my parents. Astrid smells them and scans inside her changing room, now filled with flowers.

  She rubs the lipstick she’s left behind on my lips. ‘Zut. What’s the real time, Mr Clock-Changer? I have to get to hair and make-up.’

  ‘You have over an hour before your call. Don’t panic.’

  But at the mention of the panic word, that’s exactly what she does.

  Her eyes bulge, chin trembling. ‘What if I can’t do it without you?’

  ‘No what ifs. Let’s get out of here – focus on something else.’

  Jeez, I figured after she’d performed once, she’d stop freaking. I cajole her out the dressing room and search for people to talk to, to distract her. But she’s like a wooden doll lagging behind me, unable to join in. When I next check in, she’s gone. Rushing to the nearest bathroom I find Astrid on her knees, her dress bunched around her waist, her head in the toilet. I capture her loose hair, but on the next gag, realise she has nothing to vomit. She hasn’t eaten anyhow. I dab at her damp neck.

  ‘Take deep breaths.’

  ‘Thanks, Jacob. It’s okay. You better go. Someone might complain.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you,’ I say, as someone enters the restroom. We listen to the someone wee and wash her hands. Astrid breathes through her nausea, as pale as sheet music. The someone starts to sing a scale. Astrid stifles a giggle. The singer launches into several warm-up exercises, her voice echoing in the tiny room. We work to squash down our laughter. Astrid’s hair sticks to her sweaty skull and she has panda eyes from crying. Her palms in mine are clammy. But she’s smiling.

  ‘I need to get to hair and make-up,’ she says, after the woman leaves. I’m amazed there’s never a hint of her not performing. She’s simp
ly going to push herself through this. I hope she doesn’t repeat what happened in Vienna, because the song she’s singing is in Italian – it’s not as if I can step in on this one.

  42

  Astrid

  I push aside thoughts of omens; it’s a different make-up lady and station than earlier. Maestro has warned me against superstition, often reminding me of the time Savannah lost the toy kitten whose nose she would kiss before each audition, and how it meant she got spooked and couldn’t sing that one time.

  ‘Good evening,’ I say, then check in with Jacob behind me. He’s handsome in his penguin suit, his bow tie now hanging loose around his neck.

  ‘Hello, Miss Bell. You were exceptional, tonight. As were you, Mr Skalicky. Remarkable,’ says the make-up lady in the precise accent of the English and with the air of a strict school teacher. With her small, grey-streaked hair bun she’s older than most of the make-up artists here, possibly mid-fifties. She stands with her feet in a neat turn-out like Mary Poppins. ‘My name’s Poppy.’

  We air kiss.

  ‘Take a seat, Pamina, dear.’ She steps aside to let me sit.

  ‘Pamina. The princess from The Magic Flute?’ I’m aware of her inspecting my blotchy skin and running mascara.

  ‘Mozart. My favourite.’ She pulls at a wad of cotton wool and uses long strokes to remove my make-up. ‘It means “little honey”.’

  ‘You’re obviously an opera fan. Do you get to watch sometimes?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been an opera buff for thirty years. I particularly requested a break over your performance. I’ve met your mother a few times, you see. I even got to do her make-up.’

  My stomach sinks through the three levels of storage below.

  Poppy indicates I should close my eyes so she can remove my old make-up. ‘Your mother was remarkable. But you will surpass her.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ I manage. ‘She was amazing.’

  ‘She was. And yes, you have a few years to go before you can fully control your voice. But the cleanliness and purity already there, alongside the lyricism, sounds wholly unique. Your dynamic control, the cascades of coloratura – and you have a grace and dignity on stage your mother never possessed. You always got the feeling she couldn’t wait to get off the stage to attend a more important event.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about this right now,’ says Jacob, a palm on my back.

  ‘Goodness. I didn’t mean to speak ill of your mother.’ Poppy winces. ‘I’m sorry, Pamina dear. I meant it as a compliment. I can get carried away sometimes. I apologise.’

  I touch her arm. ‘Thank you. You didn’t offend me. It’s nice to meet someone who knew her back then. What was she like?’

  Poppy hoots. ‘Miss Bell could always make me laugh.’ She selects a foundation and begins to apply it. ‘And she always dominated a room. She walked in and the air got sucked out of the room and replaced with her energy. It oozed from her.’ She points to a mirror on the wall, unusable because of the many photos stuck to it. ‘Top right. Pride of place. Would you fetch it, young man? It was taken in the bar upstairs.’

  Jacob unsticks the photo from the mirror, passes it to me.

  I scrutinise the face of my mother. I’ve seen photos of her before, but somehow it seems like I’m seeing her for the first time; unposed, here at the opera where she sang. From what I’ve heard, the photo seems more true, more her, than the newspaper clippings or the portrait above the fireplace, or any of the photos of her with Savannah. For a start she seems genuinely happy. She’s propped on a stool wearing a green cocktail dress, a glass of champagne raised in the air. An after-party perhaps. She’s in her mid-twenties, her straight auburn hair loose and flowing over her shoulders, her eye make-up smoky, lips an astonishing red.

  ‘But she was always late.’ Poppy’s words startle me out of the photo.

  ‘Did she suffer from stage fright?’ I ask, and touch my finger to Mum’s forehead.

  ‘Goodness, no. Once she arrived twenty-five minutes before a concert, and while someone fastened about a hundred buttons on her dress I applied her make-up, and then she flew onstage and gave an impeccable performance. I don’t think she had time for nerves. She was always rushing off somewhere – I doubt she ever slept much. A bit of a flibbertigibbet, but a loveable one.’

  So I don’t get this affliction from her.

  ‘Judging from the state of your make-up when you came in, you do,’ says Poppy. ‘Suffer from nerves, that is.’

  Nausea rises and falls inside me. ‘I’m pretty much falling apart inside right now.’

  ‘Where focus goes, energy flows.’ She stops applying make-up, studies me like I’m an oil painting. ‘It must be hard, living up to someone as larger than life as Veronika Bell. But you don’t need to become a carbon copy of her. I’ve learnt a lot over the years, with famous opera singers sitting opposite me every night. Each lamented their fears, their bad habits, their weaknesses. You’re not alone.’ She uncaps an eyeliner pen. ‘Close.’ I obey and note her words echo what Jacob’s told me in the past. She adds, ‘And sing only for your audience. I’m sure the nerves will ease then.’ Poppy tidies my hair with the end of a comb.

  Staring at the photo, a glow of happiness for my mum warms me – because she experienced this joyful moment. It’s occurred to me lately that she didn’t seem to be a very happy person, in general. I wonder how the rest of that night from the photo unfolded for her; if Maestro came with her, or perhaps he was in another country singing on another stage.

  ‘I’ve met a lot of singers, often right before they perform,’ adds Poppy. ‘And the nerves always dominate the ones who have unrealistic expectations. Be yourself.’

  ‘I like to think of it as a job. I’m out there working,’ jumps in Jacob.

  ‘Exactly,’ says Poppy. ‘But love it. Be grateful for having the best job in the world.’

  I agree I have the best job in the world. This is just a job. That’s all.

  The clench of my gut loosens. As I breathe out, the queasiness eases.

  It comes to me, at first like the twitching of theatre curtains, and then in a smooth rush, similar to when the curtains swish wide open to reveal the stage set. All my life, emulating my perfect mum was my dream, one that sometimes seemed unattainable. But thinking of performing as a job instead of a dream, work to be done to entertain the paying audience, takes away the possibility, or responsibility, of losing something as huge as a dream.

  And I don’t have to be perfect; my mother certainly never was.

  The dream I was trying to reach vanishes. All that’s left is me, my voice, the Met. Jacob.

  Poppy applies my lipstick then pats my arm. ‘You’re done, Pamina.’

  I hug her, careful not to wreck my make-up, then go to attach the photo back on the mirror.

  ‘You should keep it,’ says Poppy from behind me. ‘She’s your mum after all.’

  Pausing, I examine the photo again. ‘No,’ I say, wistful and feeling a little like I’m saying goodbye to Mum. ‘She belongs here.’

  Here she lives eternally, remembered by all who walk through these rooms.

  ‘In bocca al lupo,’ says Poppy. She hugs us both.

  On the way back to our changing rooms, Jacob asks what she said in Italian.

  ‘It means “in the mouth of the wolf”. Similar to “break a leg”. You can never say g-o-o-d l-u-c-k to any performer.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He tickles me. ‘We should get out of here for a bit. It’ll help you forget the performance. Focus on something else.’

  ‘We can’t leave. I’ll be even more worried we won’t make it back in time.’

  Jacob raises one finger, a light bulb moment bright all over his features. He checks the map. ‘This way.’

  We wind through the building and I recall how Poppy said my mum was a bit of a flibbertigibbet. That
, added to what my grandparents revealed about her, matches what Maestro’s told me. Suddenly we round a corner and come toe-to-toe with Maestro himself. I freeze.

  ‘I keep making the wrong choices for you,’ he says before I can speak. ‘But it’s because I’m afraid of losing you. And I understand it’s wrong that you are my whole world, but you are. It’s made me a bit crazy. I’m sorry.’

  A sob clumps in my gullet and a realise I don’t want to grab hold of my dreams if it means letting go of my dad – because that’s what he’ll always be. Maestro has always been my dad. He didn’t have to try. It’s just who he is.

  I throw my arms around him. He’s shaking and rests his chin on my head. His body relaxes into mine and he clings to me. For once, I’m the parent and he is the child. After a moment, I step away, blinking back tears. Maestro’s face is rumpled and wet, a craggy rock in the rain. ‘You won’t lose me,’ I say. ‘No matter what I do with my life, I’ll always be your daughter.’

  Maestro squashes me against him again. ‘I told you she’d died because I was afraid you’d decide to find her and discover I wasn’t your biological father. I couldn’t risk you going to live with her – I didn’t trust her to keep you safe after that final night. And your singing. You are so talented, the thought of that being wasted . . . then when I learnt your mother was actually dead, I felt utterly guilty and so terribly fearful of losing you because of the choice I’d taken from you. The instinct to keep you safe and closer than ever took over. It governed my every thought.’ He loosens his hold. Our cheeks brushing against each other as he speaks. ‘It felt as though I was metamorphosing into someone else. Someone I didn’t recognise.’