Steve Meets the Opera Stars: Canoeing Weekend
(Editor’s note: Steve has never met any of the following people in his entire life.)
Starbucks, Upper West Side: Joyce DiDonato
British Airways Lounge: John Relyea
Food Court, Vienna Airport: Anna Netrebko
Grand Hyatt Lobby: Lisette Oropesa
Intermission, Los Angeles Opera: Roberto Alagna
Four Seasons Hotel, Glass Elevator: Kate Lindsey
Park Bench: Matthew Polenzani
Seat 3A: Aida Garafullina
At the Office: Gioachino Rossini
Eurostar First Class, Lille to Paris: Javier Camarena
Mandarin Oriental Milan, East Lobby: Elina Garanča
1. Starbucks, Upper West Side: Joyce DiDonato
Me: (Taking a seat) Hi! Great! Thanks for agreeing to meet me like this! Here’s your coffee. So I’m a single guy, I have a nice condo outside Chicago, I build a mean spaghetti sauce, and I drive a pretty good 2013 Toyota. I operate a small public accounting company, and I repair snowblowers on the side. I know how to make a brick patio. Once I went to La Scala. When I was a kid, I drove through Kansas once, your state, with my parents.
JD (Still standing): OK… It is kind of cold in here.
Me: I loved your work in Armida – that ending was incredible.
JD (Glancing around quickly): That was Renée Fleming.
Me: Oh, I guess, yeah, but didn’t you also --
JD: OK, look, I have to go do warmups now because I’m going to do Donna del Lago and also Norma next week in Sydney, and a solo concert in Vienna right after that. I will earn 2.3 million dollars next week alone. Placido is waiting for me. Maybe… you can give the coffee to someone else? (Exits to street.)
2. British Airways Lounge: John Relyea
Me: Excuse me. Not to interrupt. But I’m one of your fans. The uncle – the soldier in I Puritani. Solid. I watched it twice.
JR: Hmmm. Yes, thanks.
Me: Also, that angel guy in Senerentola. Cenerentola; I get it wrong a lot. Heh. Don’t really know Italian. That was just about the first opera I ever saw. Lawrence Brownlee. Elina Garanča. Fell in love with Elina Garanča, I’m telling you.
JR: Right – the Latvian. She’s a doll. What else have you seen?
Me: Damnation of Faust; wow; the devil. That “Serenade” song.
JR: Did you see me in Don Carlos?
Me: Yes, but really, that was just the extremely old guy, clattering around with the crutches. I guess you got to sing a little, but was it significant in the sense that you –
JR: I liked it, and so did the reviewers. They – and me too – we generally view that role – the Inquisitor – as the challenge of a career. Among Verdi roles, that’s the one that really matters. The Grand Inquisitor.
Me: Really? The old guy? He just hobbles in, and yells at the king, and staggers back off the stage? Really?
JR: Yes. Considered a masterpiece. Watch it again.
Me: So hey, this is a weird question, maybe, but I have some friends up in New England, we get together sometimes for outdoor activities – canoeing, sleeping out, cooking on the fire at night.
JR: Shoulder rub?
Me: Huh?
JR: Want a little rubdown? I have time.
Me: I’m not sure what… Uh, no, not me.
JR (smiling, leaning in): Noticed your belt. Hmmm. Fly with me to London? All the way?
Me: No, I don’t think so, sorry. But anyway, we watch operas, some of us, and the question would be, we’d like to invite a few guys like you to join us for a short trip. You know, a little getaway, out on the river, drinking some beer, things like that.
JR: Sleeping bags? Like to be close in.
Me: No, no, that’s not the point. But aside from all that, we’re thinking, let’s check with Relyea and like, Beczala, maybe Brownlee or Camarena. Could be a fun weekend, really.
JR: Camarena is a damned weasel.
Me: OK, well whatever, we don’t really know how you all get along with each other. But you get the idea.
JR: I get along with Michael Fabiano. We have a place in Miami, and one in Wales. Wives don’t know! Wink wink! Ha!
Me: Just asking about canoeing, but okay.
JR: So, I was in a small boat one time, when I was about 16, and the damned thing fell over. Got some water in me, and I sang like those trained dogs for about two weeks. Missed some good auditions. No more boats. Buy you an appletini, maybe?
Me: No, no, thanks. I guess Fabiano could go too, and we could just camp out, but then, kind of off the purpose.
JR: They’re announcing my plane. So, here’s my card, personal phone. You’ve been lovely, and packing it well! Stay in touch!
3. Food Court, Vienna Airport: Anna Netrebko
Me: Darf ich bitte hier sitzen? Can I sit here? Is this chair free? Der Stuhl ist frei?
Soldier: (Looks up briefly, then back to phone game.)
AN (Glancing up, then back down): Yes, I speak English.
Me: Ha! So in Vienna the Burger King has quite the menu – burgers and fries, but also borscht! Something for everyone.
Me: I’m gonna see how this burger is. Not very good in Chicago – low expectations everywhere else.
Me: Oh. Hey. You have the borscht!
AN (Nodding without looking up. Sniffs.)
Me: Pretty tasty? Oh, I’m sorry. Are you alright? Do you need help?
AN (Tears on face, one splotting into floating sour cream.) No, thank you. I am good. I am good.
Me (Leaning closer, examining her face): Please let me know if I can help you. This does not look good. I can try to help, or get someone. What can I do for you?
AN: (Shakes head no; wipes eyes with napkin.)
Me: Uh, this is a little rough. I will stay here a while.
(Long pause)
Me: You’re Anna Netrebko. OK then. How are you doing?
AN (Face downward, nodding): Good. Fine. Thank you. Don’t worry.
Me: For my part, I don’t know the whole story, of course, but I was unhappy with the decision against you at the New York Met. Hope you’ll be back soon. I can’t even think of all the operas I have seen, and enjoyed, with you as the lead. Trovatore, Puritani – fabulous mad scene -- Adriana Lecouvreur, not sure how to say it.
AN: (Nods, not consoled)
Me: Did you sing in Vienna? Did it go poorly?
AN: I can no longer choose. I sing where they tell me to sing. I had to sing La Bohème.
Me: Puccini. That’s awful. I’m sorry for you.
AN: And what is next? What if they tell me to do a Vivaldi? It would be horrible; it would be too much.
Me (to soldier): Excuse me, can you reach the ketchup for me? Ketchup, please? For the fries?
Soldier (Reaching for ketchup, stands to reveal sidearm, 2 pairs of handcuffs, billy club, radio, 3 small grenades, related accessories. Bangs ketchup bottle down on table. Ketchup spurts out in a tiny geyser and lands on table.)
Me: Thank you. Danke shoen. Vielen dank. Thank you, sir. I bet you’d be fun for a weekend of canoeing. Sir.
Me: Okay, Anna Netrebko. I am not sure I am helping you very much. I don’t know – I don’t really care – how you feel about the war. It’s a sad –
Soldier: Not to speak about war! War talk, we take you out!
Me: Wait, are you with her?
Soldier: All of us with her.
Me (Looking around at the tables): Oh boy. There’s a small army in here. Big night for borscht.
Soldier: Is big army! Is strong army! This, we know, is not really a war. No more war talk, or I take you out by myself!
AN (Placing hand on table, near burger and fries): You can go. Just, you can go.
Me (Touching her fingers lightly): Anna, I don’t think you should have to travel this way. Or live this way. Or sing Baroque.
Soldier: (Stands again, armaments clanking, watches closely.)
Me: Do you think they would really just plug me – shoot me – right here in the airport? Because I’m talking to you?
AN: No, he means he will make you leave. To take you out of the airport.
Me: Can I give you my card, here? Can you take this? I would like to know you are alright. I hope you come back to New York, after this Ukraine thing is –
Soldier: (Draws pistol, aims. Blasts business card off table in one shot, leaving a large dent. Sounds of ricochet in overhead light fixtures. Ketchup bottle topples and drips.)
Everyone in sight: (Stands and draws handguns; bracing stance.)
Me (shouting): OK! OK! Guys, I’m leaving! Where is gate 58-C? Goodbye! Goodbye!
4. Grand Hyatt Lobby: Lisette Oropesa
Me: Oops! Hey! Excuse me! Excuse me! I’ve got it! You dropped your --
LO: Tampons. Thanks! Wouldn’t want to be missing those! (Sings: “I cannot live without them! I shall not live my life alone! Alone I shall die!”)
Me: Wow. Verdi something? Traviata?
LO: Forza del Destino, Act III.
Me: Good lord; you are Lisette Oropesa. Great to meet you.
LO: Same here. You really have a lot of hair. Nice.
Me: I’m Steve, and thanks; this has been receding for 40 years.
LO: Are you from Louisiana, or the Caribbean?
Me: No, no, New Jersey.
LO: I’m guessing you’ve been on the road all summer, touring Europe.
Me: Well, no, that sounds more like you. I mean I have been there. I live in Chicago.
LO: But I have seen you somewhere, on stage! Weren’t you in a show that had you moving from the country to the big city? With the rich guy? The brother was –
Me: No, but you --
LO: Big gambling scene, fancy clothes, lots of money –
Me: Right, but --
LO: All the guys in tuxedos, and ballerinas --
Me: Got it, got it. That’s Massenet’s Manon. I saw it, and you were in it. Really, it’s odd but I think all the things you are saying about me are actually things that you yourself --
LO: God. You are cute.
Me: Again, I’m not sure why you’re reversing me, with –
LO: Could I just, maybe, ask you to have a drink with me? Just for a few minutes. I’m buying.
Me: I’m flattered. This is terrific. This is very kind of you. A little Merlot. Or, I guess, Chianti.
LO: So… French, AND Italian. I have always wondered – when you do these foreign languages, have you actually learned the whole language, so you could converse that way? Or is it just that you know how to pronounce specifically the part you have to say?
Me: But again, that’s a question I myself wanted to ask --
LO: (Leaning in) I like your eyes, too. Beautiful.
Me: (Chokes and recovers)
LO: (Moves chair closer, tips head to right. Speaking quietly.) Steve? A little kiss. OK?
Me: (Inhales irregularly, sliding chair backwards.) Hold it! Hold it. Wait a minute. Not OK. We don’t even know each other. I mean, I saw your Salome, the dance thing, so I’ve seen more of you than most people, but --
LO: Oh! Here comes my husband. We’re going out for a run. You are fun! Bye now.
Me: Wait! Lisette, stop right there. Wait!
LO: Yeah? What?
Me: Just an idea here: There is something wrong with you. Maybe a little less of the Lucia de Lammermoor stuff for a while. Get a grip. Do some Philip Glass.
Husband: Sorry. I’m really sorry. She gets like this. Did she try to kiss you? Oh, God. I apologize. You can have the wine. Come on, Lizzy.
LO: (Sings: “It is not my way to stay forever near to just one man… Like the birds on the wind, I fly…”) You know it? Bellini!
5. Intermission, Los Angeles Opera: Roberto Alagna
RA: Hey there, sir. Hey, getting kind of close, are you not?
Me: Oh, I’m sorry. Just kind of got pushed by the crowd here. I’m sorry -- did you spill your –
RA: Cointreau. No, it’s fine. But watch out please.
Me: Sorry? It’s what? You are drinking what? Just curious.
RA: Cointreau. My God. Americans.
Me: Ah. Cointreau. I don’t usually hear it pronounced in French.
RA: Cointreau! Don’t say it again.
Me: Um. Okay. Just, C --
RA: No!
Me: Yikes. Oh! Hello! Now I recognize you. You’re the guy who stormed out of La Scala in ‘06! Ha! Everyone coming down on you about too little emotion in the singing. Imagine! Not committed to your role. Bunch of fools, I say. So, the famous Robert Alagna.
RA: Ro-BEHR-to A-lagna! A-lagna!
Me: Yes, sorry again. Mr. A-lagna! So, you go to the opera too. I never thought of that. In the audience.
RA: Of course I go to the opera. And tonight, they have this Mexican, Monsieur Flórez, and I must keep an eye on him. We have auditions for Bizet’s Les Pêcheurs de Perles next month, and I simply cannot let him take that part. Imagine! A Mexican, singing Nadir. They need Alagna, and that is all.
Me: He’s from Peru, I think, actually. Well, good luck, and please enjoy your cointr – your drink. I’m sorry.
RA: Stop. What do you know of opera? In what operas have you seen Alagna?
Me: Yes, right, OK, Mr. Alagna, I meant to ask you about that. I saw Carmen, and Sampson and Delila. Totally enjoyable!
RA: Samson et Dalila. Can you not say it properly?
Me: Yes, SamSON eh Dah LEE lah. Anyway. Not too good with my French, actually. You know, what about those two productions? Couldn’t help noticing you were up there with Elina Garanča in both of them. What about her? Something else, huh?
RA: Garanča, she is the tippy top of the romantic, as we say in Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes.
Me: Place in France I assume. But what do you mean, tippy top, if I may ask? I’m kind of studying the Latvian opera coterie, as we say in Illinois.
RA: We were lovers. Every night, that woman, while we were in New York City, then Zurich, then Milano. The tippy top of the romance. She could not get enough, and I will tell you that I could not either. She is the lion that roars, you know what this means, I think?
Me: Yes, sure, OK. Hey, Ro-BER-to, Mr. Alagna, I have a question for you.
RA: After questions about Flórez from Brazil, about the lovely Elina, what else?
Me: What do you think about camping? Did you ever get in a canoe, go down a river, hang out with friends?
RA: Yes, it is very fun. Yes.
Me: You don’t sound too sure.
RA: I said it is the fun thing to do.
Me: Yeah, I hear you, but there’s not any commitment, like canoes are not really your passion. That’s fine. I understand.
RA: You have said WHAT? Not enough passion, or this commitment? How can you say this?
Me: I was going to invite you to join me and some friends, for a weekend, maybe. A few tenors, a few baritones. We’ll just skip the contra-tenors, and of course Flórez from Peru. But it’s not important.
RA: This what you have said is an outrage! Not enough passion, you say?
Me: OK, I just wasn’t sure. Sorry.
RA: (Waves fist high in the air, fuming.) Enough of this. You Americans, you – how shall we say – you stupid loggionisti! I have had enough! Enough! I am leaving here – forever!
(Throws empty glass toward the bar, strides quickly through the crowd and out to the street.)
6. Four Seasons Hotel, Glass Elevator: Kate Lindsey
Elevator (softly): Doors closing.
KL: So, we are neighbors, then?
Me: Yes, kind of an upgrade for me. I asked for a high floor, and they put me in this room on 67.
KL: It’s a marvelous view; I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Where are you from?
Me: Chicago. I’m sorry, but I think you look familiar. Are you Kate? Kate Lindsey?
KL (Smiling kindly, nodding slightly): It is me, yes.
Me: Lots of respect; I have totally enjoyed seeing you sing.
KL: (Direct eye contact.) You like me, don’t you?
Me: (Glancing up at numbers) OK, yes, I do. But you know, I –
Elevator (softly): Floor 67. Doors opening.
KL (stepping out): Men like me a lot. I’m blessed with enviable good looks, and I stay in shape.
Me (following): Right, that is obviously true. You really got me with that part in Contes d'Hoffmann. The Muse.
KL: Mmmm. You can just say Tales of Hoffman. We usually do.
Me: Right, the Barcarolle. Killer piece.
KL: For the males of the species, especially, that’s the one that makes them write to me. Did you like the hat?
Me: The hat -- of course! And –
KL (Stopping in hallway): It seems bewitching in some subtle way. The androgyny, the cross-dressing.
Me: Alright, I’m not sure that was the main thing.
KL: No, but then I’m quite slim, with classic curves, and in the last act, with the nightgown. As I said, I’m rather appealing in a mysterious way. How many proposals – and blatant propositions – do you think I’ve received, during a run of Hoffman?
Me: Well, I’m sure I don’t know. I mainly like that song. It fits the mood of the transition to the third act pretty well.
KL: Care to come in for a few?
Me: No, I don’t think so. I’m down in room … (fumbling for keycard) … well, I’m down the hall. Somewhere.
KL: No, come in. It’s a huge suite. I have wine, champaign, whatever, and I have to change.
Me: You have to change. So, for me, I think –
KL: Here, see the big couch by the piano?
Me: Okay, okay, then, ah, a few minutes.
KL: Hey, I’m harmless. And you’re refreshing; I’ve been talking with opera people all day – we’re doing Idomeneo, you know. Kind of nice to take a break. From the crowd of men.
Me: And that’s very flattering.
KL (shouting from bedroom): Men are all over me. No one to talk to. I am distracting in some positive way.
Me (to himself): I can tell you in what way. Lord God.
Me: So, then, with all the crowds of guys, who’s the lucky fellow? Online, it says you are married.
KL (returning to living room, in bathrobe): Oh, no. That is just for publicity. Truth is, I mostly spend my time with Joyce.
Me: Uh, so first question, what do you mean by publicity? He’s on your profile, he’s with you at events.
KL: Right, of course, but Reggio is just from the service.
Me: So, military?
KL: No, no, there is a service that a lot of us use. An office in Brussels, where they assign a good-looking native speaker to you for a fee. We can’t have the press showing pictures of me and Joyce, can we? We’re mezzos – it would be pants roles forever!
Me: OK, um, oh boy. Insider information. Joyce DiDonato? She has a husband too, or she did.
KL: Sure, same thing. Guy comes with a backstory, nice clothes and manners, shows up any time you need him, for appearances. Or a woman, if you want. Juan Diego’s got a long-term contract there, to keep him covered.
Me: He’s got two kids!
KL: Well, I’m sure, for the right kind of money, they will –
Me: This is a lot to take in. So, you and Joyce were in Agrippina. Together. Fabulous. You with the cocaine.
KL: Oh, we were together, certainly. That’s where we met. You look flushed; have a drink! I told you. Before Joyce gets here.
Me: Thanks, but I bet my room has something, or I could go back to the lobby. (Standing) Quick question: What did you think of Elina, when you did Clemenza di Tito together?
KL: Didn’t really get to know her. The whole time, she was seeing some Italian or French guy – a tenor, I believe. Barely stayed around once she was off the stage. I tried to get in tight with her, but it didn’t work out.
Me (wiping sweat): Sometimes, I kind of miss the quiet normal suburbs of Chicago. So, time to go! (Picks up computer bag, walks quickly toward door.)
JD (unlocking and entering): Hi!
Me: Oh, hi. I was leaving.
JD (to Kate): Evening, love.
KL: Hey, Dolly. Good trip? This is… I apologize, I didn’t ask your name. We were talking about me.
JD: He’s Steve. We met at a Starbucks once. He said he knows how to make bricks.
KL: Dolly, relax – don’t be such a Virginia Woolf! We were just talking about Tales of Hoffman. Tonight, I think I’ll wear that hat. What do you think?
Me: OK with me. The hat, the nightgown, whatever.
JD: She said “tonight”. She means just the hat.
Me: Oh Jesus.
JD: And listen, Katie. This big suitcase. I brought the boots. You know what? I can put on my boots from Comte Ory.
KL and Me (together): Just the boots!
Me: Yeesh. Good lord. Fun for everyone. Have a great night, you two.
KL: You can stay, if you like. And watch.
JD: No he can’t.
Me: No worries. I’m out.
7. Park Bench: Matthew Polenzani
Me: Ahhh. A little workout in the morning. Helps me wake up, get going.
MP: I’ve been watching you a bit. I’m not sure you are greatly benefitting your tibialis and peroneus; you might want to put your feet further back on the frontal press sequences.
Me: Thanks! You really know this, don’t you?
MP: For me, a lifelong study. I tend to stand long hours, working in a laboratory, and it helps me to keep flexible.
Me: Smart. I’m curious, what kind of lab?
MP: I’m supporting an inquiry at Northwestern Hospital – they have a lab here in Evanston for the electro-neurologists to study pain. For neonates and infants. You know, these patients can’t report on the source of their pain, so we’re aiming to facilitate faster diagnoses.
Me: Now that’s interesting. Good luck with that. You know, you look a lot like a fellow that sings opera.
MP: Not like Quinn Kelsey, I hope.
Me: You know him, too? No, Matthew Polenzani.
MP: In the flesh.
Me: No kidding! I’m honored. That final solo in Don Pasquale – offstage, then onstage. Just about my favorite. Loved it.
MP: Right, with Netrebko. Yes.
Me: You know Elina Garanča, don’t you? The Donizetti, Roberto Devereux in what – 2016? Say, what can you tell me about Elina? I’m kind of smitten!
MP: I don’t recall.
(A pause.)
Me: Heh heh. You are reading comic books in the park?
MP: Yes. Unusual, isn’t it? What most people don’t realize is that the plots, the motivations, even the settings, of the early comics reflect a mindset of subsequent decades, not the contemporaneous society during publication. It’s not still true in the current century – but back then, had we recognized the bellwether characteristic of comics, we could have better anticipated the zeitgeist of our culture-to-be.
Me: I’ve never thought about it – that’s really something. Oh, I know what I was going to ask you. About five years ago, you did Idomeneo in New York. Wondering if you have seen the new one, with Spyres and Lindsey – any comments on the differences?
MP: No, I have not seen it. In fact, I never watched the one I was in. I’m sure they are both great shows.
Me: Do you like Mozart in particular? ‘Cause you did Così fan tutte a few years ago also. But then, I see you in a lot of bel canto roles too.
MP: It doesn’t matter to me. I sing, they pay me. I go home and study pristine boreal river systems, or the rise and decline of the Gaelic languages. You like operas? Why?
Me: Well, then, I guess I like the complexity of this form of music and narrative, together. Everything is done so well – the story, the sets, the memorized performance, the emotional impact of the music. I really get into it.
MP: There are a limited number of ways you can have a forbidden love, and sing about it. The lovers are split by politics, or by religion, or family traditions, or local morals, or some such thing. Big conflict, big resolution. Sometimes half of them die, but occasionally they end up happy. Not truly substantial, is it?
Me: Huh. I guess that’s right, but what about modern operas? Interesting to you?
MP: Oh please, let’s not get started on that. In sub-Saharan Africa, they have long musical traditions that have nothing to do with difficult relationships. Their lyric performances, usually with music, simply tell the life story of the average gazelle, or they characterize sounds you hear if you put your ear on the ground, or they elucidate what happens to a chunk of organ meat as you fry it. You don’t need long robes from the year 1550, or swords, or someone pining for a girlfriend who doesn’t even know him.
Me: I will think about that; interesting perspective.
MP: There’s just one role I aspire to perform – but right now, I am too young, and quite possibly I will never have the right voice register to manage it. It’s a Verdi piece, from Don Carlos.
Me: Let me guess: The Grand Inquisitor! But what do you have? Two minutes of shouting at King Philip, leaning on your crutches?
MP: Yes, two minutes that are exceedingly sublime, but for me, perhaps unattainable. I have to bide my time with the title role, unfortunately.
Me: I hear the frustration. Quick question – and this might be something you’re interested in. You ever do any canoeing?
MP: Yes, that is often necessary, doing observational research in the Thuận estuaries near the Mekong. I prefer a small Laotian Ngor boat, but a canoe will do.
Me: Okay, well, there are some guys I know, in New England – Vermont, Maine, upper New York state – and we get together now and then, choose a river, and bring canoes. Camping and cooking at night, slow schedule, just enjoy the river and the scenery all day. Three days, four days, a vacation.
MP: Sounds pleasant.
Me: We thought it would be interesting, and fun, if we could get a few of you opera guys to join us. Flórez, Keenlyside, Beczala, like that. Just the guys, you know, a long weekend, a getaway. What do you think?
MP: Hard to say. Because, I don’t know any of your friends – I’m sure they’re interesting and fun for you, but it’s a gamble for me, isn’t it? And those tenors you mentioned – nice gentlemen, for sure, although I happen to know that every one of them likes to talk about challenging arpeggios, and costume pants that are too tight, and making a small blocking mistake at Glyndebourne. Really not illuminating, frankly.
Me: Yeah, I figured. Worth asking though, since we were talking.
MP: Check with Rosa Feola.
Me: But she’s a soprano. Supposed to be a bunch of guys.
MP: I know. Check with Rosa. What you find may surprise you.
Me: Right. Well, back to my hamstrings and quads. Have a good one!
8. Seat 3A: Aida Garafullina
Me: Uh, excuse me. Sitting next to you here.
Me (Buckling up): Again, excuse me -- I think you are Aida Garafullina. Right?
AG: Da. Мышь побежала по стене.
Me: Ha. Russian, of course. I almost saw you when you were scheduled to sing Adina in Elisir d’Amore at La Scala in ‘21. Too bad, but someone else did it.
AG: велосипеды и корабли English.
Me: Do you go canoeing, or camping?
AG: Canoeing. In Ruskiy, word is to mean “kinky things”.
Me: Oh, no! I’m so sorry, I am so embarr –
AG: Yes for me. I canoeing. Best fun.
Me: What? You… Oh God. I didn’t ask you that.
AG: Oбычно у нас картошка Ruskiy?
Me: Um, OK…. Nyet. Nyet Rooskey. Nyet English either. God.
AG: (Looks out window.)
Me: Um…. Then I will read this very interesting magazine. All of it. Twice.
9. At the Office: Gioachino Rossini
Me: What a mug! That is a pretty funny face, you want to know the truth.
GR: Yes. Ha ha! As I got older, my cheeks just got bigger and bigger. What are you going to do? I looked like a damned walrus! Life is funny.
Me: Weird. So, then, I must be dead.
GR: No -- fell asleep on your desk. Maybe you had too much lunch.
Me: I guess. So, you are here. Why?
GR: To talk to you. Thought you’d like that.
Me: Yep. God. We miss you. I miss you. I need about another hundred years of Barber, of William Tell, and Gazza Ladra. Nothing like it.
GR: I know. I had a lot of fun coming up with that. Ha! L’italiana in Algeri! It doesn’t make any sense! Hardly anyone notices!
Me: Messing with the audience! It’s hilarious.
GR: Exactly! And why not? Did you see La Scala di Seta? Half the cast is hiding under tables and behind doors! It’s ridiculous! They loved it!
Me: It was nuts! Nobody needs Tosca when you can just laugh through the whole show.
GR: Oh God I had fun.
Me: One question: How did you manage all those parts, where you actually have two or three melodic lines going at once? They all fit together? Amazing.
GR: I just composed a lot of things – I didn’t really work on anything else -- and I got better and better at merging all sorts of tunes, just like you describe. For me, it was like a huge puzzle. Tremendous satisfaction. Didn’t always work out, of course.
Me: La Gazzetta.
GR: Yes, sorry. But I guess there are still some people who like that one.
Me: We all want to know why you stopped. It seemed a terrible loss.
GR: Enough is enough. All those crazy tunes and stories racing around in my head for years and years. It was fun, like I said. But it’s like eating cannolis. Comes a time, you just want to sit down and watch the trees and birds.
Me: I get it.
GR: Got to go. Any other questions?
Me: Care to go canoeing with us?
GR: I’ll be there. With you the whole time. Just do this: get yourself singing “Numero Quindici”, or that crazy music from Act 1 of L’Italiana. Even if it’s just in your head. I’m there, my man.
Me: You’re killing me. Damn. Kleenex.
GR: Wake up, get some coffee, finish your work. Hey -- they’re doing Turco later this year in Houston. Laughed my ass off writing that one. Keep an eye out – I think you’ll like it.
10. Eurostar First Class, Lille to Paris: Javier Camarena
Me: Excusez-moi, monsieur. Excuse me. Can I just plug this in under your window, there? Just, with the cord on the floor, is OK.
JC: Yes, of course. I can speak English. But you need the adapter.
Me: Oh, here. Thanks. Should have known – you must be coming down from London. But are you Camarena? Javier Camarena?
JC: Yes. You recognized me. You probably know, we closed Madama Butterfly in London two days ago. Did you see me in it?
Me: No, I’ve just been working here in Lille for the week. Sounds great, though.
JC: It was very well received. I hadn’t worked with Renée Fleming before, and at first it wasn’t that smooth. But I helped her get to know my style, my M.O. you can say – the little things that make an opera really work. She’s a fairly fast learner.
Me: So, you were helping Renée Fleming get oriented to opera? OK then. But hey, I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated the new Lucia at the Met. Really, a lot of fun to watch. Great job.
JC: Oh, yes. I told them there was too much blood in the murder scene. Especially if she was killing him with a fire extinguisher, of all things. Should have used a 2-barrel gamefish spear gun.
Me: You know who was really cool? That Polish tenor, forgot his name. Tattoos all over, made him look dangerous and crude.
JC: Ruciński. Don’t let the makeup fool you, though. He’s got a long way to go. I was worried about his extended intonation, his farrangio, the low-register burré. I offered to give him personal lessons on the off-days.
Me: I better get some work done before Paris. Actually I’m heading down to Milan – I’m going to see Elina Garanča in Verdi’s Requiem. I’m personally interested in her, to tell you frankly. Ever since I saw here in Cenerentola. My idol. You ever work with her?
JC: No, and I wouldn’t. I think you’ll find that these eastern European singers are kind of like, if you buy a car or kitchen appliances from those countries – they serve the purpose, up to a point, but this is not the quality we in the West are used to. Like the manufacturing sector, they get by mainly with government support.
Me: Well, anyway, I just took an interest in opera, just a few years ago. Saw her with Lawrence Brownlee and John Relyea – caught my attention, big-time.
JC: Relyea? He can’t even sing!
Me: Not great for you, huh?
JC: It’s not just me. He really can’t sing a note.
Me: But I saw him in the video from the Met – pretty big part in Rusalka, down there in the pond, leaves and trees and woodland animals. You know.
JC: They can do a lot with electronics, especially with the video you saw. Voice-overs, substitutes, all that. Because Relyea almost drowned when he was young – some kind of boating accident, I think – and he could never sing again. Sounds like a sheep. It’s too bad.
Me: Alright then. So, who appeals to you? Who is really good, in the opera, in your opinion?
JC: Me. The smarter houses are now starting to appreciate. Did you see me in Fille du Regiment? Semiramide? Last year’s Rigoletto? Exceptional, I would say, without bragging at all.
Me: So, you are really good. No argument with that. But wait a minute, Rigoletto? Last year? What role…
JC: Yeah, I was Gilda.
Me: Hold it. Hold it. You’re kidding. What do you mean? The soprano?
JC: Sure. Little-known fact. A few of us, with advanced skills, have developed a truly wide range. I’m pretty comfortable with anything from tenor up to soprano. I do it as Rosa Feola.
Me: What? You are also Rosa Feola? Really?
JC: Quiet. Probably shouldn’t have told you. Too much wine on the train. But sure – don’t make it a big public thing, but now you have some confidential information from one of the great stars.
Me: I wouldn’t have thought that was even possible. What do you have, a ton of makeup?
JC: Of course. Me and Rosa Feola. Named after a girl I knew in grade school. Good Mexican name. And why not? Me and Rosa. Quinn Kelsey and Daniela Barcellona. Russell Thomas and Angela Meade.
Me: This is absurd. Russell Thomas? Are you sure? And Quinn Kelsey – if makeup can make him look as good as Daniela, why doesn’t he simply always perform as…
JC: I don’t think he’s got the chops, frankly. Trying, but not really succeeding. I’ve often given him some useful advice, offstage, but I don’t think he’s improving.
Me: So, Mr. Camarena, let me ask you this. You ever do any canoeing? Like, camping out, tent and all that, and just spending the day going down the river with some friends?
JC: I have, quite extensively, and with skill. If you are going to try that, my advice would be, I’d be happy to monitor and instruct you and your friends, as you probably would benefit from an expert. Why?
Me: Oh, actually nothing, just a random thought. Figured you would be pretty good at that, too.
JC: Yes, of course.
Me: Right, well, I have some work to do here, so, have a good trip.
JC: In Paris, am going to sing both the lead roles in La Traviata. Never been done before. I’m quite popular in France.
Me: I can imagine. Good luck with that!
11. Mandarin Oriental Milan, East Lobby: Elina Garanča
Bellman (Ringing hand chimes): 6 o’clock to Malpensa airport, 5 minutes, loading here! (Repeats in Italian.)
Me: Damn. Big crowd for early morning. But I see her. Finally, I can see her. Have to make this work.
Me (Pressing through crowd): Excuse me. Mi scusi. Almost there. My dream is near. God, I really hope she likes me.
EG (Still distant): Italian! Luigi!
Me: Make this good. I know what to say. Carefully, slowly. Don’t blow this one.
EG: Mandarin! Li Pim! Spanish! Federico!
Me: Ten more feet. Good Lord, she is beautiful. I love her. We should be together.
Bellman (Hand chimes): 6 o’clock to airport, Malpensa! 3 minutes. (Italian)
Me: Elina! Elina – hello, I am Steve!
EG: Yes, hello, what do you want?
Me: I want to marry you! Elina, can you understand?
EG: English! William!
Me: Can we talk? Maybe on the bus to the airport?
William: You want to talk to Miss Garanča? I can help.
Me: But she is right there!
William (Guiding firmly, hand on shoulder): Over here. Come with me over by the mirrors.
Me: Who are you?
William: I’m with Miss Garanča’s staff. Over here, listen. We only have a couple of minutes.
Me: Okay, but I need to get on that bus with her. I planned for 2 years to get to this point.
William: No, here, this is better. Please do as I say. First, take this paper.
Me: (Taking glossy leaflet, with large photos of EG, smiling.) What for?
William: Here you see pictures, her stage schedule, some interesting personal information. Read through this – you’ll enjoy it.
Me: But I don’t want a brochure. I was starting to talk with Elina. I really like her, you know, this is very special. Cenerentola! Carmen! Clemenza di Tito! I’m in love!
William: Of course. Of course. See here? More pages of pictures, different operas, many costumes, every city. You want to see her in Tannhäuser? You can!
Me: No, I want to talk with her. I am pretty sure she will like me, too.
Bellman (Hand chimes): 6 o’clock to airport, Malpensa! Please exit through this door! (Italian)
William: Yes, quite likely, she will like you. Now, here on the last page, social media links, and a special website you can use. Sign in – it’s easy – and you can type in your name, and your message.
Me: But it’s just a website! Will she write back to me?
William: Oh, yes, certainly, she will write back to you. Tell her whatever you like. Then, you’re in the database!
Me: How many are in the database?
William: About 6 million, I checked last week.
Me: This is disappointing. What’s your job, fella?
William: I do this for the English speakers. Hand out the English leaflet, explain how to get in the database.
Me: With 6 million other guys?
William: All over the world. They all want to marry her.
Me: Oh, no.
William: Good luck! I have to get on the bus now. With Miss Garanča. Very nice to speak with you.
Me (Weeping openly): My Elina. She is on the bus. She is gone. (Stares sadly at pictures.) Maybe William likes canoeing? Forgot to ask.