Bantam of the Opera

by Mary Daheim

  “Stop kidding yourself, coz,” said Judith. “They never move out. Not permanently.”

  “I know,” sighed Renie. “He’s only twenty-two. But I sort of thought that when he graduated from college last June…And now he’s talking about law school, with Anne and Tony still to finish…” Her voice weakened and trailed away.

  “Hey, Mike’s a year older and he’s got at least two more semesters. Or is it three?” Judith’s own voice grew faint. She rallied quickly, eyeing the clock. “Got to run, coz. See you tomorrow night.”

  “Great. ’Bye.”

  “Coz?”

  “Huh?”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Right, I got the cake ordered at Begelman’s, we’ll pick up the ice cream after church tomorrow, and Rich Beth is going to give her honey a file folder for his nonexistent investments.”

  “No, no,” protested Judith. “I mean,” she paused, catching her breath, “our mothers. I haven’t called mine yet today.”

  “You haven’t?” said Renie in mock surprise. “Gee, I’ve only talked to mine four times and it isn’t even three o’clock. How could you be so lucky as to have been given life by a woman whose idol wasn’t Alexander Graham Bell?”

  “Then they’re still alive?” inquired Judith.

  “Mine is,” replied Renie.

  “Hmmm. Fifty percent’s not bad. ’Bye.” Judith’s voice was breezy, but after she hung up the phone a frown creased her high forehead. The absence of controversy in Renie’s manner was only temporary, no doubt induced by a number of things, including the proximity of her eldest child’s birthday, the presence of Bill Jones, who didn’t like to hear about other people’s troubles unless he was being paid for it, and the possibility that Aunt Deb had murdered her sister-in-law Gertrude, but Renie didn’t want to mention it and spoil the upcoming family celebration. Judith carefully upended the copper mold shaped like a fish and put it in the refrigerator, then headed through the rear entryway toward the back porch. Stepping outside, she opened her mouth to call to Joe. But his red head was tipped to one side, and even from fifteen feet away, she could hear him gently snoring. In the other lawn chair, a darker head, streaked with gray, was tipped in the opposite direction. Carl Rankers also slept. Judith sighed and went back inside the house.

  Judith busied herself in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, getting out the sherry glasses, opening a box of water wafers for the mousse. Like Renie, she wasn’t keen on having her husband trot off to New Orleans without her. Also like Renie, Judith had work that held her hostage. She could hardly leave Hillside Manor when such august guests as Mario Pacetti and Herr Schutzendorf were booked. And though she had initially dreaded Joe’s absence during much of their stay, she realized it might be just as well. Joe had been a very good sport thus far about sharing his new home with all manner of assorted guests. But the explosive tenor, famous for his forays onstage and off, could upset even a hardened homicide cop such as Joe Flynn. After all, Joe was entitled to his peace and quiet after a rough day examining crime scenes. With Mario Pacetti on her own scene, Judith felt that there might not be a lot of peace or quiet.

  She was, of course, absolutely right.

  TWO

  “LISTEN, YOU LAMEBRAINED knothead, I’m not paying for Deb’s damned dresser skirt! It’s your cat that did the damage, and you can pony up to buy her a new one!”

  Judith held the phone out from her ear a good six inches, wishing her mother’s voice had grown as feeble as her legs. “You wanted to keep Sweetums with you,” Judith countered, bringing the receiver back in place. “He followed you to Deb’s while Joe and I were on our honeymoon. Why can’t you make him behave?”

  “Behave! Ha!” rasped Gertrude in her voice made of gravel. “Since when did that mange-ball ever know how to behave? I had less trouble raising you than this cat. And that’s saying something, Toots. Or have you forgotten how you used to sit inside the fireplace and smoke up the chimney?”

  Judith hadn’t, but almost thirty years later, it seemed beside the point—particularly since she had quit smoking a few years earlier, while her mother refused even to consider giving up her favorite vice, especially now, when she knew how much it annoyed Deb.

  “Another thing,” railed Gertrude, “Deb says she wants to get a new parakeet. Nasty creatures, all they do is squawk and poop, which figures, because that’s about all Deb does, too, but she says she can’t have a bird as long as I’ve got Sweetums. I’d like to give her the bird all right, but to be fair—and you can’t say I’m not that,” she went on hurriedly, just in case Judith should try, “the least you can do is come and get this loathsome monster before Deb tries to cook him for dinner. Which, I might add, would taste better than the pot roast she fixed last night. It was like eating a ball of twine.”

  Judith rubbed at her temples, ruffling the new permanent she had gotten the previous week at Chez Steve’s Salon. Aunt Deb was actually an excellent cook, which was no mean feat considering that she had to work her wonders at the stove from a wheelchair. Gertrude was basically fond of Sweetums. The two sisters-in-law were, deep down, fond of one other, each in her own way. But four months under the same roof was straining the fabric of affection. Obviously, matters were boiling to crisis proportions. Judith toyed with the idea of telling her mother about the toolshed, then decided to hold off. At least until Joe was out of town.

  “Mike got a 97 on his forest products test,” Judith said brightly. “He called me last night.”

  “Hunh. He didn’t call me. I haven’t heard from the little bugger since he took off for college. Not,” she added hastily, “that I’m one for yakking on the phone. Like some I could name who are sitting pretty damned close listening in and eating my leftover birthday cake.”

  “It is her grandson’s birthday cake,” Judith noted mildly. “Didn’t we have a nice time at Bill and Renie’s Sunday?”

  “Bill and Renie are idiots,” said Gertrude. “They spoil those kids something awful. Too many presents. What does Tom need with another leather jacket? He’s got three; I counted ’em in the hall closet. And that big radio thing, it looks like you could drive it home. Sweaters? What does he do, wear six of ’em at once? You got Mike a belt for his birthday last August. Now that was sensible.”

  “Well…yes,” agreed Judith, rolling her eyes. Gertrude had not known about the slacks, two shirts, four CDs, wristwatch and new car seat covers that had been sneaked past her. At least Joe hadn’t pitched a fit at Judith’s extravagance, but he could hardly afford to when she had lavished as many gifts on him. And on the same day, since her husband and son shared their birthdays.

  “Look, Mother, I’m off to Falstaff’s Market in a couple of minutes to shop for the next batch of guests.” Judith shuddered at the suggested list of favorite foods submitted by the opera company. “I’ll swing by and bring anything you and Aunt Deb need, okay?”

  “Chloroform,” said Gertrude with bite. “I’m not saying whether I’ll use it on Deb or the cat.”

  “Look,” said Judith, keeping a check on her impatience and yielding to compromise, “once this bunch of opera people, who are due in tomorrow leave, I’ll bring Sweetums back here, okay?”

  “When’s that?” grumbled Gertrude.

  “Two weeks.” Judith swallowed the words.

  “Two weeks!” shrieked Gertrude. “What are you doing, you stupe, adopting ’em?”

  “They’re staying through the duration of the production,” replied Judith a bit wearily. “But I promise, I’ll take Sweetums back then. And I’m going to…uh…well…”

  “Well, what?” snapped Gertrude. “Quit mumbling, Judith Anne. What are you going to do, ship me to a pest house?”

  Judith emitted as long sigh. “I’m figuring something out, Mother. Just give me time, okay?”

  “You’ll need it, kiddo. Any time you figure something out with that short-circuited brain of yours…”

  “Mother, I’ve got to run, really. I’ll get you some ni
ce pickled pigs’ feet.”

  “Well.” Gertrude sounded temporarily assuaged. “Tongue, too?”

  “Sure. And chicken gizzards.”

  “That’s my girl,” said Gertrude and slammed down the phone.

  With her wide shoulders slumping, Judith didn’t replace the receiver. Instead, she waited for the dial tone while she quickly leafed through her personal address book, going directly to the T’s. Skjoval Tolvang’s name leaped out at her. She dialed the master carpenter’s number and hoped he was still alive and building.

  Judith had expected a courtesy limo, a hired Rolls Royce, even a taxi. The mauve RV that cautiously backed into her driveway was at least forty feet long and so wide that it overlapped the grass. Discreetly curtained windows, one-way glass, and California vanity license plates reading “TEN-OR-ONE” allowed only the most subtle hint of the passenger’s identity. Judith quaked as the huge camper eased within inches of her garage.

  “What the hell is that?” gasped Renie as the cousins craned their necks in the living room’s big bay window. “Has Pacetti got the orchestra in there, too?”

  “That sucker must sleep at least six people,” said Judith. “Why do they need to stay here?” Seeing the driver, attired in mauve livery with a snappy cap, emerge from the front of the RV, Judith hopped off the window seat and headed for the French doors that led outside. “Lord, I hope they’re not going to park that behemoth here. We won’t be able to get in or out of the garage. It’s a good thing Joe’s got his MG at work.”

  Renie followed Judith outdoors. A woman was alighting, pretty and plump, with golden hair piled high and a mink coat tossed over her shoulders.

  “Signora Amina Pacetti,” announced the driver, who was assisting the first arrival with the descent. He spoke her name as if she were being presented at the Court of St. James.

  Judith swallowed, approached her guest, considered curtseying, and then put out her hand. “Buona sera,” she greeted Signora Pacetti, resurrecting a phrase from her 1964 visit to Italy. “Welcome to Hillside Manor.”

  Amina Pacetti’s handshake was delicate, but her scrutiny of the Grover homestead was hard. “Thees ees eet?”

  “Yeah, sorry, we couldn’t tow Windsor Castle this far,” murmured Renie, who, fortunately, was several feet behind her cousin.

  But Signora Pacetti’s hearing was acute. “Yes? You what?”

  Over her shoulder, Judith shot Renie a menacing look. “This is my cousin, Mrs. Jones. She was saying that we’re sorry there’s a hassle about, uh…” Judith stopped, her usually glib tongue immobilized by the sight of the enormous bearlike bearded man who came to earth with the impact of a cannonball.

  “Signor Pacetti,” gulped Judith, over small squeaking noises of protest from Renie, “we’re honored to have you here at…’

  “Nein!” growled the bear, twirling a walking stick with a boar’s head ornament as if it were no heavier than a pencil, “I am not the great Pacetti, I am a mere minion, a cog in the wheel, a miniscule captain of industry!” He made a courtly bow, and Judith realized her mistake. The Tyrolean hat with its jaunty black feather, the flowing green cape, the suede vest with its brass buttons bespoke a colder climate than sunny Italy.

  Judith tried again. “You are…”

  “Schutzendorf!” The large man rumbled with laughter and twirled his walking stick. “Ja, ja, me, I am merely…Schutzendorf!”

  “How…nice,” said Judith, now gazing frantically at Renie for support. But Renie was engaged in what appeared to be a somewhat frosty conversation with Signora Pacetti. Her cousin’s uncharacteristic loss of words was exacerbated by the emergence of a voluptuous redhead, whose short, tight skirt rode dangerously high on her thighs as she stepped down from the RV.

  “Hi! I’m Tippy! Where are we?”

  The pale, almost ascetic-looking man immediately behind her spoke in low, earnest tones. “This is our lodging, Tippy. It’s Hillside Manor. It’s a bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Ooooh!” Tippy bounced on the grass, no mean feat in her four-inch heels. “Bed! And breakfast! I love them both! So much! Ooooh! Cute! Ooooh!”

  Renie, who had disengaged herself from Signora Pacetti, tried to get close to Judith but was almost mowed down by Herr Schutzendorf, who was now stalking the lawn, from the ruined toolshed to the front rockery. His walking stick sank into the ground repeatedly; each time, Schutzendorf yanked it out as if he were pulling a spear from an enemy’s chest. Judith shuddered and greeted the pale man, who introduced himself as Mario Pacetti’s business manager, Winston Plunkett.

  “This is my assistant,” he added, motioning vaguely at the bouncing Tippy. “Ms. de Caro.”

  Judith waved at Tippy, who acknowledged the gesture with a tug of her upraised right hand, as if she were ringing a bell. Judith tried to smile.

  At the side of the RV, the driver was now assisting yet another personage. With bated breath, Judith waited, feeling Renie finally at her elbow. “Signor Mario Pacetti,” intoned the driver, as his master disdained further help.

  Pacetti was short, dapper, and rather round. His black hair was plastered to his head, parted on the side, and coaxed into gleaming waves. He wore a maroon velvet smoking jacket, a cream ascot, and sharply pressed black trousers. A diamond on his left little finger caught the October sun as he shielded his eyes. His gaze took in the house, the small patio, the garage, the garden. The toolshed.

  “Dio mio!” he cried. “Assassini!” With amazing grace, he turned around and flew back inside the RV.

  Judith, Renie, and Winston Plunkett had followed Pacetti’s gaze. So apparently, had Signora Pacetti, who now moved hurriedly toward the others. She grabbed Plunkett’s arm, shaking it like a dust mop and speaking in rapid-fire Italian.

  “I tried to explain,” murmured Renie. “She noticed the toolshed, too. She thought it was anarchists.”

  Herr Schutzendorf had stomped back to the vicinity of the RV. Bushy brows knitted together under the brim of his Tyrolean hat. The sunlight bounced off a silver medallion that held the rakish feather in place. “Vell? Have ve a problem, Mr. Plunkett?”

  Tactfully trying to free himself from the agitated Signora Pacetti, Plunkett gazed over her head to the German record magnate. “I seriously doubt it, Mr. Schutzendorf. I’m sure this minor damage can be easily explained.” Plunkett’s gray eyes rested hopefully on Judith.

  “Absolutely,” asserted Judith, finally regaining her aplomb. “It happened last summer, while my husband and I were out of town. We’re going to remodel it. In fact, the carpenter is coming Monday to give me an estimate.”

  “Ah.” Plunkett’s long, thin face didn’t exactly light up, but he appeared relieved. In what sounded like perfect Italian, he relayed Judith’s explanation to Mrs. Pacetti. Her flushed, if flawless, cheeks began to return to normal. As she let go of Plunkett’s pin-striped suit sleeve, he turned toward the RV. Mario Pacetti was anxiously peering out the door.

  “No rivals? No critics? No paparazzi?” he asked in a speaking voice that was strangely unremarkable, given his reputation as a singer.

  After several exchanges between the tenor, his wife, his business manager, and Bruno Schutzendorf, Pacetti alighted from the mauve conveyance. He moved lightly on his feet, chin, chest—and chubby paunch—protruding. Judith was reminded of a rooster. Indeed, she recalled hearing that because of his many quarrels in the opera world, he was known as The Fighting Cock. And to the cognoscenti, he was Le Coq d’Or.

  At last, the group was herded inside, past the watchful eyes of Mrs. Dooley, who was putting tulip bulbs in next to the fence that separated her property from Hillside Manor, past Jeanne and Jim Ericson, who had come home early from their respective jobs, and past Arlene Rankers, who had happened to come outside to hang up her washing for the first time since she’d acquired her dryer in 1963. Out front in the cul-de-sac, the arrival at Hillside Manor had drawn a small crowd: Gabe Porter, who lived across the street, looked up from under the open hood of his four-wheel drive
; Dooley, the news carrier, backped-aled on his route with the evening paper; a messenger on a bike from Scooter’s Delivery Service pulled up at the curb next to a gray sedan Judith didn’t recognize. She felt like selling tickets.

  Renie was pressed into service to help settle the menagerie in their new lodgings. The front bedroom, which was the largest of the five and had its own private bathroom, was given to Mario Pacetti in deference to his greatness. His wife was ushered next door, overlooking the bay, the mountains to the west, and the sharp angles of the Ericsons’ very modern house. Tippy de Caro adjoined Mrs. Pacetti, which would hopefully work out, because the women would have to share a connecting bathroom. Plunkett and Schutzendorf had been assigned the two small guest rooms down the hall. Originally one large room, Judith had put in a movable divider as well as two half-baths in her extended remodeling project. Judith feared that the pared-down accommodations might not hold Herr Schutzendorf, and said so to Renie.

  “Hell wouldn’t hold him either, so don’t worry about it,” counseled Renie as the cousins finally collapsed at the kitchen table. “Jeez, I don’t envy you the next two weeks with this crew. You’re right; it’s a good thing Joe won’t be around for most of the time. If it were Bill, he’d have to put himself in therapy. But I’m glad I saw Pacetti up close. Briefly.”

  Splitting a can of Pepsi between them, Judith shoved a glass at Renie. “At least the RV is out of here. I guess the driver stays at a motel.”

  “I’d forgotten that Pacetti won’t fly,” said Renie, removing the lid of Judith’s sheep-shaped cookie jar and extracting a couple of date bars. “He goes everywhere by ship, train, or RV. He insists it not only cuts down on risk, but on overusing his voice. The jet plane has ruined many a voice, according to him. Too many engagements.”

  Judith, who was not as serious an opera buff as Renie, inclined her head. “It makes sense, I guess. I wonder why they didn’t take the train from San Francisco.”

  Renie gave a little shrug and munched on a date bar. “Schutzendorf probably couldn’t fit in a sleeping compartment. Jeez, coz, he’s almost as big as Dan!”