Born to Sing, no. 1

by Donna Del Oro

  Serena stirred from her seat and came over to stand by Eva. The girl put a solacing hand on the older woman’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you and David. From his memoirs, evidently D.J. found out about your marriage when he got that news clipping in the mail. Did you ever find out who sent it?”

  Eva nodded. “There was a lot of sabotage going around that winter. D.J.’s mother sending those photos of him and that blonde, David sending D.J. the newspaper article. He told me he wanted to make sure D.J. and I were finished, that D.J. wouldn’t try to steal me away. Of course, D.J. and I sabotaged our relationship in our own foolhardy ways. Ultimately, it was David, himself, who drove me away.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “One night, when little Sara was about fourteen months old, I took a call. An overseas operator asked me if I was Eva Fogel. I said I was and then the party came on the line…but there was nothing. No one was speaking. I kept saying, Hello, hello, is anybody there? Then when the silence continued, I knew. I said, ‘ D.J., is that you? Please don’t call me. I can’t bear it.’ After another moment, he said—and I could tell he’d been drinking for he was slurring his words—’Evie, I just needed to hear your voice…I miss you. Are you alright?”

  Eva wrapped her arms about her, hugging them to her as if all the yearning in that call could dispel the chill she felt.

  “I told him I had a daughter, that David was the father. He said, ‘I know. I’ve been keeping tabs. I still miss you.’ I broke down, started crying—who knows, maybe it was hormones or something—but I sat there, crying on the bed. Then I told him I missed him, too.”

  “Wow,” was all Serena had to say.

  “I had no sooner said that— I was jerked around. David wrested the receiver away from my hand, screamed into the phone, then slammed it down. I hadn’t heard him come into the room or I never would’ve said that in front of him. He was furious, I’d never seen him so enraged—he slapped me so hard across the face that my ears rang. I fell back on the bed and wept some more. He left, didn’t come home for two days. After that, he never hit me again but we withdrew from each other. I tried to make amends but I’d wounded his ego so badly, there was no healing the damage that’d been done. I think we tried a little, for Sara’s sake, but after Sara’s second birthday, we filed for divorce. I sent out my feelers through our New York agent, Nate Bernstein and a month later, the Houston Grand Opera hired me for the following season. It was time to go home.”

  “So you were a single mom, too?”

  Eva looked at Serena, surprised that she was old enough to have mothered a child.

  “I’ve got a two year-old son,” the reporter said, “only I was never married. The man I thought I was in love with turned out not to love me enough to marry me. At least, you HAD a husband, a good-paying career. By the way, what did David scream into the phone at D.J.?”

  “Something like, You spoiled dirt-bag, she’s mine now. Some such nonsense. Like he’d won a contest and I was the prize.” Eva shook her head. “It disgusted me.”

  “Wow, what a rivalry those two had going! And now you have another husband. How many times have you been married, may I ask?”

  “Twice and one too many. You’ll find someone, Serena. Keep the faith. It takes an enormous leap of faith to get married nowadays. I followed my head the first time and it was a disaster—well no, not completely. I have Sara from that mistake. The second time I followed my heart AND my head. My heart most of all.”

  “It’s not fun being a single parent.”

  “No, it’s not. Despite being home and having a fulfilling career, those were not my happiest years, as I recall. Still, those years made me even stronger and more resilient than I ever thought I could be. I also learned that being independent is better than staying in a relationship that doesn’t work.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” the reporter said, grinning hopefully. “Was David a good father?”

  “Oh yes, he spent as much time with Sara as he could. We had an arrangement whereby one of us would fly to the other twice a month, me with our daughter to Chicago or David to Houston to see Sara. We even talked about getting back together for Sara’s sake, but we were halfhearted about the idea. Then David met a marvelous woman, fell in love and that was that. I was living in the Kingwood area north of Houston and Vonnie was with me, helping to take care of Sara on performance nights and taking classes at UT. She was a music major, too.”

  “Oh yeah? What does she do? Is she an opera singer, too?”

  Eva chuckled and checked her watch. “Yvonne Lobos, she goes by now. No, just the opposite. She has a great alto voice, perfect for Latino salsa, rock, blues, R & B. At the present, she sings with a band in Dallas. We see her fairly often. Sara’s very close to her.”

  Suddenly starting for the bedroom, Eva called behind her. “Come in here with me. While I pack, we’ll talk.”

  Serena followed her. “I want to know whatever happened to D.J. I mean, I know what happened with his career. He sang all over Europe, made albums, did concerts, probably made bucket loads of money. He became famous and won the hearts of women all over the world. That’s according to my mother, one of his biggest fans. Did he ever get married or is it true, what my mother’s said, that he stayed a bachelor all his life?”

  Eva folded a pair of jeans and placed them on a neat stack of wool pants. “D.J. used to say, marriage for the McKay men was like a lifetime commitment of love. Or life in prison. When they married, it was for good, whether you hated her guts or worshipped the ground she walked on. They didn’t enter into marriage lightly, being devout Catholics. But you’d have to ask him which one it was. Marriage for him, I mean.”

  Eva paused over her suitcase, then flashed Serena an enigmatic smile.

  Chapter Seven

  Eva looked around at the four large pull-mans by her bed. Three were already packed and she was working on the last one. Her heart began to skip excitedly. Soon she’d be home! Her excitement was tempered with a twinge of fear. What would she find there?

  The phone rang and she reached to pick it up, glancing at Serena, who was backing out of the bedroom to give her privacy.

  “Serena, get the book on the cocktail table, Darren McKay’s memoir. There’s a chapter you should read. Skip the one—I think it’s twelve or thirteen—about the roles he sang while in Munich and Naples. His developing career in Europe. Those chapters are rather technical, about his voice and the way he developed and maintained it. The one following those two—”

  She picked up the cordless phone. Her heart leaped when she heard his voice.

  “Hello, my darlin’ devil. How’re you feeling?”

  His reply heartened her, buoyed her spirits. She listened for a moment as he relayed what he’d been doing that day. He asked about her farewell party and when she was coming home.

  “I’ll be leaving for the airport in one hour. There’s a young woman, a journalist, here—I’ve been passing the time with her…Yes, as far as I know, the plane’ll be leaving on time…so you’ll meet me at the airport in Austin…Are you sure you’re feelin’ up to it? Okay…yes, I’m dying to see you, too. Soon, very soon. Bye, sweetheart.”

  She placed the phone on its cradle just as Serena rapped on the door. Inviting the girl to come back in, she then returned to her careful, methodical packing. How many suitcases she’d packed over the years, traveling to one singing venue or another, Eva couldn’t begin to sum up. Too many, probably. Now she was packing for the last time.

  “Oh yes, I’ve found it,” chirped Serena, “Shall I read it aloud? You don’t mind?”

  “Please do. I’ll help you with the Italian. By then, D.J.’d had become fairly proficient in German, Italian and French. By the way, this is very frank, his affairs with other women. He said he wasn’t going to write a memoir that was hypocritical. I think this book was a kind of catharsis for him.”

  “I’ve got to buy my own copy, read it and give it to my mot
her. She’d get such a charge out of reading Darren McKay’s own words. She thinks he’s such a stud!”

  * * * *

  “Oggi fa freddo…” I heard the girl complain about the weather before continuing in more rapid Italian, “Te amo, Da-REN, ma e necesario…”

  My head ached. Then my stomach tumbled over once, twice. Again, I woke up shit-faced! Slowly, I remembered where I was and what I’d done the night before. Rather, how many times I’d done it to…who? Ah, Gina. Gina—she was talking to me, thinking I was fully awake and functioning. What the hell was she saying? My head was struggling with the Italian.

  Too much to drink…too little sleep…but it had been my night off and I was in the mood to have a good time. Gina was the latest in a string of meaningless sex partners but she had curves in all the right places and a generous mouth. Boy, what she could do with that mouth!

  “Che ora e, Gina?” I managed to ask her.

  “Alla otto ,,, aye, non me ascolta, Da-REN!”

  “Cosa ha detto?” Too hung over to translate from English to Italian, which is what I still had to do, I forced my tongue off the roof of my cottony mouth. After trying to curl it into the rounded Italian vowels, I gave up and let her do the talking. I opened one bleary eye, then the other and watched her dress. Her short dark curls were bouncing as she wiggled into her short, tight skirt and snug tank top.

  It was August of 1991 and a warm spell had just been swept aside by a cool front off the Mediterranean. I loved the heat of Naples in the summer—reminded me of Texas summers— but didn’t mind an occasional day of cooling breezes off the coast.

  Next came her wedged high heels, all the while a stream of rapid Italian flowed from her. I caught about half of what she was saying for I’d been living in Italy nearly three years, having taken a contract with L’Opera di Napoli two years after the Munchen Staatsoper.

  I was being paid more than I ever dreamed of earning and my career had taken off NASA rocket-style. At first I was typecast as a lyric tenor, the kind that sing the likeable, vulnerable male roles, the guys that love too much and end up losing the girl. Luciano Pavarotti was a “lyric tenor”, albeit the best of his generation. But over the years my voice had strengthened and developed a deeper, more masculine quality, so I was being given “spinto tenor” roles, the heroic kind of roles. Placido Domingo is a spinto tenor. Anyway, my current principal role was as the young Lieutenant Pinkerton in Puccini’s Madame Butterfly, a heartless cad of a figure. An anti- hero role. The creative director thought it amusing to cast an American as a coldhearted American. He must’ve heard of my reputation with women. Even my friend, Gianni, said it wasn’t much of a stretch for me, acting-wise. Actually, it wasn’t a stretch for my voice either.

  Anyway, here I was, being dumped by a teary-eyed “bella ragazza”. From what I could translate in my hazy state, Gina believed in trading up, and so she was moving on to a banker…or maybe she was saying barber. In any event, she’d left an auto mechanic for a flight attendant, then left him for me. Now the banker or barber.

  “Least you’re movin’ up in the world,” I mumbled in English before yawning widely.

  “Scusi?” Her dark eyes had actually filled with unshed tears.

  “Niente. Va bene,” I assured her, no need to cry or pretend to cry. The girl’s dramatics didn’t fool me. She didn’t love me anymore than I loved her. Our celebration the night before was merely one last sentimental f#@*k. Who cared?

  Yet, to play my part in Gina’s little farce, I lay there in bed, propped up by pillows, pretending to be shocked and hurt. It was something I’d learned from Italian men. After all, by Italian standards, it was the gentlemanly thing to do. To show how crushed you were. It was like opera, a big show of emotion. Even when you felt nothing.

  When she paused at the bedroom door, I blew her a kiss.

  “Ciao, bella donna!” Though she was hardly a “lady.”

  “Ciao, Da-REN.” She dabbed at her eyes, gave a final bounce of those curls and left.

  I’d known it was about to end, our brief six-week fling. I’d done it before. The time would always come when I’d tire of them, or vice versa. Or the girl would become possessive and demanding, would hint at commiting to a more serious arrangement. Then I’d put into effect what I called “easing out.”

  Or as my Aussie friend, Hugh, the amateur psychologist called it, passive-aggressive behavior. I’d stop buying little gifts, make excuses to go clubbing with the guys from the opera company. Or I’d persuade her to stay at my place and play old Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson tapes. Or worse—the real clincher, when the girl couldn’t take a hint— I’d play my guitar and sing American country tunes. The Italian girls disliked these even more than the German girls. Before long—maybe a week or two—the girl was looking elsewhere for companionship and I was off the hook.

  Anyway, that morning I was lying in bed, looking up at the plastered ceiling. For a couple of hours I was free to do as I pleased. A long run up to the base of Mount Vesuvius and back would recharge my batteries. Or kill me. Either way, I’d flush the latest chick out of my head and punish my body—a kind of Catholic guilt penance.

  Then I’d shower and meet Nathan Bernstein for lunch at the Neapolitan Hilton. The talent agent was in Europe, visiting all his clients, doing the personal face-to-face thing, going over schedules for the upcoming opera season, making advance bookings.

  I was living in a family-run hotel owned by Signor and Signora Pusateri. Home was a three-room suite with a separate entrance, a stone stairway off the central courtyard. On my working days, I’d return from the opera house at midnight or, if we were psyched up by an especially fine performance, I’d go out with my Italian buddy, Gianni, a French horn player in the orchestra. We’d go to some bistros or take in a jazz or R and B club. Then I’d sleep ‘til ten or eleven, run, shower, have lunch in a nearby cafe and race back to the theater. My main mode of transportation was my Harley hog, which I’d named Musetta, after the mischievous coquette in La Boheme. I could thread my way through Napoli traffic on Musetta like a frantic mail courier.

  My days off, Gianni and I would roam the countryside on our bikes or drive out to Gianni’s hometown village, Orvieto, where Signor Faschano was “il solo dottore.” Gianni boarded his horse near Signor Faschano’s little villa. I’d rent a bay gelding and we’d ride in the hills among the olive trees and vineyards. An afternoon ride like that would help restore me, get me past the occasional bout of homesickness and would fill the void that engulfed me once in a while.

  Overall, I was content. Always prudent with money, despite my impulsive ways, I’d been saving a bundle of money and hadn’t touched my trust income in almost four years. Thanks to my brother, Matt’s astute investments, my trust was now worth a little over three million American dollars. My salary was probably more than I deserved, this Texas boy who’d come late to the opera party. Lately, I’d considered buying a nice cabin cruiser to motor around in the bay; I could cruise over to Capri with Gianni and a bunch of girls in bikinis. Even hug the coastline and go up north to Civitavecchia or to the picturesque, terraced villages of Cinque Terre.

  My Aussi pal, Hugh, was singing in Rome at Il Teatro Municipal di Roma and once a month he’d come to the coast. We’d rent a boat and tool over to Capri, have some limoncellos and buy some citrusy perfume for our latest girlfriends.

  Even though I could’ve bought a flat in Naples, I liked staying at Albergo Pusateri. The signora would bring me thick, good-tasting lattes in the morning, I’d sample her pasta dishes before heading off to the theater. Carbs were good before a rigorous six-hour stint on performance night. To the average Italian, an opera singer was like a god, and so the Pusateris treated me well. Very well, indeed. More important, there was a warm family atmosphere at the albergo, one that I’d been missing.

  My two trips home to Texas each year were not enough, it seemed, but I settled for it. That one Christmas I spent in Garmisch instead of going home, I have to admit, was becaus
e I couldn’t bear to be in the same country as Miss V, let alone the same state. Sounds pathetic but there it was.

  I caught hell that Christmas from my mother and brother, Matt, who’d missed me from the tone of their phone calls. I know my mother worried I’d marry a European girl and then stay abroad forever. Big Jim was pleased that I hadn’t turned out to be some lazy, rich punk with no purpose in life. I think he even took some pride in my singing success though he never admitted it to my face.

  So now I was between girlfriends again. So what! I’d go clubbing and find a replacement soon enough. My “rules of engagement” were: No sopranos or any females in the cast, no married women or single mothers. Otherwise, the pool of available young women was fairly abundant. And, of course, I always practiced safe sex. I was impulsive and pleasure-seeking, not stupid.

  For some reason, this time I wasn’t looking forward to the chase or the quarry, a state of mind which worried me. Maybe I was getting weary or jaded about the whole game…Whatever the reason, it stumped me. It wasn’t healthy to be burnt out with the female sex.

  Maybe I was just homesick.

  Since my thoughts were wandering in a pointless, circular jumble, I jumped out of bed and pulled on my running shorts and a tee shirt. Then my running shoes, Nike’s best.

  Time for penance.

  An hour later I was back, showering and shaving. Grooming was simpler with my closely cropped hair, also better for tolerating those damned, itchy wardrobe wigs. At least, in Madame Butterfly I didn’t have to wear a wig. I’d convinced Roberto in Wardrobe that American Naval officers wore their hair this short.

  Opening my underwear drawer, I snatched a pair of black briefs, then paused to take hold of the small, four-ounce, silver flask Miss V had given me one August day in London. How long ago was that? Five years almost to the day. The corner of the flask was dented where I’d stomped on it in a jealous fit, just after I’d learned that she was in Chicago and staying in the baritone’s flat. It was nicked and scratched on the front and side and there was a sentimental inscription on the bottom of the flask. I took it out on every performance night, read the inscription, then filled it with two fingers of whiskey.