Caruso’s good luck shot.
Those were really bad times, I recalled reluctantly, even with a mixture of awe and relief. That I’d survived Miss V’s betrayal was a testament to my strength and fortitude. However, I’d persuaded myself that the entire experience was ancient history. As always, I, Darren McKay—my stage name— intended to keep planting my feet firmly in the here and now.
Time to leave. I’d have an hour to run a few errands before meeting Nathan at the Neapolitan Hilton for lunch. I’d called Gianni and invited him to join us.
On impulse, I shunned my usual garb of jeans, tee and leather jacket, and decided to spruce up in my new silk suit and collarless dress shirt. Gianni had introduced me to a Neapolitan tailor that made suits to order, which fit my build and long legs as if I’d been born in them. Those debonair suits announced to the world the wearer’s success and sophistication, according to Antonio the tailor. Whimsically, I put on my pair of gray and black, ostrich-skin Western boots. Only then did I feel comfortable.
Leaving Musetta at the albergo, I took a cab and picked Gianni up on the way. Over a lunch of steaks and drinks in the hotel grill restaurant, Nathan and I talked business.
I liked Nate Bernstein. He was no-nonsense New Yorker, spoke out of the side of his mouth, and even though he had a shock of premature white hair, he was only in his forties. He had a thriving talent agency that specialized in opera singers and classical musicians. Ever since my professional debut a little over five years ago, he’d believed in my talents and I was grateful to him for that.
Gianni understood English well enough to follow our conversation but he listened more than he spoke. His English was like my spoken Italian, consisting of present-tense verbs. We had no future and no past although people tended to understand by the context of the sentence. Like Hugh, Gianni was an upbeat companion but he was far more gentlemanly in his etiquette than either Nate or I.
“Gianni is a horn player,” I told Nate. “French horn, tuba, trumpet, coronet. He wants to tour the U.S. Can you arrange something for him? Maybe an exchangeship with the symphony orchestra here in Naples?”
Nate stroked his salt-and-pepper goatee and nodded. Gianni’s eyes popped open and he gushed forth something in rapid Italian.
“Oh, scusi, I forget. I am excited. I love americani and I want to see your country.”
They exchanged business cards and the three of us clicked glasses. Nathan smiled wryly at me over his drink. It wasn’t the first time he’d done me a favor and per our tacit quid-pro-quo agreement, I figured I owed him one now. Another client.
“D.J., now that you’ve agreed to those bookings for next year and the following, I’d like to propose your doing a recording. I’ve spoken with Art Deco and they’d like you to do a crossover album. Y’know, a mix of your favorite opera arias with some pop music or Broadway hits. Domingo is doing it, so is Bucelli. Why not you, D.J.? What do you say? Can I contact them and say you’re interested?”
I was flattered by Art Deco’s interest in my singing abilities, meanwhile hoping that they wouldn’t market a potential album based on sex-appeal only. I’d had enough promo photo shoots with rail-thin models and ambitious starlets to feel like a slab of beef at a meat market. However, a crossover album might get the younger generation—MY generation—actually interested in classical music. If that happened, I’d be more than pleased and willing to put in the work involved.
“Sure, I’m interested. Would I get to choose the music?”
“I believe so. The arias, anyway. They want to select the pop tunes. Mostly romantic stuff that’ll appeal to their female customers. I’ll let you know the details as soon as I speak to them. Then we’ll work out a schedule. Meanwhile, you can be thinking about your classical selections.”
Nate glanced at his watch, then darted a look at the dining room entrance. “I hope you don’t mind but when I heard that he was going to be in Naples the same week as I, I invited him to join us for drinks. He couldn’t make it for lunch, though. I think he was taking his daughter somewhere but he said he might look for us around two.”
Nate was talking around a mouth full of pasta primavera while Gianni looked horrified at his table manners. I was downing the last of my beer.
“Who’re you talking about, Nate?”
“Oh, sorry, I thought I told you on the phone.”
“No…” Immediately, I began to get uneasy. My agent certainly was aware of my romance with Miss V and, of course, he knew that David Fogel had married her.
Just then, I looked up. The bastard was standing at the entrance of the dining room…hesitating…holding the hand of a little girl with hair the color of a ripe carrot. A gray-haired woman was beside him. Probably the child’s nanny.
Miss V’s daughter.
I stared, I must admit, for too long, trying to compose myself and keep the telltale Irish flush of heat out of my face. It was futile, though, and when he approached our table, the little girl in tow, I had to look away. Not for long, though.
“Nathan. D.J. This is my daughter, Sara. She spends half of every summer with me. Just brought her back from a tour of Pompeii. With Nanny Phoebe’s help, of course. Sara got a little antsy after a while.” He indicated the older woman standing quietly behind him.
When I remained silent, Nathan introduced Gianni to the baritone. I stared at the pretty child, a four year-old. Looking for glimpses of Miss V in her features, I knew the child’s exact birth date. Sara’s face bore no resemblance to her mother’s, nor her eyes which were blue, like her father’s. Eva’s were hazel-green and slightly almond in shape. The girl’s complexion was creamy, like her father’s; Eva’s was a pale olive. But the girl’s hair, the thick, straight locks of russet, brown flecked with gold, tucked back at the sides with Minie Mouse barettes, was all Miss V.
I found myself exhaling a deep breath. And just stared.
“Hello, Sara,” I managed to say. I was thinking, This child, this little girl, could have been mine.
Then I looked up at the bastard. He was smiling smugly, his eyes narrowed. Gloating over his ability to still plunge in the dagger and give it a turn, no doubt. Getting back at me for my college romance with the woman he’d been in love with. Getting revenge for stealing her away from him.
However, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d done the equivalent of stabbing me in the back. I knew it was the SOB baritone who’d sent me that news clipping of their marriage. The impulse to deck him and flatten him on the floor warred in my mind with the surety that the bastard would love to see me lose my temper and upset the little girl.
I stood up with Nathan and Gianni as Nate formally invited him to join us.
“No, I’ll have to decline. Thank you, anyway. Sara needs a nap and I have several calls to make, including one to my father who’s in Rome. We’re on our way to meet him tomorrow. I must call Sara’s mother, too. She wants me to call every day to hear how we’re doing. I believe you’re acquainted with Sara’s mother, D.J. From our college days.”
I nodded and said nothing. How I itched to wipe that smirk off his face!
He bent over the child and smoothed her hair. “We’re having a great time, aren’t we, pumpkin?”
The little girl nodded, then shyly looked up at me. She tucked a forefinger in her mouth, flicked it against her bottom teeth—a habitual gesture of Miss V’s. When she smiled, it was her mother’s warm smile that flooded me suddenly with longing. When I sat down, smiling at the little girl in return, my insides were aching. For a minute, I couldn’t catch my breath.
Nate took his seat but kept his eye on Fogel. “I’m staying here, too, so I’ll call you and we’ll meet tonight, whenever you’re free. I may have an offer from La Scala for you. I met with Petrocelli two days ago in Milan and he was very interested.”
“How’s that, D.J.?” the baritone preened, “I might be making my European debut at La Scala. What d’ya think about that?”
Was I supposed to applau
d his opportunity to sing in one of the most famous and prestigious opera houses in the world? I’d been singing in Italy for nearly three years and had never once been invited to sing in the Super Bowl of opera venues.
“Better watch out,” I told him, “La Scala’s a tough crowd. Hard to please, those Milanese. They booed Pavarotti and he never went back. Think you can handle that kind of an audience?”
The bastard smirked and ignored my question. He was still eyeing me as he set up a time to meet with Nate. The blood thundered in my head until I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“How IS she?” I finally asked the SOB when he began to take his leave. In my peripheral vision, I could tell that both Nate and Gianni were staring at me, for I couldn’t take my eyes off the little girl.
“If by SHE, you mean MY WIFE, she’s just fine, D.J.”
He turned to leave and the child glanced back at me, I swear, a look of pity in her sweet, pretty face. She had no idea who I was nor the role I played in her mother’s life. Yet, I sensed a connection of sorts…
After the baritone left, I began to breathe a little easier and my fists relaxed. Nate continued to stare at me, a perplexed expression creasing his face.
“Well, that was odd.”
“What was?” I asked.
“David and Eva have been divorced at least two years now. Why would he call her HIS WIFE? Little Sara is almost four and I know for a fact that Eva went back to Texas just before they filed for divorce. I believe, when the little girl was just a toddler.”
It was now my turn to stare at Nate. I didn’t think I heard him correctly. When he saw the total confusion in my look, he repeated himself.
“Didn’t you know they were divorced, D.J.? At least two years now. Strange, that David made it sound like they were still married. Maybe he was referring to his current wife. He remarried, I think, last year. You didn’t hear about all this? I thought surely your family would’ve told you.”
My open mouth snapped shut, my jaws clenched, as I hissed, “That sneaky son-uva-bitch!”
Alarmed, Nate flopped back in his chair. Gianni raised his hand in a typical Italian gesture of “What’s going on?”
“I’ll be back—got some unfinished business,” I growled as I lurched to my feet. “If I’m not back in five, you’ll find me in the hospital or the local jail.”
Okay, so THAT was a bit dramatic but the anger inside me sparked higher than the little bubble of joy and hope that was waiting just below. First things first.
I found him, the little girl and the older woman waiting by the elevators. When he saw me approach, he bent over and said something to the gray-haired woman. An elevator opened and he hustled the nanny and his daughter into it.
“I’ll be up shortly, pumpkin.” The door closed and then he turned to me, smiling crookedly, “So you finally found out—”
“I need to talk to you in private,” I said, “naw, this is as good a place as any.” Then I got in his face.
“What’s with you, asshole? I’ve never wanted any kind of competition with you. But I know it was YOU who sent that news clipping. YOU who couldn’t wait to steal her away the first chance you got—”
He held his ground and soon we were barking at each other with our noses six inches away. The security guard at the hotel entrance spoke rapidly into his walkie-talkie. As far as we were concerned, we were the only two in that hotel. We had tunnel vision, we were so enraged at each other. Years of antagonism erupted and spewed out.
“It didn’t take much, D.J. She was so fed up with you by then. Your skirt-chasing, your high and mighty family, your spoiled, rich-ass punk airs. All I had to do was romance her a little—”
“You’re a lying son-uva-bitch!”
“Me, a liar! You’re the lying cheat! You broke it off but you couldn’t leave us alone! Calling my wife in the middle of the night! Making her cry! I should break your jaw—”
“Just try it, you fat bastard!”
That was it! He pushed me with both hands and the force of it surprised me, made me stagger backwards. I barely kept to my feet. The impact knocked the breath out of me for an instant. It shouldn’t have surprised me, though, as he outweighed me by at least fifty pounds. He’d gotten so hefty, I felt like I’d been hit by a wall of bricks. That really heated my blood. I was dying to get in a punch and I could’ve just then but I kept seeing the little girl’s face, smiling at me. What would she think if I hit her father? What would Eva think?
Too fucking bad!
I shoved him back, putting my full weight into it. He hit the marble wall behind him with a thud. He yelled at me and pushed himself off, his fists up and ready. I swore at him, inviting him to take a swing, egging him on so I could get in a good, solid punch. My fist was yearning to plant a knuckle sandwich right in his smug, fat face. He advanced and swung. Missed by a mile. I snuck in a left-handed jab to his jaw. His head bounced back. Then he came at me full force, bear-hugged me so hard I couldn’t breathe. When I pulled back to get in another punch, his fist came out of nowhere and split my lip. Blood spurted and I wiped it with my knuckles.
My vision tunneled to a pin point. All I could see was his sneer. I aimed for it-THUD! It was his turn to bleed. Right above his right eye, I’d connected good and hard. Before I could go after him again, two armed carabinieri in black uniforms pulled us apart. Restraining us, they yelled at us in Italian. They had Uzis strapped to their backs and angry frowns on their faces. Italian police were not known for their patience and they wrenched our arms behind our backs. One got his handcuffs out.
“Va bene,” I called out, “Espere. Non importante.” I couldn’t spend the night in jail; I had a performance to do! And I was going to sing that night with a fat lip!
The baritone and I glanced around. A small crowd of men and women surrounded us. Nate and Gianni stood on the fringe of the crowd, both clearly shocked and both clearly enjoying the spectacle. The SOB and I looked at each other, then away. Fogel was sweating and red-faced. I was panting. We were both bleeding.
A photographer from one of the Napoli dailies clicked our photo. A guy next to him had a video camera still rolling. From the barrage of Italian voices around me, I realized the journalists had already identified us. Damn!
I think the SOB and I both felt more than a little foolish at that point. We calmed ourselves down and I straightened my new silk jacket. One of the carabinieri wanted to know the cause of our scuffle as he wrote down something in a notebook.
“Niente. A causa de una donna,” I explained, blowing air out my cheeks.
Italian men understood disputes over women, so they nodded, even chuckled, one clapping me on the back while the other smaller guard eyed the hefty baritone.
“Si, una donna. Como sempre.”
“Amici? Si non, lasciate,” the taller guard said, telling us to make up or go our separate ways. “Friends? No? Then we go to police station.”
“Amici, non,” I said, backing up a step. NEVER again would we be friends! I held up my hands, palms outward. “Stiamo nemico.” We’re enemies.
Fogel and I glared at each other for a long, tense moment before he moved away. The carabinieri watched impassively, secretly smirking no doubt. Italian men would have pulled out stilettos, at the very least, for the pride of their manhood but I couldn’t care less about their disdain. I could just see the caption under the news photo: Two divos fight like sissies over a woman.
The carabiniere with the notebook thrust it under my nose.
“Autografia, signor McKay. Per favore.”
As I signed, I heard Nate say to Gianni, “More publicity than I could ever’ve planned.” Then he gave Fogel’s and my names to the reporter. He spelled both names and included our current roles and opera houses.
Jeez, Nate, our agent and publicist, was happy. I wondered if he’d plotted our little rendezvous, hoping for such an outcome. He declared hotly afterwards that he hadn’t. Meanwhile, Gianni bent over, suppressing a laugh.
Fogel snarled and flipped me the bird as I watched him take the next elevator. The two guards kept an eye on me as I returned to the dining room with Nate and Gianni.
My face must’ve been beet red, flushed to my widow’s peak.
“Are you okay?” Gianni asked.
“I need a drink!” I announced to no one in particular.
We sat down again at our table and waiters, looking clearly disappointed that the confrontation hadn’t resulted in more bloodshed, appeared to pair up to compare notes on what just happened. Ignoring them, I finished off the remaining drink and called for another.
“Che cosa— what happens, D.J., with that man?” Gianni asked.
“Gianni, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” I looked over at Nate, an idea forming once my head cleared and my temper cooled down. My agent was taking a long swig from his drink. He was still pleased about the free publicity.
“I knew someday you two were going to lock horns, ever since I learned that Eva and David were married right after you and she broke it off—I thought it strange when he insisted on meeting us here. But I assumed it was water over the dam.”
“Nate, it had to happen sooner or later,” I shrugged it off, already moving on, my Irish temper dissipating quickly. In its place, that little bubble of hope and joy was swelling and rising. “Having us both for clients mustn’t be a walk in the park for you. But listen, I have an idea. In Munich, I saw that operetta, The Merry Widow—sung in German, of course. The one by Franz Lehar. I liked the story and the melodies and especially the waltz tunes…”
“Ah yes,” Gianni piped in, then began to hum a familiar waltz that is played everywhere.
Born to Sing, no. 1 Page 11
