Born to Sing, no. 1

by Donna Del Oro

  Our right hands joined, hers encased in a black, kid leather glove. I looked up at Eva Villa’s face.

  For one awful moment, my head swam as my senses were assailed by her beauty, her exquisite coloring. Pale olive skin with just a tint of apricot, dark hazel- green eyes highlighted with dark brown mascara, a touch of blush at the plane of her cheekbones, crimson red lips, perfectly lined and limning a pretty, feminine mouth. Her mass of reddish-brown locks were now cut shorter, shoulder length, styled to curl under in a page-boy look.

  My gaze, transfixed to be sure, absorbed her clothes and erect posture. She wore a brick-red suede jacket and a matching long skirt over high-heeled, black leather boots. Her bosom swelled under a black, V-necked sweater as my eyes lingered a little too long on her torso. I forced my eyes back up to her face, meanwhile cursing myself for my physical reaction to her. God, she was stunning! As lovely as always but in a more sophisticated way.

  I felt a little dizzy and my tongue seemed glued to the roof of my mouth. I could not let go of her hand for fear this moment was just a figment of my imagination. I’d wanted it so badly—to see her, touch her, hear her voice. And here it was.

  Her eyes gave back nothing but amiable curiosity. I detected no fear or anger, no contempt or derision.

  Damn! She felt nothing for me?

  “Nice to see you again, D.J.”

  Her voice was soft and breathy, betraying no hint of the power of her projection abilities when in full singout. Then she smiled…a little tentatively at first, quickly blossoming into a wide grin, accompanied by a nervous giggle as she glanced self-consciously around the table.

  “Yes, I-I…yes, likewise.” My tongue had come unglued but dammit, not my senses, which were still reeling. My thoughts were spinning around in a mental maelstrom. I felt like a foolish schoolboy with a paralyzing crush.

  Her quick smile smoothly covered the awkward moment. She seemed compelled to explain our overly long handshake.

  “D.J. and I are old university friends. We’ve sung together many times. I think we’re both stunned by how much we’ve changed in…what, almost six years? We have changed, haven’t we?” She cut me a sharp look, then sat down.

  A dawning realization flickered over Travis’ face.

  “Ah yes, there’s history here—”

  “It’s always a pleasure to work with old friends,” I said blandly, recovering sufficiently to cut off the man’s speculative remarks. If he’d heard rumors from one of the Foundation people, it was no surprise. There were few secrets among theater folk, and opera artists were no exception.

  We took our seats and I desperately clasped my cup of coffee like it was a life preserver. Her remark was just now registering in my mind. How much we’ve changed…It was true. We had changed…

  My stomach bottomed out as I realized Eva was trying to send me a message: I no longer turned her on. Or maybe she was saying, I was the scum of the earth. The possibilities sent stabs of fear through me but there was nothing I could do for the moment. McKay men didn’t give up easily, though, and I was so determined, I swore to myself she’d have to shoot me between the eyes before I’d admit defeat and slink away.

  Now that she was sitting next to me, I caught a whiff of her scent—a lemony, floral perfume, subtle and yet distinct. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her shrug off her red suede blazer, helped by the man to her right. As she crossed her legs and plucked off her gloves, I opened my libretto book along with the others and tried to concentrate. It was a struggle, sitting so close to the woman who’d been hovering in the back of my mind for so long.

  So, it was with great relief that Travis Ball went straight to work. In crisp, British English, Travis summarized the setting and background of Franz Lehar’s The Merry Widow.

  “Some of you have already read the libretto or have seen performances of The Merry Widow but allow me to synopsize this excellent example of the Silver Age of the Viennese Operetta. Franz Lehar, an Austrian of Hungarian descent, was one of the early 20th century’s most outstanding composers of Viennese opera, and as such helped to usher in an era of unprecedented entertainment. His waltzes are famous throughout the world and this operetta is one of my personal favorites. And because it is an operetta, the recitatives which are normally sung in classical opera will be replaced by spoken dialogue. In effect, this type of operetta was the father to the Broadway musical.”

  Travis looked up at the novices in the cast, assuming that they wouldn’t know this. His adjusted his eyeglasses and surveyed the room. Satisfied that he had everyone’s rapt attention, he continued.

  “Now, friends, for the story of The Merry Widow. The year is 1905. The Balkan principality of Pontevedro faces bankruptcy, nearly all of this tiny country’s capital having been in the hands of the Court’s wealthy banker, Stefan Glawari. Late in life, Glawari married the beautiful daughter—” Travis paused to look up at Eva and smile.

  “—of a country landowner and three weeks later, had the misfortune to die, leaving her his entire fortune of forty million francs. Hannah Glawari, his merry widow, has left for Paris to…shall we say, find relief from her grief…”

  There was a titter of laughter among the four tables. One of the men reached across our table and tapped Eva’s right hand.

  “You haven’t had such good fortune, have you, Miss Villa?” the man teased. She merely glanced at him, smiled and moved her hand away.

  It was then that I noticed the diamond ring on the ring-finger of her right hand, the one I’d given her as an engagement ring that summer in Scotland. She’d never returned it and now she was wearing it! Why, for Pete’s sake, I wondered.

  “To continue, ladies and gentlemen, the ruling Prince of Pontevedro, knowing that Hannah Glawari is heading for Paris to console herself, sends an urgent message to his ambassador in Paris, Baron Zeta—”

  Travis indicated a man to Eva’s right, a barrel-chested, trim-bearded fellow who was the bass singer. The man, whose name I couldn’t recall, bowed his head in acknowledgement of the mild applause that followed the director’s gesture.

  “—warning him that the beautiful widow must marry a Pontevedrian and keep her enormous wealth within their tiny country’s bank. If she were to marry a Frenchman and move her wealth to France, the country would be bankrupt for the Pontevedrian government was living off the bank’s interest on her wealth…”

  There was no need to acknowledge Eva Villa as Hannah for everyone present knew which role she’d sing. Nevertheless, at Ball’s pause, I initiated the applause, which rippled throughout the hall. I scooted back my chair and watched her reaction. Eva’s fair complexion stained with a faint blush as she put up her hands.

  “Please, wait ‘til opening night. Let’s see if we have a hit.”

  There was a sprinkling of soft laughter. When she glanced in my direction, I let my gaze rest on the ring she wore on her right hand—the engagement ring I gave her. In a wash of memory, I recalled the day I gave it to her and the hot lovemaking that followed in our small London flat. My body reacted involuntarily to that memory and so I propped up one leg, one boot on the opposite knee, to conceal it. She, in turn, hid her hands under her arms as she crossed them over her chest. When she shot me a fulminating glance and tipped up her chin, I had to smile inwardly. She DOES feel something! I thought at that moment, there just might be a crack in her armor.

  “…and so Act One opens at the Pontevedrian Embassy in Paris. Baron Zeta, the Ambassador, is giving a ball in honor of the Prince’s birthday. One of his French guests proposes an enthusiastic toast—”

  The other table of minor roles stirred, among them the young men playing the three French aristocrats, including the French poet who attempts to steal away the baron’s young wife. Ball acknowledged these singers as well and polite applause ensued. As each principal character was mentioned, time was taken to point out the artist who would sing that role.

  “Baron Zeta has taken a young wife, Valencienne, a former Parisian dancer—�
� Ball acknowledged the young woman sitting at our table. She was a pretty brunette who kept glancing at me. A smattering of applause followed. “— who is conducting a risky flirtation with a French poet, Camille de Rossillon.” We clapped as the blond fellow singing the Camille role raised his hand in greeting. The brunette and the blond nudged each other flirtatiously, then she eyed me again. Oh great, another femme fatale, I thought. She could be trouble.

  “The guest of honor, the widow Hannah Glawari,” Ball continued, “arrives and instantly every French male is at her side, but she is well aware of their monetary motives—our very rich widow is no fool.”

  The man playing Kromov, Head of the Chancery at the Pontevedrian Embassy, sat across the table from Eva. He caught her attention, winked and smiled. Before she could respond, I speared him with a sharp, warning look and so he quickly reverted to his libretto copy, dipping his head into the thick book.

  “There is an opening number during the toast and another one between Valencienne and Camille who find a secluded place in the ballroom. Then Hannah, the French aristocrats and male chorus sing in a general greeting. Baron Zeta has explained the vital importance of protecting Hannah from fortune-hunting Frenchmen, and so he introduces his new attache, Count Danilo…”

  Ball indicating me, there was a smattering of polite applause, even a few catcalls from the young female dancers. Eva turned slightly in my direction and leveled such a hateful stare on me that I dropped my eyes. I had to school the McKay curse so my face wouldn’t flush.

  “Girls, please…some decorum here. Anyway, Baron Zeta has his eye on Count Danilo as the ideal husband for the widow. We discover from their song of greeting that they had known each other in Pontevedro, had been in love at one time, but Danilo’s family had shipped him off to Paris to end the affair—a farmer’s daughter was out of the question for an aristocratic Lieutenant of Hussars, you see. That was why Hannah married old Glawari, thus hurting Danilo’s feelings as much as he had hurt hers…such is their history. Up to now, star crossed lovers.”

  There was too much similarity between Danilo’s and Hannah’s story and my and Eva’s to be a coincidence. That’s one reason I’d chosen the operetta. The uncanny parallel nevertheless annoyed and troubled me. I hadn’t remembered the details of the libretto when I’d chosen the operetta, only that it was romantic and Danilo was trying to win back Hannah, the widow. Now hearing the details of the characters’ back-story, I was feeling uncomfortable. A glance over at Eva and it was clear that she was feeling the same. Still, thank goodness, no one but she and I would be able to make the connections.

  She looked at me, frowning, apparently as disconcerted as I felt. We were about to play characters who were basically US.

  “Danilo sings about the Fatherland and his favorite Parisian haunt, Maxim’s, where the Can-Can dancers, the…may I say, lovely Grisettes, have helped him forget his Hannah—”

  Eva slanted a sideways look at me, snorted softly and mumbled sarcastically, “Naturally.”

  Meanwhile, the six female dancers began to hoot and whistle at the mention of THEIR roles in the story. Travis and several men chuckled at their enthusiasm.

  “— Joujou, Froufrou, Mimi and the others. The Can-Can dancers of Maxim’s, if you please…” Mild applause followed but a couple of the young men in the cast whooped their hearty approval at the six pretty dancers.

  “Please, let’s continue with our summary of Act One or we shall be here all morning. By the way, at the conclusion of each act, we’ll ask the set designer, Franco, and our costume designer, Loretta, to present their colored drawings. You’ll have a preview of our collective artistic vision and we’d appreciate your feedback—I said, feedback, not criticisms.”

  And thus the remainder of Act One was outlined. We read along while Travis summarized the action, dialogue and musical numbers. In the spoken dialogue, Hannah taunts Danilo by hinting that he’ll be saying, “I love you”, just like all the others who are after her forty million francs. “If that’s how you feel,” Danilo promises, “then I will NEVER utter those three words.”

  Clearly, the whole point of the operetta was the romantic tension between Hannah and her count as well as the excuse to present the most sublime waltzes and sentimental melodies ever composed. The suspense in the story: Would the widow be able to inspire Danilo to say those forbidden words? Would he win her back despite all the hurt and misunderstandings between them? Would the tiny principality of Pontevedro be saved from bankruptcy?

  Another subplot, which served to reveal Danilo’s true feelings for Hannah, involved Baron Zeta’s wife and her French lover, Camille. From beginning to end, there was romance, passion and humorous situations undertaken by the six leads and supported by the frolicking sophistication of the chorus.

  “Ah yes, in the finale number of Act One, Danilo and Hannah sing a duet, then waltz around a circular settee in the center of the ballroom. This is the focal point on stage, and at the conclusion of their waltz, they’re overcome with passion…or perhaps, a combination of passion and nostalgia at this point in the story…and they kiss. Then they separate and Danilo leaves the ball—”

  “Why does he leave her?” Eva interrupted quietly, an undercurrent of sorrow in her voice. At least, I thought I heard it although it could have been my imagination.

  Travis Ball paused, pursed his mouth in thought.

  “I would suppose that Danilo is reluctant to admit his true feelings to Hannah…nor does he want her to think he’s a gold-digger like the Frenchmen pursuing her. She’s a very rich widow, after all. Although the sensual manner of their waltzing together and their kiss give them both away, I’d have to say that he’s reluctant because…”

  Travis was floundering for words. I threw in, “Well, like most males, their pride and male egos stand in their way.”

  That got her attention. She was staring at me like I was an alien creature.

  “Yes, that’s exactly right, D.J.” said Travis, “ By the by, I assume you two know how to kiss. But can you waltz?”

  Eva shook her head. “I’ve never had the occasion to learn.” Travis looked at me.

  “Yeah,” I admitted, “I can but not well. When I sang Prince Orlofsky’s role in Die Fledermaus, I had to waltz in one number.”

  “Well, now…” Travis began, “the choreographer, Bob, and our lovely dancing girls will be giving waltz lessons every afternoon from five to six. Since the entire cast will be waltzing on stage, everyone must learn. This is a Viennese operetta, after all, and every one of them includes at least two waltzes. In Act One, Danilo and Hannah will be singing first, then waltzing but in Act Three, they’ll be singing and dancing simultaneously. It’s important that you two master the steps.”

  I saw Eva’s jaw clench as though she felt it was a shameful omission on her part not to have learned the waltz. She shouldn’t have felt badly about it. Hell, if I hadn’t had to dance it in Die Fledermaus, I wouldn’t know it either. Who under fifty in America knew how to waltz?

  “In Act Three,” Travis went on, “Danilo and Hannah dance the ‘Words Forbidden’ waltz, such a sublime musical melody if there ever was one. It’s famous worldwide but I’m sure you’ve already listened to the score…that particular dance will climax our operetta nicely, I think. We want the audience to leave the theater, humming the ‘Words Forbidden’ waltz and dancing in their pumps and wingtips.”

  I had to chuckle at Travis’ way of expressing himself. The Foundation and I were lucky he’d signed onto the project. We were lucky, too, that there was such a superb English version of The Merry Widow available. We wouldn’t have to use super-titles, which would save us bucks on projection screens, computer software and tech support.

  Glancing around, I could see everyone nodding in compliance and expectation. I’d been in opera orientations in Italy where some of the males in the cast were already grousing loudly about their roles or the staging or music. Or the prima donnas were complaining about the style of their costumes. Th
ere was none of that percolating dissension here that day and I was grateful for it. Maybe, just maybe, this production would be a success…

  Well, whatever I had to do, I’d do, I vowed. There was too much at stake to fail, not just my two million but my reputation as a producer and performer. Not to mention the money and trust put into the project by the Foundation. If it failed, it would be THE KID who failed. My parents and the other directors of the Foundation would never trust me with another project again. In my father’s eyes, especially, I’d be again the disappointing, rebellious youngest son.

  I’d learned how to fence for La Traviata, do a Japanese tea ceremony for Madame Butterfly, simultaneously drink champagne and waltz in Die Fledermaus, sword-fight in Faust. I was made up as a Chinese prince for Turandot, learned how to cut someone’s throat in Otello, how to strangle a man in Rigoletto—heck, waltzing with Eva Villa would be a cakewalk.

  Kissing her would be a lot more difficult, however.

  Later that day, after getting a fairly comprehensive overview of the operetta’s three acts, I stayed for the waltz lesson. So did Eva. Bob, the choreographer, paired us up, as he did the rest of the cast. Showing us how to place our hands a la turn-of-the-century waltz-style, we took our places in the large hall. The tables and chairs were lined up against the walls and a CD player was ready with a recording of the full operetta.

  “Remember, it’s a one-two-three tempo. You’re constantly turning counter clockwise while moving in three steps, one long and two short, in place—like this. Tomorrow we’ll practice reversing the direction, dancing clockwise, but today it’s counter clockwise. Ready? Now, one-two-three…”

  The music began. I was holding Eva lightly at the waist and hand. She had her left hand resting on my right shoulder. We didn’t meet each other’s eyes. I let my gaze wander, concentrating on the steps, holding the rhythm, reminding myself to spin her slowly around every three-steps. My peripheral vision picked up on her glancing up at my face once in awhile. I didn’t speak except to ask her once if I was moving too fast for her feet. She said I wasn’t, so we finally developed a smooth flow to our steps and revolutions.