“Do you really think this was about class?” Sean asked.
Richard replied, “I do. Scarpia has no politics. He doesn’t even care when the army supporting his regime loses a major battle. Some people might flee in that situation, or be looking hard for a second act, or be more conciliatory with people who might be well connected, that sort of thing. The prison escapee was an aristocrat whose party might be in power in a few days or weeks, depending on where the army goes. So Scarpia will need a new patron in the next regime that comes to power.” The director shook his head with its luxuriant gray hair. “Scarpia is so caught up in his pleasure in hurting people he doesn’t think past today and the power he has right at this moment. He doesn’t care that he’s in danger. He’s sure he can make himself useful to the next set of bosses because they’ll need someone to do their dirty work, too. And he’s the guy.”
I shivered and said, “He’s determined to have Tosca because I show him coldness. Because I think I am beyond his touch.”
Richard nodded. “Which might be true. The libretto refers to the queen as Tosca’s patron.”
Sean was skeptical. “Isn’t it enough that Scarpia wants an attractive woman?” He gave me a sort of bow. “He sees something and wants it and won’t let anything get in the way of attaining it.”
Richard said, “But then why does Puccini specify that Scarpia hears the music of that aristocratic party?” He stood waiting, like a teacher hoping the students would catch on. He signaled the piano player to play that little bit of music from the second act. “Scarpia hears this music and…what does he think?”
Sean said, “Scarpia could be very self-satisfied hearing it. Knowing he has the power to imprison people at that high-toned affair.”
“Or does he?” Richard asks. “I think it’s crucial to see him as a striver who has reached the glass ceiling of his era—truly an iron ceiling back then—not being of noble birth. For a man, it was the end of the line. For a woman, there was always the possibility of marrying up. Even of marrying a man so powerful he could force aristocratic society to accept her.”
“But Tosca isn’t involved with aristocrats personally, the way Violetta was in Traviata. Tosca is in love with another artiste.” I aimed a big smile at Sean. “Sorry, Scarpia.”
He snorted. “Don’t you mean, ‘Not sorry’?”
I made a kind of Mae West move, wiggling my body. “That’s right. You won’t get me, you evil police chief.”
Franco, who had been following this carefully—he understood a lot more English than he spoke—suddenly sang out Mario’s big line in Act II, “Vittoria!” Victory to the forces that would take Scarpia down.
We all laughed.
Richard said, “This is important. Tosca thinks she is above Scarpia socially. He aims to bring her low.” Richard told Sean to take my hand in a formal manner. Then I was instructed to pull my fingers from Sean’s in disdain as he attempted to bow over my hand. The touch of his hand was so electric I was glad I had to escape it. My whole body seemed to clench. Whether he felt it or not, he had enough time to recover and hide his own reaction as he straightened up. This wasn’t a silly “practice kiss” as often described in bad novels about the theater. It was infinitely more powerful. One little touch and I was awash with desire, desire that I had to make a decent effort to hide.
Luckily, Scarpia barely got his hands on Tosca during their extended duel of words. I’d seen singers who were lovers behave rather too intimately during operatic scenes. Too much touching and caressing. Okay for them because they were in a relationship, but what if the director liked the sexual heat and wanted to force other singers to emulate so much physicality? We were singers first, actors second. I was willing to act with plenty of singers I did not want groping me publicly when I couldn’t resist. I would make an exception for Sean, but I didn’t want my desire for him exposed for all to see.
Franco was okay. He and I understood each other, thanks to my stint in Italy. Knowing the language and the culture made it much easier to work with Italian singers, because I understood how they saw themselves. Anyway, aside from a kiss or two, all I had to do in Act I with Franco was be alternately charming and jealous, while Franco acted happy and indulgent of my femininity. Appreciating a woman seemed to come naturally to an Italian man. When I was in Italy, I let a lot of men appreciate me. I was younger then. These days, I was more selective.
As the story went, neither of our characters suspected that our lighthearted flirting behavior right now would doom us to death within a day. Tosca was a chilling opera, because once caught in Scarpia’s web, there was no way to escape. I had to portray Tosca as someone who didn’t realize there was a web until it was too late.
We rehearsed Act I all afternoon. For me, it was not musically difficult other than the constant change of moods. I took my turn sitting and watching as Herr Kaufmann put Franco through the wringer with “Recondita armonia,” his big love song. Then it was Sean’s turn to be micromanaged through his “Te Deum” that closed the first act.
At the end of the day, Richard announced that we were dismissed for only one hour. We were strictly ordered to return for another three-hour session after dinner.
“He’s joking, isn’t he?” I whispered to Sean. Exhaustion from only a few hours sleep had finally kicked in, plus my exciting fall this morning on the stage. I was wiped.
“I heard that,” Richard said. “Take a break and refuel and then report back. We need to make up for lost time. We’ve only got a few days to whip this into shape.”
Sean shook his head. “Sorry. Abbie needs to recover from being injured, and I’ve got a date.”
“Break it.”
Sean rested his hands on his waist, which emphasized his considerable shoulder muscles. He stared Richard down. “The contract calls for rehearsals during normal business hours, except in an emergency. We’re already scheduled to work all weekend. That makes up for any lost time. We’re not in emergency mode.”
Richard’s expression plainly said he didn’t want to give in, so I hesitantly added my own testimony. “I’m really tired. I don’t think I can do anymore today. Sorry.” The apology slipped out. I was still trying to be a people pleaser. I had to learn to stop that.
“Not sorry,” Sean said firmly. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough.”
“Then you have homework. I want you to work on the hand kiss. You hear me?”
I nodded. We had upset the balance of power. Countermanding the director never happened. Yet I was relieved Sean had put his foot down.
Richard gathered up his score, shoved it into his bag, and left in a huff. The pianist winked at me, and took his personal items and departed. I listlessly put my score back in my satchel. I put one hand to my forehead. I was very tired.
Sean put an arm around me. “C’mon. Let’s get a cab so you can go back to the condo and crash.”
I leaned into his embrace, enjoying the warmth of his body through his thin t-shirt. “I’m zonked. Usually I can handle extra hours of rehearsing, but not tonight.” We walked to the back desk, where they called me a cab.
The doorman asked Sean if he needed a taxi, also. “No, I’m going to the same building. You don’t mind if I share, do you?”
I shook my head, but frowned in confusion. “I thought you had a date?”
Sean smirked. “Later. I have time to go back to my condo, shave again, put on my sparkly evening dress, whatever.” He shepherded me into the cab as he spoke.
“If that’s your thing.” I shrugged. “Go for it.”
“Actually, Abbie, you’re more my thing.” He put on his Scarpia mien and reached for my hand and kissed it, staring at me the whole time. Practice, right? I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His kiss made me shiver. I pulled my hand back, but he didn’t let go. As my fingers neared my face, they drew his large hand closer. He released my fingers only to cup my face before leaning in and kissing me on the lips.
I was sinking into velvet. Strong, masculi
ne velvet. His arms were around me, holding me tightly against him as his lips and tongue caressed mine. I opened my mouth and let him in.
***
“’Scuse me, but this is the address.” The cab driver spoke.
Sean drew back from me, a very satisfied male expression on his face. “Thanks.”
Was he saying that to the driver, or to me? I was thoroughly bemused, dazed from his kisses. Wanting more.
Sean paid the driver and we went into the condo building. I pressed the number for my floor on the elevator control panel. He punched in a different floor. He wasn’t coming to my place? Should I go to his?
“Abbie,” Sean said. “This is your floor.” His tone was gentle.
My confusion must have shown on my face.
He said, “I have a date tonight, remember?”
“Then, what—?” I blurted.
He put two fingers on my lips, silencing me. “We’ll forget about what just happened. Or maybe we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Or something. Don’t let this make a difference. Friends can kiss now and then, right?”
“Oh, um, of course,” I stuttered, finally making my legs move. I exited the elevator. “See you tomorrow.”
“Get some rest, sweetness.”
The door closed and I stood alone on my floor, wondering what had just happened. Had Sean Grant and I really made out in the cab? Or had I imagined it? I put a finger to my lips. I could still feel the taste of his mouth on mine. He was a wonderful kisser. And totally confusing. He’d kissed me, yet he was going on a date with someone else later tonight. What did that mean? Were we still in the friendzone? Was he looking for friends with benefits? Intending to date other women at the same time? I didn’t go for that sort of thing.
I needed food. Or a nap. Then I could think straight about Sean. And about Sean and me.
I slowly pulled my key from my satchel and entered the condo I’d been issued for the duration of this gig. It was a pleasant one bedroom with a decent kitchen. I wandered through the living room to the bedroom and threw myself on the bed. I was exhausted. I had to think about Sean and me. Was there a Sean and me?
Chapter 8
When I woke from the nap I’d succumbed to, I ached in many places from my fall. I took a hot shower and crawled back into bed, too tired and confused to think about eating dinner. Hours later, I finally woke for real. I knew I was awake when my thoughts circled around Sean and our strange day. Lusting after a man all day and not being able to show it while having to touch him over and over and over for hours on end. Sheer torture. That, on top of Aida the night before, had wiped me out. I’d obviously hallucinated our lip-lock session in the taxi. There was no way that could have happened. Was there?
It was only late evening, so I called my friend, Diana. We used FaceTime, actually.
“You’ve lost so much weight!” she cried.
“How can you tell when this camera only shows my head?”
“Your cheeks aren’t as round as before. You look fantastic.”
“Hopefully, looking thinner is an improvement,” I said. I’d never been convinced that thin was attractive. Maybe that was why I never got thin.
“You’re doing this for your health, not for vanity, remember? So what’s up in opera?”
“I have a new friend, but I’m not sure if he’s a friend or a potential lover, or what.” I described what Sean and I had done in Philadelphia.
“He kissed you? On the lips? Was it a real kiss?”
“Yes. No tongue, though.”
She frowned. “That would be weird on the same day he told you he just wants to be friends.”
“The whole episode was surreal. He showed up outside the opera house, totally unexpectedly. Then we spent hours together roaming the city and telling each other about our lives.”
“How much did you tell him?”
“You mean about me and other guys? Nothing. He didn’t ask.”
“Hmm. I don’t know whether that’s a hopeful sign or not.”
“Me, neither. But on the good side, I’d had a wretched day. Him showing up out of the blue saved me from a massive food binge.”
“I thought you swore off bingeing.”
“I have, and I’ve also sworn off pursuing men who don’t love me as much as I love them, but that’s more a theory than a practice.”
I told her about the kisses in the cab on the way home tonight, after Sean had specifically told me we should just be friends and he had a date, too.
“Are you serious about this guy? He sounds like a player.”
“I don’t know. I’m confused.”
“Then concentrate on Tosca. You’re never confused about your singing.”
We made tentative plans to meet on the following weekend. Rehearsals were planned for this Saturday and Sunday, to make up for how late Franco and I had joined the production.
***
The next morning when I turned on my phone, Sean had sent me a virtual bouquet of roses. Red roses. Cliché, but gallant of him. Had he really kissed me after all? Perhaps he had.
Claudio had sent me a short news bit from the New York Times. “Merrill Prize winner saves the day for the Philadelphia Main Line Opera Company.” The short article told how I’d run up from Baltimore to sing in Philly. Called me a super heroine. Nice. They even had the photo of me in my costume from the Aida I’d done at the Nat last year. It luckily was so bejeweled and fussy it didn't show how much I'd weighed back then.
I flopped back on the bed. One part of my life was working well. I needed to take stock of the rest. I’d actually eaten light yesterday and gone to bed without a dinner, so whatever damage I’d done after Aida—that coconut cake at one a.m. was not on anyone’s list of diet-friendly foods—I thought I’d compensated for. Although I did need to eat a good breakfast, and soon.
On the self-esteem front, I hadn’t been the first one to speak up when the director wanted a punishing extra rehearsal, but I had eventually said my piece. I should push myself more to make sure people didn’t impose on me. I was still too much of a people pleaser.
As far as my language, I didn’t owe my quarter jar a cent. I’d refrained from cussing all day. That was a minor miracle.
But the sex thing…I hadn’t tried to jump Sean Grant’s bones despite desperately wanting to, and wanting to even more desperately as the long afternoon of hand kissing dragged on and on. I had been tempted all day in the worst way, so much so I must have been in a fugue state brought on by the combination of exhaustion, physical pain, and lust. We’d kissed for real, despite his talk of being friends. He’d sent me virtual roses, too. It had been real, but I’d doubted my own memory.
My therapist would be proud of me. I hadn’t broken down and begged Sean to come to my condo. I’d been professional and pleasant instead of emotionally needy and whiny.
Wow. Maybe I could try for three days in a row.
I think I dozed for a while. I was happy and proud of myself. Even the New York Times thought I was a super heroine.
A while later, I considered taking a cab over to the trendy Hampden district, where I knew of a gourmet doughnut shop. They had yummy breakfast creations that sure beat the grease at chain fast food joints. Not that I was above eating that sort of food. I grew up on it.
Designer doughnuts. Cinnamon orange. Lemon custard. Chocolate coconut. The last time I was in Baltimore, I bought a big box to hand out at the morning rehearsal, and I bought another box just for me. My excuse had been that greasy doughnuts were great for my throat. Any singer would explain that throat ailments were our constant concern. Dry air in theaters was, too, and of course, pollen. Pollen could silence a voice entirely in mere minutes.
I was lucky and seldom succumbed to allergies, but I’d been a victim of my love of doughnuts too many times in my life. No more snack tourism for me. My eating plan did not involve large boxes of carbs anymore. If others wanted the local gourmet doughnuts, they were on their own. Perhaps my habit of gifting my coworkers with doug
hnuts was another form of people pleasing I needed to retire.
My good mood persisted as I vocalized a bit after my morning shower to warm up my voice. I usually sang my scales in the bathroom, which was the one room in a hotel or rental likely to have bare walls and floors. Practicing in a room with carpet and drapes and upholstered furniture—or a bed—dampened the sound and I couldn’t get a good idea of how I was doing. This morning, even to my own hyper critical ears, I sounded fresh and powerful. A good combination for Tosca.
It was a warm spring day and the sun was shining. Trees were in blossom. I walked downhill to the opera house, enjoying the pops of color provided by tulips in plantings along the way. Baltimore could seem like a bleak town with all the row houses that had no front yards, not even grillwork, to soften several steps up from the sidewalk. The section I walked was a later version with a variety of architectural styles and tiny front strips of land made attractive by commercial plantings. Additionally, the city had lots of hills that afforded appealing vistas.
I didn’t expect any drama today. The morning was set aside for rehearsals with the maestro and some of the orchestra. Herr Kaufmann was even-tempered despite being very exacting. You knew where you were with him, which was important in a conductor, because the singer depended on the tempo of the music. The conductor controlled the tempo. If the tempo was rushed, it was hard to get in all the syllables of a piece. If the tempo was slow, a singer could find herself hanging onto a note far longer than was comfortable. It had happened to me. I’d be singing an aria, my voice exposed between notes of music, and suddenly I’d realize the musicians weren’t staying even with me. The audience usually didn’t notice whether the orchestra lagged behind or rushed ahead. But sometimes I’d been bug-eyed with fear that I’d end my song before the music said to, or after it. An audience would recognize the lack of coordination and blame me. When Daylia Fedora played her tricks on me in Aida the other night, she’d set up exactly that terrifying situation.
Friendzoned Soprano Page 6
