Haunted Tenor (Singers in Love Book 1)

by Irene Vartanoff

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll avoid it.” It was hard to control my fury at his attitude. I was done begging. I moved to the edge of my seat in the booth, more than ready to leave, but couldn’t resist a parting shot. “Or do you want me to go to Turandot? You know, to compare?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Not funny. I’d prefer you stay far from the opera house.”

  “Not gonna happen.” I stood. “Ralph wants me to see the operas. I want to keep my job. When Sean comes back, I have to see him at least once in whatever he’s singing.”

  “Sean will be Rodrigo—the Marquess of Posa, in the next cycle of Don Carlo two months from now,” JC said heavily. “Which I will be singing.”

  I said some bad words. I sat down again.

  He eyed me, clearly doubting my sincerity. “Do you feel a compulsion already to attend my next Don Carlo?”

  “Not right now,” I replied. Was he mocking me? “It might grow on me as the time approaches,” I said snidely.

  JC didn’t like my giving him some of his own back. He practically snarled in response. “Stop making a joke out of this.”

  What else did he expect? I wasn’t in control of this weirdness. “I wish you would stop accusing and blaming me,” I said, suddenly drained of my anger at him. “I’m not stalking you. This is bigger than that. You’ve got to help me find out what it is.”

  He shook his head in refusal. “You need to see a mental health professional.” He tossed some money on the table and rose. “Thanks for your time, Kathleen. Please do us both a favor and stay away from me.”

  “That’s no answer.” I rose also, and faced him, blocking his escape down the narrow aisle between tables. I practically hissed at him in my effort to keep my voice low. “It’s not mental illness when I am suddenly transported to the stage of the opera—in costume, too. You saw me, remember? I need your help to get to the bottom of this, not some doctor.”

  “You want me to believe in ghosts and paranormal events.” His sarcasm was brutal. “Why not fairies and vampires, while we’re at it?”

  My hand went to my mouth, to keep it from dropping on the floor. “A ghost? Do you think there’s a ghost involved?”

  “Isn’t that what you’ve been leading up to?”

  I slid back down onto the banquette.

  “I—I never got far enough to think outside the weird feelings I was experiencing.” I looked up at him. “A ghost would explain so much, don’t you think?”

  JC stared at me like I was nuts. He stood over me, still very visibly doubting everything I said, but not quite ready to walk away from me after all. He was obviously unconvinced. “There are no ghosts.”

  I said, “It’s not that I believe in ghosts. But the presence of a ghost would explain what happened. Sort of.”

  He gestured that I should stand up again. “Let’s walk.”

  Maybe now he would get beyond the accusations, and actually talk to me about what had happened. I followed him out of the café. We hiked down Broadway toward Columbus Circle, arguing about the existence of ghosts, extrasensory perception, astral projection, ectoplasm—all concepts we knew the names of from movies or other media. After I tripped on some rough pavement and nearly fell, he grabbed my hand to steady me. He quickly let go, as if burned. I was relieved. I’d felt a sensual tingle, too. This was not the moment to remember how attractive JC was. Despite all the yearning emotion I had for Don Carlo, my feelings toward JC right now were mostly on the aggravated end of the scale.

  When we got to Fifty-ninth Street, I decided I’d had enough. We’d been talking in circles, getting nowhere. I wanted to go back to my apartment and research ghosts online. Or maybe I just wanted to get away from JC’s high-powered presence, which despite his bad attitude was very attractive, albeit in an unsettling way. “This is where I catch my train,” I said. “Thanks for the tea.”

  Lights were coming on as dusk descended, but I could see JC’s expression. He looked surprised. “We have not agreed on anything.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “So I’m going home.” I dug the knife in a little. “To research ghosts.”

  He scowled. “Have lunch with me tomorrow. We must discuss this situation further.”

  As invitations went, it lacked charm. But at least we would talk some more about this weirdness. I nodded my acceptance and we agreed on a time and place. I’d do my homework and be ready to present my case for a ghost.

  Before he could say anything more, I sent him a cheery wave and dove down into the subway. Minutes later, when I realized I had gotten on an uptown train, I came back to myself.

  JC had that effect on me. He roiled my emotions until I couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t think. If I got to know him better, I might start having confusing feelings about him. Perhaps I already did. I hustled myself off the train and walked to the other platform to go back to midtown.

  ***

  That night, I dreamed again. A vivid encounter with Don Carlo, of course. This time, I was the Princess Eboli, a real-life princess whom composer Verdi had turned into a seductress for his dramatic purposes. We reenacted the nighttime garden scene, me in disguise, Don Carlo at my feet, adoring me because he thought I was Elisabetta, the queen.

  Then we deviated from the libretto, the script. I pulled back my veil. Instead of being shocked at the revelation of my true identity, Don Carlo rose and embraced me. I sank into his warmth. “It’s you I love, Kathleen,” he said, and leaned in to kiss my lips.

  His lips were so near mine. I yearned for their touch. But the scene faded and I woke up, shuddering with unfulfilled desire. His words had been spoken in English, not sung in Italian. JC’s British-accented voice still rang in my ears. I tried to catch my breath, to calm down. This was not a dream caused by something paranormal. Nor was it hard to interpret. My brain and body simply had joined forces to tell me I was attracted to JC.

  Not that we were going anywhere. Not with him getting mad at me, and me getting mad at him. Although, if the weirdness weren’t between us, I’d definitely be interested.

  ***

  Lunch the next day was at a small, elegant white tablecloth restaurant in midtown, east of Fifth Avenue. JC wore his black leather jacket and chinos, and I was in semi-casual office attire. The rest of the diners were dressier and older. Not my usual crowd. They clearly recognized JC. I saw discreet looks and comments being whispered as we were led to our table. His fame was palpable, although no one approached him. Needless to say, the waitstaff were extremely polite to us despite the old school atmosphere. JC seemed totally at ease, but then, he must spend a lot of time around rich people who patronized the arts.

  Once the small sensation our entrance had caused died down and the waiter had stopped hovering, I got to the point of this meeting. “Here’s what I’ve synthesized from several sources. The standard ghost is someone who died but whose essence remains on this earth, endlessly repeating some tragic moment. That is, until someone frees the ghost to go on to the next stage.”

  JC nodded. Most people knew that as the popular cause of ghostly manifestations.

  I continued. “Ghosts usually stay in one place, anchored by past events to a particular house, or a battlefield, or a graveyard that holds their earthly remains. There have been reports of people who visited large country estates and ran into someone in a corridor. When they mentioned the person later to their hosts, they learned that they’d encountered a personage who died a hundred or more years previously.”

  “Which does not explain why the ghost of Don Carlo, who lived his entire life in Spain, would manifest in New York City nearly five hundred years after his death.” He shook his head. “Your ghost idea does not fly.”

  I liked the way his voice clipped his words. He had a great command of American idioms, too. I wasn’t so happy about him dissing my ghost idea. “Okay, well, there’s astral projection to explain my sudden appearance on stage. It’s based on the pseudoscientific rationale that we are beings with electrical energy and if we
attain a high level of consciousness we can activate that energy deliberately. Or if we’re in some dramatic situation, it could happen without our willing it.”

  “That’s fantasy.”

  I shrugged. “I’m just laying out what has been written about events people have claimed they experienced. I even brought along notes,” I said, paging through my phone to get at the file. I checked it and continued, “The other classic label for the spirit leaving the physical is an ‘ectoplasmic event.’ In the last fifty years or so, the word ectoplasm has been dropped and reports refer to these events as out-of-body experiences. Usually, near-death moments when people thought they were in a long hallway ‘going toward the light’ while their physical body remained in a hospital bed, about to die.”

  He shook his head. “But that is all nonsense. Do not tell me you believe any of it.”

  I sighed. “I don’t know what to believe. Only that I am not the initiator of the weirdness, even though it flows through me.”

  We were served our meal. I’d had the wit not to order a hamburger in a place like this. A lamb chop was suitably refined. JC had a filet mignon. Also refined, but hearty. Perhaps he had a lot of rehearsing to do today.

  I broke the silence. “There are reports of ghosts who wander, but not many. I’m speculating that because the operatic drama mirrors the essence of the real Don Carlo’s life, somehow, his ghostly energy has been drawn to the opera house.”

  He shook his head. “Even if that were true, why would you, a person with no connection to this opera, suddenly be in the middle of the performance?”

  “Because I felt pity and terror on Don Carlo’s behalf very strongly? Because somehow that attuned me to his essence and allowed him to thrust me into the story? To help him? To save him from making the emotion-fueled mistakes that put his life in jeopardy?” The words tumbled out of me until I ran out of breath.

  “Why through you? Wouldn’t it be more likely that Posa or Elisabetta would want to save him?” JC clearly remained skeptical.

  “That’s genius,” I said, excited. It was beginning to make sense. “If Elisabetta is trying to get me to save Don Carlo, that would explain why I repeatedly dreamed that I am her.”

  JC didn’t share my jubilation. “But you appeared as Tebaldo, the page, not Elisabetta. And why now? Don Carlo has been dead for nearly five hundred years. This opera has been performed for almost one hundred and thirty years. Night after night, performance after performance, in many countries.”

  I said, “I’ve heard that there are competing versions. Ralph said the Victorians even gave it a happy ending.”

  JC became thoughtful. “Yes, the most popular version has Carlo Quinto—the grandfather and former Holy Roman Emperor who retired to a monastery—save Don Carlo. Usually, it is played as the ghost of the emperor dressed as a monk, taking Don Carlo safely to heaven.”

  “A ghost,” I pointed out triumphantly.

  JC almost allowed himself to smile. “That is true, but it’s just a story, not real life.”

  “The Nat’s production ended differently,” I said, frowning. “Don Carlo is killed by the king’s soldiers instead.”

  “We have the answer!” JC smirked. “The ghost does not like this production.”

  I answered slowly, “You might have come up with the reason for the weirdness.”

  He shook his head. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

  I ignored his disbelief. “The story already has a ghost. Maybe it’s Carlo Quinto who is reaching out and making me act so weirdly. Although, why didn’t someone else save Don Carlo during all these years? Why now? Why me?”

  I folded my napkin, my enthusiasm waning. “We’ve got a good theory, but it doesn’t explain why I should suddenly be a ghostly conduit. There’s nothing about me personally that would make me open to believing in ghosts. I’m a historian. I sift competing stories, remove bias, and synthesize facts.”

  JC’s considering gaze reminded me that until yesterday, he had viewed me as an unstable nutcase.

  I tried to press my point. “Honestly, I’ve never been attracted to fiction much, and this opera is clearly fiction.”

  “No, you’re wrong,” JC said. “I sing Don Carlo as he would have been if his mental and physical deficiencies, not to mention his loveless upbringing, had not stunted and twisted him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The real historical Carlos wanted to be a hero. I play him as he wanted to be, not, perhaps, as he truly was.”

  Incredulous, I replied, “No ‘perhaps’ about it. In real life he was on his way to being a serial killer. Schiller totally made up his heroic Don Carlo.”

  “Not true. As a historian, you should know this. There are enough records of words spoken by Don Carlo to know his character. Carlo longed to be normal. To take his rightful place as a great prince. I play him as that man.”

  Here was JC’s sensitive artist side at last. He had the ability to conjure up a whole new view of Don Carlo, one I hadn’t considered. “So you like Carlo?”

  The waiter finally dared to remove our empty dishes. Ignoring him beyond a courteous word of thanks, JC leaned forward. “It’s not a question of liking Carlo. I have to find the humanity in a character to play him correctly. The emotion in the singing can’t happen if I don’t know who he is.”

  We talked about what drew him to become an opera singer. He said he’d started young, singing in church, as so many European opera singers had, and then singing child parts in local opera. Barcelona had its famous opera company and a beautiful opera house, and there were other smaller opera companies nearby. From there it had been a smooth path of being noticed by people and sent to the right schools for training and more training.

  He said, “Years and years of training. But you know this from your brother. I had friends who gave up. They weren’t winning young artists’ scholarships and couldn’t find the money to pay for enough coaching entirely on their own. Or they’d started families and needed to support them.”

  “I finally read your official bio. You won a lot of prizes.”

  He nodded. “They allowed me to keep learning and to start getting attention. When my teachers said I was ready, I was lucky to audition successfully and get roles.”

  He’d glossed over years and years of study and hard work. After a couple of months of listening to Ralph talk about the art of opera, I thought I understood something about the dedication of artists like JC and Sean, their drive for perfection, and the immensely critical audiences that awaited them.

  He asked me what I was doing as an admin assistant. “You are not like any assistant I have known.”

  That meant my personality didn’t match the job description. “I’m taking a break, trying to figure out my next step.” I mentioned my sudden distaste for graduate school and how I quailed at the thought of more years spent at the university.

  JC nodded. “I can understand some of that. We singers train for many years. There are moments when some of us say, Basta! Enough. We are done.”

  “But you persisted.”

  “I had good teachers, and I was lucky. I got some performances here and there that encouraged me along the way.”

  I answered skeptically. “I think it’s more than luck. I’ve read your reviews. You’ve been called ‘the baritonal tenor ne plus ultra,’ for instance. Critics rave over your singing. And your acting.”

  JC made a dismissive gesture with one hand. He didn’t want to hear compliments. The restaurant had emptied out. Lunch was over, and we hadn’t solved the ghost issue, but he wasn’t accusing me of anything anymore. He actually was being pleasant for a change.

  As we left the restaurant, he said, “We haven’t found answers that suit both of us. Go to Turandot tomorrow night.” He shrugged. “As an experiment. I’ll send you a pass for a close-up seat. We’ll talk after it’s over.”

  I was speechless. I stood there as he hailed a cab, and I stared at him. He appeared completely composed, calm and
rational. Yet he’d reversed on everything he’d ever said to me.

  Finally, I asked the question burning in my mind. “Does this mean you’ve decided I’m not a mentally unstable stalker?”

  “Possibly.” He gave me a brief half-smile. He opened the door of the taxi, and ushered me inside. He leaned in and paid the driver in advance. JC turned to me brusquely. “Tomorrow night, come to my dressing room after the performance ends.”

  I sailed off in comfort, completely confused.

  Chapter 4

  The performance of Turandot was a revelation. Although some people died in this opera, amazingly, it had a happy ending. I didn’t see that one coming. I could have read the program in advance, or checked it out online, but I liked to be surprised.

  Turandot also was impressive because there were magnificent, over-the-top sets and costumes. It looked like what you’d expect an opera to be, lavish in every detail of an imaginary ancient imperial China. Every inch of the enormous stage was filled with people in costume. Impressive. And it had that big solo for the tenor, “Nessun dorma,” that people sang on television talent contest shows.

  I never had a weird feeling all evening, except when I watched JC sing the role of the confident prince who dared to woo an icy princess who’d sent previous suitors to their death. At a key moment, he seized the princess in his arms and planted a big kiss on her lips. The princess began melting. I melted, too. The singing wasn’t bad, either.

  During the intermissions, I fantasized about JC Vasquez kissing me. We both had so much on our minds every time we’d met that the undercurrent of sexual attraction had never been addressed. Probably best if we never went there. Sex would confuse everything.

  After Turandot ended with everyone happy—at least, the people left alive—I went backstage through the long corridors to JC’s dressing room. The stagehands were beginning to recognize me. To them, this looked like a romance building. Ha. If they only knew.