Sean didn’t speak after his morning meltdown. He’d warned me before that many opera singers didn’t talk more than a few words on the day of a major performance. They wanted to conserve every bit of their vocal stamina. Thinking back, I remembered a couple of weekends at professional conferences where I talked, talked, talked. By the end, my throat was sore and my voice sounded awful. No wonder Sean became a man of few words before performances.
The time for fretting was over. The house lights had dimmed. The conductor came to the podium, the overture began, and the curtain went up.
There was the forest of Fontainebleau again. Elisabetta entered and took pity on suffering peasants complaining about the war. Her marriage to Don Carlo would soon end the strife. All wandered off. Carlo appeared and sang his melancholy first song, a song of his love for Elisabetta even before they had met. This time, I noticed that he called her Isabella when he talked of her. The Spanish form of the name. In Carlo’s most loving moments, he thought of her as Isabella. JC had called me Isabella when he’d kissed me that night in his dressing room.
Once again, I felt myself sliding into the opera emotionally. Don Carlo as played by JC was utterly compelling. When Elisabetta and Carlo met, he wooed her. Their tender love scene, the ecstasy of discovering that they could marry where they loved, was transporting. Except I kept my feet firmly on the ground. My shoes were off and my ankles were tied together with my winter scarf, double knotted. Physically I was not going anywhere.
As always, the happy couple was allowed only a few minutes of joy before Tebaldo the page brought the horrifying news that Elisabetta must marry the king instead of the prince. The act ended in misery.
Of course it hadn’t happened that way. Don Carlo never left Spain, and certainly never visited France. We historians loved our footnotes.
I distracted myself from the drama on the stage as best I could, but feelings for Don Carlo continued to tug at me. The next act would start with Carlo bemoaning his misery at the chapel, where shorter versions of the opera began. Then his best friend, Posa, would come in, newly returned from Flanders. Posa would have his hands full to keep Carlo from behaving inappropriately as his father and new stepmother walked by, married in fact as well as in name.
The curtain opened, and all Carlo’s wretchedness burst forth, in contrast to the stern acceptance of the monk behind the monastery grating. Carlo was inconsolable. Then my brother Sean appeared, Posa to the life. I was used to my older brother being a joker, a fun-loving guy who never was serious. Here, he was a big-hearted best friend, a bluff soldier who saw Carlo’s suffering and tried his best to turn the prince’s thoughts to a positive action he could take.
My feelings for Don Carlo were rising up to choke me, of course. I tried to focus on Sean, a flowing black wig hiding his red hair, but insistent thoughts about Don Carlo kept tugging at the edge of my focus. What about Carlo? He was so unhappy. Couldn’t I help him?
Posa and Carlo sang their great song of friendship. My brother, singing at the National Opera. I’d never seen him in so prominent a role. He was terrific, deep-voiced and emotional, yet grandiose, too. Impressive.
Posa helped Carlo briefly by distracting him with the song of brotherhood, and my anxious thoughts subsided. But not many minutes later, Carlo made his desperate private plea to Elisabetta. Once again, a compassionate urgency rose within me. I must help him, to save him.
But no rogue Tebaldo must appear in this scene. My hands frantically clutched both armrests, willing my entire self to stay in my seat. Despite myself, would I appear on stage again as Tebaldo the page?
JC must have wondered, too. I thought I saw a tiny turn to his glance at the key moment. Or was I fooling myself? Like my brother, JC was the consummate professional. They both lived inside their roles completely while performing. If barging in as an astral projection of Tebaldo hadn’t been bad enough, the mere fact that I was interrupting a piece of stage play must have infuriated JC when it happened.
This time, it did not happen. Why not?
Finally, the very long act was over. The house lights went up a bit as the singers took their bows. I pretended to have dropped something, and I bent over my ankles to untie them. Also, to escape JC’s notice if possible. I didn’t know if he would look for me, or if he was completely indifferent. But I had to straighten up to applaud when Sean took his bow. When they did a group bow, JC could have seen me but he gave no indication that he had. I’d learned—from Ralph, of course—that coming out for bows between acts was no longer the custom in some opera houses, but the Nat liked to do things its own way.
During the lengthy intermission that followed, I fled as far from the stage as possible. If JC should summon me backstage, I would not be around to receive the communication. Neither Sean nor JC would thank me for visiting their dressing rooms right now and breaking their concentration between acts. Sean was nervous enough. He’d gotten through two major scenes, but he had plenty of work ahead. I took the elevator to the top balcony, and wandered there until it was time to return to my seat.
Up in the cheap seats were the future opera patrons. People my age, and teenagers and children. Even the adults were younger than what I’d grown used to in the orchestra seats. They looked happy to be at an opera despite the distance from the stage. I almost got vertigo when I peeked down toward it. We were so high. One little wrong step up here, and I could tumble to my death. So could my astral projection.
I skulked back to my seat. Once everyone in my row was there, I leaned down and tied my ankles again.
The garden scene began Act II. As it opened, my heartbeat sped up and my breathing became labored. My senses were all heightened. I was on guard against myself, but could already feel changes in me that were not of my doing.
Carlo read the note he thought was from the queen. Then Eboli arrived, veiled and dressed in the queen’s cloak to complete the confusion. I must warn Carlo. I must stop him from saying the fatal words that told Eboli who it was he loved. Suddenly, I was there, but I was the queen. Oh, heavens. This would be fatal to all if Eboli saw me.
“Carlos,” I whispered, trying to keep hidden in the dark garden.
At first he did not recognize me. He saw Eboli’s cloak and thought I was she. Then, when I unveiled and he saw me, he sang directly to me.
His words of love poured out incautiously, begging me to forget duty and honor, and indulge in our love. I was thrilled. I was horrified. I heard no gasps from the audience. Eboli sang her usual response. As she did, I saw JC’s eyes widen in recognition at last. He saw me, in the queen’s clothing. Me.
“Say no more,” I begged him. “Save yourself. Soothe Eboli.”
He nodded curtly and continued to sing to her, to beg her tolerance. It was no use. Only when Sean entered did Carlo have a powerful ally. By then, I was back in my seat.
Sean sang powerfully, but I didn’t see him. I’d buried my head in my hands. When the three sang a heroic triplet aria, I dared to look up at them through my tears. Posa routed the vengeful Eboli, then assured Carlo of his continued effort to protect him. They parted as brothers, and the scene ended.
I wanted badly to leave, but the scene change was very short. The music started up again too soon. The auto da fé began. I had lived through this before. It was painful to watch Carlo make the same mistakes again. His rash public confrontation of his father. Pulling a sword on him when thwarted. Then Posa intervening. Don’t do it, Carlo. Don’t.
At least Posa was there to save Carlo. I felt no compulsion to project myself into the midst of the action as I had done mere minutes before. As the act drew to its inevitable conclusion, Carlo was left with no corner in which to turn. He had ruined his future and was taken to prison. After the hideous auto da fé, the act finally ended, and again I leaned down to untie my ankles, hoping to be invisible. Hoping not to catch JC’s eye. Then someone in my row wanted to get out despite the bows the singers were taking. I had to stand. That was when JC’s look pierced me. He saw m
e. I know he did. He glared at me.
I shook my head in denial, discovering as I did that tears were running down my cheeks. Sean saw me then. Of course he also was taking a bow. This had been a huge act for him, and he was basking in the acclaim. Until he noticed me and intercepted the look from JC Sean briefly lost focus and stumbled as the singers bowed and retreated. Then the joy of applause grabbed him again, and he gave himself to it.
All I could feel was the horror of what had occurred. Again. I would soon find out if anyone else saw me as Elisabetta. Someone stepped on my foot, bringing me out of my daze. This intermission, I didn’t bother to hide. I sat limply in my seat, waiting for a summons. Which did not come. I pondered that for a while. Perhaps I had suffered a psychotic break after all. Perhaps my arguments with JC had all been in my head. Perhaps we never spent part of a night together. I couldn’t allow myself to sob out loud. All around me, dedicated fans of opera were eagerly discussing the prior act. I overheard praise for Sean. I’d have to tell him.
JC was probably disgusted with me. He didn’t have to tell me again. He already knew I was—or claimed to be—ignorant of what power placed me briefly in the middle of the action on stage. I had no new explanation to offer.
Sean had not acted oddly, and the mezzo playing Eboli had not seemed to see me on stage. I didn’t want to accept the idea that I was having hallucinations. If JC saw me, then I was sane and under the power of an external force. That was what I held onto.
But maybe JC had never seen me, and I imagined all that had passed between us.
My thoughts circled back to whether I felt a compulsion to attend this opera. Ralph had made it so easy for me to be here, and then there was Sean’s debut as Posa. There was no space left for me to feel a compulsion.
I wanted to leave now, but that would disappoint Sean. His big death scene was in the next act. I badly needed to compose myself. The half-hour intermission was still grinding on. I dragged myself up from my seat and went to the ladies room. The line was gone, but many women remained, primping and chatting. I slid in like a ghost and patted my face down repeatedly. Finally, I could delay no more. I had to endure the rest of the opera. I had to stay for Sean’s sake.
As I entered the auditorium through the doors to my aisle, something strange up front near my seat caught my eye. Two ushers and a security guard, recognizable by his earpiece cord and discreet suit, stood looking around. Were they searching for me? That could only mean trouble. The intermission was nearly over, so they couldn’t be there to escort me to see JC backstage, could they? I moved back into the shadows under the balcony overhang so they wouldn’t spot me. This did not bode well. Did they intend to boot me out of the opera house? I had to see this through for Sean’s sake, despite the risk of more paranormal behavior. I backed away, and then hustled toward the elevators.
Amid so many elderly people, I couldn’t move very fast. Inadvertently knocking one of them down would have called too much attention to me. I wove around slow-moving couples and knots of people, my thoughts churning. I dared not look behind me to see if I had been spotted. The indicator showed that both elevators were on top floors. I might not have time to idle in front of their doors before the ushers found me. JC doubtless had given them my complete description.
In desperation, I fled further still from the orchestra seating to the grand double staircase that led to the parterre boxes. I practically sprinted up the steps. The halls were emptying out now. The bell had sounded and people returned to their seats. There was no way I could slip into a parterre box. The ushers guarded that floor as nowhere else. I tried the elevator again.
I got lucky. It came, and it was ascending. I shot up to the top balcony. Then I raced inside, looking for a single young man, an obvious opera buff. When I found one, I pulled out my ticket. They didn’t tear tickets at the Nat, they merely computer scanned them, so it was easy for him to see what a great seat I had. He was probably my age, dressed all in black, but rather formally in a suit softened by a large purple scarf. His eyes widened when I waved my ticket at him.
“Please, would you trade seats with me? I’m finding the orchestra way too loud. I can’t take it anymore,” I claimed.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, no, I’m not. Oh, please, would you trade?”
I held my breath. There wasn’t much time left.
He looked me over, clearly trying to decide if I was faking him out in some way. Probably also calculating how much of the intermission remained so he could get down to my seat. Then he nodded. He dug out his own ticket.
“Deal. Thanks.”
We exchanged, and he took off in a hurry. I sat in his seat, hoping the ushers and the security guard would not have time to come all the way up here before the music began again.
They didn’t. Perhaps the guy I’d given my pass to hadn’t ratted me out, either. From my high perch, I saw him take my old seat. Mere seconds later, the house lights went down, and the conductor appeared and gestured to the orchestra to take a bow. The house applauded enthusiastically. The final act began.
The stage was very far from me now, perhaps hundreds of feet. In no way did I feel I was a part of the action. I sat comfortably through the king’s big scene and all the commotion with Eboli. Then it was time for Sean’s swan song. Don Carlo was in prison, and Posa visited to say that he had arranged to save Carlo. Sean sang his heart out trying to instill ambition in Carlo to make something of his life in Flanders. Then, Posa was shot by an assassin.
My brother died like a hero. He got an ovation. I applauded harder than anyone, but inside, I was unmoved. My hands didn’t sweat. My heartbeat was normal. I was relieved to feel so calm. Then, in the final scene of the opera, it started to happen again. The setting was the chapel, but chapel was a word that hardly did the scene justice. The iron gates and bars went up two stories, dwarfing human dimensions, making perfect visual sense as Elisabetta sang her farewell to the vanities of the world. Don Carlo entered, dressed for the road in boots and with his sword. He looked desperate but determined. They sang their tragic goodbye, two figures towered over by the ornate iron bars of the chapel behind them.
Suddenly, I felt my hackles rise all over again. My pulse sped up madly, and I gasped as if I was running fast. Don Carlo was in danger and I must save him.
Soon the king and his soldiers would arrive. In this version, the sword fight ended in Carlo being killed. A crucial difference from the standard ending in which Carlo was drawn by the ghost of his grandfather to safety behind the barred gates. I must save Carlo. I must.
As my body strained to act, I finally understood. It all seemed very clear to me now, as life and death seemed clear to Queen Elisabetta and Don Carlo in those final moments. I sat helpless as the feelings took over. So attuned was I now to the phenomenon, I noticed something I hadn’t before. The ghostly presence was attempting to move me, but it couldn’t get up the power. My earlier appearance on the stage had sapped too much of my strength. Or perhaps I was physically too far from the stage. I desperately needed to save Carlo, to try this one last time, and I did not have the strength. I watched helplessly as Carlo was killed by the king’s guards. A great gasp went up from the audience, and the king and queen sang their last words. The opera ended. I sat stunned as the audience burst into applause.
“That’s not supposed to happen.” I spoke the words out loud, although they went unnoticed, drowned out by the hearty clapping. Carlo was not supposed to be killed by soldiers. The presence that attempted to control me wanted the ending to be different—exactly as JC had jokingly suggested months ago.
The cast came out and took their bows as a group, then singly. I screamed out “Bravo, bravo!” when it was Sean’s turn. I could see that he sort of looked toward my old seat in the orchestra. From this huge distance, I couldn’t see his expression. The audience was very appreciative, and the applause went on and on. Way up here, I saw the paid claquers who yelled their loud bravos first. Sean had told me
that everyone paid for some shouted bravos, to encourage the audience to speak out. It was another weird tradition of the opera. They weren’t the only ones yelling. It was as noisy as a football game up here.
As I waited through the bravos and the fervent applause, I thought back to the first time I saw this opera months ago. I had watched many DVDs and online videos of Don Carlo by now. It always ended with Emperor Charles V, in the guise of a monk, saving Don Carlo. Was it possible that some ghostly spirit was trying to turn me into the agent who saved Carlo from being killed by guards in this production? Was that what all this madness and mystery was about?
Was a ghost objecting to this questionable theatrical twist? A ghost as the ultimate critic? If so, then I wasn’t crazy. I was on a mission. The problem was, I had no way to tell the ghost that this ending would only happen a few more times, and only in this opera house. So the ghost was likely to keep pushing. I’d better stay away from the other performances of Don Carlo.
Right now, I needed to go backstage to congratulate Sean. Up in the highest balcony, it was not easy to leave quickly. The elevators were jammed. I decided to take the stairs. There were a lot of them. Unfortunately, many others had made the same decision, so I had to blindly follow the slow-moving crowd, all the while itching to get to Sean.
The orchestra level had substantially cleared out by the time I got to the stage door to the right of the auditorium, past the ladies room. The guard took one look at my ID card and barred my entrance.
“I’m sorry, miss. You’re not allowed back here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have you on my list as a ‘Don’t admit.’” He looked rather curious about that, but also adamant.
Haunted Tenor (Singers in Love Book 1) Page 9
