by Barbara Paul
And make a fool of yourself, no doubt, Emmy thought. The speakeasy was beginning to grow crowded; the two singers worked their way among the tables to the door. Outside, it had turned dark. Scotti’s limousine was less than a block away; he told the chauffeur to take Emmy home first and then drive him to West Seventy-fourth Street.
A fine time to get a coughing fit, Enrico Caruso thought, fifteen minutes before curtain time. If only his side didn’t hurt so!
“Let me call the doctor,” Dorothy begged. “You’re in no condition to go on!”
He shook his head no and sprayed his throat generously, leaving enough liquid there for a good gargle. But even he became alarmed when he saw blood stains in the washbasin.
“That does it,” Dorothy said firmly. “I’m calling the doctor!”
“No, Doro, I cannot wait for doctor! Now is time to start! You go take your seat now—you do not wish to miss curtain!”
Dorothy protested, but found herself gently shooed out of the Brooklyn Academy star dressing room. It was time to sing.
Caruso’s throat hurt him. His side hurt. He was sweating. He got halfway through the first act of L’Elisir d’Amore without having to cough, but then when he did he looked down at scarlet flecks all over the front of his costume. He kept on singing, but he could feel the blood coming out of his mouth. He could see the first few rows of the audience staring at him, horrified.
A movement offstage right caught his eye; someone was standing there waving a white towel. He sang his way over to the side, snatched the towel, and wiped his mouth. He kept the towel with him as he went on with his role, patting at his mouth in between phrases. Before long, the towel was thoroughly soaked and useless.
Part of the scenery for Elisir was a well, placed in the exact center of the stage; that’s where Caruso decided to deposit his bloody towel. Unfortunately, the audience saw him do it. Unfortunately, he was still slobbering blood.
A chorister nudged him and passed him a fresh towel. The chorus kept relaying towels to him all through the rest of the act.
Scotti was surprised to find Gerry about to sit down to dinner with Pasquale Amato and Rosa Ponselle. What was this? The new lover was not here? “Where is he?” Scotti demanded.
“Where is who?” Gerry asked.
“Where is this man you spend the afternoon with?”
“I am right here,” Amato said, puzzled.
“You, Pasquale?”
“He was helping me do some Christmas shopping,” Gerry said. “What are you carrying on about?”
“Why you take Pasquale shopping and not me?”
“Do not be stupido, Toto,” Amato whispered behind his hand.
“Non capisco,” Scotti muttered. “What do you say?”
Rosa was laughing. “I’d guess he’s telling you they were shopping for your present, Toto.”
“Oh, do let’s change the subject.” Gerry sighed. “Toto, have you had your dinner?”
Finally he caught on. “Cara mia!” he cried, and swept her up in a bear hug. “I think such terrible things! Can you forgive me? I am desolate! Forgive, forgive! No, I do not have dinner yet. You invite me?”
Laughing, Gerry disengaged herself from his embrace. “I think I may invite us all to go out to dine.” She summoned the maid. “Will you ask the cook if she could possibly feed one more? I don’t suppose she can.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of food,” the maid answered easily—and then blushed. “I made a mistake. I told her Mr. Caruso was coming tonight.”
Gerry laughed again and asked her to set another place. The four singers sat down and actually managed to forget the troubles at the Metropolitan Opera for a while—until Rosa started talking about what the chorus had done to her that afternoon. Only this time she told it wonderingly instead of angrily, as if amazed at the depth of the mean-spiritedness the chorus had shown her.
“They are changed,” Amato said, shaking his head. “They are not really a chorus anymore. They are many angry people who happen to be on the stage singing at same time.”
“Anarchists,” Scotti muttered.
“Oh, now the choristers are anarchists?” Gerry asked, amused. “But Pasquale is right. The chorus has changed.”
“The Metropolitan itself is changed,” Scotti added sadly. “And Emmy—perhaps Emmy most of all. She is not simpatica as before.”
“Try spending a war virtually locked up in your own house with armed Austrians watching every move you make and see how simpatico you are when it’s over,” Gerry said. “No wonder she’s changed—” She broke off suddenly, catching sight of Rosa drinking it all in, hoping for some gossip. “Besides,” Gerry finished, “can you name something in the world that has not changed?”
The evening was well advanced by the time they’d finished dining, but no one seemed inclined to leave. Rosa tried to turn the talk back to Emmy Destinn. “I know she’s had an unhappy love affair and she had a hard time during the war—”
“Do you think it snows before morning?” Amato pointedly asked Scotti.
“Sì, I think so,” he answered, wishing he’d never brought up Emmy’s name. She was still a friend. He walked over to a window. “Eh—it starts already! It snows now.”
The maid came into the room. “Miss Farrar, telephone. It’s Mr. Gatti.” As Gerry passed her she whispered, “He sounds upset.”
Dear God, not another ‘accident’. Gerry hurried away to the phone.
“Why won’t you people talk about Emmy Destinn when I’m in the room?” Rosa complained crossly to the two men. “Is there some big dark secret about her?”
“No, no secret, little one,” Scotti said kindly. “But Emmy, she does not have easy life during the war, and she does not wish to talk about it.”
“But she’s not here, is she? Why won’t you talk about it?”
Amato spoke up. “Because Emmy is lady we know for longer than you are alive, young Rosa.”
Rosa made a self-mocking face. “None of my business, hm?”
The two baritones smiled at her. Scotti glanced up to see Gerry standing frozen in the doorway. “Cielo! Do you see ghost, cara mia?”
White-faced, Gerry stammered, “That, that was Gatti. Elisir … in Brooklyn—oh, it’s Rico! He started hemorrhaging. He was coughing up blood on the stage. It got so bad they had to stop the performance.”
Buy A Chorus of Detectives Now!
About the Author
Barbara Paul is the author of numerous short stories and novels in both the detective and science fiction genres. Born in Maysville, Kentucky, she went on to attend Bowling Green State University and the University of Pittsburgh, earning a PhD in theater history and criticism. She has been nominated for the Shamus Award for Best PI Short Story, and two of her novels, In-Laws and Outlaws and Kill Fee, have been adapted into television movies. After teaching at the University of Pittsburgh for a number of years, she retired to write full-time. Paul currently resides in Sacramento.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1985 by Barbara Paul
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3244-5
This edition published in 2016 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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