The Doctor and the Diva (55 page)

Erika sank onto a velvet settee, dazed. The ice water flushed coolness into her and strengthened her vocal cords. She caught sight of her underarms in a long mirror on the far wall. During the next acts, she warned herself, she must not lift her arms too high or with too much abandon, particularly as she danced with castanets—or the audience would notice the dark moons of perspiration that stained her dress.

She feared she would not last, but she did.

The “Gypsy Song”? They encored that aria, too, with a mad stomping of feet. Through beams of stage light Erika saw dust showering from the rafters.

When Don Jos
é
stabbed his beloved Carmen to death at the end, the women of Montepulciano wailed.

The final curtain rose and fell, rose and fell, and rose again. The audience kept her singing half the night, her voice spiraling toward heaven.

Backstage, Maestro Valenti kissed his fingertips and bowed low, and when he straightened up, the moisture in his eyes surprised her. Just behind him was another of his former students, a man who had come up from Naples to play Escamillo and sing the “Toreador Song.” The bass-baritone kissed her hard on the mouth and fell back, as though drunk with the taste of her.

Christopher rushed toward her, laughing at her victory, his neck red with emotion, his arms outstretched for an embrace, his ribs bumping hers. Bodies crowded into the dressing room, fans bearing bushy bouquets in both fists. A stranger pushed his way forward, sniffed her bare shoulder, and ran out before she could swat him away. Mark and Edmund had traveled to Montepulciano with Donna Anna; now they formed a protective tunnel so that the blind woman, whom they guided inside, could come close to Erika’s ear.

“You sang
divinamente,
” the elderly lady whispered with heat.
“Che bellezza!”

As the room emptied slowly, Maestro Valenti took Erika aside to say, “There is an impresario from Milan here who wishes to speak with you.”

Erika turned, aware suddenly of a broad-shouldered gentleman whose silk cravat gave him an air of importance. An impresario from Milan? But why would he come to this obscure performance, in such a small city? A very plump, expensively outfitted lady stood beside him. They reserved their comments until the others had departed.

“May I present Signor Lorello and his wife, Signora Lorello?” Maestro Valenti called loudly, and then, with great sweeps of his arms, her teacher shooed stragglers from the dressing room. He bowed, drew the door shut, and left the two visitors from Milan alone with Erika.

Lorello clasped his hands behind his back, his lips pressed together in a secretive yet pleasant manner. His heavy-set wife was more effusive. “We have heard many Carmens,” the signora said, “but never in Italy have we seen anyone who suits the part as beautifully as you.” The wife had black hair and currant-colored eyes that glinted in a face of white skin. An overwhelming fragrance of gardenias emanated from her.

“You’re too kind,” Erika said.

“You have,” the impresario noted with a sober expression,
“grandissimo talento.”

“We are on holiday,” Signora Lorello explained. “We rarely attend opera in a provincial city like this, but when everyone told us about the new mezzo-soprano—” She smiled. “We realized this might be the exception. We never expected to come to Montepulciano to
discover
someone.”

The wife’s gaze slid to Erika’s waist. “Tell me,” Signora Lorello said, “did you diet for the role, or are you naturally so slender?”

“I had to study Spanish dancing for the part. It’s wonderful exercise—”

The impresario mentioned the name of a Milan theatre where he assembled opera casts—not La Scala, of course, nor the Teatro Lirico, but Erika knew it to be a reputable place to obtain a contract.

Could she meet with them to talk over breakfast?

Breakfast? Of course, she said.

At the hotel she pinned up her hair, preparing to head downstairs to greet the Lorellos, when she heard a commotion under her window. Three men with rough, untrained voices burst out singing the “Toreador Song,” while a little assembly of other citizens waved their arms at her.

“Erika von Kessler!”

Erika pulled a bouquet from a vase and threw handfuls of dripping flowers down to them. The Lorellos, who were just stepping into the hotel, paused and glanced up, smiling.

Perfect,
Erika thought.
Just the scene for them to witness.

“I have no agent,” Erika said cautiously. “Surely I should find one before I sign anything?”

“We can introduce you to agents,” the impresario offered. “We know many in Milan.”

His wife’s quick currant eyes lingered over Erika’s dark curls, the lace cuffs on her lavender dress. “I can tell you one thing,” Signora Lorello said. “There is no agent in Milan who would refuse you as a client.”

Was she joking? Erika wondered. As the impresario and his wife verbalized the sort of praise Erika had always longed for, their comments sounded oddly false.

“We have in mind an important role for you,” the impresario said, “as Suzuki in
Madama Butterfly
.” They warned her that the publishers of Puccini’s operas, the managers of the Ricordi company, maintained the right to veto any singer whom they did not care for, should that person be under consideration for a Puccini production. “But in your case”—impresario Lorello relaxed an arm across the back of his chair—“this will present no problem, I am certain.”

If Erika came to Milan, the Lorellos said they would present her as a singer of rare ability—as a potential star—to the owners of the theatre where impresario Lorello arranged productions. The Lorellos would press the owners to compensate her handsomely, because such an investment would force them to promote her name.

Erika sensed that the impresario and his wife were not quite as important as they hoped to become. The Lorellos intended to cling to her, to ride her toward future success.

When they finished breakfast, the impresario held the door for the two women, and his wife turned to Erika as they exited. “How unusual,” Signora Lorello said with slyness in her eyes, “that a lady so young and beautiful should sing with such fever and passion.”

Erika did not want to mention that she was probably older than the signora herself.

M
ilan’s Galleria had an enormous glass and steel roof that arched over
caffès
and restaurants and offices and shops. This was a place where singers’ tours were conceived, where contracts were signed, where operatic careers were made.

Erika and Christopher strolled past marble-topped tables where opera house managers, conductors, and librettists gathered. The Lorellos were due to arrive shortly. Two months ago, Erika thought, no one in the Galleria would have noticed or spoken to her. A striped cat slinking under a table or a waiter would have attracted more attention than she did.

If she’d come here then, if she’d thrown back her head and sung upward at the Galleria’s glass roof, no one would have listened. The business people of the opera world would have gone on spreading pages of proposals across circular marble tables, and ignored her. Hands would have gone on scribbling contracts. Once signed, the pages would have been folded up—just as she saw happening now—and tucked into breast pockets as carefully as money.

But today an impresario expected to meet with her, to hire her.

Suddenly Signora Lorello hurried toward them, just ahead of her husband. The loose ruffled dress she wore to hide her corpulence swung wildly around her body, and she could not stifle her excitement.

“Pietro Palladino is here,” she announced, seizing Erika’s arm. “My husband and I have just spoken to him.” Pietro Palladino was an agent, it seemed. “In the past he has handled tours for Caruso. Come,” Signora Lorello insisted, hooking her fingers through Erika’s, “you must meet him.”

“Like this?” Erika glanced down at her plain gray traveling clothes.

“Yes! Just come.” The signora beckoned Christopher as well. “You come, too.”

At a corner table sat a large man with an extravagant moustache. Behind his table, an enormous potted palm fanned to the left and right of him. This corner of the Galleria seemed to be reserved for Pietro Palladino, the place he often held court at midday. Flanked by two charcoal-suited assistants, the agent sat like a man enthroned.

A river of men circulated around him. One bent and spoke into his right ear, while another slapped Pietro Palladino’s left shoulder before moving on. Others tipped their hat brims and waved to the agent in passing, and he laughed and called out to them in man-to-man jocularity.

As Erika approached, he stood up—a tall, stately man. The edges of his lapels were carefully pressed. “The Lorellos have been so enthusiastic,” he said, smiling. “I must say I look forward to hearing you sing.”