A Chorus of Detectives (10 page)

At the back of the auditorium, Alessandro Quaglia got up and left in disgust.

Ziegler stayed, waiting as Setti patiently rehearsed the tenors alone until he was satisfied they could stay on pitch. The reunited chorus tried again. This time they got all the way through one number without anything disgraceful happening; Ziegler released the breath he'd been holding. It would do. They weren't setting any new standards for choral singing, but it would do.

Setti called a break and hurried over to where Ziegler was standing. “Well? What do you think?”

“I think it's possible we may have a chorus again,” the assistant manager said cautiously. “Not just yet, but there was a moment there—”

“Yes, yes!” Setti cried excitedly. “The singing, it is still in them! They
can
do it, if they will.”

“If they will.”

“And they will. I
make
them sing right. I must waste no time.” The chorus master hurried back to his singers.

Ziegler nodded and left them to it, wondering if Setti could pull it off.

Rosa Ponselle had made her Metropolitan Opera début as Leonora in
La Forza del Destino
. She'd been taught the role one phrase at a time, slowly and painstakingly. When the night of her début arrived, it finally sank in on her that all those people backstage actually expected her to go out on that enormous stage alone and face that glittering Diamond Horseshoe of an audience all by herself. She was twenty-one years old and had never even seen a performance of
Forza
. She panicked.

But someone pushed her out on the stage, she sang, the audience loved her, and all was well. Now starting her third season at the Met, she'd learned more roles, sung more performances—and she still panicked. Part of the reason was that in
Forza
she was partnered with Enrico Caruso, whose pre-performance stage fright was legendary; Rosa couldn't help but pick up some anxiety from him. The rest of the reason was that she still thought of herself as an ex-vaudeville performer, one-half of a sister act, who was only slowly coming to feel that she really and truly belonged at the Metropolitan Opera.

Matters were not helped any by the fact that the backstage area was as crowded as Ebbets Field on the opening day of the World Series.

“Everywhere are police!” Caruso cried. “All the time, I am bumping into policeman!”

“Shut up, Rico!” Rosa screamed. “You're making things worse!”

“Do not tell your elders to shut up!” he screamed back. “You shut up!”

“
In fede mia!
” protested Pasquale Amato, that evening's singing villain. “Never do I hear so much noise backstage! Please—it is better without the screaming, yes?”

“It is better without the screaming
no
!” Caruso roared.

“Screaming is good for you,” Rosa informed Amato in an uncharacteristically schoolteacherish manner. “It clears out the clogs in the respiratory system. Where's Setti?” She wandered away in search of the chorus master.

Amato looked at one of the guards. “Clogs?” The guard shrugged.

The new guards, mingling with those members of New York's finest assigned to the opera house, were there to reassure as well as protect; but so many uniforms backstage at once were having the contrary effect of making a lot of people nervous. The guards and the police were making
each other
nervous. The only ones not upset by the presence of so many strangers were the choristers. In fact, they wouldn't have minded if there'd been even more bodyguards in evidence. But police and private guards both had been busy; everything that could possibly pose a threat to the safety of the chorus was checked, double-checked, and triple-checked.

“Eh, Maestro,” Gatti-Casazza said worriedly, “perhaps the choristers begin to feel more secure, do you think?”

“Does feeling secure make them sing better?” Quaglia said testily as a large policeman bumped into him. “I think not.”

“Oh?” Gatti was surprised. “Ziegler tells me they sing well in rehearsal.”

“Not when I hear them—ow! Watch where you step!”

“Sorry,” a guard mumbled and elbowed his way through the crowd.

“Setti is optimistic,” Gatti persisted.

“I hope he is right.” Quaglia noticed Gatti's distraught air and relented a little. “I do not stay for entire rehearsal, you understand. Perhaps they improve after I leave.”

“That must be—
per la vita mia!
What now?”

Rosa Ponselle had the chorus master backed up against a scenery flat and was laying down the law—at the top of her voice. “I'm telling you, Mr. Setti, if any one of those orangutans so much as crosses in front of me tonight, I'm going to kick him where it hurts the most!”

“Please, no—”

“Or if it's a woman, I'll tear her hair out—right there on the stage! I'm through with waiting until the act is over to complain! I'm going to start defending myself, right out where everyone can see! Do you hear?”

“Everybody hears,” the chorus master sighed.

“Well, you make sure they all understand, now. I'm serious—I won't let myself be blocked off or pushed or stepped on or anything. I'm telling you, it's got to stop
tonight
!”

“Rosa!” Caruso sang out. “Do not bully Mr. Setti!”

“The chorus is his responsibility, isn't it? He's got to make them behave!”

Gatti insinuated himself into the one-sided argument and explained to the nervous young soprano that her declaration of independence could perhaps have been better timed. Eventually Rosa let herself be persuaded that tonight was going to be different and that she was worrying over nothing.

An older woman in peasant costume came up to them. “Mr. Setti, we're going to be short one bass tonight. Spike is sick.”

All talking stopped. Simultaneously Gatti and Quaglia and the soloists figured out that ‘Spike' was the name of an opera singer and that he sang in the chorus and he was
sick.…

“
Misericordia!
” Setti cried out. “Another one!”

“No, no, it's just something he ate,” the chorus woman said hastily. “He might feel well enough to sing later—he just can't start.”

“Where is he?” Gatti demanded.

“In the greenroom.”

“Alone?”

“Of course not,” the woman said indignantly. “A guard is with him.” She started to add something but found herself unceremoniously pushed aside by a mob of people dashing to the greenroom to check on the state of health of a chorus singer named Spike.

In the greenroom, a pale young man sat up on the settee where he'd been lying and shakily lifted his fists to protect himself against the horde bearing down on him. “What … what did I do?”

“What is wrong with you?” Gatti demanded.

“How do you feel?” Amato asked.

“Lie down, lie down!” Setti urged.

“How long you feel this way?” Caruso wanted to know.

“Oh, is there anything I can do?” Rosa cried.

“Someone call a doctor!” Quaglia commanded the room at large.

Spike's eyes grew larger as he understood that all these important people were worrying about his stomachache. “I don't need a doctor. It's just indigestion.”

“A doctor,” Quaglia insisted. “We take no chances. Where is a doctor?”

“One of my doctors, he is here!” Caruso cried. (Dorothy had insisted on it.) “I get him!” He hurried away.

Spike's mouth fell open at the sight of the most famous singer in the world running off to fetch
him
a doctor. “I took some Bromo-Seltzer.”

Setti put his hand on the young man's forehead. “No fever. It could be indigestion.”

“I know it's indigestion,” Spike said. “In the dressing room, one of the men brought in a huge Italian sausage and I had some.”

Amato's eyebrows shot up. “I eat sausage three, four times every week. It never makes me sick.”

The young singer smiled ruefully. “Not all of us can eat garlic without paying a penalty. It always makes me queasy—I should have known better.”

“Oh, you poor boy!” Rosa cooed. He was at least two years older than she. “Why not lie back down until the doctor gets here?” She sat beside him. “Here, let me help.” With a minimum of maneuvering, Spike ended up with his head in her lap. “Isn't that better?” she asked.

“Oh, much better, yes.”

“Where is that doctor?” Quaglia muttered.

Gatti pulled out his watch. “It is time. We must start the performance.”

Quaglia shook his head. “I do not go into orchestra pit until I know this is not another attack on the chorus.”

“I'm sorry, Maestro, but I must insist,” Gatti said quietly. “You can do nothing here—”

Edward Ziegler came rushing in. “What is it? What is it?”

“A stomachache,” Amato smiled, shaking his head. “From eating good Italian sausage.”

“I heard one of the choristers had been—”

“No, no!” Gatti said. “Do not allow that rumor to spread! We do not know what is wrong yet—a doctor comes.”

Ziegler walked over to where Spike was lying happily with his head in Rosa Ponselle's lap. “You don't look sick to me,” he accused.

The smile on Spike's face was quickly replaced by a grimace of pain. He helped the effect by groaning a little. “A glass of orange juice might help.” He pointed to a pitcher that stood on the small table next to the settee.

Rosa poured a glass. She put one hand under Spike's head to raise him up and held the glass to his lips. “How's that?”

He drank half the juice. “Better.” She put the glass on the table. Spike laid his head back in her lap and grasped her hand. “How soft your hand is!”

“You must lie still,” she whispered.

Ziegler looked at Gatti. “
This
is what everybody's so excited about?”

“Here is the doctor,” Setti announced.

A thin man carrying a black bag followed Caruso into the greenroom. It took him only a few pokes and prods to come up with a diagnosis. “Gas,” he said bluntly and saw Rosa wince. “Excuse me, Miss Ponselle. I should have said a digestive problem.”

Spike looked up soulfully at Rosa. “A
bad
digestive problem,” he murmured. She made soothing noises and stroked his forehead.

“I have something here that'll have him up and around in no time,” the doctor said. “Don't worry—it's nothing serious.”

Only then did the others relax. Now it was official: No one was trying to poison the chorus. The men exchanged sheepish looks. “Look at us,” Quaglia said sourly. “One chorister gets a tummy-ache and we all panic.”

“I do not panic,” Caruso sniffed. “I go get doctor.”

“Now we start the performance,” Gatti announced firmly and led the way out of the greenroom.

Rosa carefully lifted Spike's head off her lap. “Lie still, now. Take your time.”

“Come back?” he asked hopefully.

She smiled and said maybe and followed the men to the stage. The curtain was going to be a little late tonight.

Gatti did a quick check; the soloists were in their places and Quaglia was on his way to the orchestra pit. The general manager kept thinking of what the conductor had just said, about how quickly they'd all panicked once they thought another chorister might be in danger. Young Spike had been too interested in winning Rosa Ponselle's sympathy to be seriously ill; but was this to be the pattern from now on? Every time a chorus singer became indisposed, everything else would grind to a halt?

Gatti found himself a place in the wings where he could stand out of the way; general managers were fifth wheels during a performance. He mumbled a little prayer, hoping the audience had not had time to grow restless while waiting for the late curtain.

Out front, the talkative audience hadn't even noticed the opera was late in starting, and at least two of its members were grateful for the delay. Geraldine Farrar and Antonio Scotti had dawdled and were only just then arriving; they made their usual grand entrance into the artists' box—and found Emmy Destinn already sitting there.

“Emmy!” Gerry smiled bravely, not really welcoming the other soprano's company for the next few hours. “I thought you avoided Rosa's performances!”

“Not at all,” Emmy answered sharply. “I just avoid Rosa.”

“Now, Emmy,” Scotti said reprovingly. “Rosa means well.”

“She's a nosy little girl who's never been taught any manners.” Emmy turned to Gerry. “And you—at a
Verdi
performance, Gerry?”

“I just don't sing Verdi—I do listen to him.” Gerry had decided years ago that either Verdi's music wasn't right for her voice or her voice wasn't right for Verdi's music, a puzzle she didn't particularly care to resolve.

The truth was, they were all three there for the same reason. This was Caruso's first time back on the stage since the night he'd hemorrhaged. They were worried about him.

Quaglia had made his way to the podium and now faced the orchestra with both arms lifted in the air. Down came his arms and the orchestra sounded three powerful trumpet blasts, paused, and sounded three more. Then they were into the haunting, uneasy theme music associated with the opera's heroine.

Rosa Ponselle and Pasquale Amato opened the opera, and it wasn't until after Amato had exited that Caruso made his first entrance. He and Rosa immediately plunged into a long and dramatic duet, and the three singers in the artists' box held their breath.

They needn't have worried. The tenor's tone was pure and his control was perfect. He was holding back some, though—a cause for rejoicing because that meant he had decided to be sensible. But even holding back, Caruso still had more power than any other tenor in the opera company, including the sweet-voiced Gigli. It was going to be all right.