Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (6 page)

Nat passed my glasses back to me. Tony put them in my hand and turned his head, giving me a searching look. I smiled to reassure him as the lights went down and the overture began.

A gentle opening, almost pastoral, but with hints of brooding darkness. I let the music take over my awareness, and soon it swept me up in Puccini’s lush, dramatic passion.

Tony leaned forward to fiddle with the captioning screen on the back of the seat in front of him. I left mine turned off; I usually find it distracting, and in this opera I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know what the characters were saying.

The opening strains of the first act were strong and dark, setting the tone for what was to come. I kept wondering what Tony was thinking and losing my focus on the performers. When Tosca came onstage and began her love scene with Cavaradossi, Tony slid his hand onto mine.

I didn’t follow the rest of the scene very well. Tony’s hand was so warm, and I felt a little breathless.

I watched the lovers onstage go from adoring to bickering to playfulness, all the while wondering what would happen between me and Tony later that night. He had left his bike at my house, and we’d be back late, close to midnight. Should I invite him in?

My thoughts continued scattered until Victor Solano came onstage. A smattering of applause greeted him. His voice commanded attention, and I caught the thread of the story once more.

I liked the performer, but his character, Scarpia, was thoroughly despicable. I knew that he would deceive Tosca into thinking her lover was seeing another woman, but the language bothered me more than I expected. I understood a little Italian, and I couldn’t help glancing at Tony’s captions now and then.

Go,Tosca!

Now Scarpia digs a nest within your heart!

Coupled with the oppressive music, I found the words disturbing. When the act ended, I felt relieved.

We all got up, but we weren’t fast enough to beat the lines that formed outside the restrooms on the terrace. Mr. Ingraham suggested the ones behind the gift shop as being less likely to be crowded, so we headed out to the front courtyard. Tony offered me his arm and led the way.

The courtyard was much less crowded, but as we passed through a narrow spot a couple suddenly stopped short right in front of us. Apparently they were having a disagreement; the woman looked unhappy. I glanced at Tony, expecting him to move past them or excuse himself, but instead he was watching from beneath a slight frown.

Cop mode. Triggered by the disagreement. I wondered if he’d had to answer a lot of domestic calls.

The woman noticed his gaze, shot a glance at her companion, and strode away toward the gift shop. The man stepped aside, grimacing, and we walked on.

Not needing to visit the restroom again so soon, I waited outside by the fountain and thought wistfully of the big petunia beds that were now gone. My gaze followed the line of the hedge where the beds had been, and I again saw the man who’d been arguing with the woman. He was standing with his back to the hedge, talking with another man who looked vaguely familiar.

As I watched, the arguing man—who had dark, curly hair combed artistically but not quite concealing a receding hairline—took two cigars from his breast pocket and offered one to the other man, who was taller and had salt-and-pepper hair. That man shook his head, and the arguing man put one cigar back in his coat.

Mr. Ingraham joined me. “Do you know who that is?” I asked him, watching the arguing man use a small, brass knife to cut the end off of his cigar.

“The tall one? I believe that’s the General Director.”

“No, the other one. The smoker,” I added, moving away as said individual lit up his stogie.

I don’t object to a little pipe smoke, but cigarette smoke makes me sneeze, and I find cigar smoke particularly vile.

Mr. Ingraham followed me, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m not sure. He does look familiar.”

The others joined us, much refreshed by all appearances, and we all strolled toward the south patio. A small crowd was clustered around the bar there, where two young women were bustling away filling orders as fast as they could. One of them sliced limes with frightening efficiency, her knife flashing in the light.

“Would anyone like a drink?” Tony asked. “My treat.” He turned to Mr. Ingraham and made just the perfect slight bow. I was delighted, though I worried about the impact on his wallet. The drinks wouldn’t be cheap.

“That sounds lovely, Tony,” said Nat. “I don’t know about the others, but I’ll gladly accept.”

Tony took orders. I didn’t dare insult him by declining.

“Just coffee for me,” I said, when he got around to me. “The port’s still with me.”

His eyes narrowed for a second. “Cream and sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

A breeze, cold and damp, swept across us, making me wonder if we were in for some rain after all. Suddenly I missed my coat.

Tony got in line at the bar while the others stood chatting near the wind-breaks: tall structures of canvas mounted on poles that were at least twenty feet high and looked a little like giant Roman blinds. I tagged along with Tony, thinking he might need help carrying the drinks.

“This is nice of you,” I said as we waited.

“Least I could do.”

“You didn’t have to do anything.”

“Yes, I did.”

I let it drop.

We carried the drinks back to the others. I wrapped my chilled fingers around my coffee and took cautious sips, enjoying the heat. This was only the first intermission; by the time we got to the end of Act Three it would probably be downright cold. I wished I’d brought a blanket for Tony, then decided that sharing mine with him might have its advantages.

“Any chance we’ll see Vi tonight?” Nat asked.

“Yes, she’s going to meet us by the stage door after the performance,” I said, gesturing with my cup toward a door in the wall south of the proscenium.

“Did you see her in the choir scene?” asked Mr. Ingraham.

“I think she was the one in the dark blue hat,” I said.

“Yes, I thought so, too!” said Nat.

By the time we’d finished our drinks, the lights were blinking again. We returned to our seats and swathed ourselves in coats and blankets.

Act II: Scarpia having Cavaradossi tortured within Tosca’s hearing, while urging her to reveal the hiding place of the revolutionary Cavaradossi was protecting. When she finally caved in and told him, Scarpia had Cavaradossi brought in so that he could gloat. I found that scene particularly disturbing; Scarpia caressing Cavaradossi, practically embracing him as he sang “The hangman’s noose awaits you.”

There was electricity in the air, the kind that comes from the best of performances. It held me frozen, though in this case I was frozen in dismay.

Then the blackmail. Scarpia promised Tosca he would let Cavaradossi live if she yielded herself to his—Scarpia’s—lust. She finally agreed, and coaxed a letter of safe-conduct from him, so that she and Cavaradossi could get out of the country after his “fake” execution.

When Scarpia approached to claim her, Tosca produced a knife and stabbed him, so swiftly and fiercely that the audience gasped, me included.

This is Tosca’s kiss!

I’m not a violent person, but I wanted to shout, “You go, girl!”

The lights came up, and we all heaved a sigh of relief. Mr. Ingraham leaned forward.

“Anyone need to get up, or should we all stay here and huddle?”

Tony looked at me. “You mean that’s not the end?”

“No, there’s one more act.”

Exasperation flicked across his face, though he hid it quickly. I threw back the blanket and stood, fastening my coat’s buttons.

“Actually, I think I’d like a walk. Will you join me?” I asked Tony.

“Sure.”

We went up to the Stravinsky Terrace, and Tony bought us both some coffee. The breeze was now quite chilly, and we sheltered in the lee of a wall while we sipped the scalding heat.

Above, I heard voices from the members-only bar. Mr. Ingraham probably had access to it, I realized. He could have bought a round of drinks with no waiting. How kind of him not to say so.

“Sorry it’s such a heavy piece,” I said to Tony. “There are light-hearted operas, this just isn’t one of them.”

“I guess you didn’t choose it.”

“No. But I did want to hear Mr. Solano sing. He’s got such a marvelous voice.”

“That’s the bad guy?”

“Scarpia, yes.”

Tony nodded, gazing reflectively toward the stage. “See, I have to deal with guys like that all the time.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. This really isn’t the best opera for you.”

He shrugged. “I’m enjoying the company, at least.”

“If you want to, we could go.”

He looked at me, dark eyes catching mine and making me tingle. Finally he shook his head.

“That’s tempting, but I don’t want to take you away from your friends.”

“Nice of you.”

He smiled. “I’m a nice guy, if you can believe it.”

“Oh, I believe it.”

“—practically snogging him right on stage. Neil wasn’t happy,” said a man’s voice above us in a distinct accent.

Tony glanced up, then looked at me and whispered, “Snogging?”

“British slang. It means making out.”

“Yeah, I know. I saw
Harry Potter
. But what’s a Brit doing here?”

“It’s an international company. He could be here with one of the artists, or as an artist. Or he could just be visiting Santa Fe.”

Tony tilted his head, looking up, but there was no one in view. I swallowed the last of my coffee.

“Please excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

I hurried to the ladies’ room, where there was fortunately no waiting. Many of the audience had elected to remain in their seats … and probably a few were asleep. Though how anyone could sleep through Puccini, I didn’t know.

When I rejoined Tony, he hastily removed his hands from his pockets.

“You’re cold. Shall we go back in?”

“Yeah. Really glad you brought that blanket.”

“I always do. Even if the weather’s ideal, it can get cold toward the end of the evening.”

At the gateway in the low adobe wall surrounding the audience, we nearly collided with the arguing woman I’d seen earlier, now swathed in a dark fur coat. She was alone, and looked no less argumentative: more so, if anything. We yielded to her and I watched her stride across the house and out into the southern patio.

Tony and I hurried back to our seats and the comfort of my blanket. We tucked the edges around ourselves. Manny and Nat were sharing a blanket, too. Mr. Ingraham and Claudia each had their own, and Claudia had donned a close-fitting, vaguely Russian-looking fur hat. I peered at it, trying to decide if it was real fur.

“No,” she said, as if she’d read my mind. “But it’s a good imitation.”

“As long as it’s warm.”

My thoughts drifted back to the arguing woman as we waited for the intermission to end. I suspected that her fur coat was real, and that the color of her pale blonde hair was not. She had large eyes and a small chin, and was probably pretty when she wasn’t angry.

The lights finally dimmed and Act III commenced. I tensed for a moment, until I remembered that Scarpia was dead. A horn played a melody, not quite a fanfare, with lilting tones that calmed my anxiety and foretold the dawn.

A single figure came onstage: the shepherd-boy. I gasped, realizing that it was Vi.

Nat turned to look at me, eyes big. I nodded, then looked back at the stage.

Vi was dressed in shepherd’s clothes, with a cap over her auburn curls. She sang briefly; two verses, sweet and simple. I glanced at the captions.

I give you sighs,
There are as many
As there are leaves
Driven by the wind

Nothing to do with the story, really. Just scene-setting, to get the audience back into the opera. I watched Vi’s face, serene, perhaps a little sad.

It was over too soon. Vi left the stage, and a man with a lantern crossed it. Behind him, the scenery shifted to become the jail where Cavaradossi was being held.

The music intensified as Tosca came in and the two lovers began planning their doomed escape. Tony’s hand found mine beneath the blanket. I lost track of the drama onstage.

Could this work? I must have already asked myself a hundred times. There was no way to be certain. On an emotional level, Tony and I connected just fine. Socially: that was the question.

I would probably be as uncomfortable at a gathering of his friends as he was, here tonight. He’d been so patient, though. So generous, when I knew going in that this wasn’t his kind of fun. At the very least, I owed him reciprocation.

On stage, Tosca sang of the future she pictured for herself and Cavaradossi, a glorious future filled with happiness, which she would never see. Her lover knew it would not happen, but she clung to that bright hope.

Was I equally naïve?

The jailer took Cavaradossi away, to stand before a firing squad for his supposedly fake execution. From beyond the grave, Scarpia reached out to flip the lovers a final bird: the bullets are real, and Cavaradossi is dead. Tosca, thinking he’s pretending, begs him not to move until the soldiers have all gone.

A shout, and a hubbub of voices offstage. Tosca froze briefly, glanced toward stage left, then again told her lover not to move. As last she felt safe and told him to get up—and discovered his death was real.

The rest happened quickly. Voices and clamor offstage again, this time from the right. Scarpia’s officers returned, accusing Tosca of killing him. Tosca ran up to the top of a balcony at the rear of the stage, and with a wordless cry, leapt over it to her death. Even though I’d been expecting it, I gasped.

End of opera. I was glad. A marvelous performance all around, but I felt drained and a bit depressed.

I let go of Tony’s hand to applaud. The chorus took their bow, then the bit parts—we shouted “Brava!” for Vi—then the soloists. When everyone but Scarpia, Cavaradossi, and Tosca had taken their bows, an lengthy pause followed. Some of the audience rose to their feet, anticipating Mr. Solano’s entrance.

But he didn’t enter. Tosca and Cavaradossi came on, holding hands, and bowed. They were smiling, but Tosca looked a bit wild-eyed.