Prima Donna at Large (15 page)

Morris took a big swallow of tea and made a face, obviously wishing it were something stronger. “Your contract will be ready in a day or two.”

“For Creme Nerol? I haven't said yes yet, Morris.”

“Naw, the contract for your joint concert with that double-crossing, underhanded, tight-fisted, no-good Frog you're determined to sing with.”

Oh my. “Philippe Duchon? Why, what's he done?”

“He's ratted out on me, that's what he's done.” Morris's face was angry; a big vein stood out in his forehead. “He let me go ahead and arrange his tour for him, and then he up and tells me he's decided not to sign a personal management contract after all, mercy beau-koo. Ain't that a nice howdy-do?”

It was a rotten trick. “Is he signing with someone else?”

“Not so far as I know. I could cancel his tour, but there's no point. He's got the schedule I made out for him—all he has to do is pick up a telephone and reconfirm. That slimy son of a bitch!”

“Morris!”

“Sorry, Gerry. But I could chew nails! He's got you to sing for him for free and he got me to arrange his tour for him for free … I could throttle that damned Frog! Who does he think he is?”

“Calm down, Morris, this can't be good for you. Here, have some more tea.” I filled his cup, understanding full well why he was so bothered; it wasn't often that someone pulled a fast one on Morris Gest. “You might as well forget about it. There's nothing you can do.”

“The hell there isn't,” he muttered. “I can sue the oily-tongued bastard.”

“But you had no contract!”

“We had a
verbal
contract. And if I can prove we had one, it'll stand up in court. That's why I asked the Old Man to meet us here—he knows the ins and outs of a courtroom, he's been sued more than anybody else I know. And Gerry, you'd help my case if you refused to sing with Duchon.”

On again, off again. “How would that help?”

“Oh, you could testify that you knew he'd welched on his agreement with me and that made you leery of him, since his word wasn't worth much, something like that. We can work it out.”

I didn't like Morris's asking me to take sides in his quarrel with Philippe Duchon; my relationship with the baritone was precarious enough as it was. But Morris was in the right, and he was an old friend. If it ever came down to it, I'd have to side with Morris.

“Here comes the Old Man,” he said.

I looked up to see a distinguished-looking older man in priest's raiment approaching, his thick silver hair carefully waved and his face calm. He ignored his son-in-law and took my hand. “My dear Geraldine,” he said in that soft, mellifluous voice of his, “when are you going to abandon the opera house in favor of the theatre? We need you, you know.”

I gave him my best smile. “Get thee behind me, Satan. Your offer becomes more tempting every time I hear it.”

“Ah, that is music to my ears!” He sat down at the table, finally acknowledging his son-in-law's presence. “I told Morris I couldn't leave rehearsal to meet him, but then he mentioned you'd be here. How could I resist?”

So I was the bait. “I'm glad you didn't resist. What are you rehearsing now, David?”

“We're reviving
A Celebrated Case
. I'll try it out in Boston next month before bringing it to New York. Why don't you let me find a play for you?”

David Belasco had been after me for several years to act in one of his productions. Playwright, director, producer—Belasco was the single most important and influential figure in New York theatre, and I was frankly flattered by his attention. He even had his own theatre building, on West Forty-fourth Street; but he always had half a dozen other productions playing in town. He'd worked his way up from nothing to become high priest of the theatre world—which, I suppose, is why he always wore ecclesiastical garb. Also, it helped hide his growing pot belly.

Belasco and Morris talked a while about Morris's intended litigation, and Belasco too seemed to think I would make a good witness for the plaintiff. He gave his son-in-law the names of a couple of attorneys. Morris was always on the lookout for a new lawyer; he distrusted the profession and was convinced that all its practitioners were out to fleece him.

Meanwhile, I'd been thinking. When there was a lull in the lawyer-talk, I said, “David, I could use your help.”

“Name it, dear lady,” he smiled.

“I'm concerned about the final duet in
Carmen
—the acting, not the singing. The way Caruso and I do it, well, there's something wrong with it.”

Belasco frowned. “I saw your
Carmen
in December, but I'm afraid I don't remember the acting in the final duet at all.”

“That's what's wrong with it—there's nothing to remember! Caruso and I stand there like two blocks of wood and wave our arms at each other. I've tried doing a few things on my own, but they haven't worked very well. David, I would appreciate some suggestions.”

“When do you next sing
Carmen
?”

“Friday night. Can you come see what we're doing? Or not doing, rather.”

“I'll be there. And don't worry, Gerry, I'll work out something for you and your partner.”

“If he cooperates,” I sighed.

Belasco smiled. “I've dealt with Mr. Caruso before, remember.”

That's right; he had. Belasco had directed the stage action for the première of
La Fanciulla del West
, Puccini's cowboy opera that had starred Caruso and Pasquale Amato. And Emmy Destinn—instead of me.

Instead of me
.

I had to see my dressmaker and left soon after that, feeling much relieved. If anyone could solve the staging problems of
Carmen
's final duet, it was David Belasco. It occurred to me that on Friday night Belasco would also be seeing the man his son-in-law was planning to sue; Duchon would again be substituting for Amato.

Unless he lost his voice before then. I almost wished it would happen. And then I was almost ashamed of myself for thinking such a thing. Almost.

8

“It's still too fast, Mr. Springer,” I said. He grimaced and forced himself to play more slowly. I'd invited him and Jimmy Freeman to my apartment to rehearse those parts of
Madame Sans-Gêne
Jimmy would be singing. Jimmy was doing fine; the only problem was keeping Osgood Springer's piano accompaniment to the pace the orchestra would be following. But I could understand his desire to speed things up once in a while; the music was rather bland in places.

But Jimmy thought it was wonderful. It was his first major role, after all, and—let's face it—he was doubly excited because he would be singing with me. I didn't mind. When we finished, I announced I could see no major problems, Mr. Springer declared he was satisfied, and Jimmy proclaimed himself in seventh heaven, no less. We would do all right.

Bella and one of the other maids brought us refreshments. As I was pouring Mr. Springer's coffee, he mentioned that he and Jimmy would be seeing me on Friday night, at
Carmen
. It seemed Jimmy would be standing by for Duchon again.

“I don't object, not really,” Jimmy said happily. “I'll gladly stand by every night as long as I have
Madame Sans-Gêne
to look forward to.”

So with the promise of that one performance, Gatti-Casazza had gained himself a willing slave. “Duchon is still complaining of throat problems, then?” I asked.

“Mr. Gatti didn't actually say so,” Osgood Springer replied, “but that was the impression I got. Do those two dislike each other?”

“Who?” I said, startled. “Gatti and Toscanini?”

“Toscanini? No, I meant Gatti and Duchon. Our general manager seems uneasy every time he speaks of the Frenchman.”

Worried about his job
. “I don't think there's any actual dislike between them,” I said, “but Duchon is not easy to work with. He makes so many demands.”

“
You
work with him,” Jimmy said loyally.

“Only through the exercise of superior self-control,” I smiled modestly. “The man isn't easy to get along with. I'd much rather sing with you.”

Jimmy almost dropped his cup. “You would? You really would?”

“I really would.”

Jimmy put down his cup and got up and did an impromptu little dance. “Hear that, Mr. Springer? She'd rather sing with me than Duchon!”

His voice coach laughed, enjoying the moment almost as much as Jimmy. “Things will be returning to normal soon. I hear Pasquale Amato is up and about now. He'll be back soon, and then Philippe Duchon can go back to where he came from.”

Oh my. Did they really think that? “Mr. Springer, Jimmy—I don't want to tell you this. But Duchon isn't going back to France. Not right away, at least.”

A silence heavy enough to feel came into the room. Then Jimmy said, “What do you mean, he isn't going back? All he's doing is filling in for Amato.”

“No, that's not all he's doing,” I said. “He's going on tour, for one thing—my manager arranged it for him. And Duchon and Gatti have been talking about next season's schedule, I know.”

The silence returned. Abruptly Mr. Springer stood up and walked over to stare out the window.

I felt compelled to explain. “Philippe Duchon is an ardent patriot, you know that. But there's nothing he can do in France. Here he can raise money—that's why he came in the first place, to solicit funds for Alsatian war relief. I think you'd both better get used to the idea that he's going to be around for a while.” I didn't have the heart to tell them I'd agreed to sing a joint concert with Duchon; they'd find out about that soon enough.

“I thought he'd be leaving,” Jimmy said, stunned.

“So what happens to James?” Mr. Springer asked, still staring out the window.

“Oh, I'm sure Gatti will give him another leading role next season,” I said in as optimistic a voice as I could summon. “Maybe even two roles.”

Mr. Springer whirled from the window. “With
three
lead baritones on the roster? Scotti, Amato, and Duchon? There's no room left for James!”

“You can never have too many good baritones!” I was
determined
to be optimistic.

Mr. Springer made a sound something like
pshaw
and turned back to the window. “I thought he'd be leaving,” Jimmy repeated dully.

I shouldn't have told them
, I thought miserably. But I couldn't let them go on living in a fool's paradise; the later they found out the truth, the more it would hurt. Confound Gatti-Casazza anyway! He should have explained things to them.

Mr. Springer roused himself and made an effort to help cheer Jimmy up. But Jimmy wouldn't be cheered. “Damn that Frenchman!” he cried. “I should have punched him in the nose, that day in Delmonico's! I should have punched him in the
throat
!”

“Jimmy!” I protested. “You don't mean that.”

“I do mean that!” he shouted in full youthful bravado. “Everything was going fine until
he
came.”

“Control yourself, James—this is not like you,” his coach said. “Miss Farrar, I apologize for this outburst. Perhaps we'd better leave.”

I hated for them to go on such a sour note, but a brisk walk in the nippy February air might do Jimmy some good. I saw them out and leaned against the closed door for a moment. At least one good piece of news had come out of that unpleasant scene: Osgood Springer had said Pasquale Amato was up and about. I decided to go see him.

It was my chauffeur's day off, so that meant I'd have to drive myself. Operating a motor car is not one of the things I look forward to when I wake up in the morning; but I refuse to ride those noisy trolleys or call one of the taximetre cabs, because I do not relish the thought of entrusting my life to the driving skills of a stranger. So I steered my way down icy Broadway—doing it, but not liking it.

I was relieved when I got to the Astor and happy to find Amato was indeed out of his sickbed. He was wearing several thicknesses of red flannel wrapped around his throat, but he was talking instead of scribbling notes on little pieces of paper. “Gerry!” he cried happily. “Look at me! Like Hercules, eh?” He thumped a fist against his chest. “Now I am ready to move mountains, to swim oceans, to sing! Am I not picture of health?”

“Pasquale, you are as healthy and handsome as ever,” I laughed. “And I can't begin to tell you how glad I am you're well again! When are you coming back?”

His face fell a little. “Dr. Curtis is cautious man. He says another week. I miss two more performances—
Carmen
tomorrow night and
Madame Sans-Gêne
.” He brightened. “But I am back for
Aïda
!”

Emmy Destinn's opera, but I didn't care. Amato was looking so good I just had to give him a little hug. “You don't know how much we've all missed you. You just don't
know
.”

He winked at me. “You are not happy with your Monsieur Duchon?”

“He's not
my
Monsieur Duchon,” I shuddered, “thank goodness. Do you know, Pasquale, the entire atmosphere at the Met has changed since he's been here?” I realized that was true only as I said it. But it
was
true—Amato had always been an oasis of stability and calm in the middle of the chaos that was normal in an opera house, but Duchon had generated nothing but dissension from the day he arrived. From calling me a German-lover to double-crossing Morris Gest, there'd been just one troublesome thing after another. But there'd been nice things too, luncheon at Delmonico's, a box of orchids. Ah, what was the use? I gave up trying to understand the man. “I'm glad you're better,” I told Amato again.

“
Grazie
. I am so much better,” he announced, “that I come to hear your Carmen tomorrow night.”