Colin Barrett: Blog

This is about the only real physical action in the entire novel, with Nick defending himself and Camilla (and Asmedogh) from the excesses of the pushy Homeland Security agents. Kind of a hell of a culmination to their great artistic triumph earlier in the evening.
It's not all that unrealistic. Law enforcement representatives don't care much to have their efforts flouted by those they conceive to be the "bad guys," and have been known to react pretty vigorously to such things. It's unfortunate but understandable. And, for reasons Nick addressed much earlier, even though they're not actually breaking any laws, Nick and Camilla do indeed have something they don't wish to have revealed. Amd they're prepared to go to some lengths to prevent that from happening, as the rest of my story will show.
We're now back away from the world of operatic performance and into the science fiction side of my tale once again.

Well, you knew the production was going to be a success, so there's no surprise for you there.
"Vissi d'Arte" is actually one of the most lovely arias in the entire soprano repertoire; done right, it's all but guaranteed to bring tears to the eyes of even the most jaded listener. So you can understand Nick's reaction on stage. For those readers unfamiliar with opera, audiences typically interrupt performances after major set pieces-arias, duets, trios, etc.-with applause and cries of "bravo," etc. The conductor will ordinaily wait a reasonable interval for the racket to die down. And mostly the audience will quickly subside once the orchestra resumes (attending operatic performances is a real exercise in courtesy all around). By the way, "bravo" is usually reserved for male performers; you properly shout "brava" for a female, while "bravi" is for two or more regardless of gender.
The show's over, but the night is just getting started for Nick and Camilla. And for Asmedogh, too; I know he hasn't been very prominent in the story lately, but I really haven't forgot about him.

This chapter is pretty much simply a divertissement, a digression from the main story that I interpolated mainly for its amusement value. I didn't start writing it as such, but one thing kind of led to the next as Camilla took over. My characters will sometimes do that, they don't want a mere author masterminding their lives.
I don't necessarily recommend Camilla's answer to rape; it takes a lot of guts and determination, and a willingness to accept the risks of failure. But bear in mind that the would-be rapist is putting important parts of his body into positions that make them accessible to the victim in ways he may not care about. Rape is a crime committed by a perpetrator who needs to be pretty confident of his self-perception of invulnerability, and his prospective victim often has the opportunity to take advantage of that if she (or he; it can happen to guys, too) is willing to go all out.

The bit about Tosca's final B-flat is very real.
It's not just the note; any soprano worthy of the name can hit it ordinarily (the range of the voice goes up to high C and for many beyond). It's that, as Gerry points out in the novel, it comes at the end of a long night's arduous singing. In addition, it's a big leap up from the previous phrase.
Many years ago I had the privilege of hearing the great Renata Tebaldi sing Tosca. She (along with baritone George London) was touring the opera in multiple houses in Europe. Tebaldi and London sang their roles with all the others (including Cavaradossi, the principle tenor role) performed by members of the local company, and the local orchestra playing, conducted by the local conductor. At the performance I saw, at least (in Stuttgart, Germany), it worked out pretty well; it was impressive. Tebaldi was vocally (she was never much of an actress) wonderful in her role, right up to that final B-flat-which she unfortunately missed by the proverbial mile. It was a jarring end to an otherwise terrific performance. It's that kind of thing Gerry's talking about. To this day, half a century later, I still recall that badly flatted note, though I also remember the other fine notes Tebaldi sang that evening.

Mario's voice in my mind is comparable, oh, to Giuseppe di Stefano or, if you want to go back a bit further, Beniamino Gigli. Or, of course, Luciano Pavarotti. The first two of these likewise tended to give their gorgeous voices precedence over the music as written by the composers. None of them, at least to my knowledge, shared Mario's sexual orientation, I have to add.
His taste for wine is also not unknown to tenors. I won't offer names but those familiar with the opera world know.
I have little more to add today. But I hope readers will begin to understand that this portends to be a truly spectacular Tosca, with Nick very much part of the mix.