Chapter 21

I gave her directions to reach my cabin; she'd come in her rental car the next morning, after she'd sent the manager on her way and checked out of the hotel. And I left in the best spirits I could remember after another, albeit briefer and less enthusiastic, kiss goodbye.

They lasted, however, only about halfway home. That was when I remembered Asme­dogh.

The prospect of spending a whole week alone with Camilla under the same roof was suddenly overwhelmed by the new reality of my life. We wouldn't actually be alone at all; Asme­dogh would be right there with us. And how the hell could I—and he—manage that?

Well, part of my mind started rationalizing, he could just do his cat impression for the week. Couldn't he? I mean, it had worked on me for what, three days, four? Sure, we wouldn't have much opportunity to talk (if that was what you could call it), he and I, but that would keep. In addition, he'd been here—been sent here, I guessed—to observe human life and behavior, it would give him an unprecedented opportunity to do just that.

I kept that thought firmly in mind the rest of my drive home, stoking it occasionally with happy little visual snapshots—Camilla and I sitting quietly on my couch, the cat beside us; me practicing Tosca with her while Asme—the cat, I reminded myself firmly—perched on my shoulder; the three of us taking walks around the place, the cat scampering ahead of Camilla and me. Sure, it could work, I told myself. I said it over and over again in my head.

When I got home I greeted Asmedogh cordially but avoided contact with him, especially his sensitive tail. I had, I told him, a phone call I needed to make. I did, too, though the timing wasn't really all that urgent; I needed to let Sam, my agent, in on what was happening to my operatic life.

He picked up his cell quickly and sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. He'd noticed the review of my Turandot gig and congratulated me. He also told me he was working on what a few days ago I would have thought was a real coup—Schaunard, the number two baritone in La Boheme but with a name and a few actually pretty good stage moments—with one of the second-level, but still good, European companies.

I stopped him before he got very far along, though, and told him about Tosca.

"Nick, you're dreaming," he said gently. "That's Camilla St. John and Mario Minaghieri, and Gerald Oliver's conducting. I love you like a brother, man, but there is absolutely no way you're singing Scarpia in that rare air. Actually, I've heard that Marko's going to do it."

Why did everybody but me seem to know what was supposed to be happening? "Marko's out," I replied. "Oliver chose me himself. I auditioned for him this morning, and he said I was his man. They're going to be calling bright and early tomorrow."

There was a very long pause on the other end, so long that I wound up saying "Sam? You there?"

"You want to tell me what's going on, Nick?" he said at last. "I mean, did you give Oliver a blowjob or something? Last I knew you didn't go for guys."

"It's my voice, Sam," I told him. "I've had a sort of ... epiphany with it. That's why the Turandot write-up. And that's why this. Listen." I hammered out another A over the phone, full voice.

"Jesus," he said. "It's hard to get much over a cell, but that sure sounded ... different from the Nick Volker I remember."

"It is. I'm not the same singer. You'll know for sure when that call comes in."

Another pause, but this one a little shorter. "OK, Nick, if ... when the phone rings, what do you want me to say? What kind of terms are you looking for?"

"Anything," I said. "Take whatever they offer. No negotiating, no dickering, just yessir, yessir, three bags full. This one isn't about the money; I'll do it for free if I have to. Shit, I'll pay them." I gave it an instant's thought. "For more than one reason."

"Nick—" he started warningly.

"Do it, Sam," I insisted. "I'll make it up to you, the money'll be there later if it goes well. If I bomb—well, hell, we're no worse off, are we? Either of us?"

He still protested that if I was going to be a major player in that elite company I should be demanding major bucks, not to mention perks (always a biggie with the egotistical opera crowd), but it was half-hearted. Sam and I had been friends for years, ever since I signed with him right out of school, and he knew how much this had to mean to me. We left it there, and I knew he'd follow through.

But now I was out of excuses. And Asmedogh was waiting.

I let his tail wrap around my wrist again as I told him about the audition and its aftermath. I tried hard to focus on the huge success I'd made, and how it was all thanks to him. I knew, though, that he was reading me underneath what I was telling him, and I got the vibe from him that it wasn't to his liking. After a couple of minutes I just petered out.

"There is one who comes here," he said. "It is what you do not wish to say. When will that be?"

Well, so much for my powers of dissimulation. But in this context I suppose dissimulation wasn't really an option. "Tomorrow," I told him.

"You have not told this one of me?"

"Asmedogh, of course not!" I exclaimed. "I promised I wouldn't, and I'm a man of my word. All I've told her is that I have a cat and my cat has been ill."