Chapter 42

The call was again for 10:00, and we were all to meet in the lobby at quarter till. By the time Cam and I came down everyone was there, including Mario looking none the worse for wear, except Sam.

"Come on, Sam, you're holding up the party," I muttered.

"He'll be along in a minute, he just wanted to get a quick shower," Marilyn said smooth­ly.

"Marilyn!" Cam said in a surprised voice.

"Hey, now that you finally pulled the cork out why can't I have a little fun, too?" Marilyn said indignantly. "I mean, everybody's thought you and I were lovers for so long I was beginning to wonder myself. I love you like a sister, Cam, but you're not my type and I was awfully sick of not getting any. And you can't disapprove, I mean Sam and Nick could be brothers the way they look."

That much was true; people had remarked before how we resembled each other. But I thought it was pretty remarkable that she and Sam had hooked up so quickly.

Evidently Camilla had the same thought. "But the first night?" she said, arching her eyebrows.

"Hey, girl, he's only here 'til Sunday," Marilyn pointed out. "Why waste time?"

I was finding the dialogue fascinating, but about then an elevator opened and an obviously freshly showered Sam hurried out. "Hi, everyone, sorry I'm late." He carefully avoided looking at Marilyn which she immediately noticed.

"It's OK, Sammy, they know," she said, walking over and grabbing his arm possessively. "Let's go, boys and girls."

Oliver would be running things today, and from the moment we arrived his authority was clear. "So nice of our stars to join us," he said waspishly as we came in. I looked at the backstage clock on the wall; it was 9:59. It took me another one of those nanoseconds to decide against pointing this out.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, let's get cracking. We have all of these fine musicians"—he gestured at the orchestra—"here for exactly four hours today, and in that time I expect to go through the entire opera without unnecessary interruptions. If we finish early, well and good but there are no rewards. If we run over, the nice people from management will come down on me—me!—like a large number of bricks. So: Let us begin. Places please for Act I."

He gave us only about a minute before he raised his baton, and the first great chords came crashing out. Like Turandot, Tosca has no overture and the comprimario bass who was playing Angelotti, an escaped prisoner on whom the entire plot hinges, came rushing in and stopped, looking around and singing his first bit—

"No!" rang out from the house loudly. "Two more steps, all the way downstage!" It was Karpathian.

Oliver waved the orchestra silent and turned around. "And who are you, dear?" he asked in a gentle voice.

"Lawrence Karpathian, the stage director."

"Well, Lawrence Karpathian the stage director, perhaps you're hard of hearing. I said there are to be no unnecessary interruptions."

"Yes, I know, but this one was necessary—"

Oliver flicked his baton forcefully. "I decide what is necessary," he barked. His voice was steadily rising. "Sit there and, oh, take notes or something if you must, and read them later after I and the orchestra are gone. But shut! Up! If you even think of interrupting again I will personally come over there and shove my very large penis into your mouth and down your throat until you suffocate!" By now he was almost screaming.

Poor Lawrence; he was having a very bad week.

When Oliver turned back around I could see most of his blow-up had been an act. He smiled and shot us a brief wink. "All right, everyone, from the top. Again. Straight on unless I stop you."

He didn't for about ten minutes. By that time I figured his focus was mostly on the orchestra, but I was soon to discover otherwise. Right in the middle of Mario's and Cam's big duet he suddenly waved the orchestra to a halt.

"Did you have garlic for dinner last night, Mario, dear?" he asked. "Camilla, did you neglect brushing your teeth this morning? No? Then may I ask why Mario is there"—he pointed to the tenor at stage right—"and Camilla is there?"—he pointed to her at stage left. "Is this meant to be some sort of exercise in long-distance romance?"

"We need to make use of the entire stage," Karpathian, who seemed to be a glutton for punishment, piped up. "It's a vista I'm trying to present. One who is merely a musician"—he seemed to inject a good deal of scorn into the word—"might miss that concept."

Oliver looked over his shoulder at Lawrence. "One who is merely a member of the audience might miss it as well, and instead consider it a pretty asshole way for two lovers to behave," he snapped. "And I seem to recall asking you to shut your face. Please do so."

He turned back to the stage. "Keep close to each other. If one of you walks to one side the other follows. Use the whole stage by all means, but use it together. We're trying to demonstrate the throes of a passionate relationship, darlings, not whether your voices will carry adequately across a vista. Now, pick it up again from..."

It went on that way for the rest of the day. Oliver seemed to have an uncanny knack for seeing everything at once, and hearing it too, and he had an acerbic tongue which he applied to everyone who displeased him. He stopped rarely, but when he did it was to castigate someone for some flaw he'd detected. He asked one violinist whether he'd be more comfortable playing "Turkey in the Straw," and a trumpeter if he was aiming at becoming a successor to Louis Armstrong. The buffo doing the Sacristan earned his wrath for being a good beat behind on one entrance; the chorus was a bit sloppy during the impromptu dance just before my entrance and got an earful.