Chapter 7

The beach dream came back again in the night, but it was overwhelmed by other dreams. I was Iago in Otello, I was all three villains in Hoffman, I was the Dutchman, I was this and that and the other and every time the applause shook the house when I came out for my bows. And I basked in the limelight, grinning my head off, acknowledging the audience with waves and more bows and mouthing thank-yous and generally making an ass of myself if it had been real.

But it might be real, my dreams kept telling me. It could be, now. It would be, I convinced my dream self. And even when the beach came back I saved myself by singing, so loud and so beautifully that the companions I'd been hoping to summon with my fire heard and came for me.

Well, none of it was real yet, I reminded myself firmly when I finally woke for good at 7:00 in the morning. But it would be soon, I thought eagerly. Tonight would be the beginning of my new life. Mostly the comprimari of this world need to keep it subdued even if they've got more in the tank. You don't want Marullo showing up Rigoletto even if he can, it skews the whole focus of the production. The idea is to blend in, make yourself an ensemble singer. It's what I'd been doing all my professional life, what had made me so in demand as a second-rater.

But my Turandot mandarin was one of the exceptions. He walks on and just belts it out in what they call a stentorian voice, as big as he can manage. There's no lead baritone in the opera to show up, the only other one is part of a kind of trio with two second-tier tenors and they have to keep it on a level. So I could really hit it, and I planned to. I'd be so stentorian I'd make Homer's loud-mouthed Greek, the Stentor from whose name the adjective comes, weep with envy.

It would be perfect! They'd notice me tonight, really notice me. Even going downstairs, still not fully awake, I blew out a high G. And it was there, still there, all the quality of sound that I'd found the day before. I was ready!

Even the cat seemed to share a little of my enthusiasm as we got to the kitchen, though he otherwise seemed kind of peaked. He appeared to lurch a little as I let him outside, and he came back faster than ever. But he ate OK when I gave him some more of the sprouts I'd picked up yesterday, and I thought no more about it.

The mail showed up about 1:00, and I went out to get it immediately in the vague hope that my on-line vendor had been extra prompt and the part would be there. It wasn't, of course. I felt an unexpected surge of something close to despair, to my complete astonishment. But after a moment I just shrugged it off. Literally I shrugged, and kitty, on my shoulder as usual, made clear his displeasure. But the cat seemed to be having a generally mopey day, other than the excursion to the mailbox he'd spent most of it sleeping on the couch. It was unlike the way he'd been acting, but in my elation about the evening I was anticipating I simply disregarded it, wandering through the house singing snatches of this and that in my new voice.

At last it was time to head out. Well, actually it was a bit early, but I was getting so restless I found it impossible to wait longer. I set down a fresh bowl of food for the cat, more sprouts, the last spear of asparagus, a little lettuce and I even chopped up an apple I'd had hanging around in the refrigerator. I checked his water and filled it up. I told him a cheerful good night, and I was on my way.

Opening nights of new productions are always special, there's a palpable little extra excitement backstage. I made sure to walk out on the new set before they opened the doors, to check out where I'd stand for my opening pronouncement. It was exactly as I remembered it from the sketches I'd been shown, a raised platform toward the rear of the stage—but not too far back—where for a brief time I'd have sole prominence. Even the chorus and the two leads who'd be on-stage then, slave-girl Liu and her basso master, would turn to look at me (although since his character's blind, the last didn't make much sense). In that moment I'd be the sole focus of all.

And I was going to make the most of it.

The main part of my costume was an embroidered tunic in red and an off-white. It may have been completely white once, but it was recycled from several past productions of various operas and had seen its best days long ago. It was still impressive enough, though, even if it had clearly originally been designed for a singer a lot smaller than my 6'2", 190-lb. stature. The front looked great but in the back was a strip of muslin that had been added so it would fit me. That was OK, I wouldn't be turning my back on the audience and I'd switch to a more humble shirt when I unobtrusively joined the chorus later before changing back for my Act II reprise.

I'd look great. And more to the point, for this little moment in the spotlight—literally, one would be directed at me—I'd sound great.

At last it was time. Turandot has no overture, it just starts out with a few notes by the orchestra, a very little bit of chorus business, and then I'm out there. Pretty much I was opening the proceedings. And I was ready.

"Popolo di Pekino, " I began. "People of Peking (well, these days it's Beijing, but you get the picture)." And my voice just rang out, loud and clear and fucking gorgeous. As I went through the rest I could look down and see the beautiful Camilla St. John staring up at me with her mouth open. Even better! If I wanted to impress anybody that lovely fox would be high on the list, and for her to be gazing up at me so astounded simply added to my joy. The audience couldn't see her—everybody else had their backs turned, looking at me upstage—but I could, and I lapped it up.

It gave me extra impetus as I described the coming decapitation of the Prince of Persia, the latest to flunk Princess Turandot's riddle test. And I finished with a perfect flourish—"pel man del boia, muoia!" "At the hand of the executioner, death!"

Then I was through. But no, not quite; as I turned and walked off (well, kind of sidled so the muslin wouldn't show) there were actually a couple of claps by inexperienced opera-goers before their more seasoned companions shushed them. I'd done it! They'd actually heard the voice I'd been unwittingly keeping under wraps so long, the voice I'd only heard in my mind until yesterday. And they liked it!