Chapter 11

The Dorothy Chandler Pavilion is a wonderful building, in its time it has been home to the Oscars, Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra and the Los Angeles Opera. With over three thousand seats it is vast and has some of the best facilities in the world. A fact that was brought home to us when Jonas and Margarete led us through the stage door, where we were issued with visitor passes, and down to the dressing rooms, which were not only more luxuriously appointed than our nowhere near shabby hotel rooms, but were provided with a range of refreshments which would grace a Michelin starred restaurant.

We all took a seat on the sofa while Margarete poured coffee from the filter machine in the corner.

“So this is how the opera community lives,” I said, before turning to Cal, “I can see why you want to get in.”

“It’s not all like this,” Jonas said, “most opera houses have small cramped dressing rooms, with, if you’re lucky, warm water in the basin.”

“That sounds more like what I’m used to,” I said.

“Except you have trailers to retreat into, we just get dingy dressing rooms, often without heating. Komm, Geliebte, wir müssen unsere Aufwärmübungen machen,” he said, the last to Margarete. <<Come, beloved, we need to do our warm-up exercises.>>.

Then he turned to us.

“Why don’t you two join us,” he suggested.

“I don’t sing any more,” Cal objected.

“Then now is the time to start again,” Jonas snapped, causing Cal’s eyes to widen.

I stood up to object.

“Cal, my dear,” he said more gently, “don’t you see, if you allow what happened to stop you doing what you love, then they win.”

She stood up, and sounding unsure of herself stammered out, “all right.”

“Und du auch David,” Margarete said, taking my arm and starting to pull me to my feet. <<And you too, David>>.

“But I never have sung,” I complained.

“All the more reason to start,” Jonas said, “come on, one day you will be able to tell your grandchildren that you took your first singing lesson from the great Jonas K.”

Reluctantly I stood.

“What do I do?” I asked

“Start at the bottom of your range, and sing an upward scale,” he replied, “like this.”

He opened his mouth and a scale came out, eight perfectly pitched notes.

“Then,” he went on, “you start at the next note up and sing another scale.”

He demonstrated again.

“And you just keep going until you reach the top of your range.”

I joined in, feeling woefully inadequate compared to the others, until finally we’d gone up our range then back down, twice.

“I think that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” I said as we finished.

“Don’t put yourself down, David,” Jonas said, “you have a pleasant voice. All right, you’ll probably never sing Wagner at the Met, but you’re at least as good as a lot of pop singers.”

“Thank you,” I managed to stammer, “but I think I’ll stick to my own trade in future.”

“All right,” he said, “but make me one promise.”

“I will if I can,” I agreed.

“If you’re ever offered a musical, think about it.”

“I can do that,” I said.

“And you, young lady,” he continued, turning to face Cal, “if you continue to hide that voice away, you’re committing a crime against humanity. Cal, seriously, will you help us rehearse?”

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Sing with us, in here, while we practice,” he replied.

“What are you singing?”

“The love duet from Tristan,” he replied, “can you remember it?”

“Is that what you’re playing in tonight?” she asked.

“No, tonight is a charity concert, for ChildHelp,” he answered.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“It’s a National Charity, set up by two actresses back in the fifties to help young people who are the victims of abuse,” he replied, “young people like you, Cal.”

“And what good can I do about that?” she asked.

“You can show them that you were a victim of abuse too,” he said, “but you got past it. Not forget it, maybe not even got over it, but moved past it. And that music was what helped you do that.”

He looked round at me.

“That and the love of your very special friend over there.”

“Can you remember Der Hoelle Rache?” he asked.

I looked confused.

“The Queen of the Night’s aria from the Magic Flute,” Cal explained, “It’s sort of the soprano equivalent of Nessun Dorma.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

Jonas sang the first couple of lines.

“Oh, that one,” I said, “I thought that was something to do with football.”

Jonas just shook his head in disbelief.

Eventually, Cal managed to answer him.

“Yes, of course it’s my favourite piece, why?”

“Sing it for me now,” Jonas said.

“Without music?” she asked, “and no backing?”

“We have backing,” Margarete replied, “and you don’t need music.”

“But I do,” she protested.

“Cal, what are you going to do when you’re the Prima Donna Assoluta at one of the world’s great opera houses. Walk on stage reading from a score. You know the piece.”

“All right, I’ll sing it for you,” she conceded finally, “but it won’t be any good. Can I listen to the backing first?”

“Of course,” he agreed.

“Jonas,” I said softly, “please don’t push her. If you push too hard, we’ll leave.”

“I understand,” he agreed, “but David, let me say this. Cal has a very rare and precious talent. One that comes along perhaps once in a generation. Kirsten Flagstad, Birgit Nilsson, Nina Stemme. I think Cal may be the next one. Have you ever heard her sing? I mean really sing, not the school Christmas concert.”

Margarete put the CD into the Bose Wave CD player on the make-up table and pressed play. Cal stood with her head cocked to one side for the slightly more than three minutes that the piece took to play through.

“I may mess up the pronunciation,” she said.

“That doesn’t matter, just sing it,” Jonas said.

“Ready?” Margarete asked.

Cal nodded, and Margerate pressed play, the conductor on the disk gave a three count then the music started again.

For the next three minutes Cal was transported. No longer a timid, frightened teenager, she sang, and it was awesome. At the end she stood there, beaming, tears in her eyes, and she was not alone. I thought that there must be something in the air, my eyes were watering.

“Brava,” Margarete said, “Sind Sie sicher, dass Sie erst fünfzehn Jahre alt sind. Du bist kein 40 Jahre Alter Zwerg?”

Cal looked confused.

“Margarete asked if you’re sure you’re only fifteen and not a forty year old dwarf,” I translated for her, “damn it Cal, you can SING. You have to keep that up.”

There was a polite knock on the door, and a young man in glasses poked his head in.

“They’ll be ready for you in five minutes,” he said and withdrew again.

“Ah well, time to go to work,” Jonas said, “come on you can watch from the side of the stage.”

We all walked together down to the stage, where the orchestra was set up for a concert. Jonas introduced us to the conductor, whom he addressed as maestro, so we did the same, then they began rehearsing. Jonas was doing two pieces. Nessun Dorma, and the act two love duet from Tristan und Isolde. The piece Cal had to learn in Munich.

They did a straight run through of Nessun Dorma, non-stop, and then started dissecting the piece. They spent forty minutes on it and then the conductor called a twenty minute break.

We went off to the coffee shop in the foyer and got ourselves a drink. While we were there, Jonas was approached by a few autograph hunters. Then they noticed me, and suddenly it was ‘Hey, there’s Greg Paradise’ and we were surrounded by adoring teenage girls. The other three went back while I signed autographs and posed for photographs. I got back to the stage nearly an hour after I’d left. Partly because of fans, but also partly because once you get out of the public areas, the place is a mass of corridors, and after several wrong turns, I threw myself on the mercy of a staff member and was escorted back.