Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “This isn’t the way it was supposed to be.”
“I know,” he said. “We’ll figure it out as we go along.”
*
If the Lyric Opera’s baronial, throne-shaped, art deco building was the grand dame of Chicago opera, the Chicago Municipal Opera was its stylish, sassy granddaughter. In the chilly, midmorning sunshine, the Muni’s flowing, contemporary glass-and-concrete curves were perfectly reflected in the Chicago River.
“I went here once,” Clint said, as they pulled into the parking lot.
“Your audition for The Bachelor?” Thad chimed in from the back seat where Clint and Olivia had exiled him.
Clint grinned. “Dude, I haven’t been to one of those since you made me hold your hand when you auditioned. Remember how hard you cried when they said you were too old?”
Thad snorted, and Olivia smiled, her first of the morning. Watching the two of them spar was her brightest moment since she’d gotten out of Thad’s bed that morning.
Thad had insisted on driving her to the Muni, even though her beloved old red BMW M2 waited patiently in the garage. He’d shrugged off her reminder that his license had been stolen, along with his wallet. “When you’re playing for a Chicago sports team, the cops tend to overlook crap like driver’s licenses.”
“Not all of them, I’m sure,” she’d said. “And the last thing you need is to be picked up for driving without a license.”
So he’d put in a phone call to Clint, and now here she was—with an unsteady voice and the ominous mental image of her headless body in the newspaper photo—being driven to her first day back at work with two of the city’s most famous jocks. Her life had shot so far from its orbit she’d entered a different universe.
Clint parked by the rear entrance, close to the spot that had been reserved for her. Her costume fitting came first, then the meeting she dreaded with the maestro, Sergio Tinari, and then a full afternoon of blocking rehearsals. Her stomach had already been in knots before Thad had shown up with that ugly photo, and now it was ten times worse.
Thad was right about the poor security in her apartment. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought about it, but she’d convinced herself she’d be spending so much time at rehearsals she could make it work. A perfect example of delusional thinking.
Clint stepped out to open the door for her, something Thad couldn’t do since he was trapped in the tiny back seat, his knees accordioned to his chest. Not that she needed anybody to open a car door for her. What she needed was someone to give her back her voice, her breath control, and her confidence. “Make sure he gets to the DMV today,” she told Clint as she got out of the car.
“Aw, Livia, there’s not a cop in this town who’d give T-Bo a traffic ticket.”
“Exactly what I told you,” Thad declared triumphantly.
She eyeballed Clint. “Just do it.”
Thad extracted himself from the back seat, a process that would have been entertaining if she weren’t so concerned with what lay ahead. “I’ll go to the DMV,” he said, “but only if you promise to let me know when you’re done so I can come pick you up.”
“I don’t need a chauffeur,” she declared.
“You really do.” All of a sudden, Clint, her loyal ally, had shifted allegiance. “Thad filled me in, and you’ve got some crazy sh— stuff going on. You shouldn’t be wandering around by yourself.”
“I’m going to talk to a friend on the Chicago police force.” Thad took a firm grip on her arm, walking her toward the building.
She nodded begrudgingly. As much as she hated the idea of involving the police, this had gone too far.
“You’re going to be great,” he whispered, when they reached the rear door. “Toi, toi, toi.”
“Toi, toi, toi” was the traditional good-luck wish opera singers exchanged, their version of the theater world’s “break a leg.” The expression was well known among classical singers, but not to the general population, and she was touched that he’d taken the trouble to discover this.
He smiled and opened the door. She stepped back into her world.
*
She’d sung at the Muni multiple times, but nothing felt the same. Yes, the costume department smelled as it always did of steam irons, fabric, and must. The Egyptian headpieces fit well, and her costumes needed only a little alteration. She chatted with the wardrobe mistress as she always had and exchanged pleasantries with the technical director. She passed a rehearsal room where singers were at work on an upcoming concert. But she was more aware of new faces when they passed her in the hallway, more alert as she walked from one room to the next.
On her way to meet with the maestro, she mentally reviewed the master schedule. She wouldn’t have to sing today for the blocking rehearsal, and she could easily mark at piano tech, which was for the benefit of the production team, but she’d have to sing in full voice for sitzprobe, their first rehearsal with the orchestra. And, of course, she needed to bring her best to next Thursday’s dress rehearsal, not to mention Saturday’s opening night.
She braced herself at the door of the maestro’s office and knocked.
“Avanti!”
Sergio Tinari, the Muni’s great conductor, was short in stature but giant in presence. With his lion’s mane of gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and long Tuscan nose, he was a caricaturist’s dream subject. “Olivia, mia cara.” He kissed her hand with Old World graciousness.
She switched to Italian, telling him how happy she was to see him, how much she was looking forward to working with him again, and that she was recovering from a head cold and would need a few days before she could sing.
Sergio replied in his beautifully accented English. “But of course. You must protect your voice. Tomorrow, if you are able to mark, we can rehearse the phrasing in ‘A lui vivo, la tomba!’”
Alive in the tomb . . . She twisted her lips into a smile. “Of course.”
The note she’d just received . . . You destroyed me and now I’m destroying you, my love. Think of me with every note you try to sing.
Her fake ruby pendant felt as if it were choking her.
As she left the maestro’s studio, she knew she couldn’t offer up the excuse of having a cold for very long.
A striking woman about Olivia’s age emerged from the last rehearsal room. Olivia’s spirits immediately brightened. “Sarah!” She hurried down the corridor to greet the gifted South African soprano who would be singing Aida.
She was no longer comfortable singing Amneris opposite a white Aida. Having a black artist singing the enslaved Ethiopian princess added complexity and dimension to the production for modern audiences, and Sarah Mabunda was one of the best. But as Olivia reached out to hug her, Sarah drew away, and her tight smile had an off-putting brittleness to it.
Olivia was taken aback. She and Sarah were friends. They’d performed Aida together before, once in Sydney and once at the Staatsoper in Vienna, where they’d spent free afternoons exploring the city’s museums and where Sarah had told her about her life growing up in Soweto before she’d made her way first to Cape Town Opera School and then on to the Royal Academy of Arts in London. They’d established an immediate connection, and the only part of today she’d been looking forward to was seeing Sarah again.