Summer Before the Rain Came
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CastawayChapter 8 free porn video
We didn't talk a lot until we were seated in the restaurant, where they treated Camilla like royalty. There aren't too many places still serving at midnight, which it was pretty close to, and I guessed she'd come here fairly often. And it was also fairly clear that they knew who she was and how high she ranked in the musical world.
I had no idea what to say to her. I complimented her on her Liu and her Gilda, of course, but obviously she heard that a lot and she just gave me a casual thank you; apparently I wasn't here just to boost her ego. I still had no idea why I was here, but I figured sooner or later we'd get to that and meantime I just took pleasure in being with her.
After asking me politely she ordered a bottle of expensive Pinot Grigio, and the waiter brought it forth with commendable promptness. It was a bit pricey for my pay scale, but I was already getting the impression that I wouldn't see the bill; for whatever reason she was taking me to dinner.
The waiter started to pour her a taste, but she immediately pointed to me, a remarkable courtesy. After I'd done my best imitation of a connoisseur, sniffing the wine's bouquet and rolling the first taste around in my mouth, I signaled my approval and he poured for each of us, leaving the bottle in a tableside cooler. We clicked glasses, and I got my first hint of what was up when she gave her toast: "To our performances tonight," she said.
We'd both been given menus, but she set hers aside. "We'll order in a few minutes, if you don't mind," she told me. "The kitchen's open until one, and they're used to me." She waited politely until I nodded agreement.
"Now, Nick," she started. "That's right, isn't it? Nick Volker? I looked it up, it's what the program says." I smiled and nodded again. "OK, Nick, the program also gives a bit of your history. And it doesn't match up with tonight, does it? Or with what I heard backstage afterwards?"
"Not really, I suppose," I admitted.
"Want to tell me about it?"
I knew what she meant, all right. I cleared my throat; how to say this and not sound like an idiot?
"Well, I realized recently that I haven't been producing my voice right," I began lamely. "So I tried a few changes, and what you heard tonight was the result."
"'Recently?'" she echoed. "How recently? I mean, you were a perfectly fine Marullo, nice and solid and musical, but there wasn't even a hint of what you did tonight."
"Verdi didn't write Marullo to compete with Rigoletto," I explained a bit pedantically. "I mean, it throws off the whole balance of the opera if..." I trailed off; her expression, one eyebrow cocked and a half-smile on her lips, told me she wasn't buying.
"Well, you're right about that so far as it goes, you'd have sung Ivor"—our Rigoletto—"right off the stage with what you showed tonight," she said with amusement. "But I don't think that's all, is it? Again, how recent is this big change?"
"Yesterday," I muttered. "It all came together yesterday morning."
"'Yesterday, '" she repeated in clear disappointment. "So you don't even know if you can hold it. You don't know if the change is permanent, you don't know if you can sustain it for a whole opera, it's just a flash right now."
"No," I contradicted her "I know both of those things and it's no flash. I've been doing it wrong, and yesterday I found out why."
"All right, then, why?"
It was tough to explain. But hell, Camilla was a pro, a pro and a star, she ought to understand some of the technical aspects of singing. So I explained, using some of the terminology I'd learned from my first teacher, who'd been kind of a nut about technique and putting it into words. I went on for a few minutes, including making a big point about how I'd spent hours yesterday ripping through every major aria I could find without any loss of quality at all.
She understood all right. And she gave it right back to me with a series of probing questions that I thought were designed to ferret out how much I understood, and especially how well I was understanding the sudden change in how I sounded. Apparently my answers satisfied her, because she was nodding to herself as I talked.
Finally we were both finished talking. For a moment we just sat there, her brow furrowed a bit in concentration. Then she reached for her menu. "We'll order now, if you're ready," she told me. "And I need to think a little."
We were both hungry; performance can be grueling—especially if you're doing a lead, as she had been—and you can't eat heavily beforehand, it'll affect your voice. Knowing what I'd been planning on stage I'd gone light on food ahead of time as well. We both ordered appetizers as well as entrees.
"I gather you have something in mind," I worked up my courage to say after we'd done with the appetizers. We'd been talking only casually after that initial inquisition about the change in my voice, and I was a bit on edge. "May I ask what?"
She smiled her lovely smile at me. "Not yet," she said. "I'm still thinking." And we went back to the small talk.
It was after we'd finished our meal and were sitting back over espresso and sambuccas that she was finally ready to talk to me.
"OK, Nick, let me lay it out for you," she said. "But first I want to explain why I've been so reluctant. Look, you know about Madeleine, right?"
I was puzzled; what did that mean? I guess it showed in my face.
"I mean Madeleine and her boy-toys," she said. When I still didn't understand she went on obliquely. "What did you think of our Emperor tonight?" she asked.
"He was OK, I guess," I shrugged.
"Sure, in that role," she said dismissively. I understood that one; the Emperor, Turandot's stage papa, is traditionally sung in a kind of hoarse falsetto meant to mimic the man's supposed advanced years, and isn't terribly demanding.
"He's Madeleine's latest," she continued. "Originally she wanted him for Pang or Pong"—the two second tenors who hang out with the show's other baritone—"and he auditioned. I hear he was God-awful and they made her settle for Emperor."
I grinned in amusement.
"He's just the most recent in a long line. What can I say, they're male whores. She likes getting laid and men don't exactly line up for her, so she digs them up out of the chorus or somewhere and they oblige, not for money but for a quick lift up in the profession. She goes through two or three a year, and of course they fall right back as soon as she drops them, but for a few months they get prime roles, or at least better ones. It's a standing joke around the houses, and she's the butt of it—the big butt of it, if you haven't noticed!—but she gets away with it because of who she is. Hell, she gets away with a lot because of who she is."
Gert
- 29.01.2023
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