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I spent the rest of the afternoon putting together a leek quiche in a frozen piecrust I'd picked up at the store. Yeah, I know, "real men" don't eat quiche, but that's only true of "real men" with no palates. And I've got into the habit, when I'm home—which is all too seldom with my heavy travel schedule—of using days off to assemble meals that'll leave leftovers for performance days.
Asmedogh woke up shortly before it was baked, and I shared it with him. He took a very tentative taste and then dug in even more enthusiastically than he had with the sprouts. Even with both of us noshing down happily there'd be plenty for the next afternoon, and I served us both small second helpings.
Somewhere in there I told him about the part that had arrived. I'd expected him to be gung-ho about putting the beacon together immediately, but he simply acknowledged what I'd said and kept on eating. It puzzled me enough that when we were done I asked him about it.
"I thought you were in a flaming rush to get this beacon of yours built and working," I said.
There was an appreciable pause before he answered. "It was so then," he acknowledged, "but that was because of my illness. Now it will be better if I take time to become fully well before beacon is activated. And there is other thing..."
He didn't go on, but even so I picked up a vague sense of ... unease? Maybe even a little stronger, like a kind of concern that he might not be fully welcomed back when they came to get him. Or that maybe they wouldn't even want to come? It wasn't clear, but there was something there that didn't feel right.
But he let it lie there and so did I. I let him back out for another bathroom trip; he was negotiating the steps all right now, and I simply left the door ajar. When he came back in I was cleaning up, and he pushed it closed himself and then went back to his quilt, and we didn't talk again.
I did some more Tosca for a while, getting close to the end of Act II when Scarpia dies. I'd have to go back over parts of it the next day, but it was settling nicely into my mind. About 10:30 I decided to call it a night; I looked over at Asmedogh but he seemed fast asleep, and I left him there to head upstairs to bed.
The next morning I didn't rush downstairs as I had the previous day; I knew he'd be OK still. Following through on my resolution I showered, shaved and dressed before I headed down for coffee and found he was indeed OK, although still asleep. I didn't disturb him, but I also made little effort to keep my kitchen noise down; I was coming to realize that even in his sleep he had pretty selective hearing and could tune out ambient sounds without difficulty.
It seemed a curious evolutionary adaptation; wouldn't his ancestors have been at considerable risk on their home world if they didn't alert to the noises of other critters who might want to chow down on them? But I didn't worry about it unduly, pretty obviously they'd survived nicely.
Actually he spent almost the entire day sleeping. He woke briefly about 10:00 a.m., took a potty break and knocked back a really big batch of mixed carrots and broccoli, courteously took a minute to tell me he was still in need of rest and could we talk the next day, and went back to his slumbers. I left him to it and spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon getting the rest of Tosca's second act into my mind and then going back over everything a couple of times. About 3:00 I heated the leftover quiche, finished most of it and set the rest aside for him, took a brief nap and it was time to head off to the opera house.
I'd bought some more sprouts, and I added a few to Asmedogh's quiche, refilled his water bowl, woke him to say I was leaving—he barely stirred—left the door ajar for him, and got in the car. Traffic was light as usual, and I got there in plenty of time.
My greeting as I went in the stage door was, well, a little unusual to put it mildly. The first person I ran into was Marko Fabuliis, Turandot's other baritone who sang Ping, the lead member of the trio of ministers. I had little more than a nodding acquaintance with him, he was in specially for this production, but what few interactions we'd had so far had been pleasant enough. Tonight, though, all I got was a filthy glare as he went into his dressing room, slamming the door behind him.
I shrugged—we all have bad days—and thought no more about it as I headed for the dressing room I shared with the chorus and the other comprimari. Getting there, however, entailed passing by our star's door, which was open. As I went by I heard her distinctive growl: "Come to make more headlines?" she called nastily. I ignored her outwardly and kept going, but I was privately astonished that she'd even noticed me, much less singled me out for her vituperation.
I got a very much warmer reception when I got to the male chorus room, though, an actual round of scattered applause. I grinned, made a mock bow, and found an empty spot to strip down, get my stage britches on and start putting on my makeup. And everyone else went back to their own preparations, although a couple of the guys did walk past to squeeze my shoulder and one my ass. I was semi-used to that, though; there were a number of openly gay singers in the chorus, and despite their knowledge that I didn't share their inclinations they often went out of their way to touch me, especially any bare skin that was showing. I supposed in a way it was flattering.
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