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I got through the next three days that way, focused almost wholly on Tosca and far from my real world. Thursday's Turandot went about the same as had the two previous performances, me blasting out my opening proclamation as authoritatively as before (though this time the audience seemed more knowledgeable, there was no applause at all) and pretty much sleepwalking through the rest of the production. I had no real one-on-one opportunity with Camilla, although I did have a chance to return her Tosca score; mine had arrived that afternoon. Otherwise, though, she went her way and I went mine. Stars and comprimari don't usually interact a lot backstage.
It helped that Madeleine seemed to have put her sniping at me on hold. She and the kid tenor who was doing the Emperor seemed to be a lot more interested in whatever it was they were up to—one free guess!—in her dressing room. Suited me fine.
Meantime Asmedogh and I settled into kind of an easy routine, like an old married couple. We actually talked only occasionally; everything important that needed to be said between us had been said on Wednesday, and we had little to add. Remembering his comment about being "young" at age thirty, I did think to ask him how long his species ordinarily lived. It turned out to be about double our lifespan, and gave me a fresh perspective on his unwillingness to accept his own death so prematurely.
Mostly, though, he fell into his role as housecat so comfortably that there were times I actually forgot he wasn't a cat. There was one major exception; when I was doing a bit of sweeping up Thursday afternoon and making a pretty sketchy job of it because it was nearing time for me to head off to the opera house, he told me to go ahead, that he'd take care of it. And he did, meticulously; when I got home that evening I could have eaten off the floor. That became his job, as well as dusting the lower pieces of furniture.
I did, of course, most of the rest around the cabin. But he usually kept me company, whatever I was doing. He'd resumed his previous place on my shoulder and was usually there. It turned out that on his home world his people had established a standing partnership with a much larger native species, one with little brainpower but lots of muscle, and they usually lived as pairs; Asmedogh's kin tended to ride their beasts around, and he liked the field of vision it gave him. When I was cooking it gave me a second pair of hands, which was occasionally convenient.
Most of the cooking was for me, though; Asmedogh still preferred his food raw. I did some shrimp scampi Wednesday, and he liked it OK but wanted it interspersed with plenty of raw vegetables. Friday I made chicken, which he didn't care for at all and we stuck with the greens for him—plus carrots and beets, he liked them both.
Friday was also the day that Camilla called with details about Sunday's audition. It would be in the main house at 10:00 a.m.; they'd be striking the Turandot set later in the day. We'd use the rehearsal piano and her people would provide an accompanist. They wanted me to bring a prepared piece of my choosing, and after that, if they were still interested, she and I would do command-performance duets from Tosca. I told her I'd be ready.
I had to think a little about my initial presentation; it had to be impressive, show me at my best, and at the same time be along the same general vocal lines as Scarpia. It didn't take me that long to make my choice, an aria from Verdi's Falstaff called "é sogno? O realtá?" ("Is it a dream, or reality?"—operatic arias are always known by their first few words). A well-known tale about that one gave a little edge to my selection.
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