My Sneha Aunty
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CastawayChapter 34 free porn video
Saturday and Sunday were filled with rehearsal again. Camilla brought the same intensity to Traviata as she had to Tosca, and we were at it for long hours. I found that the Traviata role came back to me as quickly as I'd hoped, but again she had numerous ideas on phrasing, emphasis and other nuances that gave me new insights into my part in particular and the entire opera in general.
Germont is worlds apart from Scarpia as a character, a fairly kindly elderly gentleman of breeding and propriety. The opera's based on Alexandre Dumas' novel Camille, involving a high-priced courtesan who improbably falls in love with a young scion of minor provincial gentry named Alfredo. Germont, his papa, is originally appalled by the liaison, in considerable part because it imperils the boy's sister's engagement to another young man whose family is so scandalized that they threaten to forbid the marriage. He confronts Camille—Violetta in the opera—and persuades her to leave the lad in the lurch, even though he's tremendously impressed with her during the meeting. There are various alarums and excursions leading to a weepy conclusion in which Violetta and Alfredo are at last re-united just before she dies of consumption. It's a strange brand of consumption considering that she sings beautifully right up to the end, but then this is opera.
Kind of makes one understand why they call the daytime TV things soap operas, doesn't it?
Anyhow, Germont's quite a meaty role with a big and very famous aria called "Di Provenza"—"From Provence" (the area of France)—which led to an extended disagreement between Camilla and me. Well, actually not too extended. Verdi wrote "Di Provenza" in a kind of oomp-bah-bah metronomic style that as a young man I'd found boring and into which I'd interpolated a good bit of syncopation and flourishes. When I started in the way I'd done it yea so many years back she stopped me almost immediately.
"What are you doing, Nick?" she demanded.
"Well, putting in a little variation," I told her weakly.
She gave me what was almost a pitying look. "Darling, this isn't a nightclub where you do 'interpretations.' Sing it the way Verdi wrote it, right on the beat." When I looked doubtful she pressed the point home. "Trust me, dear, it works. It's much stronger, especially with your gorgeous legato. That old man knew more about writing music than both of us together, and he didn't just toss this off on a bad day. Try it, I bet you'll like it."
So I did, and I did. As usual she was right and my young self had been completely wrong. It was nice to learn that my taste had matured enough to recognize that in the intervening years.
We spent all of Sunday until about 5:00 in the afternoon on the big second-act duet between Germont and Violetta; there were a lot of finicky phrasings she wanted to get just so to reflect Germont's growing respect for the ex-whore during their dialogue. Then she decided it was time for me to get started packing for our trip, and volunteered to help.
It was during the course of that process that I found out just how profoundly my life was going to be changing. I started to lay out my usual travel attire on the bed, but found about two-thirds of what I was laying out being firmly returned to the closet before I could even get to the next load. I got a running commentary throughout.
"No, sweetheart, you're not going to wear that, " she'd say. "Not that, either. That one's OK, I guess. Well, this is marginal but I suppose. No, where did you pick that up, the Salvation Army?" It went on and on.
When I feebly protested that I was going to run out of clothes within only a few days, I got a stern talking to. "Darling, you have an awful lot to learn about being a star. It's not just singing well, you have to look the part, too. Well, not if you're Madeleine maybe, she's a hundred percent frump off stage. But normal people like you and me, we need to shine. They have stores where we're going, and tailors, and you're getting a start on a whole new wardrobe."
"Is it really that bad?" I asked shame-facedly.
"It's... comprimario, " she said. "And by eleven pee-em Saturday night"—Traviata opened that evening—"you'll have graduated forever from that. Besides, I love to dress up and we're together now."
Well, if she was going to put it that way any objections I might have had went out the window. The infinitely glamorous Camilla St. John needed an escort worthy of her, and even if it meant putting on bells and going places as the court jester I was on board with it. Anyhow, I was getting paid really outrageous amounts for my two roles—at least by comparison with my previous earnings—and I'd have plenty of money to fund becoming stylish.
Asmedogh, who'd joined us trekking upstairs, simply observed all this without comment. I did, however, catch a slight air of amusement from him.
By the time we were done I filled only a single suitcase plus a carry-on, even allowing space for toiletries. Well, I observed, at least it would cut way down on my usual baggage fees. That caused another gale of laughter. First-class passengers, she reminded me, are exempt from most of the endless add-on fees airlines have begun assessing to bolster flagging profit margins. I felt foolish again.
"Honey, I'm sorry," she said contritely, noticing my expression. "Are you starting to have second thoughts about getting involved with such a bossy, pushy broad?"
"Camilla, you've taught me more about music in the past six days by being 'bossy' and 'pushy' than I've learned in the whole time I've been in the business," I told her. "Now you're teaching me about a new way of living, too. I love you just as you are." I gave her a big grin, and snatched a Broadway tune out of my own memory. "And you're 'broad where a broad should be bro-o-o-ad.'"
She jumped at me with yet another long, fabulous kiss.
There was one other small, but immensely significant, difference to our evening from the previous ones. When we went to bed we again made love with as much fervor as on every night before, and finally collapsed beside each other ready for sleep. But just as we were drifting off she put her hand on my face and gently turned it toward her. "I love you, too, Nicky sweetheart," she said softly, almost a whisper, gazing at me with those lovely blue eyes. She kissed me again, and then closed her eyes.
I was awake for fully the next half hour, replaying her words over and over again in my mind. What a glorious conclusion to the best week, beyond compare, that I'd ever experienced in my life!
We were a little rushed in the morning, or at least she was. I got up at my usual 7:00 a.m., showered, shaved, finished my packing and was ready to go before I even went downstairs for coffee. I'd warned her that I needed to wake her no later than 9:00; it was a good hour and a half to the airport, and if we needed to be there at 11:30...
She understood, and rose promptly. But she hadn't packed the night before, and it was already 9:30 when she came down for her own coffee. I reminded her about the packing, and that we'd need to leave in thirty minutes.
"You know what?" she said. "To hell with it. That stuff can just stay here 'til we come back." Then she looked a little abashed at her own presumption. "Is that OK, sweetie?" she asked timidly.
"It's better than OK, it's perfect," I reassured her. She smiled and gave me another big kiss.
Asmedogh climbed into the cat carrier, I topped off the food tray with the tuna I'd been keeping open in the icebox to dry it out so drippings wouldn't coat his beacon concealed underneath, and we were on our way. The drive in was uneventful—well, if you didn't count Camilla's fondling of the back of my neck most of the way as an event—and we arrived, actually, a few minutes early. I used valet parking, which was another first in an ever-extending line of them for me, and we whisked ourselves inside, checked my solitary bag, looked at the scheduling display to be sure the flight was on time, found it was and headed to the gate.
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