Setting up Lucy 2
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CastawayChapter 37 free porn video
"Put a robe on or something, Nicky, Marilyn's coming up."
It was Sunday morning after one of the greatest Saturday nights I'd ever experienced. Traviata hadn't just gone over well, it had been a spectacular success. Camilla's performance had been one of those most opera-goers only dream of experiencing; during her first act I could only stand in the wings and marvel at the beauty of every note she sang, and of the stunning singer herself. Even the tenor, Forgeron, acquitted himself well despite being severely overshadowed. And her concluding Act I aria, a real tour de force for sopranos, was absolutely thrilling.
Then came Act II and I was on—no longer a comprimario, but a lead on whom all eyes were briefly focused. And then less briefly, as we launched into our lengthy musical duel culminating in Violetta's agreement to leave her youthful lover. And finally, after a brief interlude with the tenor, my own moment in the spotlight, my aria.
And I was good. I belonged. Camilla and I played the ass off our duet, my voice blended perfectly with hers, the aria won a chorus of "bravos" from the audience, and when we took curtain calls my appearance drew cheers nearly as loud as Camilla's. It was the first real exposure to the sunlight of my professional career, and I basked in it; I bowed and bowed, a grin plastered on my face, and I hated to go back behind the drawn curtain and see it end.
"I did it!" I exulted to Camilla as we walked away at last. "I actually did it!"
Even though everybody was still looking, she jumped up and kissed me. "Yes, you did, my darling," she told me. "Now keep on doing it, we've still got two acts to go."
And I did, all the way through. My character, Germont, has relatively little to do in Acts III and IV, but there are still some nice moments and I made the most of them. And in between I got to watch her, and listen to her, make Violetta's touching decline and fall into the masterpiece the composer had intended.
At the end, when we were all out for our last curtain call and Minaslavska came up, as is usual, to join in the last bow, I got the best compliment of all. He hopped into the line between Camilla and me and first leaned over to say something to her that I couldn't hear, and then turned to me. Even with the applause thundering I heard every word. "I was wrong, Volker," he told me. "Was wonderful, best Germont ever that I conduct." And he embraced me right there in front of the clamoring crowd.
Forget it that he couldn't conduct crescendi, I had a recognized luminary in my profession telling me—me!—that I'd arrived.
Even when it couldn't get any better it still got better. Backstage was so crowded with people clustering around me and congratulating me—other singers, choristers, audience members who'd somehow wangled themselves a pass—that I had trouble finding time to change out of my costume. And when Camilla and I finally made it back to our penthouse and shut the door behind us I actually broke down, collapsing on the couch in a wave of emotional sobs.
She came over and put her arms around me without a word. Asmedogh emerged from the bedroom he shared with the two cats, jumped up on my shoulder and wrapped his tail around my neck. And there, between the woman who'd changed my life and the alien who'd made the change possible, I cried like a baby.
Finally I subsided and looked up in gratitude at both of them. "There's no way I can thank either of you," I said. "Asmedogh, you gave me my voice. Camilla, you gave me my life. And you both are responsible for the best night of my life. Well, the second best."
"Second best?" asked Camilla. "Oh." She blushed furiously. With Asmedogh linking us, she already knew what was number one: the night she'd appeared in my bedroom door. Nothing could ever top that.
Ultimately we got to bed, made passionate love, and collapsed into sleep about 2:00 a.m. Until the phone woke Camilla about 9:00, and she woke me.
When Marilyn came in about two minutes later she looked like she'd been whipped. She was carrying a section of the newspaper and something else, and slammed them both down on the coffee table and walked over to Camilla.
"I screwed up bad, Cam," she said. "You ought to fire my ass right now." She turned to me. "And Nick, if she doesn't you ought to make her do it."
"Slow down, sugar," Camilla told her. "Screwed up how?"
"Here." Marilyn reached over and grabbed the non-newspaper item she'd carried in, which I saw now was a program from last night. "Cam, I checked it like always, honest to God I did, but that was before Marko walked on us, and I can't kick myself in the ass hard enough but I never went back to it. So look."
And there in the cast list was "Giorgio Germont ... Marko Fabuliis."
"They put this in as an insert." She pulled out a small sheet of paper, which we all three read together: "The role of Giorgio Germont will be sung by Nick Volker."
I shrugged. "They probably had the programs done before the change," I said reasonably. "No big deal, I told Sam to agree to whatever, and they probably didn't want to spend the money to go back to the printer."
"Mmm," said Camilla in a dissatisfied tone. "Sam shouldn't have bought that one, but I suppose—"
"It's a lot worse than that, Cam," Marilyn interrupted. "Now look." And she picked up the newspaper, which was open to a review of last night's opening. She shoved it at us and covered her eyes.
I grinned at the headline: "St. John shines in Traviata." Oh, and hadn't she just! And I kept staring at it until Camilla abruptly yelled "Shit!"
I looked at her in surprise, and then followed her finger pointing to the third or fourth paragraph. And saw that it started off: "Baritone Marko Fabuliis lived up to his name with an utterly fabulous turn as..." I stopped reading right there.
"Well, damn," I said inadequately.
But Camilla was a long way from done. "Motherfuck," she said. "Piss. Cunt. Asshole. Turd. Twat. Prick." She kept going in a monotone, saying every foul word she could think of without repeating once.
Finally I stopped her by putting my finger on her lips. "Camilla, it's not that awful," I said gently. "I mean, I admit I'm pretty disappointed—"
She shook her head sharply at me, dislodging the finger. "Nicky, sweetheart, you don't get it, do you? Look, honey, in this business reviews are our life. We get, or we don't get, new bookings based on what's been written about us the last time out. Our careers rise and fall on what's said about us. And this was your first time out, it's even more critical for you, and this idiot who can't even read just wiped you right out of the production. You're 'disappointed?' Baby, it's a friggin' disaster!"
Muzzily I began to realize how much this simple blunder could cost me.
"Cam, I'm so horribly sorry." Marilyn was very near tears. "I have no excuse, I just blew it. I'm so used to checking for you, and I just plain didn't think to—"
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