MUSIC WHEN SWEET VOICES DIE

 

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

 

  

 

PROLOGUE

 

Wednesday, October 27

 

Gui-Adam Feuier knew he should not mix music and heroin. His eyes ached, and he lifted one elegant hand to his sweating brow. Only twelve minutes to go, then another ten for curtain calls. He groaned. Behind him, the scene change was under way, Venice disappearing into the fly gallery, giving way to Luther’s Tavern once more. He sank heavily onto the chair at center stage, facing away from the audience, his arms on the back of the chair, his head pressed against the angle of his elbow.

 

From his vantage point in the pit, Maestro Richard Tey silently cursed Feuier. He would have to work around the tenor once again. With a gesture of his left hand, he brought out the bass sonority of Offenbach’s music. By now, he had developed a fatalistic attitude about Feuier; he was not surprised that the tenor was ignoring him, the prompter, and the television monitors at either side of the stage. He turned his attention to the scene change and the final ritard of the “Barcarole.”

 

He was feeling worse, if that was possible. Feuier bit into his hand and forced himself to breathe deeply. His senses were escaping him, and nausea surged through him. No good. No good. He sagged as his dizziness grew.

 

The stage manager checked the clock on his right, then glanced at his clipboard. The cues were running well tonight, everything smooth, everything right on tempo. He murmured a light cue into the pencil-thin microphone near his lips. The opera would be over by eleven-forty—under the midnight deadline. Then it would be time for a drink and a long, hot bath.

 

The scene change was nearly complete. Where the ground-row of the Venetian skyline had been, there was now an ornately German tavern wall, and the sensuous, blue-tinged light had faded to a ruddy amber. The chorus, once again in their German students’ costumes, gathered around Feuier, and a few of them exchanged exasperated glances. It was an awkward moment because, as usual, Feuier was not where he was supposed to be. The men had grown used to compensating for the unpredictable French tenor; they moved farther downstage.

Jocelynne Hendricks, looking wonderfully boyish as Nicklausse, walked casually to Feuier’s side, making her ironic toast to all Hoffmann’s mistresses. For an instant, her eyes met Maestro Tey’s, and she gave a fatalistic, almost imperceptible shrug.

 

Tory Ian Malcomb glared down at a slice of the stage from what was very likely the worst seat in the house. He had been General Manager of the opera somewhat less than six months, and he hated to see his pet production ruined by Feuier. This center-stage rebellion was typical of Feuier’s behavior, and as Malcomb ground his teeth, he searched his mind for an excuse to fire the volatile French tenor. Crossing his arms, he waited to see what new outrage Feuier had planned for the end of this third performance of Les Contes d’Hoffmann.

 

When the musical bridge was through, Richard Tey looked up, his blue eyes crackling with energy. He motioned to the chorus, then waited for Feuier to make his response. When nothing happened, he beetled his brows and pointed to Jocelynne Hendricks, forcefully indicating that she should take the short phrase.

When she had sung the few words, the chorus came in too loudly, as if embarrassed by Feuier’s latest display. As the tone changed, Feuier stirred, and his head lolled to one side. Jocelynne looked at him, and in that moment felt the stirrings of alarm. Her eyes flicked to Richard Tey, filled with meaning, and then to Tory Ian Malcomb in his inconvenient box. The men’s chorus saw this, and a kind of apprehension made them falter in their singing.

 

Apparently the audience sensed something as well, for the rustling of whispers sighed around the cream-and-gilt Opera House like a low wind passing through trees. There was an extra tension in the air now.

 

In the prompter’s box, Graeham Kelly looked up from the score again and felt his body go cold. He could see Gui-Adam Feuier’s feet less than three yards away, and he could tell from their position that something was dreadfully wrong. There was ho movement—none. Making a sudden decision, he lurched from the prompter’s box, stumbling through the semidarkness to the stairs that would take him backstage.

 

Maestro Richard Tey had heard the prompter leave the box, and he felt his first real twinge of worry. He automatically cued Jocelynne to take Feuier’s next short phrase, but he knew she could not do the one after, which was not only more extended, but was so clearly Hoffmann’s music that the audience would be aware in an instant that there was trouble on the stage. Fixing Jocelynne in his bright stare, he mouthed, “What’s wrong?”

 

He could sense that someone was touching him, but by now Gui-Adam was past caring. His body ached intolerably, and if it had not taken more strength than he had, he would have driven the people near him away by force and screamed. He remembered that he ought to be singing, but through the agony that possessed him, he was unable to think clearly. He tried to move in his chair, but even that little motion caught hold of him. The chair tipped over, and he fell to the stage, thrashing feebly. It was strange, he thought as he died. Heroin had never done that to him before.

 

The men of the chorus stopped, strangling on the rowdy words they had been singing. Jocelynne stepped back, her face gone white under her makeup. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tory Ian Malcomb as he bolted from his box, and then, as she turned, she glimpsed the horror on the stage manager’s face. The noise in the house caught her attention, and she tried to see beyond the lights to the more than three thousand people gathered in the darkness.

Then, suddenly, Richard Tey’s clenched fists were high in the air, like a rider lifting the head of a falling horse. He got the attention of the musicians and singers and cut them off cleanly as the curtain fell, shutting off the terrible sight on the stage.

 

A roar like the sea spread through the house. Consternation was reflected in every face, and panic threatened to erupt. Some of the audience were on their feet, and at least one woman was sobbing hysterically when the heavy gold curtains parted and Tory Ian Malcomb walked onto the apron.

“Ladies! Gentlemen! Please! If I may have your atten­tion!” His damaged voice might not be able to sing anymore, but it was still deep, resonant, and penetrating. He waited for silence with the calm authority that was enhanced by his great height: nearly six-and-a-half feet.

The tempest of voices became a buzz, then straggled away into nothing. Malcomb remained silent for a few moments longer, then said, “Thank you. Thank you very much. As I am sure you all realize, Mr. Feuier has suffered an unfortunate accident. For his sake as much as your own, I must ask you to leave the Opera House now. Please do not linger or wait in your seats. If you are parked on Van Ness, Franklin, or Grove, or in the Civic Center lot, I must ask you to wait in your cars until any emergency vehicle that might be required has come.” He knew that there was already a call in for an ambulance. “Please do not ask the ushers for information. They know no more than any of you.”

The muttering began again, and Malcomb raised his voice just enough to quiet it. “If there is anything seriously wrong, rest assured that the news media will make all information available to you as soon as possible.” He said this with the cold certainty that he would have to deal with reporters within the next twenty minutes.

 

In the orchestra pit, Richard Tey said softly to his musi­cians, “No one is to leave until Malcomb gives us the signal. Do you understand?” He saw an uneasy acceptance in most faces. He singled out the most obviously upset of the players. “That includes you, Cranston,” he warned the first bassoonist.

Tory Ian Malcomb was almost finished. “There is no need at all to rush. Leave by the nearest exit. The house staff will be on hand to help you if you require assistance. Let me thank you now for the consideration you’ve shown to Mr. Feuier.” He looked over the restless house. “Those of you who are physicians and who have left your seat numbers with the box office, please stay where you are. If we need your assistance, one of the ushers will come for you.” He took a deep breath. “We will be doing Rossini’s La Donna del Lago on Friday night, as scheduled. We very much appreciate your cooperation, and on behalf of the entire company, I thank you.” He kept his position on the apron until he saw the beginning of a fairly orderly departure. Then he stepped back through the curtains.

To one side of the stage, the chorus waited, saying little among themselves. The women, most of whom were out of costume now, stood with the men, and for one insane moment, Malcomb wondered if they would react to this death with the same music that had greeted Schlemil’s death onstage.

He looked anxiously around for the rest of the cast. There was Elise Baumtretter, all rigged out as Stella, only the sequins on her face showing that she had not finished changing from the Giulietta makeup. Her huge eyes were horrified, and Malcomb knew that her torrential weeping was not far off.

Jocelynne Hendricks had disappeared, and it took Malcomb a moment to find her in the backstage shadows, in the protective, massive embrace of Domenico Solechiaro. Idly Malcomb wondered why Solechiaro was still in the building; his costume fitting had been finished more than an hour before.

On the other side of the stage, Cort Nřrrehavn had come down from the baritone’s stage-left dressing room. He was in between the characters of Dapertutto and Lindorf, long trousers contrasting oddly with his Napoleonic embroidered velvet coat. Under his heavy makeup, his face was pasty with shock. “Good God,” he said to no one in particular as he turned away, aghast. “How? How?”

“Mr. Malcomb,” said a voice at his elbow. Tory Ian Malcomb looked into the frightened face of the prompter. “I checked him over,” Graeham Kelly said, his hands moving nervously. “No mistake. He’s dead.” He stopped. “Should I get a doctor, do you think?”

Suddenly it was very still on the Opera House stage. “I saw Bob Curtis in the house,” Malcomb said softly. “He’s still in his seat. Left side, orchestra, row D. Someone bring him back here. And call the cops. Call the cops, then call the papers.” There was little emotion in his voice, or in his face. Slowly he crossed the stage to the huddled figure of Gui-Adam Feuier. It occurred to him that this might well become one of those famous moments in opera, and that those who had been in the audience might take a perverse pride in having seen Feuier die.

As he stared down at the dead man, Tory Ian Malcomb did not know whether he should cry or laugh.

 

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