A Cadenza for Caruso (26 page)

I thanked her; what else could I do? We chatted about the performance a few minutes, but Emmy's eyes kept straying over to Philippe Duchon. Finally she said, “He is good, isn't he?”

“Yes, he is,” I answered. “And Emmy, he didn't even try to upstage me. Not once.”

She nodded. “On his good behavior. But now that he's proved himself, he'll start showing his true colors. Watch out for him, Gerry. He's trouble.”

I appreciated the warning and took it to heart. On impulse, I invited Emmy to join us for supper. “The men want to go to Del Pezzo's,” I added, hoping for an ally.

“Oh good,” she smiled. “I like Del Pezzo's.”

Grrr
. I tried to convince her Sherry's would be a better place to go; there was nothing wrong with Del Pezzo's, but it wasn't very elegant. Besides, Italian food is so fattening. Emmy was wavering—but then an enormous
thud
sounded and at almost the same time someone screamed. We both jumped.

I looked over to see where one end of a roller curtain had come crashing down to the stage. Sprawled out on the stage floor not more than a couple of feet away was Philippe Duchon, a look of absolute terror on his face. We all stood thunderstruck for a moment; then everyone dashed over to Duchon. He was all right, just scared out of his wits. “Someone … someone tried to kill me!” he cried.

“Oh no, Monsieur Duchon!” Gatti-Casazza gasped, helping the baritone to his feet. “It is merely accident! You are not hurt?”

Outrage was quickly replacing Duchon's fear. “I could have been killed! Look at that curtain!”

The roller curtain was a sight: one end still hoisted up high over the stage, the other end resting on the stage floor. We all fussed over Duchon, trying to calm him down. “I am devastated that such a thing happens,” Gatti apologized. “Are you certain you are not hurt?”

“I tell you someone tried to kill me!” Duchon shouted. “That was no accident! Someone does not want me here!”

I couldn't see any stagehands in the immediate vicinity. The roller curtain was painted blue and was used as a backdrop to represent the sky. The curtain was operated by two ropes that ran from the floor through two overhead pulleys, then down to the points where they were attached at either end of the roller. Stagehands would pull on the free ends of the ropes to raise and turn the roller at the same time, thus winding the curtain material around the roller.

The operating lines were tied off to cleats in the stage floor, and I looked around until I found the one used for the fallen end of the roller. The rope was there, one end firmly lashed about the cleat—but the rest of it lay limply on the stage floor. I picked up the end of the rope and examined it, while Duchon went on insisting that the roller curtain had been dropped deliberately.

“Monsieur Duchon!” I called. “Will you come here, please? There's something here you should see.” He came, reluctantly. I showed him the end of the rope. “See, it's old and frayed. The rope should have been replaced long ago. But it has not been
cut
. It simply broke. It was an accident, Monsieur—no one has tried to harm you.”

He took the rope from me and examined the end, looking for signs of a knife blade. He found none. He whirled toward Gatti and started lambasting him for allowing unsafe equipment to be used backstage. Gatti apologized.

Duchon's close call had put an end to the festive air backstage. I hurried upstairs and changed, and by the time I got back down the stagehands had attached a new rope to the roller curtain and pulled it back up to its place in the flies.

The others were all ready to go. Caruso, who was a walking advertisement for good eating, announced he was in imminent danger of starving to death. Toscanini, who was thin to the point of emaciation, declared he really wasn't all that hungry and would be satisfied with something to drink. Emmy backed up Caruso but suggested Sherry's instead of Del Pezzo's. Scotti draped a friendly arm about her shoulders and started explaining to her the superior merits of Italian cuisine. We still hadn't reached an agreement when we went out the stage door, where a mob of fans greeted us—most of whom were screeching “Ger
ee!
Ger
ee!
”

Scotti and Caruso got almost as much enjoyment out of the gerryflappers as I did. For one thing, they were all girls in their late teens or early twenties, and that alone was enough to hold the interest of those two Italian lovers. The girls pushed up against me—not looking for autographs, just wanting to talk, to be a part of what was going on. In the vanguard, as usual, were Mildredandphoebe. Since you never saw one without the other, it was hard not to think of them as one person, Mildredandphoebe. Phoebe was a sort of lower-case personality anyway; it was Mildred who was the leader.

Those two were my most ardent fans (well, my most ardent
female
fans). They came to every performance I gave, kept scrap-books about my career, wrote a newsletter about me that they circulated to other fans, collected souvenirs, and were always, always
there
. They wanted to know everything about me. Occasionally I left tickets for them at the box office, but tonight they'd stood at the back of the auditorium during the entire performance.

“You were just
wonderful
, Miss Farrar!” Mildred cried. “I could hardly breathe, you were so wonderful!”

“Just wonderful!” Phoebe echoed.

“I never heard anything like it,” Mildred rushed on, “I've got to tell you, it was, oh, it was an
experience
for me tonight!”

“An experience,” Phoebe nodded.

I really liked this part of it; Mildredandphoebe could always be counted on to provide me the opportunity to play Queen Geraldine, graciously acknowledging the adulation of a grateful public. It was fun. I assumed my most regal manner and chatted with them a while (Scotti says I put on a British accent for such occasions). One of the other gerryflappers had cornered Toscanini, who was looking around desperately for an escape route. He was not very good at small talk.

“Howja like the Frenchman?” Mildred wanted to know.

“Monsieur Duchon?” I said. “I think he made a most auspicious Metropolitan début and I look forward to singing with him again.” Mildredandphoebe scribbled in the notebooks they carried with them everywhere, an item for the next newsletter.

“I die!” Caruso cried.

I laughed and told the gerryflappers we had to go. “Thank you all for coming, all of you, thank you. But we're tired and we're hungry, and we want to get something to eat.”

“Where are you going?” Mildredandphoebe asked. They wanted to know
everything
about me.

That traitorous Emmy Destinn ended up siding with the men and I was overwhelmingly outvoted. We went to Del Pezzo's.

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About the Author

Barbara Paul is the author of numerous short stories and novels in both the detective and science fiction genres. Born in Maysville, Kentucky, she went on to attend Bowling Green State University and the University of Pittsburgh, earning a PhD in theater history and criticism. She has been nominated for the Shamus Award for Best PI Short Story, and two of her novels,
In-Laws and Outlaws
and
Kill Fee
, have been adapted into television movies. After teaching at the University of Pittsburgh for a number of years, she retired to write full-time. Paul currently resides in Sacramento.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1984 by Barbara Paul

Cover design by Jason Gabbert

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3243-8

This edition published in 2016 by
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/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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