Bob at the Plaza (10 page)

“Just lie down,” I said.  “Where are Bev and Kim?” I continued, confused.

“I made them go ahead without me. I think I have a twenty-four-hour bug. I haven’t been feeling well all day.” She leaned back against her pillow and closed her eyes.

“You poor thing,” I said, slipping off her shoes and pulling the coverlet over her. “And you never said a word about feeling sick. No wonder you couldn’t eat your tea treats.”

“I didn’t want to ruin the day for all of you,” she answered, snuggling under the blanket. “If I can just get a good night’s sleep I’ll probably be fine in the morning.”

I felt her forehead. A little warm, maybe, but not burning up.

“I’ll be right here,” I reassured her. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

Liz nestled into her pillow and adjusted the covers.

Bob raised his eyebrows at me in a silent question and I shrugged. What could I do? He wriggled his fingers and disappeared with a crisp snap, instead of his usual air-leaking-out-of-a-balloon fizzle. Impressive. Maybe he had picked up some pointers in boot camp after all.

Liz slept heavily, never waking to undress or even turning over. I took a quick shower to avoid the morning rush and spent an hour with my book and my beloved
New York Times,
all the while keeping an anxious eye on her. When Bev and Kim showed up, we talked in whispers and got into bed as quietly as possible.

If anything, Day Two of rehearsal was worse than Day One. Now world-famous Harvey Prout, not his mere assistant, waved his hand in my face to get me to lower the volume. And between you, me, and the lamppost, some of those first sopranos from the other choruses were not very nice. I could swear I heard giggling behind me every time Prout motioned at me to be quieter. I even caught Bev grinning one time, and gave her an angry stink eye. The end of that morning’s rehearsal found me practically whispering my part. When Prout finished with us, he said, “Not bad, people.” Talk about rubbing salt in the wounds.

Liz re-joined the chorus after lunch.

“You’re still looking peaky,” Kim told her. “Are you sure you’re well enough to sing?”

“I’m not one-hundred percent,” Liz answered, “but I’m better, and I didn’t want to miss everything. I’d like to at least pretend I know what I’m doing when we sing at Carnegie Hall tomorrow.” Liz shimmied into her usual place next to Bev.

I leaned over and grumbled, “Well, you can always be like me and lip sync during the music. That seems to keep everyone happy.”

Bev glanced away, but I still caught her grin out of the corner of my eye.

“If you need it, I can review what we covered this morning before we go to the opera tonight,” Bev added as Liz opened her music.

The afternoon moved quickly and, once I became resigned to whispering the music, I received only one more quiet-down gesture from Prout.

David came over when we wrapped for the day and threw his arm around my shoulders as we left. Maybe all was forgotten? Maybe that day apart had done us both good? “Ready for the opera tonight?” I asked him.

“Yeah, about as ready as I ever am for opera, I guess,” he admitted.

“Oh, now, it’s not that bad,” Bev said, smiling.

“Don’t believe her,” Gino interjected, sounding like a long-time put-upon husband.  “If we’re lucky there’ll be a dark, quiet second act and we can doze off for a few minutes. That’s my favorite part of the opera―high-quality nap time.”

Bev gave Gino a kittenish push. Spending time apart seemed to be working for them, too. They looked more playful and romantic than I’d ever seen. Enjoying their time together, Bev and Gino drifted off to a secluded alcove close to the rehearsal room. Liz and Kim chatted with some choristers from California while David and I took the elevator upstairs. If I hustled, I could have a few words with Bob before I rushed to dinner and
Carmen
. Amazing how many scheduling challenges came along with a genuine social life that involved actual humans.

David once more walked me to my door. As I fumbled for the plastic key, he said in a quiet voice, “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Roz.”

“I know,” I sighed. “Our timing on this trip has been a nightmare.”

“Let’s make a date together when we get back to the lake.
Alone
,” he said, emphasizing the last word.

“Absolutely,” I answered.

“You’re okay with everything going on in rehearsal, aren’t you? I’ve always thought you had a lovely singing voice,” he said, ever-loyal despite the mounting evidence to the contrary. “Don’t let those guys bother you. They’re just trying to get everyone under control before the performance.”

“Jerks,” I crabbed. “I’m fine, I’m fine. But I still think they’re jerks. They could have talked to me in private instead of humiliating me in front of everybody.”

David grinned, grabbed the key card away from my fumbling fingers, and opened the door. “Now
there’s
my Roz! See you at dinner, sweetie.”

As I entered the room I saw Bob stretched out on my bed with, judging by the quality of his crooning, his second martini. Is there such a song as “Good-bye, My Coney Island Baby”?

“Why, it’s Rosie!” Bob said, swinging into a sitting position without spilling a drop. “Let’s get out of this hotel and paint the town!”

“I’d love to, Bob, but I can’t,” I said, grabbing my evening outfit from the closet. “This weekend is packed. I’ve got just a couple of minutes to dress for dinner and the opera, and my roommates will be here any second.”

“Oh, come on, Roz. Just dump your friends for one night and let’s play,” Bob urged.

Oh, I was tempted. I was sooo tempted. But a lifetime of responsibility and boring seriousness prevailed, and I shook my head.

“I haven’t taught you a damn thing, have I? You have to grab these opportunities when you can, Roz,” Bob muttered as he laid back on the bed. “You’re a bit of a mope tonight,” he continued. Then, noticing the hurt look on my face, he changed tactics. “So, which opera are you going to? The one with the magic zither? Or the one with Rogolfo and the Duke of Minnestrone?”

“Magic zither,” I muttered to myself as I transferred my lipstick, comb, and some money from my day bag to my dressy clutch. “Where do you come up with this nonsense?” I asked, while a little glow warmed my heart. How I had missed this silliness when Bob was gone. My life was too serious without him.

“Apparently I used to be quite the opera buff in my day,” Bob responded. “I learned that in boot camp. In fact, I had an extravagant man-about-town reputation: Broadway shows, plays, dining out every night, a ‘boulevardier,’ so to speak.”

I rested on the miniaturized loveseat and contemplated Bob, lost in his martini on the bed. “When we get back to the lake you’re going to have to tell me all about this boot camp and why you were in such bad shape when I saw you at the Algonquin. I’m glad you found out more about yourself, and I want to know everything. For now, though, I’ve got to focus on all the events my group has scheduled, the opera tonight and rehearsal and the concert tomorrow. Once we get home, though, we’ll have plenty of time to talk, won’t we?” I studied Bob, memories of his unexpected absence making me anxious. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

He smiled and took another sip. “I’m all yours until you make up your mind about moving or until I mess up. And believe me, after months in boot camp, I have no intention of screwing up again.”

“Can you come to the opera with us tonight?”

“Maybe later.” Bob sighed, settled his martini glass on the nightstand, and stretched out on Bev’s side of the bed. “Right now I’d rather have some fun and the last thing I want to watch is a bunch of screeching peasants stampeding across a stage in costumes. Perhaps I’ll join you later.” Bob lifted his arms and wrapped them under his head. He sighed, and I couldn’t tell if he was bored, frustrated, or if the cares of the world had just rolled off his back.

Kim unlocked the door with her key card and strolled in. “You look nice. Almost ready? I need the bathroom for a couple of minutes to fix my face and then Liz and I are going out to dinner.”

“Can I just run in there for a second first? I’m heading downstairs to meet David and some others for that dinner at the opera house. We’ll see you later at the performance, right?”

Minutes later, David and I joined our dinner companions in the hotel lobby and cabbed uptown to the glamorous restaurant on the second floor of the opera house.

Bob and David’s protestations to the contrary (the first topic they’ve ever agreed on. Hmm . . .), I’ve never thought of opera as snooty. In fact, I’ve been somewhat shocked, recently, at how un-snooty opera’s become, especially the performances the Metropolitan Opera simulcasts into movie theaters around the country. A blessing to culture-starved wilderness dwellers like me, those simulcasts require a minimum investment of time and money.

One Saturday afternoon a month, you drive to a nearby movie theater to see the live broadcast from the Met. Sometimes there can be hiccups, like the infamous solar flares that disrupted a
Tosca
transmission, but really, how often do you get to tell people that solar flares screwed up your weekend? It’s one of the snazzier complaints, I would say. In general, though, the simulcasts function pretty well. People show up early to get good seats and then snuggle in with movie snacks or homemade sandwiches until the matinee starts.

It’s amazing, like having backstage passes to the show. The broadcast host or hostess interviews the opera stars during intermission, shoving the microphone into their faces as they emerge, sweating and out of breath, from their act-closing arias. It’s hard to think of opera as snooty when the tenor says “hi” to his mom who’s watching from the outback of Australia, or the soprano megastar’s three-year-old son runs backstage for a hug during intermission.

In my mind, these simulcasts revive the way people interacted with opera when Joe Green (AKA Giuseppe Verdi) penned music back in Italy, or when Mozart performed in intimate music halls. Instead of opera being a glitzy separate world, one that requires diamonds and designer fashions as the price of admission, opera becomes as comfortable and accessible as a popcorn-scented movie theater, where you can dress in your bulkiest winter sweater and wave your homemade meatloaf sandwich at the screen to emphasize a point. 

For instance, in a recent Met simulcast, I saw a
Rigoletto
that had been revamped so its main characters portrayed members of the Rat Pack in 1960’s Las Vegas. I had my doubts about the staging but I’d bought the ticket months earlier and you know me, I permit very few financial expenditures to go to waste.

Neon signs, like those on The Strip, illuminated the setting. When the third act opened, the split stage showcased a gleaming muscle car on the left side and an oiled semi-nude female stripper working a pole on the right. First the audience gasped in shock, me included, then they broke into spontaneous applause. I turned to the lady next to me and asked, “I wonder if they’re applauding the car or the stripper?”

The wizened eighty-year-old man behind me tapped me on the shoulder and wheezed out, “The stripper . . .”

Tonight’s
Carmen
was no different. The woman who played the lead, in addition to a voluptuous voice, had the sensuous body to match. Her costumes showcased that figure—skirts slit to the thigh and bodices laced so tight they didn’t need any straps to hold them up. Every male eyeball, including David’s, was glued to Carmen’s scanty strapless bodice, waiting breathlessly for the proverbial wardrobe malfunction. The way the heroine threw herself around the stage, most of the women in the audience worried about it too. That bodice must have been glued on, though. It didn’t slip a millimeter. Even if David didn’t care for the singing, the costumes kept him entertained throughout the evening.

But, although I love my comfortable Saturday movie-theater operas, there’s nothing like going to the actual Metropolitan Opera to polish up some of your sloppy edges. It’s like going to church on Christmas, or to Grandma’s for Sunday dinner. Everything gets spit-shined.

Our little group of choristers did Avondale proud. For once Liz’s bouncy curls had been tamed into a sophisticated chignon. Kim sported a manicure for the first time since I’d met her. Stacey wore a stunning low-cut red dress and several men in the audience turned to watch her as she sashayed by. My outfit wasn’t new, but it felt appropriate. Dress black slacks, sparkly silver blouse, and a black velvet jacket left over from long-ago ballroom dancing days. David’s eyes lit up when he saw me, and that’s all that mattered. 

David wore the same dark suit he’d had on Thursday, and I once again kicked myself that we were both committed to sharing rooms with multitudes of people. Let’s face it. Our timing on this trip sucked.

As a group we strolled back to the hotel after
Carmen
. (No wonder New Yorkers tend to be so svelte―they constantly build exercise into their day with all this walking.) David and I had no chance to chat. Instead, conversation veered toward tomorrow’s Carnegie Hall performance, and nerves jittered throughout the group.

The edginess continued once we got to our room. For the first time since I’d known her, Kim snapped at Bev. Close quarters and performance nerves weighed on everyone.

I couldn’t sleep. At five I gave up, threw on my jeans, and went out in search of coffee. By six, when I returned to the room, breakfast for everyone in hand, my roommates were awake and rotating in and out of the steam-filled bathroom. The snappish, uptight atmosphere still prevailed, so we mostly got ready for our day in silence.

Now that I’d been reduced to practically whispering my part, I felt a lot less tense, unlike the others in the room. But still, like them, my nerves jittered. Bob popped in once, took a quick look around at the controlled chaos in the room, waved, and disappeared without saying a word.

Our bus parked in front of the hotel at eight, and by eight-thirty we’d disembarked outside the legendary flag-bedecked portico of Carnegie Hall. An office worker ushered us into the concert hall, where we sat in the auditorium. I studied my surroundings while Harvey and Trevor consulted on stage in front of the seated orchestra.