Prima Donna at Large (29 page)

“I repeat,” Amato said patiently, “how can the girls succeed where the police fail?”

“Because the girls are going to have something to help them the police don't have,” I told him. I went over to my writing desk and took out a couple of dozen sheets of foolscap. “Come here, Rico.” He came. “Sit down. Now draw.”

Caruso's face lit up like a spotlight when he understood. “Pictures! Pictures of Uncle Hummy—that is what the girls have!
Ella mi confonde
, Gerry! What a good idea!”

Even Amato was nodding in reluctant approval. Caruso fell to sketching with enthusiasm. No two of his drawings were exactly alike, but all were recognizably Uncle Hummy. He'd finished thirteen by the time Mildredandphoebe got there.

Phoebe was visibly awed at being in the company of three opera stars at the same time, but Mildred took it in stride. “What do you want us to do, Miss Farrar?” she asked briskly.

I explained. “I want you to round up as many of the other girls as you can and start a search for Uncle Hummy. He'll undoubtedly be in one of the Italian neighborhoods in town, and you'll have pictures to show around. Don't call him ‘Uncle Hummy' when you ask about him. He'll be known by another name to his neighbors and family—I wonder if he has any family? Anyway, if you find him, don't say anything to him. We don't want to scare him off. Come back and tell
me
where he is. Do you have any questions?”

“Just one,” said Mildred. “Who's Uncle Hummy?”

I stared at her a moment, and then both Amato and I laughed. Of course the girls wouldn't know who Uncle Hummy was. Uncle Hummy was part of our backstage life; Mildredandphoebe were part of the audience. I let Amato explain as I went over to check on Caruso's progress. “One thing,” Amato remarked. “Those immigrant neighborhoods—are they safe places for young ladies to go alone?”

“We'll go in pairs,” Mildred said.

“In twos,” Phoebe explained further.

“In threes,” I said, “and only during the daytime. If you have any brothers or gentlemen friends you can take with you, so much the better. But find him.”

“We'll find him,” Mildred said. “Don't worry, Miss Farrar.”

“Don't worry,” Phoebe echoed.

Caruso had finished the last drawing. “This is Uncle Hummy,” he said, giving the sketches to the two girls. “An old man, you see. He smiles a lot, big teeth.”

I touched Mildred on the shoulder. “I know, with so many people involved, discretion is going to be difficult. But it truly is important that Uncle Hummy not take fright and go looking for another hiding place.”

“We'll be careful,” Mildred said. “We'll say he's a relative we're trying to find.”

“We'll be careful.” Guess who said that.

Caruso was back at the desk, making another sketch. I asked him what that one was for. “For you and for me,
cara
Gerry. We go look too.”

“Not today we don't. Don't you remember, Rico? We're meeting David Belasco this afternoon.”

He struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. “
Per dio!
I forget.” He held out the drawing hopefully to Amato, but at the baritone's look he quickly handed the paper to Mildredandphoebe. “Now be careful,” he scolded them in a fatherly way, “and say nothing to Uncle Hummy if you find him!”

“Not a word,” Mildred promised, and the two girls left to organize their search.

“Fans!” Amato was shaking his head. “We are using
fans
to do police work!”

I rather liked that
we
. “They might surprise you, Pasquale. They're bright girls, and full of energy—Lieutenant O'Halloran could use a few like them.”

“Lieutenant O'Halloran!” Caruso exclaimed, aghast. “I forget all about him! What if he finds out what we do?”

“Why, he'll probably put you in jail and lock the door and throw away the key,” I said gleefully, enjoying Caruso's discomfort. “That's what he promised to do, isn't it?”

“Gerry,” Amato said in mock reproachfulness, “do not tease Rico. Great detectives must be treated with respect.”

“But great detectives must not be afraid of the police, isn't that so?”

“True, true. Eh, Rico, you must practice unshrinking fortitude from now on.”

Caruso decided he didn't like the tone the conversation was taking on and left in a huff. Ten minutes later he was back, a bit red in the face; he'd forgotten Mario. (So had I.) But then they left for good, and I invited Amato to stay for lunch on condition that we talk about anything in the world except matters pertaining to or stemming from the unexpected advent and abrupt departure of Philippe Duchon. He heartily agreed.

At three in the afternoon I met Caruso and David Belasco in one of the rehearsal halls at the Met. Some time ago I'd asked Belasco to coach me on my acting in the final duet from
Carmen
, but he'd said it wouldn't do much good unless both singers took part. So Caruso had grumblingly consented to try to do something about our stiff and unconvincing acting in the duet. There was only one more scheduled performance of
Carmen
before the season ended, and I did so want to get it right
once
.

Caruso had brought his own accompanist. Quickly we were deep into the duet, Belasco stopping us every time he saw something he thought we could do better. It wasn't going very well; Caruso would do what Belasco told him the first time we'd try it and then forget about it the next. I accused him of being uncooperative.

“Gerry, you know French is difficult language for me,” he complained. “I have to think about the words as much as I think of the music. And then to remember
stop here, turn there
—it is too much!”

“It's not too much,” I snarled. “You're not concentrating.”

“Let's try this,” Belasco said in his soft voice. “Mr. Caruso, you grab her hair. Gerry, fall to the floor and reach up with both hands and take hold of his wrist. Then Mr. Caruso, you start backing across the stage—it will look to the audience as if you're dragging her by the hair.”

Caruso was appalled. “It is too complicated!”

“No, it isn't. Just try it.”

We tried it—and tried it and tried it and tried it. Caruso finally got the action right, but he had trouble coordinating it with the music. I yelled at him to stop thinking about what the gerryflappers were doing and he yelled back that I should be thinking of nothing
but
what the gerryflappers were doing and the accompanist jumped up from the piano and wanted to know
what
the gerryflappers were doing and David Belasco had to stamp his feet on the floor to get our attention.

The whole session went like that. By the time we finished, Caruso and I were barely speaking to each other. He marched out in a huff again, the second time that day; his accompanist hurried after him.

Belasco patted perspiration from his forehead with a folded white handkerchief. “I'm afraid our rehearsal wasn't a total success.”

“We're still a long way from perfect,” I admitted, “but we'll be better than we were. Thank you, David—both for your help and for your patience.”

“Is there trouble between you and Mr. Caruso?”

“Not yet,” I said darkly, “but there's going to be if he doesn't mend his ways.”

“Unfortunate. By the way, I have a message for you from Morris. He says Dr. Curtis couldn't have done it—he's afraid he left the wrong impression. Does that make any sense?”

“It makes a lot of sense,” I smiled. Morris Gest didn't want me thinking that
he
thought Dr. Curtis's argument with Philippe Duchon had led to the doctor's contaminating the spray. I was glad to have the message for one very good reason: Would the real culprit worry about incriminating other people? I didn't want Morris to be the guilty one.

I thanked Belasco again and we both left. When I got home, Bella handed me a note from Mildredandphoebe. They'd had no luck in locating Uncle Hummy, but they'd try again tomorrow.

Three days later, and still no Uncle Hummy. By now Mildredandphoebe had a small army of fans out looking; Caruso had had to make quite a few more drawings. At least it kept him busy for a while. The rest of the time he spent pestering me. Three days of it.

He kept telling me to think of something to do. I kept telling him I
had
thought of something to do and we could only wait while it was being done. He told me to think of something else. I told him to go take a swim in the Hudson. Fortunately Scotti and Amato seemed to agree between them to take turns acting as a buffer; otherwise Caruso and I would have torn each other's eyes out long ago.

Then came the season's final performance of
Carmen
. Backstage, the man Lieutenant O'Halloran had stationed there was still standing watch, still waiting for Uncle Hummy. Surely they didn't still believe he was coming back? I caught Gatti-Casazza's arm as he hurried past. “How much longer is that man going to be here?” I asked him.

“I wish I knew,” Gatti answered. “I ask him, but he does not know. He just does what his lieutenant tells him. He is not in your way, is he?”

“Oh no, he's no bother. It's just that seeing him here every time I come in …”

“I understand. I too wish he would go away. The police, they find nothing. We will never know who destroyed Philippe Duchon's life.”

“Don't be too sure of that,” I smiled, but refused to say more when he pressed me.

I was just starting up the stairs to the dressing rooms when Caruso came blustering in, making his usual noisy entrance. What kind of performance would we have that night? I decided it was worth one more attempt, and called to him. “Rico, will you try? Will you remember what David Belasco told us and try?”

“I always try,” he said grandly. “And I may even remember.”

“You
may
. If you feel like it?”

“
Per dio
, why not? There are
two
of us on the stage, no?”

“Then why must I do the acting for both of us?” I snarled.

“You do the acting for
everybody
!” he roared.

Scotti appeared silently from nowhere and led me away up the stairs; Amato appeared equally silently from the same place and led Caruso away
from
the stairs. “That man is impossible,” I complained to Scotti as I went into my dressing room.

“He is a
terrible
man,” he agreed earnestly. “You are patient woman to put up with him.”

“Oh, stop humoring me—I'm in no mood for it.”

I was mad and I stayed mad, all the time I was getting into costume and make-up and warming up. I was mad back down the stairs and mad while I was waiting in the wings. Then my cue came and I made my entrance and started to sing—and, funny thing, I forgot about being mad.

We got through the first act without mishap, and almost made it through the second. Caruso and I had avoided each other during intermission, the second act started, Amato came on in his black wig and droopy mustache and sang that blasted
Toreador Song
, and then shortly after that Caruso made his entrance.

I must say a word here about saliva. It's an unpleasant subject, I know, but it's one of those very real problems singers have to worry about. Singing opera makes all sorts of demands on the human body, and sometimes saliva accumulates in the mouth as a result of all the
pushing
you have to do to get the sound out. That's why the first few rows of the audience sometimes see one singer spraying another—which makes love duets particularly hazardous. Often there's simply no time to swallow, if you're in the middle of a tricky passage or a continuous line.

Enrico Caruso had worked out his own solution to the saliva problem. Over the years he'd developed the absolutely disgusting habit of turning his back to the audience and
spitting
—right there on the stage, where anyone could step in it! He didn't do it often, but the fact that he did it at all I found downright nauseating. And he did it during the second act of
Carmen
. We were locked into what was supposed to be a passionate embrace—when he spit right over my shoulder on to the stage floor.

I slapped his face.

The audience thought it was part of the action; Carmen changes mood a lot in that act. But Caruso knew. And I wanted him to know. “How
dare
you?” I hissed at him under cover of the music.

“You go too far!” he hissed back.

I
went too far? I had a thing or two I wanted to tell him, but right then I had to go back to singing of Carmen's undying love for Don José. David Belasco had suggested that at the end of Act II Caruso pick me up and carry me off the stage. Well, he did, in a way; he slung me over his shoulder like a sack of flour and barreled his way into the wings before I knew what was happening.

“I'll kill him!” I screamed when the curtain was closed. “Where is he? I'll kill him!”

“Now, Gerry,” Amato said worriedly, holding on to both my arms. “Wait until after the opera—
then
kill him.”

I'd seen Scotti grab Caruso and hustle him away before I could get to him. All right, if Scotti wanted to change camps, let him. I'd wait until the opera was over and kill
both
of them.

I was changing my costume when Toscanini barged into my dressing room, looking scandalized. “What do you think you do?” he demanded. “Never before do I see such unprofessional conduct! The opera stage is no place for your personal quarrels!”

“Talk to that devil Caruso,” I muttered.

“I intend to do just that, but right now I am talking to you. Sometimes you overstep yourself,
Queen Geraldine
,” he said, heavy on the sarcasm.

“For heaven's sake, he spit over my shoulder! Didn't you see?”

“I see, and he is wrong to spit—but you do not
strike
him for it!” He went on haranguing me until I screamed at him to leave me alone, and he did.