The History of Great Things (16 page)

Y
our career is progressing steadily. You have now played both Musetta and Mimi at New York City Opera, and have been invited to perform with several other orchestras and opera companies, mostly around the Midwest: Cincinnati, Ann Arbor, Milwaukee. You receive standing ovations wherever you go, reviews never less than stellar. (“Her coloratura in ‘Sempre libera' compares with Sutherland,” “A compelling and magnetic Tosca, with a dark weight to even her highest notes.” One review took note of your flawless phrasing, but you knew it wasn't flawless at all the night they'd come. You'd done it much better in dress, but even that hadn't been perfect. They should have just given you a bad review. “Her phrasing was good, but not without flaws, like her very self.”) By anyone else's standards, this might be considered a successful career, but for you it's not enough. Your dreams are bigger. The Metropolitan Opera is right across the plaza from City Opera, yet it seems inexplicably far away. You've auditioned there to polite nods, unreadable smiles, limp handshakes, and little feedback from your manager. He tries to reassure you by saying that they went with
that mediocre So-and-so
, again, but this doesn't help, both because of the mediocrity and because So-and-so is the same
bitch who stole the last job from you. At this point, a polite nod for you is the equivalent of a blazingly bad review, whether or not that's true, so you simply work harder. There's always room to improve, though it frankly enrages you that you aren't being recognized. You double down with Carolina, an extra lesson per week that isn't in your budget—but even Carolina reminds you of the importance of rest.
Equal measures, my darling, equal measures!
She says
Practice as usual but no more, take sleep, take lovers.

You remember what Peggy said, too. You ask if she has any friends to fix you up with. She invites you to an art opening. You've been to museums, but never to a gallery opening—so exciting! You envision handsome art collectors in tailor-made suits, men with penthouse apartments on Fifth Avenue. You once saw Jackie O on the street; you could look just as chic as her with an oil magnate on your arm. You pick out a black cocktail dress, simple but sophisticated. Pearls? No pearls. The gold circle pin mother gave you? That's not it either. A printed scarf, black and white silk, with a tiny bit of red. You knot it around your neck, move the bow to the side. Perfect. You meet Peggy at her place; she's wearing faded bell-bottom jeans, a loose white top, a long necklace with some kind of a crystal pendant at the end, long, straight blond hair parted in the middle. Maybe you got the date wrong?
Not the date
,
just the outfit
, Peggy says with a warm smile. She pulls you inside, opens up her closet, rifles through, grabs a pair of flared white jeans, a bright yellow crocheted top with bell sleeves, leaves the scarf.
But it doesn't match!
you say. Peggy laughs, says
Matching is overrated
, looks at you again. Getting there, but not quite right. Peggy takes a brush to your hair, flips the ends up at the bottom. It's still a bit too
done
for where she's taking you, but it'll do. You look in the mirror, heartbeat speeding up. You've always considered yourself
fashion-conscious; why doesn't this feel quite like you? You feel exposed, though you're basically as covered as ever, in these loose-fitting clothes that aren't yours, but Peggy has the solution for that, of course: one hit off a joint and you'll be good to go.

You giggle together on the subway downtown. There's a Miss Subways card above your head—real New York glamour. You left the house looking like that, but that seems like ten years ago now. An hour later you hardly know who you are anymore, you've said the word “fuck” out loud, twice, and it felt good, you feel like you're in a book about a carefree single gal in New York on a string of innocuous big-city adventures. The buzz from the marijuana is gone by the time you get there, but you have a sort of natural buzz now. You get off the train in a part of town you've never been to before, is it the East Village? You're not sure, but people are out and about, people of just about every variety but the ones you left uptown, scruffy, dirty, drunk, on drugs, young, old, black, white, Spanish, Chinese and what have you, guys with ponytails!—criminals, you're sure, they must be, so you're glad you're with Peggy, who's holding your hand. Peggy whisks you into what seems like a randomly chosen storefront, the window of which is filled with what looks like a big heap of trash, stuff you'd see in a junk pile, rusted things, old newspapers, broken toy parts, empty milk containers, and bottles of Wild Irish Rose. You take your eyes off the trash pile before you're quite done figuring it out, to see a room full of people, practically body to body, drinking things, smoking things, laughing, dancing—they dance at gallery openings?—and across the room, on the far wall, a hole, a large, raw-edged circular hole that leads directly outside; a woman in a mini dress is standing in it, moving to the music, smoking. You have never seen, could never have imagined, a
scene like this, do not know what you're doing here. Peggy kisses several people on the cheek, makes introductions, at one point hugs a slouchy beanpole of woman with the stringiest, greasiest hair you've ever seen; did her parents not tell her to stand up straight, take a bath?; stringy-haired woman walks away, Peggy says
That's Patti Smith, she's amazing, you guys would totally groove on each other
; you nod, that's the first and last time you'll hear that name, and you and Patti will do no further grooving. You can barely manage the intensity of the grooving happening as it is.

Deeper into the crush of people in the gallery, Peggy introduces you to the “artist.” You have absolutely no idea what to say, you aren't even yet sure where the art is, or what the art is, though your gut tells you that “beautiful”—about the only word in your art lexicon—isn't right. Everything is better when he kisses your hand, and he takes you away from Peggy and out through the hole in the back of the room. You sit together on a pile of bricks in the empty lot behind the building, and you tell him you're embarrassed to say you don't get it, this isn't the kind of art you saw in Europe ten years ago, and he laughs, says
I find your honesty and your figure delightful
, and he happily explains what's happening in contemporary art right now, and it's fascinating, what he has to say about it, though you're not at all convinced yet that what is happening here is in any way art. But this man could be Marcello Mastroianni's double: thick, wavy dark hair, intense brown eyes that never leave your gaze. He doesn't ask you too many questions, and right now that's just fine. He takes you for a walk down the street. Should he be leaving his own show? He waves it off.
They don't need me. They'll still be there at dawn.
He takes you to a café, buys you espressos, tells you more about himself and his art and his life, takes you in a
taxi back to his massive loft in yet another part of downtown you've never seen, lays you down on his bed, and does things to you in the first five minutes that make the entire evening suddenly seem like foreplay (things neither Fred nor you knew were things), and he's only getting started.

Y
our starring Broadway debut is a musical based on a movie based on a comic book about a shy accountant by day, crime-fighter by night. The dress rehearsals go well, but this is not just a supporting part in a tour, it's a whole different thing, and you break out in hives the day before opening night. Fortunately, the makeup crew has seen this before and they can make it so the audience won't notice a single mark, even if it leaves you feeling like you're wearing a flesh-colored ski mask. Every night, it feels like a realistic possibility that you'll throw up before you walk out onto the stage, or possibly once you're center stage, as the curtains are coming up. You wonder if your mom ever felt like this. You wonder if you'll make it through the run. The reviews call you “a natural” and “a captivating new talent,” but it's the one that uses the phrase “slightly stiff” that will stick with you forever, even though the complete sentence is “Although Ms. Crane is slightly stiff on the stage, hers is a talent that hasn't been seen since Streisand debuted.” Again: you are compared to your childhood idol, favorably, but for weeks afterward, still wounded, you introduce yourself to new people by saying
Hi, I'm Elizabeth Crane, I'm slightly stiff
, sparking more confusion than laughter, and thank god, after the sixth
time, Nina says
You have to stop saying that
. Further, your efforts to remedy your slight stiffness only compound the problem. Your consciousness of a single charge of stiffness only makes you stiffer. The show is looking like it could be a hit, you've got an extension in your contract if it does, but in the dressing room you consider going back to waiting tables. That wasn't so bad, was it? It didn't make you want to throw up. Why did you ever think you wanted to do this? Oh, right, because when the sound comes out of you, when you get it just right, it's like it's not even you, it belongs to a power greater than yourself, which is an enjoyable feeling, given your ongoing doubt about such things, and that part of it is good and reassuring, though it lasts only as long as the sound itself. For you, the applause is nice only on an intellectual level. It would suck if there were none, and you assume it's genuine, but it isn't a thing that keeps you going. In between sounds, you sometimes aren't sure what it is that keeps you going. But you've had it in your head since we went to see
Godspell
when you were in third grade; you played that record until it was practically transparent and sang those songs over and over at full volume whether the record was playing or not. (Subject matter of said musical probably not relevant, unless you want to spend time discussing coincidences and/or serendipity and/or fate, though it's fairly clear, given your equal enthusiasm, at that age, for the musicals
Funny Girl
,
West Side Story
,
Oklahoma!
, and
Hair
, that your responses were strictly melody-based.)

All these years later, after you work far enough through some shit so that you can actually perform, it still gets you only so far; you're doing it, but you're still massively uncomfortable; you decide to go to therapy. But therapy takes time, so let's just say that before the show's run is over, a bunch of stuff comes up in therapy that you hadn't been dealing with as regards your
mother. Your therapist gently suggests that your mother may have discouraged you from being a singer.
But why would someone who was willing to sacrifice everything to become an artist not want to encourage her own child to become an artist? Why, if you're going to make a point of saying that your own parents did these things wrong, would you then go do those exact same things? Why do you think, Betsy? I don't know. I know what she told me, that it was too hard, and she wanted something easier for me. Is it possible that she believed that? I guess, but I think there's more to it. Okay, so what's the more, do you think? I think the more is obvious. Maybe, maybe not, but I want you to say it. Well, maybe I was competition for her. Say more about that. Ugh, do I have to? No, you don't have to. You could keep struggling. Fine. I think it's possible that she felt she had enough competition out in the world and didn't want any more right in her own house. I think it's possible that she had me and then spent the rest of her life wishing she hadn't. And how does that make you feel? Nauseous.

—I actually do feel nauseous right now.

—Nauseated.

— . . .

—You're a writer, don't you want it to be right?

— . . .

—Anyway, that's probably psychosomatic.

—Either way, I am having a physical feeling in my intestines, the kind that portends throwing up.

—It'll pass. I'll send you some Reiki.

—Reiki from the beyond. Interesting.

—It's a thing.

—Is it.

—Weirdly, I feel a little better already.

—That's the Reiki!

Anyway. So you're in therapy, and you recognize these things that have been holding you back and making you want to throw up every night, and you even make some progress, and that first show comes to an end but you've gotten only excellent notices, and you're asked to join the touring revival of
Godspell
, of all things—why not?—no audition, and you're still single, and you've wanted to leave New York since forever—and so a year on the road, in a supporting role, is a perfect opportunity. Your last tour was an amazing experience, with some wonderful benefits: the camaraderie among the cast, a new lover, a sense of having a place and a purpose, even a transitory one. You begin to allow yourself to enjoy the applause as much as the music, though it's not sustenance for you in the way it was for me.

A
rtist Marcello Mastroianni comes and goes. It's a whirl of a week. He flies you to Barcelona, where he has another opening. He pronounces it
Barthelona
, which sounds positively absurd until you hear a number of actual Spaniards pronounce it this way, after which you will pronounce it this way forevermore. It's hard not to compare this trip to Spain with your last, more than ten years ago. The first time, everything was new: your marriage, art, the world. This is new too, there's a sensual charge to it; your skin feels like a penny in your mouth, and the world itself seems altogether changed, and it feels harder to reach that sense of promise you had back then. Is it just the difference between being nineteen and thirty? How could a person feel simultaneously so alive and so full of dread? Marcello's Barcelona show is closer to what you imagined: a gallery with actual doors, art you can identify as such (even if it's still probably not what you'd call
your thing
), with an added flurry of attention on him, photographers, acolytes, women younger than you—when did that moment happen? You're barely into your thirties, not a line on your skin, but these women seem to have been born in groups of threes and fours, long-legged, effortless European beauties, style you can't grasp; born muses
they are, would that you could be one too, someone free of what exists in you, someone who could exist simply as an inspiration for the art of another, a type of well for another to draw from whatever he might. There are those, like Marcello, who would happily offer you this as a permanent post, yet it is not your calling. Marcello pays these muses-in-waiting no mind, though it's impossible not to notice the amount of attention they lavish on him, the exact reverse of the ratio you aspire to. You have more than a few jealous bones, though in this case you're not sure jealousy is exactly what's at play.

You stay at the Majestic Hotel (silk fringe ties on the heavy brocade drapes, full-size bath soaps scented like lilies of the valley!—you like this a great deal), and he orders room service, which comes with champagne. This part of the trip is all about your wishes. You and Marcello spend the rest of the weekend in bed. For a second, this bed, with its incredible sheets and carts of covered food and its Marcello, could be the ideal place to stay forever. You're not a big drinker; one glass of champagne is more than enough to make you forget you were once a genteel young lady from Muscatine, one whose parents have no capacity to imagine a universe where people do other than get married and stay that way; you only wish the champagne would help it stay forgotten the next day. You are not so much hung over as just no longer buzzed. You fly back to New York with a suitcase weighed down with Majestic Hotel letterpress note cards and a half-dozen bars of soap you pilfered from the maids' cart when they weren't looking; nothing wrong with that, it's paid for. Bouquets of roses come to your door, some exotic breed with blooms the size of grapefruits, but despite the romantic notes pinned to them, you waste no time before breaking it off. Marcello treats you well, but you're not interested in holding
his spotlight, which is about all he asks in return. Audrey thinks you're crazy, though she'd never say as much to you; it sounds like a dream to her, she's a full-time nurse with four kids, you let it slip though that you “almost” envy Audrey, which she's too nice to ever call you out on. You go on to say that she got a winner in Jack; she laughs and says
Sure, I got lucky, but it's still not all rainbows and kittens. I have three boys and a teenage girl. With boobs. Big boobs.
You tell her you're not ready to think about teenage girls and their boobs; she tells you not to worry, it'll happen whether or not you think about it. Audrey knows that all you want is for her to tell you whatever might make you feel good in any given moment, so she says sure, she understands that's not quite what you're looking for, though secretly she does wish for some real thing that might make life easier for you. Her fear, and yours too, is that there may be no such thing, though Audrey is slightly more optimistic about this than you are. Audrey has a gentleness to her voice and a perpetual look in her eye that shows she was born to give care, seemingly just for you, though she has compassion to spare, and so when she asks directly what might help most, you say
I don't know, and if I did there probably wouldn't be a big enough supply of it anyway.

You try a few singles bars with Peggy, and meet two or three men who by contrast make Dad seem like Cary Grant, dullards mostly, a long parade of businessmen types, blurring together to form one massive dullard, always enamored of you, always by and large unimaginative in bed, and adding these boring notches doesn't help your feelings about yourself any.

A few more years pass with the dullard collective while you continue your studies, performing when jobs arise. Carolina arranges an audition for you with an agent from a more powerful outfit. You had not expected dissatisfaction with your career so
soon, have not wanted to complain about it, but in confiding to Carolina she agrees that you have made great vocal progress and that she has someone for you to meet. She mentions nothing about how handsome—not to mention young—he is, and you're glad she doesn't. You prepare for the audition as though you'll be meeting yet another closeted fifty-year-old music rep, and so when Victor Silvestri, a handsome, affable twenty-eight-year-old comes in, your eyes brighten just a little. His brighten a lot. You sing “Una voce poco fa” to which he responds with laughter, bold, jubilant laughter—he can't stop looking at Carolina, who knows him and knows what it means, but for you this is a first. The closeted types tend to nod and smile, if you're lucky. (You come to believe that you could have a dozen octaves and the voice of a seraph but what you're sure these guys want is a tenor fresh out of college willing to carry their umbrellas and make themselves available for any darker whims. This is a belief you will hold until your last days, and your future husband will not disabuse you of it.) You're pretty sure he isn't laughing at how bad you were, but it's an unusual response to say the least. He says he can have a contract ready for you tomorrow and would you like to sign it over dinner? Some quick math: eager + agent + Italian + handsome = everything you're looking for, all in one.

You have a sense that the black cocktail dress you almost wore to the weird gallery opening might work for this one, and you're right. He's wearing his suit and tie from work. He picks you up at home, greets you with a kiss on both cheeks, takes you to dinner at Abruzzi, a dimly lit place on West Fifty-Sixth Street where he's friendly with the owner, the kind of joint with old-man waiters who've been there forever. Tony, the owner, himself from Abruzzi, asks if you'd like some tomatoes and basil from his garden, it's that kind of place (or it is for Victor).
Tony doesn't wait for an answer—
Vito, slice up some of the tomatoes with basil, a little olive oil, a little mozzarella for Signor Silvestri.
Vito brings this out in about ninety seconds, and it is the most delicious-tasting tomato ever. Tony says he has a
Fantastic vitello, how does that sound?
and you nod, even though you don't know what vitello is, Victor says
Terrific
, and you close your menus and Tony says
Enjoy your evening with
la bella donna.
La bella donna!
You know what that means. That could be your diva name. Victor opens the conversation by saying
Let's get business out of the way first.
He leans in, changes the tone of his voice.
You're a tremendous talent. You have something special. And it doesn't hurt that you're a knockout. I have big plans for your career. We'll put together a huge promotional packet; I've got a great photographer for new head shots. I also represent several conductors who will go ape-shit for you. And I can have you on the road before the end of the year.
This is more than you could have hoped for and you say so.
Good
, he says.
Business done. Now tell me everything about you.
So you tell him you married young, got divorced, have a nine-year-old daughter, beautiful, bright, and well behaved, news of which doesn't cause him to flinch one small bit even though he's not yet thirty and only weeks ago moved into his first apartment. When he asks why your marriage didn't work out, you try not to say anything bad about Fred on the first date, so he says
Something must have been wrong with that guy to let you go
. You learn that his family is from the Bronx,
Typical Italians, a little nutso, but good to the core
, lots of musicians in the family, grew up with classical in the house always. You tell him you grew up with Benny Goodman.
He's good too
, he says, and the next thing you know he's asking if you'd ever want to get married again, you tell him you think so, he asks what June looks like for you. You giggle. It's way too soon, but you can kind of see it.