dressing rooms.
“We don’t normally put the conductor and prima donna so close together, but in this case…” Popov grinned, practically bouncing on his feet. “I cannot tell you how excited we all are to have you here. I’m sure this will be an outstanding production.”
“And I’m sure that was more for your benefit than mine,” Colette murmured to Aleks once Popov had moved out of earshot.
“Stop it.” Aleks’ expression went suddenly as dark as the January storm clouds outside. “Never let me hear you talk that way again.”
She’d just turned to hang up her coat, but his sharp, no-nonsense tone made her swing back to face him. “All I meant was—”
“I only work with the best. And if you cast doubt on your own talent, you not only insult yourself, but me as well.” Then he reached for her hand, carrying it to his chest. The slow, steady thump of his heart beat dully against her palm. God, how could he be so calm at a time like this? “Do you trust me, my angel?”
He usually asked her that in the bedroom, after she’d sunk to her knees before him. She would’ve given anything to do that right here and now, but the dressing room door stood half-open, with people darting up and down the hallway outside. “Of course,” she whispered finally. “I trust you without question. But it still feels as if I’m standing atop a hundred-story building, poised to fall.”
“Then let yourself fall. I will always be there to catch you. It’s part of a conductor’s job, after all. And a husband’s too.” A soft kiss on her cheek, and then, “Come along, Carmencita. Time to meet the rest of our cast.”
They took the elevator down to the rehearsal hall in the opera house’s basement, where the orchestra, adult and children’s chorus and the other principal singers awaited them. Colette had only previously worked with soprano Nicole Maurel, who was singing the role of peasant girl Micaëla. They’d gotten along famously when they’d done Rosenkavalier in London last spring. But she was taken aback to see Alberto Bernini sitting in the chair next to hers. She’d long admired the veteran Italian tenor, but good God, he had to be at least fifty! A bit long in the tooth to play a romantic lead like Don José.
Colette simply smiled, shook his hand and opened the score on the podium in front of her. It was ridiculous of her to write him off when she hadn’t even heard him sing yet. If it were Domingo she wouldn’t be having misgivings—and he was in his sixties.
Aleks tapped his baton on his own podium to bring the room to order, then launched into the score. The orchestra worked like a well-oiled machine, hardly requiring any correction—not surprising, considering they played this opera every other season. Most of the inevitable fits and starts had to do with the children’s chorus, which sounded a bit ragged. Aleks had to take the choral director aside for a short conference, then sent him and his charges off to rehearse on their own.
At last he moved on to working with the principals. By now Colette’s nerves were well and truly jangled, but when Aleks signaled the start of the Habañera , she opened her mouth and sang as if it were her last chance to sing anything ever again. Wrapping the notes in a rich, smoky purr, she glided through the aria’s four seductive verses, with the chorus coming in on the refrains. For a split second she was afraid she wouldn’t make the final B-flat, but out it came, sailing above their heads like a shooting star.
The room burst into spontaneous applause—orchestra, chorus and cast alike. Even Aleks gave her a smile and a nod before signaling for Nicole and Alberto to stand and begin their duet. Relief nearly buckling her knees, Colette sank into her seat gratefully, sipping water while she thumbed through the score to find her next cue.
Then she closed her eyes and listened. Amazingly, Bernini was in as fine a voice as he’d ever been, his
“We don’t normally put the conductor and prima donna so close together, but in this case…” Popov grinned, practically bouncing on his feet. “I cannot tell you how excited we all are to have you here. I’m sure this will be an outstanding production.”
“And I’m sure that was more for your benefit than mine,” Colette murmured to Aleks once Popov had moved out of earshot.
“Stop it.” Aleks’ expression went suddenly as dark as the January storm clouds outside. “Never let me hear you talk that way again.”
She’d just turned to hang up her coat, but his sharp, no-nonsense tone made her swing back to face him. “All I meant was—”
“I only work with the best. And if you cast doubt on your own talent, you not only insult yourself, but me as well.” Then he reached for her hand, carrying it to his chest. The slow, steady thump of his heart beat dully against her palm. God, how could he be so calm at a time like this? “Do you trust me, my angel?”
He usually asked her that in the bedroom, after she’d sunk to her knees before him. She would’ve given anything to do that right here and now, but the dressing room door stood half-open, with people darting up and down the hallway outside. “Of course,” she whispered finally. “I trust you without question. But it still feels as if I’m standing atop a hundred-story building, poised to fall.”
“Then let yourself fall. I will always be there to catch you. It’s part of a conductor’s job, after all. And a husband’s too.” A soft kiss on her cheek, and then, “Come along, Carmencita. Time to meet the rest of our cast.”
They took the elevator down to the rehearsal hall in the opera house’s basement, where the orchestra, adult and children’s chorus and the other principal singers awaited them. Colette had only previously worked with soprano Nicole Maurel, who was singing the role of peasant girl Micaëla. They’d gotten along famously when they’d done Rosenkavalier in London last spring. But she was taken aback to see Alberto Bernini sitting in the chair next to hers. She’d long admired the veteran Italian tenor, but good God, he had to be at least fifty! A bit long in the tooth to play a romantic lead like Don José.
Colette simply smiled, shook his hand and opened the score on the podium in front of her. It was ridiculous of her to write him off when she hadn’t even heard him sing yet. If it were Domingo she wouldn’t be having misgivings—and he was in his sixties.
Aleks tapped his baton on his own podium to bring the room to order, then launched into the score. The orchestra worked like a well-oiled machine, hardly requiring any correction—not surprising, considering they played this opera every other season. Most of the inevitable fits and starts had to do with the children’s chorus, which sounded a bit ragged. Aleks had to take the choral director aside for a short conference, then sent him and his charges off to rehearse on their own.
At last he moved on to working with the principals. By now Colette’s nerves were well and truly jangled, but when Aleks signaled the start of the Habañera , she opened her mouth and sang as if it were her last chance to sing anything ever again. Wrapping the notes in a rich, smoky purr, she glided through the aria’s four seductive verses, with the chorus coming in on the refrains. For a split second she was afraid she wouldn’t make the final B-flat, but out it came, sailing above their heads like a shooting star.
The room burst into spontaneous applause—orchestra, chorus and cast alike. Even Aleks gave her a smile and a nod before signaling for Nicole and Alberto to stand and begin their duet. Relief nearly buckling her knees, Colette sank into her seat gratefully, sipping water while she thumbed through the score to find her next cue.
Then she closed her eyes and listened. Amazingly, Bernini was in as fine a voice as he’d ever been, his
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