bothering Ms. Montcrief.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me that a better agent wouldn’t cure,” the diva said. “Harry and Karen are nervous about my not working, but they have no idea how I feel, a world-class opera star, not to have had an engagement for almost three years.”
“People covered up for your drinking as long as they could,” Karen said, her face flushed. “Longer than I would have. I don’t know what hold you had over Piero Benedetti at the Met, but he brought you to New York to play Desdemona even after you were arrested in London for assaulting a member of the audience.”
“Assault?” Hanaper asked. “With a weapon?”
“She threw a decanter at a woman. From the stage.”
“The ridiculous creature was talking so loudly during the first act of
Tosca
I could barely hear my cues. I have perfect pitch, but I do need to know when someone else has finished singing so that I can time my entrance. By the time Scarpia was forcing me to sign my lover’s death warrant the woman was so loud she spoiled my approach to Vissi d’arte.’ After the performance my fellow cast members bought me dinner in gratitude for silencing her.”
“Was that before or after the police came for you?” Karen asked with heavy sarcasm. “If you hadn’t drunk most of a bottle of Scotch before going on in the second act you might have been more aware of the production than of the audience. Anyway, I don’t think it was the woman’s speaking—it was the boos from the balcony that interrupted your performance.”
Karen turned to Hanaper. “Even then Piero Benedetti brought her back to the Met. That’s where the end really came.”
“Karen, it is pathetic that you are so resentful of me you have to slander me in front of total strangers.” The diva smiled at Hanaper.“Her life has revolved around the house Harry built for her in Highland Park and her only child Rebecca. She’s always been jealous of Becca’s attachment to me: the poor child isn’t exposed to culture, or glamour, and I provide her with both.”
At this point I thought poor Karen Minsky was going to strangle Montcrief. Same thing must have occurred to Hanaper—not always lacking in insight: he suggested Karen wait outside while he finished talking to Madame Montcrief. The interview went on for half an hour, with the singer denying that she was anything but a social drinker, talking of the jealousies in the opera world that led to slanderous reports of her drinking.
“Your brother says you stole his credit cards and ran up quite a hotel bill this last month. That doesn’t sound like slander, does it?” Hanaper said.
“Harry and I are twins, but we’re not identical.” She laughed heartily at her own joke. “We’ve never seen eye-to-eye on anything, even as children: he always preferred Queen Esther to Vashti, so that’s who he married. Now he wants me banished.”
Hanaper pounced on this, thinking he was getting a first true sign of delusions.
The diva threw up her hands—a theatrical gesture, yet somehow, from her, genuine as well. “Oh, dear: you really haven’t heard of the Book of Esther, Doctor? There was a time when you could expect to carry on a cultivated conversation with a man of medicine. That’s still true in Italy, you know: the most devoted fans of opera there are often in the medical ranks. Or the clerical. And if I had made such a statement to one of them, they would instantly have understood all the relationships in my brother’s life. But I suppose with drugs and machines to rely on American doctors acquire a technician’s approach to problem solving.”
Wanted to applaud her, but engrossed myself in notes while Hanaper stared at me suspiciously. He summoned the sister-in-law, said “Toughlove” the only thing to do in cases like this. Of course
if
diva had insurance he could recommend Midwest Hospital’s in-patient alcohol dependency program, but if Mrs. Minsky wasn’t prepared to pay the bill?
“There’s nothing wrong with me that a better agent wouldn’t cure,” the diva said. “Harry and Karen are nervous about my not working, but they have no idea how I feel, a world-class opera star, not to have had an engagement for almost three years.”
“People covered up for your drinking as long as they could,” Karen said, her face flushed. “Longer than I would have. I don’t know what hold you had over Piero Benedetti at the Met, but he brought you to New York to play Desdemona even after you were arrested in London for assaulting a member of the audience.”
“Assault?” Hanaper asked. “With a weapon?”
“She threw a decanter at a woman. From the stage.”
“The ridiculous creature was talking so loudly during the first act of
Tosca
I could barely hear my cues. I have perfect pitch, but I do need to know when someone else has finished singing so that I can time my entrance. By the time Scarpia was forcing me to sign my lover’s death warrant the woman was so loud she spoiled my approach to Vissi d’arte.’ After the performance my fellow cast members bought me dinner in gratitude for silencing her.”
“Was that before or after the police came for you?” Karen asked with heavy sarcasm. “If you hadn’t drunk most of a bottle of Scotch before going on in the second act you might have been more aware of the production than of the audience. Anyway, I don’t think it was the woman’s speaking—it was the boos from the balcony that interrupted your performance.”
Karen turned to Hanaper. “Even then Piero Benedetti brought her back to the Met. That’s where the end really came.”
“Karen, it is pathetic that you are so resentful of me you have to slander me in front of total strangers.” The diva smiled at Hanaper.“Her life has revolved around the house Harry built for her in Highland Park and her only child Rebecca. She’s always been jealous of Becca’s attachment to me: the poor child isn’t exposed to culture, or glamour, and I provide her with both.”
At this point I thought poor Karen Minsky was going to strangle Montcrief. Same thing must have occurred to Hanaper—not always lacking in insight: he suggested Karen wait outside while he finished talking to Madame Montcrief. The interview went on for half an hour, with the singer denying that she was anything but a social drinker, talking of the jealousies in the opera world that led to slanderous reports of her drinking.
“Your brother says you stole his credit cards and ran up quite a hotel bill this last month. That doesn’t sound like slander, does it?” Hanaper said.
“Harry and I are twins, but we’re not identical.” She laughed heartily at her own joke. “We’ve never seen eye-to-eye on anything, even as children: he always preferred Queen Esther to Vashti, so that’s who he married. Now he wants me banished.”
Hanaper pounced on this, thinking he was getting a first true sign of delusions.
The diva threw up her hands—a theatrical gesture, yet somehow, from her, genuine as well. “Oh, dear: you really haven’t heard of the Book of Esther, Doctor? There was a time when you could expect to carry on a cultivated conversation with a man of medicine. That’s still true in Italy, you know: the most devoted fans of opera there are often in the medical ranks. Or the clerical. And if I had made such a statement to one of them, they would instantly have understood all the relationships in my brother’s life. But I suppose with drugs and machines to rely on American doctors acquire a technician’s approach to problem solving.”
Wanted to applaud her, but engrossed myself in notes while Hanaper stared at me suspiciously. He summoned the sister-in-law, said “Toughlove” the only thing to do in cases like this. Of course
if
diva had insurance he could recommend Midwest Hospital’s in-patient alcohol dependency program, but if Mrs. Minsky wasn’t prepared to pay the bill?
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