Marie’s hand slipped on the grey metal bar. For one horrible moment, she was sure she was going to topple forward onto the sidewalk.
The cabbie grabbed her forearm. “Careful, miss. Let me hold the walker steady for you.”
“Thank you,” Marie answered, grateful both for the help and for the amusement of being called “Miss” at the age of eighty-two. Her fingers grasped the rubber handles of the walker firmly as she stood up, her head lowered to clear the door of the taxi. Once on her feet, she swayed gently but felt in full control.
The driver looked at her dubiously. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need someone to help you get inside?”
“No, I’m fine now,” she said. “Thanks again. I left you a good tip.”
“Much appreciated,” the cabbie replied with a grin. “Enjoy your opera.”
Marie looked across the plaza of Lincoln Center, noting with pleasure that the fountain was turned on. Playful jets of water erupted between her and the object of her visit, the Metropolitan Opera House. Through the graceful arched windows, she could see the massive, colorful Chagall paintings that matched the scale of the music and drama performed within the building.
The Met was her home and her church. Marie had been a member of the company many years earlier, and the connection remained visceral. Never mind that she had performed only at the old opera house on 39th Street and never in this flashy new building. The Met was the Met. She was a part of it and always would be.
Steadying her grip on the walker, she began the slow trek up the stone ramp to the left of the plaza. She had long ago accustomed herself to leaving copious amounts of extra time when going anywhere because rushing was not an option. Life is not a race, she would tell herself when she became impatient with her own speed.
She watched people walk by with youthful ease, realizing she now defined “youthful” as any age under sixty. Much of the youngsters’ clothing appalled her. Who would wear blue jeans to the opera, sometimes with the shirttail hanging out? She understood this was now considered acceptable, but could never bring herself to treat the occasion so casually. Her black dress and gold beaded necklace were a model she wished others would follow.
She reached the entrance of the Met at last, a light film of sweat already coating her brow. From the zipper pouch attached to her walker, she withdrew her ticket and presented it to a cordial usher, who asked if she needed assistance. Marie shook her head with a smile and pushed forward onto the smooth red carpeting.
From far above, the starburst chandeliers welcomed her in. She navigated her way around the central staircase, finally making it to the open doors of the auditorium. Another red-vested usher with a handful of programs led her down the aisle to her seat, then remained as she prepared to sit.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” the usher asked, his face friendly but concerned.
“No,” Marie answered, smiling with effort. “I have it all worked out. Watch.”
Gripping the walker, she pivoted and plopped into her seat, trying to suggest a grace she no longer possessed. She struggled to hide her grimace of pain. The trek from the cab had been more work than expected and her hips were already aching.
The usher handed her a program. “Enjoy the performance. And please let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right against the wall.”
“I’m sure I’ll enjoy it. Turandot is one of my favorite operas.”
As the usher walked away to seat more patrons, Marie pulled out a handkerchief and gently blotted her forehead. I may be an old woman, she thought, but I don’t have to be a sweaty old woman. I made it. I’m here. She sighed with relief and contentment.
“Excuse me,” came a voice from her left. “Did I hear you say Turandot was a favorite of yours?”
Marie turned to face a young woman with short brown hair and wide eyes.
“Yes, I love it, and it brings back happy memories of when I was singing here myself.”
“You were an opera singer?”
The use of the past tense made Marie cringe.
“Many years ago, I was a member of the chorus. I was at the Met in 1961 when they took Turandot out of mothballs.”
“What do you mean? Isn’t it performed all the time?”
Marie chuckled. “Not then. They hadn’t done it in decades. I still remember the reaction of the old-timers.”
* * *
“Why the hell are we doing Turandot?” asked Betty Stein.
“It’s Puccini’s last opera,” Marie answered. “We haven’t sung it at the Met since 1930. I looked it up.”
“God, you’re so young you probably weren’t even born then.”
“That’s right,” said Marie. She had already learned to lie about her age.
Betty shook her head. “How good can it be if we haven’t done it in thirty years? I’ve been here since ’45 and no one’s ever talked about reviving it.”
“It’s a mixed bag, from what I’ve read. Some great parts, but Puccini died before he finished it.”
“Oh, wait, that rings a bell. Isn’t the plot some ridiculous fairy tale?”
Marie raised her eyebrows. “Honestly, a lot of opera plots are pretty ridiculous.”
“I mean sillier than usual.”
“It’s about a princess who says she’ll marry the first man who can answer three riddles she asks him. But if he gets them wrong, he gets his head chopped off.”
“My mistake. Not silly at all,” said Betty, rolling her eyes. “How much music is there for the chorus?”
“A lot.”
“Jesus.”
“We get the parts today. Maybe we can work on it together. It’ll be fun.”
Betty’s stern demeanor collapsed in laughter. “Okay, okay. Your enthusiasm is good for me. I’ll try to think of it as new and exciting.”
“And it will be.”
“Just keep telling yourself that.”
Portions of the weeks that followed were as enjoyable as Marie had hoped, but other moments were more difficult. Rehearsals were equal parts joy and torment, lurching unpredictably from one into the other. One afternoon session was especially painful.
“No!” barked the chorus director. “Sopranos, you were late again. Take more care with your entrances. You are better musicians than this.”
Marie and Betty looked at each other in surprise. They had great respect for Mr. Adler, who was demanding but rarely angry. As if reading their thoughts, the director ran a hand across his mouth and spoke again.
“All right, I know this opera is new to all of us. For me it is new as well. But this is a beautiful moment and we must work to make it right.”
He flipped back a few pages in the score in front of him.
“We will start from two bars before ‘Perché tarda la luna?’ The chorus is asking, ‘Why is the moon late?’ When the moon rises, the executioner will come out to decapitate the latest victim of Princess Turandot, and you cannot wait. You are bloodthirsty fiends singing with great beauty and longing.”
There were scattered chuckles among the chorus.
Mr. Adler smiled grimly. “A mob cheering for death is not an endearing subject, but the music is sumptuous. The demented plot is perhaps why this opera has not gained a wider following.”
He raised his baton and signaled the downbeat. Marie and Betty entered together, precisely on time.
“Perché tarda …”
* * *
“… la luna?” sang the chorus. Marie loved this part. Her body might be an aging wreck, but the music scrubbed away the years as she listened. In her mind, she was back on stage with the chorus, watching the moon rise and awaiting the execution. She clasped her hands as the crowd became merciful when they saw the young victim, belatedly realizing that killing a man for failing to answer riddles was perhaps a cruel and unusual punishment.
Wait, they didn’t have the Constitution back then, Marie thought. And this is set in China, and it’s a made-up story. God, this was much simpler for me fifty years ago. I just listened to the music.
Blinking in the semi-darkness, she tried to sequester her analytic thoughts. It wasn’t difficult. She rode the lush waves of Puccini’s melodies as heroic Prince Calaf announced his determination to try his luck with the deadly riddles while everyone else on stage told him he was an idiot. The musical lines became increasingly complex and impassioned as the act thundered to a close.
After the roaring applause and curtain calls, the house lights came up for the first intermission. A voice chirped from the left.
“I loved it!” said the young woman. “What did you think?”
Marie looked down at her forearms and saw the hairs standing up.
“It’s still magic,” she said. “I’m so glad I made the effort to be here.”
“Me too!” said the woman. “It’s my first opera and I almost didn’t buy a ticket. But my singer friend told me this was a really fun one even if the composer didn’t finish it.”
Marie suppressed her reaction to the word “fun” and nodded sympathetically.
“Yes, poor Puccini was dying of throat cancer and no one told him how serious it was.”
“What?! How is that possible? I mean, didn’t they have patient disclosure laws in Europe in the 1800s or whenever it was?”
“It was the 1920s, and no, they didn’t. Only his son was told the cancer was terminal, and he didn’t want his father to know, at least at first.”
“That stinks. I mean the fatal part stinks the most, but not telling him he was running out of time is also super stinky.”
“You’re not wrong,” said Marie. “They ended up hiring another composer to complete the opera from Puccini’s sketches after he died, but there was a lot missing. The ending isn’t great.”
“That makes me angry.”
Marie shrugged. “It’s painful, but we need to treasure what we have. Absolute gems like …”
* * *
“Nessun dorma!”
Franco Corelli’s resonant tenor voice soared through the opera house. Marie was enraptured as she stood silently with the chorus, awaiting her next entrance. Being a part of this historic production made her feel like the winner of a musical lottery. The Met was taking enormous care with the long-overdue revival, pairing Corelli with the Swedish powerhouse Birgit Nilsson as Turandot. The vocal fireworks were an opera lover’s fantasy brought to life. And the sets and costumes! So dazzling, so new. Color and glitter in equal measure.
Marie had been pleased to see the excitement of the production spreading to longtime veterans of the company. After some initial difficulties with the unfamiliar and complicated score, the chorus members worked through the task with professionalism and affection. The massive ensemble pieces had come together with beautiful accuracy.
This is what I want to do forever, thought Marie, as the tenor continued to sing. How can anyone not love opera? It’s everything wonderful all rolled into one.
“Nessun dorma” was reaching its climax. Marie watched Corelli draw a deep breath for the final line of the aria, which included a fortissimo high B held for an impossibly long time.
“Vincerò! Vin-CEEEEE-rò!”
The audience shrieked bravos and applauded so loudly that Marie could feel the house shaking. Without moving her head, she glanced at Betty to check the reaction of her doggedly blasé friend.
Tears were streaming down Betty’s face.
* * *
The golden curtains were closed. The singers had taken their bows. Marie hurt all over and hoped she would be able to stand up without assistance.
“That was fantastic!” said the cheerful young woman. “Maybe the last part wasn’t as good as the rest, since the other guy had to finish it. But I loved how he brought back the famous tune at the end.”
Marie nodded and tried to smile through her aches. Nothing thrilled her more than discovering a new convert to the operatic religion.
“I still feel sorry for poor Puccini,” said the woman. “One afternoon he was composing this gorgeous music, and when he stopped for the day, he never wrote another note.”
“So sad,” Marie said, as a sharp pain shot through her right hip.
“Sometimes you’re doing something for the last time and you don’t even realize it,” the woman mused.
Marie’s smile was bittersweet. “But sometimes you do,” she said.
