The Salieri Effect: Installment #17

Previously, in Chapter 10, Dr. Kerr and Cameron, staying in Tom Purdue's old room at Orient's Express Motel back in 1983 when "Trazmo" disappeared, call and talk to him about things he might remember from back then, specifically regarding a small stone of turquoise that had "gone missing" from his room at the White Hill Artist's Colony just before he'd left. Another thing he remembers is hearing two voices during the night coming from Trazmo's room which was, officially, a single-occupancy room. On-line sleuthing also brings up information about the local reporter who turned Trazmo into a potential modern-day "Amadeus" a year later, the same year the film came out. Apparently he was also investigating a mysterious "Mr. Schmurg" but then died in a car crash not long afterward. 

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the Midwest, N. Ron Steele, erstwhile CEO of SHMRG, still on the lam and on yet another secret identity, is settling into his new home with a new scam, the fast-track degree factory he calls "The Allegro Conservatory." Steele and his secretary, Holly Burton, are in the process of renovating an old mansion as the heart of his new musical empire, and interviewing a potential student. Things are, after a long string of unfortunate events, finally beginning to look up.

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 CHAPTER 11

“Welcome home!” Vector's warm, avuncular voice unfolded across Phlaumix Court's reverberant Great Hall, as the maid, Lisa Newlife, scurried behind him trying to look as unobtrusive as possible to assist Brissom with the luggage. “I trust everything was satisfactory with your flight, ma'am, and that Mr. Allan has enjoyed his recuperation? We have missed you...”

“It's good to be back,” LauraLynn said, looking around, despite calling it “home” for barely over two years. “Yes, everything's fine.” She peeled off her gloves and handed them to Lisa, who rushed away.

Toni looked around, even more surprised to find she'd also missed Phlaumix Court but most of all Vector and ran up to give him a hug which made the man blush for its spontaneity. It was certainly different from what she'd called home three years ago, deep in the wooded suburbs of northern New Jersey.

While LauraLynn had grown up in wealth and had a large home in London's Maida Vale where she'd met Burnson, nothing in her life was so aristocratically lavish as finding herself in Phlaumix Court, with its odd mixture of all those Baroque and Rococo curlicues and its imponderable mathematical proportions and designs – especially those floors!

For Toni, the whole house she'd grown up in, a trim, comfortable suburban split-level, could easily fit into Phlaumix's Great Hall. Her bedroom here was bigger than their old living and dining rooms combined.

LauraLynn hadn't told Vector anything he didn't already know: how Mr. Allan had chosen to stay behind in sunny Italy – reluctantly – then even more reluctantly once Lady Vexilla announced she'd stay on with him. “Vexilla couldn't bear the thought of his being abandoned,” as LauraLynn put it, “so she would look after him by herself.”

And since Toni wanted to attend these rehearsals that meant so much to her, she couldn't let her travel by herself.

“No, ma'am,” Vector smiled knowingly, looking over at Toni; “no, most certainly not.”

Brissom picked up the rest of the luggage and nodded first at LauraLynn, then at Toni, before he'd glanced at Vector. “I'll take these up to your rooms, ma'am, Miss Toni – get you settled.”

“Oh, wait, Dennis,” Toni said, “there's stuff I'll need in that black briefcase. Let me put it in the music room.”

“'Dennis'?,” Vector said with considerable affront not quite enough under his breath that LauraLynn wouldn't notice the disapproval in his tone. “Have we become so casual we're on a first-name basis with servants, ma'am?”

“Never mind, Vector,” LauraLynn responded, placing an unexpected hand firmly on his arm. “She doesn't understand these traditions, remember – she's American.”

She went on to theorize it may simply be because the footman's the closest person to her own age at Phlaumix.

“He's 25, ma'am, hardly close to her age.”

“Really? He looks considerably younger.”

It occurred to Vector he did, as if he'd only noticed it for the first time since the boy entered service. “Mrs. Linebottom remarked only the other day how much Newlife has aged recently.”

“My maid?” LauraLynn asked with some surprise. “Now that you mention it, I did think she looked a bit tired today.”

“I'm sure it's of no significance whatsoever, ma'am,” Vector said with a nod.

LauraLynn glanced up the stairs. “It's almost like he's drawing his youth from hers. D'you think there's something vampiric going on?”

Vector cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable at the confidence. “As I said, ma'am, no significance whatsoever. About Miss Toni's schooling, though...”

LauraLynn sighed at the topic, not a comfortable one for somebody who's suddenly found herself belatedly in the role of parent. “At the moment, she's focused on this play: let's leave it for now.”

As for Toni's studies, at least beyond those routine courses she needs to prepare for her A-Levels, LauraLynn explained to Vector who, though retired as the butler, recently began to oversee Toni's at-home studies, that Dr. Kerr and Mr. Pierce – the formality seemed so unnecessary, she winced – would soon rejoin them, perhaps in another week.

“They'd been called back to America,” she explained, “apparently 'on assignment' to help with an old case for a friend of his; from what I'd heard, he didn't expect it to be too complicated.”

Again, LauraLynn was telling him nothing he didn't already know, but he let her continue with the occasional apprehending nod, since it wouldn't do to let on about his behind-the-scenes involvements with Dr. Kerr.

“He seemed very excited, Terry did, about something he'd apparently discovered in Italy,” she continued, “something to do with Antonio Salieri.”

Toni had come back from an afternoon's walk around Legnago – “that's Salieri's birthplace,” LauraLynn explained – full of curiosity about the legend of Mozart's Killer and how badly he's treated in Peter Shaffer's play.

“Is that what piqued her interest to try out for this 'local production'?” LauraLynn couldn't miss the sneer in Vector's tone.

Before she could respond, LauraLynn noticed Mrs. French, the cook, had been hovering expectantly on the perimeter of the hall, and called her by her first name before she realized Vector would not approve.

“So many wonderful dishes we'd had on our trip to tell you about,” LauraLynn began, then added quickly, “but I do so look forward to whatever it is you plan to serve us tonight.”

The look of surprise on Vector's face was immediately softened by Toni's approach, her tattered copy of Amadeus in her hand.

“Vector,” Toni asked, “why are you in your tuxedo?” She never did quite get the hang of that tradition called livery. “I thought you'd retired officially? Has life become too boring for you, now?”

“Well, Miss Toni, with Foote away, now that he's the official butler, I'm glad to stand in as the 'Acting' Butler.”

“Oh, and Sidney was having such a blast,” Toni laughed, “especially in Venice.”

Vector recoiled in a state of shock, but Toni looked at him as if to say, “weren't you ever young once?”

Her mother – Toni had to remind herself not to call her 'Mum,' in case it sounded like a servant saying 'Ma'am' – led Mrs. French off downstairs to chat over some tea in the kitchen, and Vector followed Toni into the small sitting room where Brissom, as usual so formal, brought them tea of their own.

Toni'd told him about walking around Legnago – “that's Salieri's birthplace,” she explained – with Dr. Kerr and Cameron and how this wonderful old gardener from Newhouse's villa named Rafano had acted as their unofficial guide.

Again, this wasn't news to Vector, but he nodded politely as she went along, glad everything agreed with Rafano's report (the undercover Watcher, Sebastiano Fontana). She continued with the “whole story” behind Salieri's reputation.

“It's sad so many people think Amadeus is historical fact and know nothing about the real man behind all the rumors.”

She'd found this tattered copy – “in Italian!” – in a little side-street bookstore, the old shopkeeper selling it reluctantly, warning her, “do not take the famous play more seriously than our less famous Favorite Son.”

She responded in more than plausible Italian, “But how will I know the Shadows of Truth if I cannot read them?”

A faint smile and barely noticeable twinkle in the eye was all that gave Vector away, feeling like a proud grandfather.

The proprietor had smiled, too, then wrapped the book in plain brown paper.

That weekend, after Dr. Kerr and Cameron left, she did some on-line research about Salieri's notoriety and his otherwise unknown life. She found numerous articles by numerous musicologists which made for predictably dusty reading. That's when she found an article about SRTC's up-coming production: “The cast is headed by two great stars of London theatre.”

SRTC, she explained to Vector, was the local Surrey Royal Theatre Company: Surt-C.

“'Heath Underhill stars in the title role' – that's Mozart – 'with Rigley Fielding as his nemesis, Salieri.' I've never heard of them...”

She'd also never heard of “legendary director, Laurence Bridges,” either, but what interested her the most, since the production opens in a month, it said “a few minor roles were yet to be filled.”

She contacted them through their website about volunteering for something backstage, and sent a selfie holding up her copy of Amadeus.

Almost immediately, Pete Grahl, Bridge's assistant director, responded, thanking her, and asked if she could send a bit of a resume. “You do know that's an Italian edition of Amadeus you've got there, right?”

She e-mailed back it was the only copy she could find in all of Legnago – “we're actually on holiday near there.”

After reading her brief CV, Grahl arranged a “remote interview” via Skype. Toni wondered why Bridges wanted to talk to her, but before she could tell her parents, Grahl had set up the connection.

“He's just interested why a teenager who happens to be in Italy would ask about a production here in the UK. Plus you have an unusual background,” he added, “that would be wasted behind-the-scenes.”

Soon this careworn, friendly face, “the legendary Laurence Bridges,” replaced Grahl's on the screen, curious about her interest in the play.

“I'd seen the film,” she admitted, “but it didn't come alive for me until I'd walked the streets Salieri'd once walked. He didn't live there very long, I know, but he was about my age when he left home for Vienna, eventually, ready to find success, and that is certainly something I can identify with.”

Whatever the circumstances were of her being in Legnago, Bridges seemed more impressed than necessary she'd read the play in Italian.

“Besides, watching from backstage will someday help me compose music for the theater.”

A fleetingly vague wistfulness washed across Bridge's face which Toni, so far, was too young to understand or even recognize, nostalgia being an emotion generally reserved for those who've experienced more out of life. Had she recognized what signs she'd seen in Dr. Kerr (“sorry, miles away...”), she'd know Bridges was “absent from the moment.” There was an impressionistic smudge to his focus, a slight relaxing of the facial muscles, perhaps a slight tilt of the eyebrows, signs someone inexperienced in reading expressions might miss, especially through a webcam.

Now in his 60s, that time when “normal people” might start considering retirement, Bridges knew his career hadn't been what he'd hoped for regardless how most artistic people, those “not so normal,” invariably felt. But it wasn't just in his personal insecurities; his ever dwindling bank account had been stating the obvious even more definitively.

What flashed through Bridges' mind when Toni'd mentioned how important, what an inspiration this experience could be for her, wasn't a recollection of the heady triumph of his West End debut when he was 28, because, regardless what “normal people” thought, every success began years earlier, prepared by some spark that took years to gestate. What had created the magic in his soul had been watching his older brother in a rehearsal of Peter Pan, who at 10 had been cast as the younger brother of the Darling family.

“The highly acclaimed young director, Laurence Bridges,” reviews would start, then continue, “who hasn't had a hit in over a decade,” implied he'd won no more awards, was no longer being nominated for awards. So, at what point had everything turned sour? He must have had some talent at some point in his life, no? What would that moment be, which one, on those dark, sleepless nights, what event in his life could he travel back to and change whatever'd gotten in the way of his fulfilling that magic?

Then the flash darkened, muscles tensed, the brow knitted as eyebrows scrunched together remembering, “right, that actress – what was her name? – who'd told someone who told the press he'd raped her twenty years ago.” But that was a perk of success, wasn't it?, as long as it was kept quiet. “Yet they still believe her...”

“So,” Bridges said after a moment he hoped came off as stunned awareness, “you want to write music for the theater?”

“Well, I hope I'll get to do an opera some day,” she said, “but so far I haven't seen too many. It's good to get some grounding in the theater, see how it works.”

Bridges agreed but when it came to admitting she'd had no interest before about being in a play, she became uncomfortable: he would obviously want somebody who had experience – but just to work backstage?

“But wouldn't you want, if you had the chance, to discover the magic of what it'd be like, creating a character? There are several non-speaking roles,” he continued, “courtiers or musicians in lavish costumes.” He asked her a favor, to pan the camera out and walk around a bit, back and forth. She did that.

“Nice,” though what he had thought was “she's nice looking” and judging from the room, there was money in this family. “Fine,” he told her when she returned to her seat, looking somewhat self-conscious. “Now, imagine yourself in a brilliant gown like some Austrian duchess with a grand wig, approaching the Emperor.” She did that.

“May I ask you to read a few lines from the first scene? I know you're not prepared – consider it 'sight-reading'?”

“But, Mr. Bridges, I don't have an English copy – just this Italian one.”

He told her not to worry, that would be okay. He didn't speak Italian, not enough to hold a conversation, but if she could convey the emotion of what was being said, that's enough.

“Start from the end of the first scene – go back a couple pages, where Salieri cries out, in capital letters, 'MOZART!'?”

He suggested she just read both parts for the two Venticelli who are court gossips, very nasty, bitchy... snarky characters who've overheard an old man confess to what he's imagined. I'll read Salieri's lines...”

When Bridges read Salieri's next line – “Perdonámi, Mozart!” – he explained, when she looked at him with surprised, even in the English play, his line's originally in Italian. “Or... did I mispronounce it? 'Pérdonami, Mozart'?”

“I think it's Perdónami – the Italian took me by surprise.” She continued, even making an aural distinction between the two characters.

Bridges tried not to register his own surprise – even Pete Grahl peered over his shoulder – but she didn't look at them. She'd gotten into character immediately, let it roll and gather momentum, switching dynamics. Bridges was convinced he had heard a conversation between two different people, not a teenager droning through a bunch of lines.

When she was done, she laughed. “You chose that scene on purpose, right?, the whole question about them believing the rumors.”

“Are you one to believe in conspiracy theories?,” he laughed, shrugging his shoulders.

That evening, over a dinner of pork alla focettina, tagliatelle with broccoli and various local cheeses, Toni told her parents about the unexpected turn of her research and how she skyped with the director. With any luck, she told them he might allow her to observe the rehearsals from backstage after they'd return to England.

But the next morning she received an e-mail from Pete Grahl telling her the director's cast her as the second Venticelli. He also asked her when she might be able to return to Surrey.

“And that's how it happened – so quick... er, quickly,” going on to tell Vector the Venticelli were these nasty court gossips – “they weren't in the film” – but he mentioned he'd once seen the play.

“It was still quite new, then – not long after Salieri died, I believe.”

Toni was pretty sure Vector'd made a joke.

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

By the time Laurence Bridges, “the once-famous director,” arrived at Dorking's Arthur Jackson Theater on Stoat Street, a brisk ten minutes from his sublet – so much more pleasant than your usual hotel or bed-and-breakfast – he was already a few minutes behind and still needed to organize some notes before the meeting (“Grahl will be pissed...”). As expected, Pete Grahl had spent the last ten minutes pacing around the stage door when Bridges finally arrived and frowned. A stickler for promptness, Grahl marked the point and glanced at his watch.

With no excuse attempted, much less contrition, Bridges sailed past him and rapidly unwrapped the six-foot scarf muffled around his neck. “Miserable weather,” he complained. “It's springtime, so why am I still chilled to the bone? (Maybe I'm coming down with something.)”

“Whatever it is, it's not punctuality,” Grahl complained back to him. “Taylor's waiting.”

As Bridges led the way by force of merely ignoring Grahl's evident disapproval – “I'm late, get over it,” his expression implied – he could hear the distant squabbling of Fielding and Underhill down the hall. “Ah, well, I hear our stars are well into their warm-ups,” and Bridges shut the door of his office behind them.

“Honestly,” he said, peeling off the jacket he then draped over his chair, “they're like an old married couple, those two. Are they married by now? – our very own Fred Vicious and Stuart Snidleybell?”

A timid knock heralded the arrival of the Jackson Theatre's costume designer, Taylor Velcreaux, a middle-aged woman of overall mousey countenance who joined Bridges and Grahl around a desk cluttered with various design maquettes. Grahl handed her a print-out of the photo Toni Allen-Harty had sent him along with basic measurements of height and weight.

“She's been in Italy on holiday with the fam,” Grahl explained, “but they're back now and she'll be at tonight's rehearsal. So, you can get the rest of the measurements for her costume then.”

Not only did this girl have potential for real talent, Bridges thought as he listened to them natter on about details, she also had rich parents, members of the local aristocracy (he'd “googled” them). The fact she was attractive in a tomboyish sort of way didn't hurt either, that kind of androgynous look he liked.

While the idea of checking references wasn't really necessary, he figured since she was a minor, he should follow through and give a couple of them a call; not this Kerr somebody in America, maybe this woman she'd listed as a music teacher at the local arts academy instead, since they're just down the road. The girl warned him the Academy took a dim view of her withdrawing to be home-schooled by this Dr. Kerr person, but Ms. Heurisko could say something about her personality and general artistic abilities.

True to form, Ms. Heurisko was disappointed by Toni's decision but recognized she was far in advance of their typical students, especially in composition with a level completely beyond anyone in the school's history. A bright, pleasant girl, she tended to be quiet, almost an introvert, but had a vivid imagination in her own world.

What if he suggested she write some “incidental music” for them, stuff for scene changes, maybe an entre-act for Act II? The plan had been to use a few pre-recorded bits of Mozart's music. Maybe they'd hire students to play through her bits, maybe from this Academy? They'd pre-record it, play it back each night.

“Not bad,” he imagined telling her, “sharing music credits with Mozart on your bio.” That should cajole her into the idea. Maybe he could even get her parents to underwrite the expenses for it.

After Velcreaux left and Grahl droned through some additional reports, mostly from the resident set designer who worried they'll soon be behind schedule without more funding (he thought Grahl handled the budgetary issues), Bridges, out of the blue, asked him “what if Toni, as a composer, evaluated Fielding's and Underhill's characterizations – you know, as composers?” Grahl just stared. Bridges quickly qualified she'd only report to him as a kind of adviser, not coach the actors directly. He laughed. “No, no, the old boys'd flip their powdered wigs at that!”

And he also wondered if they couldn't get her to do something like change her name, if she's thought about it. “Antoinette Harty-Allan looks too posh; something other than Toni Allan-Harty, I should think...?”

“Seriously?” Grahl sighed and put his papers down. “A stage-name's a little premature: she's a Venticelli, it's not like she's Mozart.”

Unfortunately, the quick flash of disappointment that crossed the director's face before he could replace the mask did not go unnoticed. “Yes,” Bridges thought, “and here I'm stuck with a Mozart who looks like he'd made it to 70 before he died. Who was it thought Heath Underhill could play the Peter Pan of Music?” Toni admitted she'd no idea who Underhill and Fielding were but said her mother'd seen them “when she was a girl.” Bridges laughed. Even the old boys' press photos were several years Toni's senior.

He'd found himself fascinated by the way she described walking around Legnago with this teacher of hers, this Dr. Kerr who had pointed out all these different things about Salieri she'd never known before, how if it hadn't been for the rumors he'd killed Mozart, he'd be completely forgotten today, another name in the footnotes.

Bridges admitted his sole exposure to Salieri was through Amadeus which he saw as a metaphor beyond the world of theater, the striving of the struggling up-start against the firmly entrenched establishment's status quo.

Was it such a bad idea to ask this Dr. Kerr, like she'd suggested, have him do a “pre-curtain talk” on The Real Salieri? They could videotape it for play-back before each night's performance.

Grahl saw that far-away look and wondered what was going through Bridges' mind. He remembered the old rumors and quickly frowned.

The parking lot behind the Arthur Jackson Theater was a little more cramped than usual, what with the construction of a new shed intended eventually to replace the out-moded scene shop in the basement. Trucks and piles of lumber lay scattered about between its foundation and the theater's older shed which housed several storage rooms. Vector, who was driving, tried to maneuver the car between two poorly parked trucks, the closest space to the stage door. They were running late if the rehearsal was to begin in five minutes. He'd heard from the Sebastian sisters, friends who'd recently joined the cast, the place had already been dubbed the “Two-Sheds Theater.” Built back in the 1920s, it catered to low-budget touring companies like Surt-C. It's a small venue, they told him, and sat about 233, with a narrow if deep stage and a tiny pit.

After they'd wandered into the backstage area, some technicians pointed them to the stage where they heard the buzz of conversation. Vector grew concerned how dark and tortuous the path from the backdoor was. During a performance, it would be mayhem back here, everybody running around in their costumes, easy for an intruder to hide. It's not that he was concerned about the need for an escape route, but since Miss Frieda made him the Chief Watcher years ago, he knew he always needed to be on his guard.

Vector let his eyes adjust to the light on the stage where a dozen or so people stood around, everyone dressed in everyday street clothes, no costumes, no way to identify who was whom. He recognized Joanne Sebastian who nodded, then her twin sister Brooke standing nearby. As they'd aged, they'd become far less identical. Joanne, the elder by two minutes, had played Miss Prism in SRTC's The Importance of Being Ernest a few years ago, but Brooke succeeded in looking young enough to play Lady Bracknell's daughter, Gwendolyn.

Toni tried sorting out the two old men who stood front and center. The taller, white-haired one was probably the Emperor; the short, fat one with dyed black hair, possibly the non-speaking Kapellmeister Bonno. She seemed to have walked into an on-going argument between the two men, as the others, amused, stood by avidly watching.

“Oh, shut up, Wrinkly,” the taller one said, “if I'm ever cast as Don Quixote, of course you'd be Sancho Panza. They wouldn't need to rent an ass for you to ride in on.”

“Like I'd play second fiddle to your Quixote. You couldn't get cast as Rosinante, no matter what they'd save on make-up.”

The taller one, eying up the other's shoes, asked if those were five-inch platform heels (everybody looked down at his feet). “Couldn't they find a pair of stilts for you you could've borrowed instead?”

Pete Grahl hurried up behind Toni, clapping his hands to start the rehearsal. “Places, everybody, ready for Act II scene vii. Ah, Toni, glad to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand, ignoring Vector.

With that, the director strode onto the stage and everyone fell silent. Bridges also shook her hand and greeted her warmly.

“If I may have your less divided attention,” Bridges began, “I'd like to introduce the latest member of our cast, the 2^nd Venticelli, Toni...” – and then stumbled because he couldn't remember her last name. “She's just returned from visiting Legnago, Italy. Anyone here know what Legnago means?” Nobody responded. “Right, boys and girls – Salieri's hometown...

“So, everyone,” Bridges continued, specifically nodding to Fielding and Underhill, “be on your toes: we have an expert on the set.”

Toni blushed. Couldn't she just be a kid who's making her theatrical debut?

* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *

Everyone sat around the grand piano and waited nervously for the director's arrival. While most of them had already met and chatted briefly, nobody knew anybody that well; they soon slipped into impatient silence. As the start time came and went with no director in sight, the group became restive, concerned something might have happened. Eight of them in all, they each started to page through their vocal scores with pencils and notepads at the ready. The rehearsal pianist, already seated at the keyboard, quietly stumbled through the overture.

Among the school's musicians, it was easy to tell which ones were the singers (there's always a certain type), outgoing, confident, ready to talk about themselves, but friendships so far had not yet developed. They'd checked each other out around the practice rooms with a competitive eye but were still cautious about claiming their turf.

The room where the rehearsal had been scheduled – nobody'd said where the performances would take place – was the old mansion's ballroom, a rectangular space with high ceilings, antebellum chandeliers and lots of tall windows. The wooden floors and plaster walls with their ornate if faded wallpaper created an overly live acoustic: the piano clattered deafeningly.

The pianist stopped mid-phrase and stretched his fingers. “Well, we might as well start. Shall we run the first trio? Gentlemen?” Everyone opened their scores as the men took up positions behind the piano.

Henry Roberts, a tenor who was, he admitted anxiously at the audition, singing his very first opera, took a deep breath, swallowed heavily as the pianist began, and came in a beat too soon. When the pianist stopped and glared at him, Roberts eventually came to a halt and looked up with some confusion.

“Problem?”

The pianist pointed out he'd come in early and in the wrong tempo.

“Ah, well, my recording goes a lot slower than that.” Apparently, the tenor considered he was not the one at fault.

The baritone singing Guglielmo, Frank Goodman, who'd done some musicals in Peoria, leaned over and whispered none too lightly that the pianist was the conductor, now, and he sets the tempo. “You follow him...”

Roberts looked at him somewhat surprised but after they started again, this time came in a beat late and too fast.

The three women characters, otherwise unconcerned, sat there in various states of inattention. The soprano, who went by the cumbersome name of Orchis China Aster, looked ahead to her big aria, “Come scoglio.” Felicia Kroll, the mezzo, busy texting on her phone and infinitely bored, wondered when they'd ever get to the sisters' duet. Their Despina, Rosa Miller, a sprightly, tomboyish soprano destined for comic roles, paged noisily back and forth through her score. On Ferrando's third attempt as he still came in wrong, she sighed volubly. “Dang...”

Roberts glowered at the pianist, and defied him to say he was wrong. Mark Winsom, the production's portly Don Alfonso, planted his elbows on the piano lid and lowered his head into his hands. Goodman walked away a few yards and shook his head in mounting exasperation, before he turned around and took Roberts aside.

The only person who'd made no response, completely still as if hypnotized, wore black leather pants, a tight purple silk shirt with a frilled neckcloth and an orange leather bolero jacket with pointed shoulders, along with short onyx-black hair in a masculine trim, purple eyeshadow and lip gloss with a slight scruff across the chin. The others hadn't seemed to pay this person any attention, seated in their midst, six singers and pianist otherwise accounted for. Nobody'd addressed this person; in fact nobody knew how to address this person.

When this person stood up, everyone else stopped doing whatever they'd been doing, surprised she – or he – turned out to be as tall as he – or she – was, and glanced down at the boots. Long, thin legs in tight pants ended in long, tight boots which tapered to a point too narrow to be comfortable. As if they'd all reached the same point at the same time, seven pairs of eyebrows arched simultaneously in communal disbelief: the boots had platform heels nearly four inches thick with alternating rainbow layers.

Collectively, none of them quite recalled how they hadn't taken special notice of him (as the women identified the person) before, as if they'd never seen her (as the men considered her) until now. If this was what he chose to wear for a rehearsal, what would she wear Opening Night? Orchis was immediately jealous.

The boots, of course, once stood in, created an oddly flowing, seemingly impossible subset of motions, ones well practiced over time. Roberts and Goodman worked hard to suppress their amazement, much less a laugh. There was an underlying whisper of leather amidst the silence, counterpointed by hollow reverberations as wooden heels echoed across the room.

The voice that shortly began to speak sounded half-disembodied, and neither sufficiently masculine nor feminine to help assuage their general confusion. It had a young man's overtones with the huskiness of a rich contralto.

“We are Lauren Mostovsky, and we are the director for this ground-breaking production of Mozart's much misunderstood opera, Cosí fan tutte.” Mostovsky watched them return to their seats, disobedient children caught unawares. “Thank you.”

To the others, it sounded like “thin cue,” but they let this pass. To say they looked stunned was an understatement.

Mostovsky put a comparably drab-looking, thin spiral-bound notebook down on the piano lid and pulled out a pack of index cards. The ensuing silence lasted longer than several seconds, everyone holding their collective breath.

Felicia Kroll, the opera's Dorabella, assumed the director raided the school's costume shop (while high) to make a point about role-playing in an opera where her character will be duped by her lover's disguise.

Frank Goodman, minimally impressed, thought this was the strangest woman he'd ever met, and he'd dated quite a few of them.

The director looked at each singer in turn as eyes met eyes with little awareness of anything else.

(“Great,” Roberts thought, “a circus freak and a damned hypnotist,” hoping she wasn't also a mind-reader.)

Mostovsky placed the cards face down on the notebook, as if a parlor trick had been considered and the idea discarded. The placid face registered no reactions to those soon to be involved in this production, now they'd begun the rehearsal process, none of whom were able to control their expressions beyond anything barely sociable.

Once more, Mostovsky's eyes roamed across these people seated around the piano, each one increasingly more uncomfortable as the silence persisted, but this time, each face evoked the slightest modification in the director's expression. A raised eyebrow, a smirk, an obscure smile, furrowed brow or tilt of the head made each of them swallow self-consciously.

The voice began to speak but the lips barely moved (a well-practiced ventriloquist?).

“First, – or perhaps secondly, it hardly matters – this production is based on an idea by our friend and mentor, Skripasha Scricci.” The fact the name failed to register any recognition in the singers caused the merest blip in the director's indecipherable eyes.

“No great lover of the status quo, Skripasha found themself reading one of our favorite Greek philosophers, Androgenes Enoménos of Batrákhion.” Again, there was a pause with, again, no sign of recognition. Mostovsky sighed.

“For those too young to remember,” Mostovsky explained, “Skripasha Scricci was one of the greatest musicians of their or any generation.”

Joe the pianist vaguely recalled something: wasn't it, like, only four years ago...?

“With legions of fans on both sides of the popular and classical spectrum, they became targeted by the malicious mainstream media. When rumors weren't enough, they were relentlessly pursued by an infamous muck-raking journalist who, in the middle of Scricci's spectacular career, illegally obtained and distributed several doctored photographs which resulted in an unwarranted arrest.

“These trumped-up drug charges resulted in their being improperly convicted and unjustly sentenced; released after various successful appeals on legal technicalities, their deeply scarred psyche made it impossible for them to appear in public. During their confinement under the worst conditions imaginable for so fragile an artist, they had developed a debilitating fear of flies.”

Before continuing, Mostovsky caught a shred of whisper between the two soon-to-be sisters – “Is there something you'd perhaps like to share?” A slight ruffle of indignation on the placid face drifted in their direction.

“I'm sorry – me...?” Orchis glanced over her shoulder at nobody seated behind her.

“You thought maybe we meant 'fear of flying'?”

“Good grief,” Goodman thought, “she has the ears of a bat,” shutting his thoughts down in case she also read minds.

“Or, Mx. Goodman,” Mostovsky said, turning to him, “perhaps something else confuses you?”

“Yeah, you just called me 'Mix' Goodman – what does that mean? You can see I'm a man – Mr. will suffice,” he said, sounding a bit defensive. The women, meanwhile, simultaneously clamped their brows down.

“That goes for me, too,” Roberts added. “Believe me, I'm all man!”

“No you're not,” Winsom chimed in, “you're a tenor.”

An eerie snarl hovered over Mostovsky's otherwise mask-like face which made everyone freeze. “That's exactly what this production is all about. We'll have no genderized dissonance or even voice-part stereotyping, not on our set.”

Mostovsky apologized about any confusion arising over pronouns, though Felicia had so far not registered that as a likely serious issue.

“You see,” the director continued, “we're all individuals, gender aside, and we possess in our own ways both masculine and feminine. As Androgenes Enoménos famously pointed out, we are neither 'either/or' – but rather 'both/and'.”

The use of “Mx.” as a gender-blind substitute for Mr., Mrs., or “that odious contraption, Ms.”, went back to the early-1970s, the “x” not intended as a “place-holder” for a missing “r” or “s.” It should be considered fully serviceable for anyone – “like Ourself,” Mostovsky added, hand humbly across heart – “who identifies as a pluralness.”

“Never heard it before,” Goodman complained, convinced his ignorance had nothing to do with his assessment the idea was innately stupid.

“So, you want us to address you as 'Mx. Mostovsky'?” Orchis asked, blushing.

“In our case, please call us 'Dr. Mostovsky,' not gender-specific if unnecessarily individualized.” (The director didn't bother to mention it was an honorary degree from a small, unaccredited privately-owned, already defunct university in Kansas.) “We'd prefer 'Artist,' but bureaucrats have yet to include that as an option. We hope, in time, this too may change.”

Rosa Miller, perfectly cast as the flighty Despina and not particularly keen to be called “Mx. Miller”, thought she could simply let them call her “Lauren.” Rosa herself was a great believer in Equality.

Cautiously raising her hand, Rosa asked, instead, “How're we supposed to distinguish who you're talking to when you're calling Frank 'they'?”

“'Whom...',” the director, who was very big on pronoun awareness, said, correcting her. “You'd know by the context, or by the fact, if there were any confusion, we'll call them by their character, Guglielma.”

Even before Frank's head snapped up at that “Gugliel-ma,” Mostovsky explained how most major European languages, unlike English, had a Formal-You and a Familiar-You complete with the whole, contrived social ritual how each was to be properly used, something most Americans found difficult to comprehend. They also had completely different words for You-Plural and You-Singular.

“But in English, 'You' is both singular and plural, depending on the context. Perhaps your Southerners have the right idea, by adapting 'You' and 'Y'all' as a way to distinguish the number of 'You's?”

“Why even bother,” Roberts asked, trying not to sound belligerent. “What's wrong with all the old-fashioned traditional pronouns we've always used?”

“We thinks, therefo' we be,” Winsom, one of two African-Americans present, mumbled philosophically.

“We are not amused,” Mostovsky sniffed. “And, as this isn't a course in Cultural Evolution, let us now return to Mozart.”

The singers settled down, took out their scores and prepared to jot down whatever pertinent information Dr. Mostovsky chose to offer.

“Joe,” the director said, addressing the pianist, then broke off. “You've met our rehearsal pianist, Joe Hummel? – who's not your accompanist...”

Roberts, for one, chose to ignore the distinction (“of course, he's the accompanist...”).

“Joe,” Mostovsky began again, “would you take these hand-outs and pass them 'round to the singers when we're ready? Thank you. These will include the basic set and costume designs, plus various rehearsal schedules.”

Before getting back to a general overview of the production, there was the business of introducing the genius behind the production, a story in itself which had been interrupted by... well, Mostovsky whisked it all away with a wave of the hand, “because this would not be your grandperson's Cosí, not even your post-modern Cosí.”

After a dramatic pause, Mostovsky resumed the tale. “In this fragile state, the Great Scricci took on the challenge of hosting an international competition for musical prodigies, broadcast live before Christmas two years ago. The concept was theirs, the design, planning and staging were all entirely theirs – until that unfortunate incident undoing their entire recovery.

“From those details, it is probably best to shield the Eye of Memory. Not yet fully recovered, Skripasha Scricci will be unable to attend their latest project: this entirely revolutionary production of Mozart's Cosí.”

(Henry wondered, “maybe her real name's Cosima van Tutti-Frutti...”)

Mostovsky explained the story – “which, technically, is Lorenzo daPonte's story, not Mozart's” – is already about disguises and deception between characters and even within characters themselves. “It is as much about our willingness to deceive as to be deceived and the ease (and relief) we perceive... afterward.

“As Shakespeare used to adapt older, pre-existing stories – much like Renaissance painters would adapt Biblical scenes re-set in modern, localized settings familiar to a contemporary society – we have brought Cosí into the 21st Century.

“This is still daPonte's story but Maestrx Scricci and we combined it with concepts introduced by Androgenes Enoménos 2400 years ago, creating new foundations to reflect the pluralized potentialities of each character's deceptive rationalizations. Not only do disguises affect the natural issues many relationships contend with, their appearances will seem at odds with their sounds.

“While Despina merely dons a disguise here and there to enable the sisters, Don Alfonso as a 'philosopher' – insert 'air-quotes,' here – is removed from reality as all philosophers must be to support their theories. So Alfonso becomes 'Aunt Aldonza,' a manipulative Old Maid recently returned from Brazil.”

Winsom asked if that meant singing in falsetto.

Mostovsky frowned at this first sign of expected resistance. “No, of course not.”

The director then explained, “since the boyfriends disguise themselves as Albanians, we questioned 'why make Albanians the butt of ethnic stereotypes?'

“So, initially, to emphasize their own plurality, the boyfriends will be girls – Ferranda and Guglielma, respectively – who will then disguise themselves as young men returning from a night out at a local gay bar.

“Therefore, it seemed perfectly logical the sisters should be boys – men – who, because of their own plurality, will sound like women.

“That means Fiordiligio and Dorabello, now straight men, will be faced with advances made by gay men, no social commentary needed. But other than those minor details, yes, daPonte's original story is basically unchanged.

“While Mozart's music remains essentially the same, old stylized recitatives will include chords and progressions more consistent with today's pop music. The orchestra includes various synthesizers, guitars, and Hammond organs like any rock band.”

As Mostovsky ended with a flourish, the singers sat there, their eyes frozen wide, their mouths open, their minds collectively numb.

= = = = = = =

to be continued... 

©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train