The Salieri Effect: Installment #33

Rehearsals continued for both Cosí fan tutte and Amadeus, but not without mounting concerns (no puns intended) for the future of their respective productions. Certainly, the opera's cast hadn't quite embraced Lauren Mostovsky's controversial concepts (she was willing to accept it might take more time, perhaps until they started working with their costumes); and SRTC's Amadeus looked like it was heading toward greater troubles than just finding the actor playing Mozart might have to be replaced. 

But meanwhile, it's time to check in with the ongoing troubles Dr. Kerr is facing after he's found himself, somehow, inserted into the Basilikon Lab on the edge of Orient, IA, a place he had not expected to be concerned with, given the nature of his investigation and his doubts about whatever happened to the guy calling himself Trazmo (you remember Trazmo?). So, will he be able to get himself out as inexplicably as he'd gotten himself in?

= = = = = = =

CHAPTER #22

Everything had happened so suddenly, it made my head spin more than usual, as if Time Travel wouldn't be disconcerting enough. But this didn't seem to be “Time” as far as I could tell. It was, certainly, “Space” – if not quite interstellar, then from one location to another and one not all that far away. When I get back – assuming I get back – I must ask Cameron if one can choose one's destination, time or space? Or, for that matter, if there are specific limits, like only short jaunts? But if he'd never tried this “levitation” meditation of his before, whatever he called it, would he know what to expect? Even following directions, doing this completely without supervision, would it work as planned? His hope on this trial run was just to hop across the threshold from one motel room over to the next.

I wasn't aware of flying – I never am, when time-traveling – much less levitating. How could I have gotten from my bed in the motel room to here (wherever “here” is) – by way of there? I'm pretty sure where “there” was, just not sure where I've ended up now, at least not yet – someplace completely different... The fog, presumably in my brain, hadn't cleared yet, but I never could remember what happened before, regardless how it began. Those memories, quickly fading, left behind nothing more realistic than a vivid dream.

“But Cameron was the one meditating; shouldn't he have been the one levitating?” Presumably, this fell under the category, “Why Me?” I remember my phone rang – Bond was calling (I wonder what she wanted?). And then, whatever happened, I'd run into this guard dressed like a lizard who placed me in, like, this holding cell. When the door opened a few minutes later, there was this guy who was the epitome of an evil Arab villain and this huge, bare-chested black man, probably his enforcer, and I suddenly disappeared!

Had they seen me? Or enough of me to distribute an APB description? It felt like another short-circuit flash, and I ended up back in that hallway (will another Lizard Man catch me again?). And if what Piltdown said was true about the Mobots, I have got to get in touch with Bond immediately – “Now!”

That's when there'd been another short-circuit – it was the only way I could describe it, like I was being consumed by some flash but without feeling the shock – and suddenly I was somewhere else. The room, first of all, appeared to be empty as I tried getting my bearings. Was I back at the motel? A possibility – same dingy décor, same basic set-up except there was only a single bed, but this one covered with an open suitcase and a duffel bag like some new arrival hadn't unpacked yet.

So, perhaps the motel (at least, a motel), maybe even the Express Motel, but not my room and there was no Cameron in the chair hoping to gain access to Room #12 next door. I had no idea how this was working – other experiences with Time Travel had been occasionally quite accurate – or how well.

The room was lit by a weak bulb in a small lamp on what passed for a little desk (a sense of relief, recognizing the same style of lamp and desk from our room). There was an old-fashioned wall calendar by the door, difficult to see at the edge of the light. “Hmmm... March, 1983?” Housekeeping's a little behind unless the manager had the same kind of nostalgia Tom had with his calendars at the cabin. By that logic today's date is a Thursday, but here it's a Tuesday.

Pounding footsteps – no, stamping feet – outside the door! I barely had time to hide in the bathroom (not the best place to hide: what if the occupant, who already sounded impatient, had to pee?). As the door flew open, I could see it was night and there was a fierce blizzard roaring outside, snow everywhere. The man wasn't dressed for this weather but wore impressive boots; an equally noticeable belt buckle glistened in the available light. That's unsettling: I'd seen something almost exactly like that just recently – but where?

He seemed young, frustrated, certainly angry, and slamming on the light switch only to have the overhead light flicker didn't help. He dragged the chair over from the desk, pushed the ceiling tile back and, cursing fluently, reached up, tightening the bulb. I almost gasped when I got a good look at his face.

Trazmo!

Okay, so it worked. Cameron's attempt at levitating into Trazmo's old room didn't quite happen as planned, but here I am. Let's deal with the mechanics of this later, but right now, it wouldn't take even an honorary member of the Sherlockian Society to know this was Phillips Hawthorne, Composer, presumably the night he disappeared!

There's the belt buckle and, yes, those were definitely the same boots I'd seen but on the wrong person. Okay, so maybe the right person but how'd the wrong person get hold of them?

I was so excited, I couldn't wait to tell Cameron.

“Whoa, hold on.” I stepped back behind the bathroom door. “Where is Cameron? Presumably back in the Present, unless he ended up somewhere else... How am I going to tell him, considering where I am – and when? How do I get back to the Present?” It's not like the Kapellmeister would show up and guide me, since he'd been the one controlling the shots, last time. There's no hand-held time device, I didn't walk through any shimmering Alice-Down-the-Rabbit-Hole portal...

More importantly, assuming I'd make it back, how was I going to tell this to Sheriff Diddon and more specifically Tom. I could hear myself saying, “well, he seemed pretty pissed off that night...” Looking over my shoulder, I saw myself, gray beard and all, in the bathroom mirror and realized I had to pee.

Trazmo plunked the chair down and looked at himself in the table's small mirror, his hands planted firmly against its corners. “God, you're lookin' old, kiddo. What's happened to you these past few years?”

(Ah, excellent, an interior monologue and he's going to deliver it out loud!)

“It's like you're growing old and nobody cares.”

He sat down and I half-expected him to start removing make-up before bedtime, hardly old enough to worry about middle-aged woes. Maybe he was having a conversation with some imaginary friend or inner demon?

“But what if my real talent is in convincing myself I have talent – and despite what everybody's told me, I don't?”

It's the typical argument every artist faces, especially making that transition between being a gifted youngster and becoming an adult professional. Not every artist is aware of it at the time, feeling all alone.

“There's always someone saying 'oh, you're so brilliant, you're a genius – another Mozart!' but they're full of crap, especially my father.” He laughed. “What's he know about art? Only how much money it's worth.” All his life, he'd been surrounded by stupid people praising him and everything he said, whether it was crap or not.

He took something from his shirt pocket, a pen – a green pen that sparkled in the light – which made him smile. “Except one. He knew. He called my bluff...” (Probably his teacher, Grayson Trautman.)

Then Trazmo pulled something else out from a pants pocket (I couldn't see), held it wrapped in his hand (something small). When he put it down on the table by the green pen (which I assume was the Pelikan Graphos his teacher had given him), I realized this new thing was a small, odd-shaped stone.

A piece of turquoise! Polished smooth, it also glinted in the dim light. Did Trazmo have an obsession with shiny objects, things that glimmered in light, that could distract him from moments of frustration?

The pen had been given to him (according to the story from Trautman's interview that Tom mentioned) but Tom's bit of turquoise had been stolen – and given the time-frame, here, just the other day.

“Then along comes someone like him with no idea how well he writes. And I couldn't even be friendly toward him...”

Wait... was this the same Trazmo Tom had been telling me about, the one others recalled as the arrogant, self-confident bastard who felt he's so much better than everybody else? Who's he talking about? Is it possible he's referring to Tom? I mean, if that's the turquoise nugget missing from Tom's desk – a stolen memento?

My immediate reaction was “Wait till I tell Tom!”

But I have a cell phone, right? Couldn't I just call him?

Except, could I make a call from 1983? Probably not, without a signal...

“Holy crap, if this is that night back in 1983, couldn't I just go next door and tell him and...” Yeah, right – he'd think he's Scrooge being visited by the Ghost of Christmas Future.

Despite all these mind-reeling epiphanies, it occurred to me such misplaced enthusiasm, whether it counted as schadenfreude or not, was inappropriate.

Here's an Ex-Prodigy, a brilliant composer, having an intense moment of doubt, perhaps on the scale of an Existential Crisis, and I'm some gossipy crone who can't wait to tell someone what I've overheard. I almost felt sorry for him – well, Hawthorne; maybe not for Trazmo, Tom's nemesis, if that was his evil, public persona.

“Have some heart.” For every famous artist, there must be hundreds of would-be artists, prodigies themselves, who did not survive, giving up the dream only to disappear from sight.

“Wait – did I say 'disappear'?”

Somehow, I was about to be witness to whatever happened to Phillips Hawthorne in those moments before he disappeared, or at least between the times he had last been seen and then “found missing.” What happens next could be the clue that would put my friend Tom Purdue's own decades of mental anguish to rest. Is Hawthorne having an Existential Crisis leading to a nervous breakdown or merely the emotional build-up to an immense Pity Party? Like many prodigies, has he reached adulthood and found himself already burned out?

We're in the middle of a blizzard in a town in the middle of nowhere, so how will anybody come barging through that door to kill him – much less who, not to mention why? Or will it be someone who'll “kidnap” him so he can go live a life of quiet anonymity shrouded in mystery?

As the wind outside continued to howl, Trazmo started to take his clothes off, carefully laying them aside on the bed – the boots, the jeans, the shirt, even the socks and a torn t-shirt. I was surprised (though I could barely see without giving myself away) he was wearing a lacy pair of women's panties. Cameron told me many gay men, even many married straight men, often wore women's panties because they found them more comfortable. I'm no expert, guessing if Trazmo's gay; besides, who are we to judge?

But he wasn't undressing for bed: he pulled all these clothes out of the duffel bag and made a few selections. I couldn't tell what they were at first, everything hidden by the suitcase. Was he going out somewhere? Again, we're in the middle of a blizzard; wouldn't most people stay hunkered down at home? And aside from the diner next to the motel which sounded like it would be a very unfriendly environment for him, what kind of nightlife would there be in a place like Orient, Iowa?

Before he turned his back to me, out of view of the mirror, I saw his chest was thin, typically unmuscular for a boy who'd grown up spending too much time with his music. Then he strapped something around his chest, slipping a shirt over his head, dark blue with... floral patterns and rather frilly.

A surprising fashion choice, given where we were.

Next, holding up a large rectangular piece of dark blue fabric from the pile to give it careful consideration, he decided to wrap it around his waist. With a few adjustments, he tied something across the front and stood back to admire himself in front the mirror. A smaller bag contained a long curly blonde wig which he quickly fit into place (he's obviously had lots of practice). All that was missing to complete the transformation was a bit of make-up.

Trazmo began to sway back and forth, arms folded across his chest, slowly turning, the skirt swaying gently to inaudible music, his eyes closed and what expression I could see one of utter contentment. Gradually, his inner music accelerating, he began to twirl and extend his arms, his head thrown back with an ecstatic smile.

“Well,” I thought, “that's not exactly what I'd expected.”

And then it happened.

With a bang, the door exploded inward with a great gust of howling wind and blowing snow, as the silhouette of a man stood threateningly in the light from a nearly obliterated street lamp.

Trazmo screamed, his arms braced across his chest.

The man stumbled into the room, unable to steady himself against the door – an older man, not much taller than Trazmo, not much heavier, either, his shoulders snow-covered, his stringy hair caked with ice.

“Sorry, miss, sorry,” the man said, an old man with the look of a vagrant about him, lost in the storm. “I thought you was that young feller I saw'n the diner. Name's Gene.”

“Who the fuck are you,” Trazmo spat out before he remembered to modulate his voice to sound more like a woman.

“They mostly call me Ol' Gene, 'round these parts. Eugene Dyson, ma'am, at your service – I'm kind o' yer local Diogenes.” He stood there, dusting himself off, and left a puddle of melting snow. “Don't mean no harm, don't worry. I'm just lookin' fer some handouts if'n you got stuff to spare – food, old clothes? Bitch of a storm this one is, if you don't mind my French.”

“What the hell, barging into a lady's hotel room? Oh,” he paused, once Gene's words caught up with him, “a beggar...”

“Sorry,” Gene explained, pointing at the door. “I'd been knockin' but I guess what with the wind, if'n y'get my drift” (and here, he chuckled at his own pun), “you pro'lly didn't hear me.”

Trazmo became a bit more relaxed but not exactly welcoming. “Hardly gives you the right to break into my room, though.”

“Didn't break in, ma'am – door must'a blowed open. Sorry t'interrup',” he added, winking, “if'n yer young man's naked under the bed.”

It was a moment's inspiration. “Oh, no, he's passed out in the bathroom.”

(“Aww, jeez,” I thought, stepping back into the shadows in case Ol' Gene could see me. “What if he...? Would she...?”)

“Tell you what,” Trazmo's feminine persona now crooned, sounding sultry and a bit sexy (he's obviously had practice at this, too). She wanted to play a joke on him; seems they've just broken up. “Here, why don't I give you all his clothes – these jeans are warmer and dryer than those old corduroys you're wearing. And these boots – I always hated his wearing these boots! Would they fit?”

I realized how I could ruin everything, here, simply by flushing the toilet which would freak Trazmo out, thinking he's alone. But it's the First Law of Time Travelers, so everyone keeps telling me: always leave the events of the past untouched, no matter how tempted you are to bring about change in the future.

“He'll have no need for them any more,” Trazmo's new persona was telling the old man. I could tell by the momentary silence, Gene must've thought she'd killed him, the boyfriend, or will, soon. The voice continued, a little more pitifully (he's getting good at this), “by the time he comes to, I'm long gone. Why, when that bus pulls out of town, I'll be on it and that rat bastard – nobody's going to miss him! – he'll be naked and too cold to come running around, lookin' for me.”

So much for this fascinating scenario, but what's he up to, with this? How does this wronged and broken-hearted young lady know when the bus will leave town, considering the state of the roads?

“Yes, that's it, you put those jeans on, Gene” – laughter, at her pun – “while I pack up the rest of this.”

Peering out from the bathroom, I could see Ol' Gene's scrawny legs in the mirror as he pulled on Trazmo's jeans. Trazmo himself – or rather, herself – had emptied the suitcase and busily stuffed things into the duffel to get rid of any evidence – evidence the Old Trazmo would no longer be a burden to her.

I leaned against the wall. So, that's how Trazmo's clothes ended up on that body, the one found four days ago. Nobody'd suspect who it was because who'd notice some old bum had disappeared?

“Here,” I heard Trazmo say, the voice a little too emotional, “here's some money – as soon as the storm clears, you should move on to the next town. That's what I'm going to do.” The door opened and whatever else they said was lost in the wind, as Hawthorne watched Gene disappear into the snow. Maybe she's thinking he didn't want to be around when the police started to look for him and can't find him – but here's this tramp with his clothes. He'll become a suspect, for sure.

“I never thought my knight-in-shining-armor would be some mangy vagrant in well-worn corduroys! There goes Trazmo, the great composer, former prodigy. As if there's anyone around who'll miss him,” reverting to his natural voice. “I guess Dad will – 'that boy'll be worth lots of money some day!' Not that the boy'll ever miss you, Dad...”

Is that why Dad – Phillips L. Hawthorne, Sr., recently and finally deceased – has pressed these murder conspiracy theories all this time, to recoup financial losses a successful Wunderkind would've brought to the family fortune? What about everything he'd spent buying orchestras so they'd play his kid's music and create the aura of a budding genius? Had he ever thought his son just ran away from home, now that he's old enough to be on his own; that he'd want to get out from under his old man's controlling influence?

Was this rancor the postscript to all the publicity the father generated beforehand to let the world know his boy's a prodigy with a great future; and now it's become a flood of constant publicity, merely to keep the pain alive and tell the world someone must pay because that future's been stolen from him.

After all these years, had the old man died a bitter, twisted soul because he had yet to prove someone's responsible for killing his son so he could sue him for, what... – wrongful death? What's the point of suing a composer like Tom who's hardly flush with fame or fortune? Where's the benefit in that?

Had this – what I'd witnessed tonight – been part of a well-thought plan of a young composer wanting to find his independence? Or something spontaneous, a chance to find redemption through the miracle of re-invention?

Another voice, a man's voice. Had someone else entered and I hadn't heard? I peered out, the doorknob in the way. The front door hadn't opened, no renewed attack from wind and biting cold. The voice was too practiced, too clipped and impersonal to be conversational, more of a TV news reporter, sounding like Trazmo.

“The room is empty, no sign of Trazmo's whereabouts. 'Gone missing,' the note says, 'to live my life – as a woman!' And that's all from here. I'm Lance Bleeblebuss.” (Another one of Trazmo's personalities?)

He stood there – she stood there (what do I call him now? Is he a woman because he's dressed like one? He's still, anatomically, a male but one with a preference for ladies' apparel) – anyway, whatever pronouns apply (I'd never thought of it quite this way, before), whoever stood there wondered what to do next.

She was thinking out loud – so I'm guessing this was all spontaneous, part of a dream but without planning the details. “If I leave the suitcases,” she muttered, “maybe they'll think I've been kidnapped.” But they'd be empty. Plus she needed to take the woman's clothing, since any of that left behind would be confusing.

At least, I figured, in fairness I shouldn't call him “Trazmo” any more: that's the real identity she's trying to shed. He was still (legally) Phillips Hawthorne. But Trazmo? No, Trazmo was dead, now.

Lost in thought – I couldn't imagine what was going through his head at this moment, aware of the powerful decision he'd just made, no turning back (should I even be calling him 'him' now?) – she stood at the window, her arms wrapped around her, and stared out across the empty fields covered with drifting snow. I could see her, turning back to the dressing table, pick up Trazmo's old wallet – she'd already taken out the money – then looked at the ceiling light which flickered again, just for a second.

She slipped some stuff into a small box, climbed up onto the chair, hampered by her skirt this time (something he'll have to get used to), then slid the box above the ceiling tiles. “It'll be years before they'll find it, judging from this place. With any luck, by then they'll think I've been murdered.”

When I pushed the door open another smidge (as my grandmother would've said), it squeaked just enough that, when I looked up at Hawthorne on the chair, he was staring down right at me.

“What the God-Almighty fucking hell...!?” Nothing feminine in this voice. He nearly tripped getting down from the chair (the skirt, again).

I flew out into the room rather than be cornered at the toilet by an insane whoever-he-was-now, already “full gonzo,” and slammed my knee into the corner of the bed, screaming out in pain.

It was enough to knock the chair over into her way, as the high heels (which I hadn't noticed before) gave out from under her (definitely going to have to get used to those). Between the two of us, our individual pains brought out fresh streams of profanities (hers, I admit, more colorful than mine).

If it's considered the best room in the place, #12 wasn't big enough to do more than swing a cat in, and certainly not big enough for an old man with a banged-up knee to be chased around the bed by a raving maniac in a skirt screaming about how I'd gotten in and when. Not that I could imagine myself in Trazmo's place, with or without the skirt, given the highly personal and extremely intimate moment he'd just experienced only to find some stranger was spying on him.

She threw one of her shoes at me, barely missing my head as this stiletto heel zoomed close by my ear. It'd only take another minute before I'd collapse from a heart attack and die from a stiletto wound to the forehead. The logical choice... – not really, but I opened the door and ran outside.

It didn't take long before I couldn't see the light from Trazmo's room or the looming silhouette of the Express Motel. Which way to downtown Orient? Or was I out in the empty fields?

Surrounded by snow I could describe no other way than “blinding,” I was painfully aware I'd not dressed for this weather. And, if this actually ended up with me dying here, I realized as far as the future was concerned, I wouldn't be around to show up in 2016 to find myself and gain closure.

Trazmo's curses soon became one with the bellowing wind and I quickly realized this wasn't going as well as I'd hoped. At this rate, what would it matter what I could tell Cameron, or even Tom, much less someone like Sheriff Diddon or those guys involved with GACC (though I'd love to see their faces). What about the face on Diddon's predecessor in the spring of 1983 when he discovers the body of an old man who, despite his 2014 driver's license, should only be about 33 years old?

Not only did I not know how I'd even gotten here or if there was any way I could get out of here (hadn't I been in the Mobot Factory just a while ago?), what could I do with the knowledge I've just learned to solve what's rapidly become an even stranger, even colder case?

The best I could hope for was to run smack into the motel's diner, unless I'm stumbling in the wrong direction.

Whatever time I had left, this wasn't the way to spend it, worrying about the imponderable, like “okay, here's another fine mess I've gotten myself into” or “how're you going to explain this one?”

Not to mention how I'm going to get myself out of it, finding the escape route from some kid's snow globe.

Escape room! That's it! “Cameron, if you're listening – anybody? The word is... 'now'?”

= = = = = = =

to be continued...

©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Salieri Effect: Installment #32

The rehearsal process, that long, often painful gestation before the audience gets to experience the end artistic results, is often fraught with periods of doubt, and, as we saw in the previous installment, there was a good deal of that to go around for both the Allegro Conservatory's ground-breaking production of Mozart's Cosí fan tutte and the Surrey Regional Theater's more run-of-the-mill Amadeus. Unfortunately, that wasn't the last of it...

 = = = = = = = =

[Chapter 21, continued...]

Earlier, the old ballroom, the Greenleaf Mansion's rehearsal space for the brand new Allegro Conservatory, had been full of fairly gloomy singers, scowling at those mind-boggling, gender-switching prospects (for instance, Ferrando who becomes Ferranda) while a gum-flapping director blathered on impervious to the fact each of them in turn contemplated dropping out of the program. Even the pianist wondered why he was there, as his mind wandered back to the last time he'd tossed a spitball at a teacher, then remembered it had been Remedial Theory only Monday morning.

Time and Mostovsky droned on, both rooted to the spot, only Mostovsky's hands occasionally fluttered about in an attempt at emphasis; a makeshift clock leaned against a window sill, its hands immobile and implacable. Henry Roberts thought if she (the director) would just move around a bit, it could make things a little more tolerable.

“In the long run, we'll use an interactive modular approach to the overall look of the production on stage,” Mostovsky continued, “something Scricci's brilliant mind imagined as a 'Chinese Menu Approach' in which we interface specific details of what various characters' aspects we might envision in 'Column A' best address the available singers, 'Column B.'”

However much they had each gotten used to Lauren Mostovsky as a person, regardless of the unexpected challenge of non-gender-specific pronouns, they've got serious doubts about the sanity of Lauren Mostovsky as a director.

“We'd come up with a suitable collection of variables as to what our characters could look like which can be narrowed down to match those who would end up chosen during the audition process, rather than casting a particular body-type to match an abstract character description, an image perhaps too specific for the potential cast. This means we wouldn't have to reject an excellent singer for a role because they couldn't, say, fit into the Little Black Dress the designer had in mind for the character in Act Two.

“For instance, about our pairs of lovers – Fiordiligi and Guglielmo, or Dorabella and Ferrando – let's take a look at the men. Which one's the more masculine one who might be a biker or lumberjack? Going by stereotypes assumes the baritone is the 'more masculine' of the two, a tenor being higher, less 'manly' in sound.”

Villains were stereotypically baritones (according to 19th Century operas), romantic leads were tenors. We've all seen the caricatures of short, pudgy tenors and big strapping baritones, but Ferrando and Guglielmo weren't hero and villain. Tenor Henry Roberts was short and chunky, and baritone Frank Goodman was substantially taller and definitely more athletic, fitting the stereotypes.

“What would happen if we go against type? What about accentuating the differences, if they're already the opposite of each other?”

Henry squirmed in his chair. The others tried not to look at him.

He kept thinking this wasn't a reflection on himself, but people who'd see the performance would see him singing a male role dressed as a woman. How could it not be anything but humiliating? And the others remembered all this talk of Gender Swapping from earlier, too. Ready or not, they knew what was coming.

There was the slimmest glimmer of hope maybe he, never personally meeting the expectations of a swashbuckling hero or leading man, would be characterized as the “more masculine one,” probably not the Soldier-of-Fortune he'd imagined initially, members of a SEAL team dressed in camo with black cork-grease on the face ready for nighttime jungle combat. He could “do” athletic, maybe someone who'd been on the high school wrestling team gone to seed before he'd turn 30, compared to Frank who really had been a star quarterback in high school.

Mostovsky's attention turned to the soprano, Fiordiligi, to be sung by Orchis China Aster, a fashion-conscious, demure, petite young Asian woman (one assumed from the name, Chinese) carefully dressed but not self-conscious or showy. The director's glance took in the singer from Column 'B' and compared them to the character's potential attributes in Column 'A.' But in an opera full of disguises, Fiordiligi's the one who dons a military uniform (something she just happened to have), convinced she must join her belovèd on the battlefield rather than become unfaithful.

There was a confidence about Mx. Aster (or was the last name “China-Aster”? – no, checking the printed roster, there's no hyphen), something sensed in her bearing or the intensity and set of her eyes, that made Mostovsky imagine, if it were up to her, not Fiordiligi, Orchis would hardly mourn a romantic break-up for long.

Given that, then, the singer was already the opposite of her character, unlikely to share in the romantic silliness of a broken heart or grief that would be taken to such an extreme level. “Attraction at First Sight” was certainly an option but would she be as susceptible to the arrows of an interfering Cupid? If anything, if time were not so condensed in reality as it was by the needs of the plot's whirlwind pressures, chances are Orchis would probably find companionship with the next available compatible man.

Conversely, Felicia Kroll's generic Europeanness hid any Germanic ancestry (or was it merely her father's name and she's only 12.5% Teutonic?) – of course, krol was also a Slavic word for “King,” if it mattered – her round face and overall flat impression, face as well as physique, augmented her obvious lanky and sometimes awkward tomboy qualities. Like many mezzos, she was doomed for a lifetime of Cherubinos and Octavians, speaking of gender-bending “pants roles,” though if you're going to get typecast, those are not bad roles to be stuck with.

If one possible version of Fiordiligi as sung by Mx. Aster would turn her into a pastel, chiffon-loving, high-heeled Barbie Doll, did Mx. Kroll's bobbed hairstyle and jeans mark her as a potential lesbian? How'd she look with spiked hair, numerous piercings, and a studded dog collar?

Now, Mostovsky considered, “what if we... switched them?”

Was Mostovsky perhaps a little too blunt, rolling out these observations, judging from the singers' increasingly negative reactions – did Mark Winsome philosophically cough out the word “psychobabble”? Their successive expressions verged on the appalled. The reasoning behind the characters' dramatic personas, how they should think of themselves, became, if one dared use the word, “clear.”

Given Skripasha Scricci's so-called “Albanian Axis,” Dorabella, no longer Felicia the tomboy, absorbed Orchis' feminine beauty and Guglielmo, no longer Frank's macho man, became Henry's less masculine, would-be playboy.

“Then we switch the genders!”

In daPonte's story, the sisters' relationships were based on the idea “Opposites Attract” until their fiances return in those ridiculous disguises, dropping in unannounced as a pair of Albanian sailors, friends of Don Alfonso's. But each girl eventually gives in to the boys' advances and chooses the other boyfriend, the one who's her “Personality Equivalent.”

But now, what if Henry's Ferrando becomes Ferranda, a tomboy and a possible closet Lesbian, a bull dyke who wears “metal accessories” and a studded dog collar? Henry's eyes had practically doubled in size.

Frank, unable to control himself, burst out laughing in disbelief, then realized, “no, Mostovsky's really serious!” and sat back embarrassed. “Shit...”

Frank, it turns out, will become Guglielma, transforming Orchis' femininity into a dark-haired Barbie Doll swathed in chiffon and feather boas.

Henry was quick to point out Frank wasn't laughing any more.

“No shit...”

Unperturbed, Mostovsky preempted any further interruptions, questions or appeals to sanity, and asked Joe to pass out the costume sketch hand-outs. The men, who are now singing women's roles, don disguises not to make fun of Albanians as in Mozart (how politically incorrect) but as gay men coming back from a night at the bars. Henry's Ferranda disguises herself as a lumberjack; Frank's Guglielma, as a tap-dancing dandy. This is what many mezzos call “Octavian's Nightmare,” the idea of a woman singing a man's role disguised as a woman.

“This of course adds a new level of discomfort to the original sisters' unwillingness to tolerate the Albanians' advances. Now men – and one presumes “straight” – they're faced with gay men coming on to them. Naturally, this offers a whole different subset of scandals once the boys decide to give in and say “okay, why not?”

While Felicia was the only one even remotely smiling during the ensuing, ominous silence, Mark and Rosa patiently waited their turn, sweat beading up on their collective brows as Mostovsky's attention turned to them. Mark was convinced Alphonso'd become Pennywise the clown from Stephen King's It, while visions of Aunt Jemima danced in Rosa's head.

“Despina will be the only character who doesn't change gender,” Mostovsky began, “but that's because she already disguises herself with two male roles: the doctor and the notary.”

Rosa gave out an audible sigh.

“Since you're both Black” – Mostovsky, obviously going for the Equal Opportunity Offender Award – “Despina is a young activist full of racial bitterness while Alfonso, now Doña Aldonza, attempts to assimilate and pass for White.”

Mark pulls a calypso move with his neck and outstretched arms. “That's Doña Aldonza from Brazil – where the nuts come from!”

Rosa took advantage of the explosion of laughter breaking the director's spell, and pointed out, since she's already a servant stereotype, “shouldn't I become a White stereotype while one of the sisters – or rather, brothers, in this case – becomes some kind of Black Stereotype, perhaps a rapper with dreadlocks and yet another level of scandal?”

Mark's deep bass boomed out with a seismic laugh, barely catching his breath. “Can you say 'N-Word in the wood pile'?”

Fortunately for Director Mostovsky, the bell rang and the afternoon's rehearsal was over.

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

As the rehearsal wore on (and “wear on,” it had), Toni'd noticed a change in Fielding, not just in his Salieri, but even during the breaks when he seemed a bit more deflated, irritable. Without Underhill to goad him, keeping his spleen in a state of near-boiling, did he realize it wasn't as much fun? She noticed, after the break, a change came over Bridges, too, especially before the evening rehearsal started, but one of relief, as if some good news had finally come his way – about Underhill, maybe.

For herself, Toni realized how much fun it was to read through Mozart's lines once she'd gotten used to the idea. Fortunately, they'd skipped over his first appearance, that naughty little scene with Constanze. But Bridges had asked her to keep on, if she could, just to help them out a little with the continuity.

Fielding saw through Bridges' not so subtle plan to show everyone in the cast how this teenaged girl, such a natural talent – how old was she: 15, 16? – was better, more natural than Underhill. Likely, there was some ulterior, habitual motive behind the scenes, as they say, whether Bridges was aware of it or not. Fielding hadn't forgotten how the great Laurence Bridges once “discovered this incredible talent” years ago, cast her in his latest play long before she was ready, and how they'd immediately become this scandál publique.

They “roughed” their way through to the scene about Figaro when Bridges decided, “it's been a good day, let's end here. Toni,” he added after everybody else started to leave, “we need to talk.” Fielding saw this, and with a knowing smile nodded toward the director who, if he'd noticed it, chose to ignore it.

With Ben's half-hearted help, Grover, busy checking his clipboard, put away different tables and chairs used to suggest various set pieces, then locked up the old-fashioned wheelchair, a true antique, in the scene shop.

Grahl talked with Ben about some of his lines, then patted him on the back as he wandered toward the exit.

“So, Pete,” Fielding said, one eyebrow mischievously cocked, “who's going to replace Heath? I assume the rumors I've heard are true?”

“Well, I'm not sure what Laurence plans to do right away, but yeah...”

Bridges was having a similar conversation with Toni back in the costume shop. Initially, she'd thought he had wanted to talk more about the music, how maybe he'd found some money for live musicians, but when she thanked him for the opportunity to read Mozart's lines, he started to pursue a different topic of conversation.

“As a composer,” he said, closing the door behind them, “I thought you brought a totally different perspective to the role, like you really identified yourself with this young, naïve and unfiltered young genius.”

His use of “naïve” and “unfiltered” surprised her but, “yeah, basically, I do. I mean, what young composer just starting out doesn't want to grow up to be the next Mozart or Beethoven, right?” She'd blushed again, afraid maybe he would ask her to coach Mr. Underhill when he eventually came back to the rehearsals.

She'd heard the rumors, too, but discounted them – how Underhill's leg'll be in a cast, how he'll be in a wheelchair. She'd also read newspaper reports on-line from years ago about the famous director Laurence Bridges, accused of sexual harassment by a number of young actresses to whom he'd promised stardom – and here she was. She took note of the immediate situation: she's alone with him back in some remote corner off-stage (would anybody hear her?); he'd just shut (locked?) the door; he's standing between her and the doorway.

Bridges began to explain how he'd just received word before the rehearsal began Underhill would have “this thumping huge cast on his leg” and be in a wheelchair for several weeks, more's the pity, unable to return to the show (so the rumors were true), if you could do the math (she nodded she could).

“So either we close the show, or I replace one of our two lead stars, the legendary if over-the-hill Heath Underhill. And I thought, listening to you read his lines,” Bridges continued, “you, Toni...”

“Me?” She'd backed up against an old couch. “You mean me – play Mozart?” Stardom, she thought, here it comes, getting closer: the offer, the Big Temptation, the evil snake in the Tree of Knowledge...

“Why not, Toni? You're a natural-born talent, the way you took to his lines, even more credible than old Heath was.”

“Well, maybe he was too old for the part and, yeah, he couldn't very well do it in a wheelchair” (how absurd would it be with him and then Old Salieri in his wheelchair?), “but how can I do it? I'm too young! Besides, I'm a girl – a 16-year-old girl, in case you don't remember...”

As he slowly inched toward her, Toni felt panic climb up her spine. She thought she could kick him where it hurts but wondered if she could control her muscles (“God, he looks old!”).

“That's part of the 'magic' of the theatre,” he crooned, “the audience would quickly accept it; it's unlikely they'd even care.”

“It sounds like a gimmick...”

He reached out a hand to touch her.

By the time she felt his hand brush against her breast, she gave her knee a stiff yank and pulled mightily.

It happened so fast: Bridges screamed just when she'd screamed (more like a karate yell) as she slammed her knee into Bridges' groin, just as the door flew open and she heard Vector scream.

“What the bloody hell got into you,” Bridges panted as he painfully picked himself up off the floor, dazed and incredulous.

Toni ran into Vector's arms, relieved. “I'd say my theatrical career's over, now...”

As he led her out into a gathering crowd, Vector looked back and said, “I believe yours is, too, Mr. Bridges.”

= = = = = = =

to be continued...

©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train

The Salieri Effect: Installment #31

In the previous chapter, Prospério Kárax started losing control of the Casaubon Society's gathering even before the unexpected arrival of Victor Spoyles, his one-time friend turned adversary. And IMP Chief Inspector Sarah Bond, pursuing a new lead in her on-going investigation into the Aficionati's ever-elusive leader, Osiris, had already met with Capt. Ritard in NYC and voiced her concerns about any possible danger to Dr. Kerr's safety. Then, once she arrives in Orient, IA, Bond's made not one but two discoveries.

= = = = = = =

CHAPTER 21

Since everything was new, the first students at the Allegro Conservatory would need to have that old-time pioneer spirit and flexibility to be innovators with a willingness to improvise and “roll with the punches.” Likewise the faculty, whether first-timers recruited with newly minted degrees or the recently retired who perhaps still had something to offer. There was never a dearth of good students or reliable faculty, Dean Ringman told them, talented musicians looking for solid situations, if they had the right entrepreneurial attitude and the requisite sense of adventure. It might take a few years until things could become more firmly established and yes, there were complaints about a couple inexperienced theory teachers with one-year master's degrees barely ahead of their own students, but Ringman pointed out Tchaikovsky, a recent graduate himself at 20-something, had similar issues when a new conservatory opened in Moscow.

As the Dean never failed to remind them (donors or students), here they were “in the very heart of this great nation of ours whose very towns and great traditions would not exist today if those legendary 19th Century pioneers had stayed back East with their traditional comforts rather than face hardships and the unknown.”

In that spirit of groundbreaking entrepreneurialism Ringman so admired, the young and otherwise inexperienced Director of the Opera Department, Lauren Mostovsky, began to explain a bold new concept for an old, often maligned classic.

Gathered in a semi-circle, the boyfriends on the right, the sisters on the left, while the schemers sat in the center – or was it the men on one half, the women on the other? – they read over their lines through the first ten scenes in a literal English translation, saving the original Italian for later. “First,” the director said, “you must know what you're singing and to whom you're singing it, not just to the audience. Also, mark in your score where you're thinking but singing it out loud. In theater, you have different levels of nuance you need to make clear: Dorabella's conversation, whoever's on stage, could involve talking to them or talking to them,” Mostovsky said, pointing to Ferrando, then Alfonso. “Or it could be something only Fiordiligi's supposed to hear, even if in reality we can all hear it, can't we?”

For the moment, Mostovsky skipped over various gender-based issues mentioned earlier to focus on more general details about the dramatic situation – Alfonso makes a bet; the girls realize their boyfriends are called to war – then asked each character what he or she'd be thinking, how they'd react, what facial expressions they'd have when not speaking.

“As you transfer to the Italian you'll be singing, We want you to think about 'how you look when you're listening.' You're not just standing there counting measures until the next time you sing.”

There was a slight flash of awareness that spread across several of their faces: Mostovsky sat back and smiled as they realized in the past they had thought more about what they'd sing next. “Yes, you do have to think about that, where you must move and why but you must also listen – think 'multi-tasking'.”

The plot was simple, almost basic, focused around two sisters and their relationships: girl-having-met-boy, girl-loses-boy; then ultimately a happy ending, girl-gets-boy-back. But it becomes more complicated when you add the X-Factor, an old philosopher. “What do they add? Why do they do this? What is its outcome? They're throwing a catnip mouse among the cats.

“And what happens between the losing and the getting-back is the confusion – in fact, it's the chaos – that advances the plot. Anyone familiar with the opera will know the outcome, but you... do not.”

Mostovsky stood up and pushed the chair back. “In Mozart's day, there was an old saying, 'First the words, then the music.' But is it the equivalent of 'First the egg, then the chicken'?”

(“Okay, we've gone from interactive to lecture mode.” Rosa Miller sat back and prepared to at least try to look interested.)

“When you rehearse a scene, find time to start with the words – in English, like spoken drama – and work out the nuances. Question yourself: 'why did We do that?', 'what would We do here?'...”

Mostovsky, looking around, noticed different levels of awareness. Some, with more experience, nodded in agreement (“yes, I already do that”); others, with less, shrugged a metaphoric shoulder (“that's obvious”); nobody seemed to question why.

“So,” Orchis ventured with some hesitation, “what do we do with our duet scenes? People don't speak in unison in pairs.”

“Good point.” Mostovsky wondered how long before that'd come up. “Work mostly on the recitatives – that's where the action is – but you still have to listen and interact when both your characters 'speak' simultaneously. Do you both agree, 'one mind, one voice'? If you disagree, who's viewpoint prevails? Are you identical twins or rival siblings? What was it the great Anna Russell once said? 'You can do anything in opera so long as you sing it!'” Given most responses, Mostovsky assumed they'd no idea who Anna Russell was, either.

Frank wondered what the hell that had to do with their duets' characterizations? Russell meant Wagner's character relationships in The Ring, but Orchis meant Fiordiligi and Dorabella's speaking in unison, especially in the recitatives. If they speak in one voice, like they sing in the music, how can you make that understood in spoken theater?

“Well, okay, so, assume I am singing it,” Orchis added, “I guess my question is 'how do I speak it?' – we...?” (These damn non-specific pronouns only confused her, if she couldn't even say “I.”)

“Those are the things we want you – as in 'y'all' – to go find on your own, so question everything you do. The rehearsal process – learn the words, then the notes – is all about discovery.”

(“Well,” Rosa thought, pretty sure it wasn't out loud, “I want to sing Mozart but this shit is for the birds.”)

Mostovsky, setting aside the director's cap, now slipped into Professor Mode oblivious to whatever attention not already lost completely slipped away. But like many a seasoned university teacher knew, as long as it was said, that was the important thing, “mission accomplished,” whether it fell on fallow ground or took root and become memorized fact.

“Most of the early critics of Mozart's Cosí fan tutte reacted not to the music but first to the words, to Lorenza daPonte's script, which he always referred to as The School for Lovers. It had been found immoral despite being an old theatrical convention that pre-dated Shakespeare's time – to remind you, that's the early-1600s – 'impertinent and unfunny,' 'primitive and unimaginative,' 'cynical and frivolous,' to quote early critics, three pairs of balanced adjectives like these characters in a story Beethoven and Wagner dismissed as 'offensive,' complete with insipid music.”

These days, the opera's current tribe of detractors were more likely inspired by the 21st Century's concerns for issues like Gender Equality and Sexual Harassment, but these same “complaints” – Mostovsky emphasized this with air-quotes – existed already even in Mozart's day, “hardly an enlightened time for women, even as the French Revolution brewed 'round the corner.” Men were hypocrites, in private demanding absolute fidelity from their wives, while in public they carried on with their own “affairs” – yet they found the lovers' Trial of Faithfulness by Subterfuge degrading to women?

“Or did Mozart's turning a dirty story into the stuff of Art offend critics when he placed private foibles on the public stage, a place usually regarded as the home of gods and aristocrats? It was a time of lavish public prudery and lascivious privacy, metaphoric fig leaves to hide the truth from knowing eyes. Sex – and to proper 18th-Century Classical gentlemen who tried to understand life as a rational world, this was all about sex – sex was the problem but it was easier to blame the surface thing.”

Mostovsky pointed out people were shocked Mozart set The Abduction in a seraglio, that secret harem for women where men were forbidden: and what went on there? Sex! Therefore, the story had sexual overtones. With Cosí, he turned a story about love into a game of wife-swapping; and who couldn't see through those ridiculous disguises?

“Well, then,” Mostovsky said, ready to wrap things up (soon, each singer hoped), “what are we to make of this story? When Paris adapted Shakespeare's Love's Labours Lost to Mozart's opera, it was daPonte's words, the Emperor's dirty joke, they were erasing. But how do we, now, make the whole of it relevant to today? Here's a game that involves three pairs: two couples and a couple accomplices. Don't be fooled by the obvious symmetry: three men, three women; two boyfriends, two sisters, two schemers – it's not that simple!

“Each couple is a pair of opposites: the boyfriends are not the same; the sisters are not clones but reasonably independent. They each approach everything thrown at them differently, and become each other's rival. Of the schemers, Alfonso is a cynical old man, but Despina's world is one of romance novels, a realm of hedonism.

“Or,” Mostovsky added with the vaguest semblance of a sparkle in the eye, “as We like to call it, Despina's 'shedonism'.” Some of them groaned, one of them giggled. Only Frank chose to argue.

“With all due respect,” (meaning none was intended), “the male pronoun is not the root of the word 'hedonism,' is it?”

But Mostovsky dismissed this since “hedonism” was a male domain and this was hedonism boldly espoused by a woman. “Pun accepted.”

(Frank worried maybe she'd confused his “male pronoun” as a euphemism for “penis.”)

“We'll talk about other aspects you'll need to consider to create your characters in the weeks between now and dress rehearsal, but right now let us mention some obvious aspects behind this particular production.” Mostovsky opened a ring-binder and referred to some pages before closing it again. “These will involve a series of improvisatory exercises. Something you will not do is remember any production you've ever seen of Cosí fan tutte either live, on TV or on video. Don't watch one: that is not 'research.' Music-only files are okay.

“In fact, show of hands: how many of you watched a video, perhaps on-line, before your audition?” All hands went up. “Okay, so, now, erase everything you'd seen on them from your memory cache.” She swiped a hand across her forehead and shook it out, like tossing stuff on the floor. “Go ahead – do it.”

After they did that, most of them a little too self-consciously, Mostovsky resumed.

“Most productions treat the sisters like nearly identical twins except for maybe their hair color or the color of their gowns.” A couple nodded yes but she pointed out, “you were supposed to have deleted that, remember? Again,” wiping across the brow.

“The same with the boys – to distinguish them from Don Alfonso, the 'elderly' philosopher, usually turned into a portly senior citizen. Despina the maid is young, flighty, probably still a teenager, a wild card.

“The problem with the pairs of lovers, they not only become interchangeable, switching their relationships in the course of the action, the audience becomes so confused about who's who they can't tell them apart. The only thing worse would be if Mozart had cast both the sisters as sopranos and all the men as tenors. Or we'd listen to some Baroque opera where men were sung by castrati, singing in the same range as the sopranos. (Don't worry, guys, relax; we won't ask you to go quite that far...)

“After Ferrando discovers his girlfriend Dorabella's given in to Guglielmo, he goes after Fiordiligi more adamantly, determined to win Alfonso's bet, at which point our confusion (like those disguises weren't enough) turns into chaos. In the end, do they really think, once they're back together with their original partners, all will now be smooth sailing?”

Since each of the lovers are essentially opposites – “do opposites really attract?” – Mostovsky explained when they come to those scenes where the differences begin to show, “like cracks in their otherwise amicable social armor,” they'll improvise some hypothetical conversations, “like they're sitting around the kitchen table, sipping coffee, talking about whatever comes into their heads. Except one member of a pair starts with a declarative statement about something, then the other member says something that's contradictory. For the sake of the exercise, in this case, the genders are equal.

“It's not just saying something to be contrary, maybe just a clue about how you feel until things get more serious and you begin to reveal more of what you actually, deep-down, genuinely believe. We assume you all have social media accounts? Yes?” (They all nod.) “Then you know what it's like to feel attacked.”

“So, then,” Mark Winsome, the Don Alfonso, the first time he's entered the fray, offered, “it's not like I tell them – Despina – I'm a Republican and she... they respond 'Well, We're a Democrat, yeah'?”

“You're a Republican? Well, damn, I'll be gobsmacked,” Rosa responds, slapping her forehead. “For your information, I'm... we're being ironical, here?”

“But it has to be a declarative statement-of-fact. Say something about policy – hypothetically. We doubt either of you'd be Conservative: for the sake of stereotypicality,” Mostovsky reminded them, “don't you think Alfonso would be?”

Mostovsky turned to Frank and said, “let's say you insist 'pedophiles should be castrated,' and you,” turning to Henry, “say... what...?”

“Well, they should be...”

“It's a theatrical exercise, Henry, not an actual discussion.”

“So... what do I say?” Henry looked around, hoping the others would help.

“It's an improvisatory exercise, Henry; so, improvise... respond.”

“Okay, um... I can't just disagree, so I'd say, 'pedophiles come from broken homes and were probably abused themselves as children.” He was clearly uncomfortable, then added, “they need therapy and understanding – and... support?”

“Felicia, do you think Henry was very convincing?”

She laughed. “No! He's trying a line like he's presenting it for approval.”

Rosa thought it was too tentative, more of a question, not a statement.

“Okay,” Mostovsky said. “Felicia, how would you sing that last line of Henry's? Joe, give us a G Major chord, recitative-style.”

Felicia shrugged her shoulders. Her simple phrase, sung mezzo forte, used few notes, dominant to tonic, a short scale to the third, back to tonic, emphasizing the note just above the tonic on “-standing,” before tentatively going up to the third for “sup-port?”

The pianist, without prompting, rolled a B Major chord as punctuation.

They all laughed.

“Excellent! Perfectly Mozartean! Now, more convincingly, the same basic notes...”

With the volume louder, her tempo more clipped, she changed the last three notes, ending on G, and the pianist obliged.

Again, they all laughed, and a few applauded.

“Exactly – even resolving emphatically to the tonic, where the first one, tentative, moved off into active harmonic territory, maybe headed toward E Major or somewhere else. It wasn't the words you generated – words on the printed page the reader must interpret – but how the character 'inflects' them.

“So, if you feel Henry was equivocal for some reason,” the director asked, “are you convinced this is what Felicia believes?”

“It doesn't matter what Felicia believes,” Rosa said. “It's what her character believes.”

“As you may have noticed,” Mark said, “Rosa and I, the 'schemers,' are both Black, and reinforces the stereotype she's a servant, maybe a household slave.”

Rosa responded. “Yo', suh, be assimilated, yo' passin' fo' White. I is a po' black girl an' I's longin' fo' freedom!”

The others had no idea how to respond.

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

The players of the Surrey Regional Theater Company, still subdued after last night's fiasco, had begun to assemble for their afternoon rehearsal. There was a lot of ground to make up, not knowing what the short-term outcome would be from Underhill's untimely accident, or even its long-range effects, more than enough to give anyone pause. There were rumors the production might be canceled without one of its stars, which made no sense: just find another actor. Still early in the rehearsals, would it be that hard finding another Mozart?

Backstage, Toni saw Mr. Bridges and Mr. Grahl deep in conversation, understandably preoccupied. He hadn't been keen on Toni's idea of Dr. Kerr's talk about “The Real Salieri” to set the historical record straight. It disappointed her – he'd so quickly dismissed it – but he had enough on his plate without dealing with some pesky kid.

Bridges had cocked his head with this look as if thinking into the distance (the only way Toni could describe it). “I admit,” he said, “I'd been in Vienna a few times, even visited Mozart's birthplace there, but it's hardly relevant, yeah?” (She debated whether she should correct him, that Mozart was born in Salzburg.) “Sure, the play's not historically accurate, but you saw the movie – that's what most people believe is true, anyway, isn't it? Why confuse them with boring facts? This is theatre, after all. It's magic!”

Rigley Fielding, old and dumpy despite attempts at stylishness in his open shirt, peach-colored silk ascot, and unfortunately too-tight jeans, tried on his best snarls before a mirror in need of some serious cleaning. Toni got the impression the only thing missing was an eye-patch to cross-pollinate the Viennese Court Composer with Long John Silver. Agnes Tiepolo, wearing yesterday's same outfit only re-imagined in different colors, sat in the same chair and read the same magazine. Ben Tishell paged through his script, slowly mouthing his lines, word by word.

For a moment, Toni went back to last night, everybody in these same places, everybody doing the same things as if this were all part of those pre-rehearsal rituals each one had to perform. She could almost hear an old man with shaggy white hair, the production's Mozart, practicing that silly giggle from the movie.

Most everyone regarded her blandly, another inexperienced kid making her “debut” in the theater (or, as they overacted it, the theatre), and who was she anyway, just one of those annoying little Venticelli kids. Only the old man playing Salieri (was there a stunt double to play Salieri as a young man?) smiled at her. Did the actress playing the singer Cavalieri snub her because Toni had more lines than she did? (She had none, actually.) At least Cavalieri got to wear an elaborate costume and make grand entrances. Of course, the director was very friendly, had been ever since that first video-call, with advice how to approach the character which wasn't much of a character, was it? – more like half a character. She'd done some on-line searches about Laurence Bridges, about his early career, but didn't tell her folks what all she'd found.

The actor who'd turned out to be the Emperor (he didn't seem tall enough) had listened to Bridges' long-winded introduction about their new cast member, peered over his bifocals and quipped, “Too many words” at which the actor who'd turned out to be Mozart (he certainly wasn't young enough) had let out his fatuous giggle.

Bridges's assistant, Pete Grahl, and Grover Horner, the harried stage manager, were the only people on stage who looked their parts. There wasn't much about this first impression Toni looked back on as “magical.”

And all that before she'd witnessed the in-fighting between Fielding and Underhill, an old married couple living off years of pent-up bitterness, not a famous team of actors with a long theatrical pedigree goading each other with their ridiculous backbiting, calling each other “Wrinkly” and “Overhill” and all those barbs about each others' “dramatic nuances.” Was she the only one who found them embarrassing or was this another thing she'd learn about life, how our ideals don't always turn out the way we've hoped, as Uncle Terry often hinted? Did the other actors, the ones hired from London or the local ones who've been included in the supporting cast who thought this would be the highlight of their careers, working with these two, did they feel the same disappointment she did, that the reality behind the scene made the magic on stage virtually impossible?

When Underhill tripped doing those silly hops, she saw the fear in his eyes as he fell backwards: this wasn't planned. It played in her mind over and over again, all in slow motion. Had she seen Tiepolo reach over to pick up that gum wrapper she'd thrown on the floor which he'd slipped on? Or when Fielding said, “oh, don't worry about him,” to some actors fussing over Underhill, “if pain's all in the mind, his brain's so challenged, he won't even notice it in a few hours.”

There was also the odd suspension after they'd carted Underhill off to the nearest hospital, fortunately only a few blocks away: do we stay and continue rehearsing or should we call it a night? Bridges, after seeing the ambulance off, announced Grahl “drew the short stick” and went along to handle the bureaucracy of admissions. Toni wasn't sure if the concern on his face was more about his injured actor or what inconvenience the insurance required. Fielding was the only one with his script held open, ready to resume.

“We'll wait and see what tomorrow brings and if Heath still isn't ready to join us,” Bridges said, “we'll just run the scenes that don't involve Mozart, starting with the opening four. Three o'clock?”

Once they'd all nodded their agreement, the Emperor said, “Ah, well... there it is,” and processed stage left into the wings.

Word had already made its rounds before the afternoon rehearsal began that Underhill's condition was much worse than they'd initially expected: a fractured femur, a slight concussion but at least the hip was okay. “Old people and hips – dangerous combination in a fall,” Toni'd heard Grover say. “Still, he could be laid up for weeks.”

Bridges appeared unperturbed by whatever news he may have heard, when he announced, as he stared Fielding down to keep him quiet, the “situation is fluid; we'll take it one day at a time.”

Without further ado, he ordered everyone into places. This opening was a big scene for the Venticelli, two “middle-aged gentlemen” according to the script but Ben especially had trouble sounding not like a teenager. Salieri in a wheelchair, his back to the audience, sat near the back, everyone else part of the whispering off-stage chorus.

“We're not supposed to notice him – Salieri,” but Toni couldn't help it: without makeup, Fielding made a convincing Old Salieri (the play opened in 1823 when Salieri was 73, a patient at the asylum), except for the fact he's smiling rather contentedly, perhaps because his rival (Underhill, not Mozart) wasn't there to ruin his day.

Bridges tried getting Ben to sound more “urgent,” more like a gossip who wanted to be the first with “the news.” The only thing Ben could do was shout and sound even more stilted.

They made it through the first four scenes, skipped Scene 5, Mozart's first appearance, but after Fielding finished his brief soliloquy, surprised “the filthy creature” could compose at all, deciding Mozart was nobody special, everything stopped. With everyone else in place, ready to go, the Emperor made an imperial gesture toward Bridges – “Shall we proceed?”

It was the first big Court Scene with Salieri and Company on one side of the Emperor, Mozart on the other.

Bridges looked around. “But let's have... ah... – Toni, would you read Mozart's lines?”

Ben handed her his copy of the script – she noticed it was unmarked – and told her, “Better you than me, luv.” Toni blushed, paging through it to find the spot, and took her place.

When she got through the flurry of French – flawlessly, Bridges noted – everyone applauded.

“Take a break. Toni, come talk to me.”

She wanted to discuss what music he had in mind for the production, since he'd mentioned her composing a few bits of “interstitial” music between pre-recorded bits of Mozart's and a few of Salieri's. It shouldn't really be original sounding, perhaps a modernization of 18th Century classicism, like Poulenc (Bridges asked her who that was). She suggested how the “curtain music” under the first scene with the Venticelli, itself a verbal overture, should be a distant tempest rising to claps of thunder to coincide with the shouts of “Salieri!”

It would take a small orchestra, maybe only a dozen or so, but it would need to be coordinated with the actors, those crucially timed shouts. She thought her Uncle Terry could conduct it.

“There's nothing in the budget for that,” he apologized. “Can't you find recordings and play them through the CD player backstage?”

Another disappointment. He suggested that bit from Disney's Fantasia – “the one about the grape harvest's storm?”

“But,” she wondered, “would starting a play about Mozart with a famous bit of Beethoven be all that suitable?”

“Seriously?” Bridges wondered if anyone would notice.

Yet one more disappointment. The magic had by now been successfully, completely dispelled.

“Ah, Grover,” Bridges interrupted himself, calling over his stage manager. “Can you find Pete and bring him back to my office? We need to discuss something. Oh, and Toni,” he added, “we'll talk later.”

= = = = = = =

to be continued...

©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train