The Salieri Effect: Installment #38

Tom Purdue went from wondering how Dexter Shoad stole his music to how his housekeeper Mrs. Danvers' strange intruder (he's decided to name him "Mr. Wormwood") knew to approach her and ask about Dr. Kerr rather than confront Tom himself. What was he after and how did he know where to go to find it? Other than the original manuscripts of those compositions by his Cousin Emaline he'd found in a box, what else was there in the cabin somebody would think worth stealing?

Meanwhile, Cameron is running down another hallway at the Basilikon Labs with a bunch of IMP agents, trying to escape from the Aficionati's killer drones when he hears Dr. Kerr's ringtone on his phone. Unfortunately, he has to let it go to voice-mail: something is following them and they don't look like the tiny "bugs" Agent Sam Senn (formerly Double Agent Krahang) had described. 

But now, it's time to return to the Allegro Conservatory's rehearsal for Mozart's Cosí fan tutte where things are not going all that smoothly...

= = = = = = =

CHAPTER 26

After the break, six singers gathered in the mansion's ballroom, more morose than before, neither looking at nor talking to each other, while the pianist sat down and kept his eyes on the keyboard. Whatever the Allegro Conservatory claimed to be, it was successfully proving itself to be anything but “Your Grandfather's School of Music.” Whatever these walls may have witnessed in their glory days – fancy-dress balls and cotillions filled with the sons and daughters of the local aristocracy – the singers knew it had never seen anything like this.

Lauren Mostovsky, whom the website's bio identified as a “revolutionary young talent in the opera world,” stood before them, a peacock-patterned silk scarf thrown jauntily over the shoulder to add a bit of confidence. To the director, the room was nothing more than empty space to be filled with the sights and sounds of art-in-the-making.

The singers had left the rehearsal with little more than lunch on their minds, basically each in an overall grim mood, especially after that bizarre turn where everything, without warning, exploded beyond the surreal. Whatever they were feeling individually, they all agreed, along with Joe the pianist, this was not the time to discuss it.

Instead, Felicia retired to a distant practice room and stormed through Dorabella's first aria, Smanie implacabili, about those “implacable pangs which torment me,” an excellent way to work out her frustrations. “Okay, use them...”

Before they would gather again that afternoon for a second meeting, the director had texted each of them a short message: “Think of your character as daPonte intended. Bring an accessory to the rehearsal.”

Mark felt it was 4^th Grade show-and-tell déjà-vu.

For instance, the text Henry received was direct, a simple if ungrammatical suggestion:

“Look into your closet and see what you could improvise with,” Mostovsky suggested. “Ferrando, your the dashing young soldier in love with sultry Dorabella: so what would you choose to accessorize your character with?”

Whatever the director's intentions were behind this message, the consensus would've been a hopefulness that, perhaps after all, they would now revert to a more standard, traditional approach with this production – “as daPonte intended.” Back in the rehearsal room, they took their seats with their chosen accessory, most of them hidden in plastic shopping bags.

With a clapping of hands to break the awkward silence, Mostovsky suggested starting with the recitative after Act One's big quintet. She explained “the moment,” how Alfonso had broken the news and the boys have come to say good-bye to their sweethearts. “Just read your lines in English, don't worry about Mozart's rhythms – just lines.”

After they'd gone through the brief scene once, Mostovsky asked Rosa, since Despina was not involved here, whether they were “convincing.”

Rosa clearly felt awkward critiquing them and said, “well, it's their first time...”

“Okay, fair observation.” This time, the director suggested they put on their accessories and “work” them as if they were props.

Rosa watched from the sidelines, and smiled broadly. “Oh, God yes, much better!”

For this next time, Mostovsky wanted each of the lovers to trade accessories. “And with them, now absorb each other's characters.”

Henry was the first to balk at this as Felicia handed him the turquoise throw she'd fashioned into her trailing skirt. “So, I'm supposed to strut around like her?”

“It's just an exercise, Henry.”

Orchis laughed, putting on Frank's blazer with the plastic rose in the buttonhole. “It doesn't fit – it's like a trench coat!”

“And that's exactly the point,” Mostovsky explained, smiling. “They're not meant to fit, to make you comfortable; you're different, now. Begin. But this time, say the same words while acting in your new genders.”

Rosa tried not to giggle. After all, she'll have to do this also when she becomes Doctor Miracle or the wheezy old notary in each act's finales, but her smiles quickly turned to concern. She also noticed Mostovsky wasn't doing much to help them, letting them see (or not see) where they'd naturally lead themselves. They were having obvious trouble with this, especially Henry who'd become sullen and had to stop in the middle of a line to control himself; unfortunately, once he resumed, things didn't go any better.

After a few more minutes of this, it was Henry, predictably, who broke down and just plain stopped. The others waited.

Rosa sat back, hoping she looked nonchalant rather than too concerned and analytical.

The rest had their own issues with this “exercise” but realized, whatever Mostovsky said, they'd need to work this out themselves.

“It's not a matter of self-identifying as this character, Henry,” Mostovsky began quietly and without the condescension the rest had anticipated. “It's a question of allowing yourself to inhabit, momentarily, another person's... well, persona.”

Henry walked away, shaking his head, embarrassed to look anyone in the eye. “I feel idiotic. The whole thing feels idiotic.”

Orchis was the first one to speak up. “I think I get it – I'm not sure I like it, not yet. I feel I'm playing 'dress-up,' only this time not a character I'd chosen.”

“But you're a girl,” Henry protested, “girls play 'dress-up.' I would never in a bajillion years dress up as a girl!”

“Why not? I was always dressing up as a boy,” Felicia said, laughing slightly, “I liked playing baseball, I liked being one of the guys playing War – doesn't make me any less a girl.”

Frank saw Henry'd grown more uncomfortable. “Henry – or should I call you 'Hank'? – you sang Curly in Oklahoma, right?”

Henry nodded.

[w]Well, when you dressed up as a farmer, you didn't really become a farmer, right? So, in this play, we're playing 'dress-up' in costumes that represent characters who may not be us in reality.”

Felicia picked up the argument. “I've sung 'pants-role' arias like Cherubino's a lot. It's a matter of broadening your comfort zone.”

“At least,” Frank chuckled, “we're not doing any nude scenes, right? – are we...?”

Mark pointed out, ever the observant philosopher, Henry and Frank only needed to master the art of cross-dressing for the first few scenes since they'll be spending most of the opera disguised as Albanians. “Or, in this case, gay men back from a night at the bars.”

“And that's supposed to make me feel better?”

“Henry,” Mostovsky said, “go with us on this, We'll drop the nude scene when Dr. Miracle's magnets make your clothes disappear – though there'd be no costume then to have issues with...”

Even Henry laughed.

“I have a cousin who's gay, about my age, and he fits the stereotype of my character's 'disguise' to a T,” Frank said with that kind of expression the Light Bulb of Epiphany creates. “So, imagining how Guglielma moves and stands as a gay man, I'll think 'What Would Cousin Bruce Do?' and imitate him.”

Henry shook his head. He'd never known any gay men, didn't have any gay friends or relatives either, and he'd never been in the habit of watching gay men when he did see them.

“That's not entirely true, Henry. You've been around me for several weeks now,” Mark said to him, “and you've watched me. Ah, from your expression, apparently you didn't know I was gay? Oh please...” He explained how liberating it had been to play “Charley's Aunt” in a high school production. “I was magnificent,” he chuckled.

They'd been singing individual songs or arias in a studio for years but only a few had been on stage before, so the idea of coordinating singing and movement wasn't entirely new to them. Was this the best way for them to make that transition, when just learning the basics of stagecraft was challenge enough?

Henry thought they should learn a standard opera, first, in a standard production. That's what he'd wanted, why he'd signed up. Wouldn't this kind of experimenting be better left to those more experienced singers?

“Oh, come on, Henry,” Rosa said, standing up to strike a pose, “I've been playing nothing but 'roles' all my life. I'd been a black girl in a white world so long, I didn't know who the Real Rosa Miller really was. I even had to act Blonde to become a cheerleader in high school.”

Mostovsky, sensing some of them were warming to this interpretation and may be adaptable to playing an outlandish game of 'dress-up,' reminded them of the importance of loyalty to any production they'll sing in. “And that will be the case whether it's here at the Allegro Conservatory's Opera Department or at the Metropolitan Opera House.” First, each singer must sublimate themselves to their character – confusion was slowly diminishing over Mostovsky's non-grammatical use of various personal pronouns – and to the director's vision of the production, the story behind the music.

“What you need to do is discover how you'd interpret what the composer wrote for the story provided by the librettist, to bring out your character and make sense of the production's overall vision. Maybe it doesn't make sense to you at all, all these gender changes, but it all comes 'round in the end.

“In the final Wedding Tableau,” Mostovsky explained, “the original couples are reunited. Fiordiligio, now married to Guglielma, reaches around secretively and takes Ferranda's hand, just as Dorabello and Guglielma 'make eyes' at each other. In their original pairings, it was all 'opposites attract' so perhaps they realize they might've married the wrong ones after all.

“In the Italian, the title Cosí fan tutte means 'So Do They All,' but the emphasis is different, translated into English. Once it's 'Women Are Like That,' however, it's the English that's become misogynistic.”

There was not a peep from the singers who stood back as a whole cluster of epiphanic light bulbs went off. Hummel, seated attentively but otherwise invisible at the piano, played a crisp, recitative-like dominant-tonic cadence to punctuate the moment, “plunk, plunk.” Mostovsky's smile barely hid the fact – “oh, yeah” – the premise had been sold.

There wasn't much time left in the rehearsal, so the director hoped to make as much progress in the remaining twenty minutes to give them something to work on before meeting again that evening.

“Here is another exercise we can try,” Mostovsky explained, “and you can observe each other. Maestro, music? No words, just pantomime. Take off the accessories” – Henry gladly did so – “the boys are now the sisters but you'll be playing them as men, while the girls will now be the boyfriends, but playing them as women.”

They'd hardly gotten started, the two “sisters” looking at their lovers' portraits, sighing, smiling, and comparing notes when Mostovsky stopped them. “Yes, but seriously, is that how guys would really be looking at photos of their girls they'd have on their phones? 'You think yours is pretty? Look at this!' Maybe even some wink-wink, nudge-nudge...?”

The boys tried again, this time pointing at their palms, pretending they're phones, but now their body language was clearly bragging. Henry tried to convince Frank his girl was much hotter but Frank disagreed.

“I know Mozart's music is bouncy, there,” Mostovsky said, stopping them once again, “but would you really just start skipping around? No, maybe you'd swagger, swing your shoulders, cut a few strutting dance moves?” When they'd gotten it down to something Mostovsky found believable, the director had the girls imitate their various swaggers and strutting.

Orchis laughed but agreed it was working. “I feel I'm a little girl pretending to mock my older, would-be macho brother.”

“Right, but with practice, you can absorb that and make it more natural.”

Henry stood back, ready to start imitating the girls when it's their turn to be the boyfriends. He was pretty sure he would be “absorbing” this only in the privacy of his locked room.

The door burst open and the conservatory's Chancellor, Holly Grayle, barged into the room without knocking. “Everybody out of the building!”

Ms. Grayle, a prim, middle-aged bean-counter of the Old School, saw little need for art (it was just another four-letter word). She didn't even look at the students or register what they were doing. As far as she was concerned, she agreed with Samuel Johnson's definition of opera, and considered it “the most useless entertainment.” Why she was even involved with a music school was beyond her, but it paid well and she was good at crunching numbers – and well-known for her various recipes about the cooking of books.

As Chancellor of the Allegro Conservatory and CFO of the Proteus Foundation, the last thing she would be interested in was what a bunch of students were doing prancing around to some idiotic music. If this wasn't distasteful enough, she had to deal with this weirdo director-person, Lauren Mostovsky (“Who the hell ever hired her?”).

She noticed the students still stood there, open-mouthed and unresponsive at the interruption.

“Hey,” Grayle shouted at them, “are you deaf or just that stupid? I said 'everybody out of the damn building!' Now!”

They picked up their books and scores, leaving their accessories behind, and ran toward the door. “What the fuck's going on?”

“Think of it as a fire drill, moron, if you have to have it explained to you,” she yelled after them. “Whatever happened to those nice, obedient children back when I was growing up...?”

Once everybody'd cleared the room, Grayle approached the director, whispering under her breath. “It's come way sooner than we thought, so not everyone is prepared. Clear everything out you can, except for the furniture.”

“What's come sooner than...?” Mostovsky looked completely befuddled.

“You don't know? Why, the police, of course!” Grayle shook her head disapprovingly.

“The police...? But... why are the police coming?” Mostovsky started gathering up folders and handouts, different scores, anything she could carry. “What about the piano?”

“Oh, good grief, that counts as furniture, doesn't it?”

Grayle explained as the school's finances began to tank, it was only a matter of time before creditors would close in but they thought they'd make it to the end of the academic year. If they'd gotten money in for the fall semester's registrations, they might've succeeded, she continued, but everything imploded like yesterday's quiche.

“They're going to close the school?” Suddenly, Mostovsky became seriously alarmed. “That's awful! Our Cosí could've put us on the map!”

For a brief second, Grayle stared at her, disbelieving the woman's complete naivety.

“Where're the sets and costumes stored? Get 'em loaded onto the van, ASAP!”

“Oh, we're not quite that far along, yet.”

“Well, that's good news. Get everything out your office that could associate you with any Opera Department that ever existed here.”

“What office...? And what about the website? It's all over the school's website!”

Grayle said the website's already been taken down and all their computers' hard-drives are being scrubbed “as we speak.”

“My laptop...?”

“I'll take it. IT's going through the place, collecting any technology they find. Oh, your personal bank account and on-line social media have already been closed down and transferred into the Foundation's overseas accounts.”

With arms already loaded beyond capacity, Mostovsky stopped and wondered if they'd be mailing back paychecks from the past two months.

“Paychecks? Sure, sure,” Grayle said, almost patting Mostovsky's shoulder. “Monday, so I'm told.”

Mostovsky took one quick look around, saw nothing left behind, and ran toward the front door. “No, not that way,” Grayle said, “the students... – the police may be waiting out front. Go out back. All the doors are being locked. Put everything in your car,” she said, “and drive away as far as you can.”

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

Alone in his office, the curtains drawn against the gloom of a rainy afternoon, Lucifer Darke, the beleaguered head of SHMRG, paced back and forth, lost in the labyrinth of his equally gloomy thoughts. A tall man whose shoulders were now eternally hunched, his eyes averted, he'd become an introvert who's become even more insecure.

He was never fond of bright lights, even now the room lit solely by the dim banker's lamp on his desk. Unfortunately, these events of recent months had placed him in an uncomfortable spotlight. It had never really felt like his office or even his desk; even the company he ran didn't feel like his, everything around him suffused with the malingering presence of the man he'd replaced. But the scandal that plagued him now was clearly of his own making and nothing he had tried could stop it.

It was to be his claim to fame, the triumph he'd point to to make SHMRG his and rebuild its finances, opening new business vistas with a software product intended for amateur would-be composers. Program it to suit your own tastes, whatever you liked, and the software would write its own compositions in your name. Of course the fine print stated, while it was “in your name,” anything created by the software would be published by a SHMRG subsidiary and became the property of the parent company – his company.

That, however, wasn't the scandal, whether anyone noticed the fine print or not; that was the new, 21^st Century business model. If they're “amateurs,” would they need professional recognition like new-found wealth from royalties? Hence, the company, licensing the software to them under a lugubrious contract nobody'd read, offered to take care of this burden. If there were any profits to be had, the “composer” would receive 13% as royalties, while 21% went to the publisher, 55% went to SHMRG and the remaining 11% went discretely into Darke's pocket.

There was no guarantee anything the software created would generate a hit; the odds were slim there might even be one. In short, the company wasn't liable for any failures in the program's production. Like any success, much of it depended on how well the software was programmed. Very few geniuses wrote nothing but masterpieces.

Then there's that glitch that killed dozens of Happy Customers after weeks of successful collaboration between stupid dreams and intelligent technology. And the latest count of SHMRG customers electrocuted by their computers reached 89. Suddenly one day, an unsuspecting “composer” would be working on a new song and – Zap! – an electrical current short-circuited their heart. One happened during a live tutorial on You-Tube as an older gentleman demonstrated how you'd program certain parameters into the system's database when he was electrocuted live (so to speak) and died on camera.

“Freak accident” or not, some dubbed the video “the smoking gun” and others, without irony, “living proof” the program was faulty. The video received 196,418 hits in the hour before it was taken down. Complaints began pouring in hourly and customers flooded the Help Line (which was normally understaffed) wondering if their computers were safe.

All of which led to calls for various investigations, including a congressional one called by Representative Ben Gozzi from North Carolina, none of which accomplished anything beyond making SHMRG CEO Lucifer Darke look uncomfortable. He'd taken the expected approach to defend his company's product, that it was perfectly safe to anyone who operated it properly. All this bad publicity sent SHMRG's stock flushing down the Wall Street toilet, yet the product was never taken off the market, as government and company officials cited nothing, so far, could be proven.

Darke assured them he felt the pain of those customer's families deprived of their loved ones, all because they'd wanted to, however vicariously, experience the thrill of creating something beautiful by purchasing SHMRG's software. Just think, if they hadn't done that, they'd still be there at the dinner table enjoying fulfilling lives with their families. It had been the worst experience of his life, he added, such an inconvenience, going before all those cameras and panels and legislators, repeating ad nauseum his product was “perfectly safe if properly handled.”

It had turned into a media circus of frenzied speculation, the very frame from that video where the old man died turned into a meme: “I'm sorry, Dave, I can't let you do that...” Conspiracy Theorists who spouted the “Artificial-Intelligence-Was-Evolving-A-Mind-Of-Its-Own” thing, swore any computer could now turn into your worst critic, a truly killer app.

When it was discovered the old man in the video already had a heart condition and diabetes, what more proof was needed any mild shock, impervious to a healthier individual, couldn't cause his death? If you don't follow the instructions, does someone killed by hooking up a car battery wrong prove the battery is faulty? Darke even had some of his best engineers testify before some of these investigations to snow the would-be experts under an avalanche of Geek-Speak to prove you couldn't make assumptions based on mere speculation.

Privately, Darke blamed Purdue, an amateur computer engineer, for flaws in the original code, not his own engineers desperate to meet holiday sales deadlines who'd overlooked some key keystrokes which created the fatal glitch. Perhaps the system, which after all they'd stolen from Purdue (not that they'd admit that) had been hacked by the Chinese?

“No, of course,” he realized, “not the Chinese – it must be the Aficionati! It must have been sabotaged; and most likely an inside, undercover job. If I ever find out the one who's responsible...”

“But you are,” a not too distant yet too familiar voice crooned, hidden somewhere in the mordant shadows behind the desk, “you couldn't control them, could you, imposing unrealistic deadlines, demanding impossible sales reports. You even threatened them with terminations – right before Christmas, too, just like Scrooge.”

Out of nothingness, a shape began taking form.

It was a figure in a wheelchair, dark and formidable, its eyes smoldering, and caressed the desk once the mysterious shape behind him pushed him forward, slowly but with an irrefutable sense of possession. Those eyes softened: this desk had once been his. This room had once been his office. Even this view'd been his. The secret passage he'd designed so he could come and go without anyone in the office knowing had especially been his. And clearly, judging from Darke's amazement, Steele had caught him by complete surprise.

Darke threatened to call security. “You know the IMP has been searching for you for years? I'll have them arrest you.”

Steele's hand immediately shot toward the phone, blocking Darke's move. “Don't – even – think...”

“Why have you resurfaced now, after all these years sniveling in your hideouts?”

“Because now, I'm ready to take everything back.”

Especially on this afternoon's flight, courtesy of his friend's private jet, nodding in the direction of the statuesque blonde behind him, Steele said he's had plenty of time to contemplate the importance of loyalty. He realized he couldn't control his company unless he controlled the loyalty of his people – and Lucifer was out of control.

“Because there's nothing worse than a traitor,” Steele sneered, his words rolling out in increasingly stentorian tones, “a traitor to the cause, a traitor to the firm, a traitor, most of all, to me.”

Clearly, in the few hours since he'd come under her spell, Steele had been artfully coached by Savannah Roller who continued to hold Lucifer Darke in her gaze like a cobra ready to strike.

“Something you conveniently forgot, Mr. Darke, is that you were not to replace me. You were only 'standing in' for me.”

His voice rose in a long crescendo. Steele thundered home, “someone loyal to the firm would take one for the team. Remember, Lucifer, there's no U in 'TEAM.' You cannot spell 'TEAM' without ME!”

Roller laid her hands firmly on Steele's shoulders and his body quaked visibly. When she lifted her arms with an expression of triumph on her face, Steele rose from his wheelchair and stood tall. With aid of neither crutch nor cane, Steele walked the few remaining steps and pressed the escape key on Darke's computer.

Darke stood gaping at Steele and his antics. Compared to what his minions had been reporting to him over the past few years, what he knew of Steele himself, this was more the Old Steele but with an even more demonic twist. And who was this blonde woman he'd brought with him, some latter-day Svengali?

“They're here – the IMP,” Steele said, “ready to arrest you, not least about your 'z'Art Software.' You'll be gone for years. I'd been like a father to you. This is how you've repaid me?”

Once more, Steele sat down in the wheelchair and the woman pushed him into the shadows, one last wave before disappearing. However long Darke might have to remember things, he'd never forget that wave. But it was the smile on the man's face, the smirk that chilled him to the bone. It was unadulterated evil.

Beneath the siren's intensifying wail, Darke could hear the scuffle of feet as fists pounded on the door.

It was over.

“Lucifer Darke,” one voice yelled, “we know you're in there. Open up – IMP!”

Capt. Ritard, bashing the door down, placed him under arrest for Corporate Malfeasance involving the deaths of dozens of SHMRG customers.

Ritard and his team of agents escorted the handcuffed Darke away, so many frightened prairie dogs peering out over their cubicles.

Darke knew what they were thinking.

“TEAM is also an anagram of MEAT...”

= = = = = = =

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