“Excuez-moi,” he said. “Do you speak English?”
“A bit,” the man said.
“Bien.” Maddox nodded. “Is there any chance that my friend here could sing on the stage?”
What?
“We usually do not allow such things,” he answered, “but I recognize you, Mr. Jones. You wouldn’t ask something like that if the person couldn’t sing. Let me talk to the manager and see what we can do. Would you like to join him?”
“Yes,” I said. “If I have to stand on that stage, he has to go with me.”
“Very good. I’ll find the manager and be right back.” The official trotted off, and Maddox turned to me.
“I can’t sing.” He laughed.
“You’re the lead singer in Robot Servant.” I slapped his arm. “You can sing.”
“Not Faust!”
“No, but you can sing. You’re going up there with me. I won’t stand there alone. Do you knowAu Fond du Temple Saint?”
He looked surprised. “I do, actually.”
“Good, we’ll do that if they let us up there.” I nodded.
“I know the David Byrne version.”
“That’s the real version,” I answered. “I mean, they sing it the right way. It’s a duet. Do you know Zurga or Nadir’s part better?” He stared at me, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “David or Rufus Wainwright?”
“Oh, Rufus.” Cocking his head, he considered me a moment. “You really do know this stuff, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t have a bachelor’s if I didn’t.”
“Gentlemen,” the official called to us as he walked back. “The manager is agreeable under the condition that you also give him a rendition ofKilling.” He grinned. “It appears that you have a big fan in our manager.”
They were going to let us sing on the stage of the Palais Garnier.
Holy crap.
The official walked up the stairs after pointing us down a hall that was markedStaff Only. We walked down the corridor and found a man in a suit standing there, grinning to beat the band.
“Monsieur Jones!” He stuck his hand out. “This is a real delight. I’m Monsieur Fournier, the manager of the Palais Garnier. Welcome, welcome.” Maddox shook his hand and a moment later, the man turned to me. “And you are…?”
“Aaron Donner, the new drummer for the band.”
“Ah!” He grabbed my hand and shook it for all it was worth. “Very good, a pleasure!” Turning back to Maddox, he motioned us to the stage. “What would you like to sing? Do you need an accompanist?”
“Is there a piano?” I asked.
“Don’t tell me you also play piano?” Maddox stared at me hard.
“Okay, I won’t. But it’s not as good as my percussion, cello, or guitar.” I grinned. I turned to Fournier. “I think we can manage with just the piano. May I run through a warm up first?”
He bowed to the stage, and swept his hand out, directing me to the instrument center stage. I sat down and pulled the bench to where I wanted it. I glanced at the name on the front panel and promptly gasped, “C. Bechstein. Oh, my God. I’m going to insult this.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” Maddox said, sitting next to me.
“This is an orchestrated piano. It’s about three hundred thousand dollars.”
