Page 106 of Our Strange Duet

“Seven-eight time is a bit trickier than it looks, yes?” he quipped, eliciting nervous chuckles throughout the company.

In truth, the score was next to impossible.

Erik’s compositions were far more complex than anything the Opéra Populaire had ever produced. The time signatures changed constantly, the syncopations were finicky, and the lyrics…I’d stayed up for nights in a row, pacing about my apartment as I tried—sometimes through tears—to memorize their unusually sophisticated stylings.

It was unlike any opera I’d ever heard and, while it would be magnificent to behold and groundbreaking to perform, the rehearsals to get us there would be fraught. I honestly wasn’t sure the current company would be up to the immense challenge.

Beside me, Ubaldo was already beginning to struggle.

We’d arrived at the lothario’s entrance, and he’d stood, pulling his music stand up with him, readying to join the chorus. “Those who tangle with Don Juan—”

Monsieur Reyer leapt to his feet, waving for the pianist to stop. “Excuse me, Maestro, but no, no, no!”

Maestro Messenger gave the room a knowing glance as he sat back on his stool. “Chorus—rest, please.”

They collapsed into their chairs, taking great sips of water and tea from cups squirreled beneath their seats. Several of the women fanned themselves with their score pages.

Monsieur Reyer crossed to the piano and nearly pushed Monsieur Loggia from his seat to pick out the string of notes. “Don Juan—Signor Piangi—here is the phrase: ‘Those who tangle with Don Juan…’ If you please?”

Ubaldo tried again, but he was still flat, and out of time.

Monsieur Reyer’s face grew pinched. “No. Nearly…but no.” He played the correct phrasing over and over in demonstration. “ ‘Those who tan, tan, tan…’ ”

Ubaldo shifted from foot to foot as whispers began to rise from the chorus behind us. There was a flush of red peeking up from the collar of his shirt. I’d never seen the tenor look so flustered.

“Those who tangle with Don Juan—”

I winced at the rushed line.

Carlotta glanced toward me, finally acknowledging my presence. “His way is better, don’t you think?”

So stunned was I that she was voluntarily speaking to me, I could only shrug.

“At least he makes it sound like music,” she went on. “This is absurd.”

“It is a complicated score,” I allowed. “But I’d be careful what you say.” She stared blankly at me, and I wanted to squirm beneath her heavy gaze. “You wouldn’t speak that way if the composer were here, would you?”

I glanced around the room, looking meaningfully at the wall of mirrors the corps de ballet used for their rehearsals. Carlotta squinted at our reflections before rolling her eyes.

At the piano, Monsieur Reyer plunked out the phrase again. “Signor Piangi—after seven. Five, six, seven…”

Ubaldo was wrong again and stamped his foot as the room groaned.

At the podium, Maestro Messenger had all but given up. He’d turned his back to us and was chatting with the stage manager, openly lamenting their predicament.

Carlotta let out a groan. “Ah, più non posso! What does it matter what notes we sing?”

“Cara, cara,” Ubaldo said, snapping his fingers at her. He tried the phrase again, then turned to me. “Is it right?”

I offered him a pained smile, and he let out a string of curses.

Monsieur Reyer played out the phrase again, striking the keys with far more force than needed.

“I do my best,” Ubaldo said miserably. “But I do not understand. Is it…is it…‘Those who tangle with Don Juan?’ ”

Monsieur Reyer let out a snarl of frustration. “For God’s sake, man!”

“No one will care if any of this is right or wrong,” Carlotta opined, pushing aside her music stand to rub Ubaldo’s back.