Page 17 of Our Strange Duet

I would have to pledge myself to the art and to the Angel alone.

I could not let the outside world and all its silly distractions tempt me from this path.

The Angel’s path.

My father’s path.

“All of this can be yours, Christine, if you only do as I ask. Do you understand?”

I think I nodded. So caught up in the electrifying fantasy he’d spun, entranced by the melodious baritone of his beatific voice, it was hard to be sure of anything. I felt as if I’d fallen into a soft haze, a living dream.

It was too beautiful to wake from. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

“Do you swear to me? Christine?”

Only when he prompted, stirring me from my sensuous reverie, did I open my eyes and dare to answer him.

“Yes.”

Chapter 6

Our lessons began in earnest the next day.

In secret, I learned the roles of Marguerite, then Valentine, then Desdemona as the season progressed, opening one show after another. All the while, I kept my position within the corps. Carlotta, certain that one of the chorus men had purposefully walked in front of her while she’d marked through our final dress rehearsal of Faust, had found a new target to torment. I kept my head down, dancing through each day in a series of classes, rehearsals, and performances.

But at night…

I remained in my dressing room long after everyone—even the stage managers—had left. A small gold key had been placed upon my dressing room table, giving me the freedom to sneak in and out of the opera at all hours of the day or night. I took full advantage of the access, poring over scores, practicing the arias and recitatives, and, above all else, soaking up each word my Angel bestowed upon me.

He showed me ways to strengthen my projection, keeping my throat relaxed as I rounded out the shape of my palate. He taught me appoggio breathing, inhaling from below my diaphragm before filling my lungs. We worked on dropping my jaw to help my vowels sound tall and ring true.

“Always remember,” he told me at the end of every lesson. “You are the bell waiting to be rung.”

The image remained with me as I studied my scores, memorizing the new roles. I pictured myself as a beautiful sterling chime, which only came to life when played by the deft hands of her Angel.

But my favorite moments of our time together were when he’d tell me stories, just as Father had.

While I’d take small breaks, sipping hot tea with ginger and mint to help keep my throat warm and wet, he’d murmur the lines of great operas and the myths which had inspired them. He told me the history of the Huguenots and of Faustian bargains. He’d describe the best attributes of operatic heroines, musing on how much of them he saw in me.

“And what of the heroes?” I asked at one lesson in late spring. “Every soprano eventually sings a duet. It can’t be all arias and death scenes.”

He chuckled, a sound which never failed to make my heart soar.

As much as I enjoyed our lessons, it gave me a thrill when we were like this, simply talking with one another. When he was my tutor, it was impossible to forget that he’d been divinely appointed, a being of power and might. But when that was over, when it was just conversation, I dared to believe that we might have actually become companions. Friends, even.

“I suppose every heroine does need a bold, brash young man to fall in love with,” he said, then cleared his throat. “It’s time to revisit ‘Salce, Salce,’ I think.”

“But what’s your favorite?” I pressed, hungry to keep our discussion going.

“My favorite?”

“Duet,” I clarified.

The quiet which followed went on for so long that I feared he’d left.

He did that on occasion, disappearing during a lesson, sometimes even as I was in the middle of an aria. Usually, it was when I was having an off day. He’d claim I wasn’t sufficiently warmed up or that I’d arrived unprepared and unready to work. He’d lash out over a mispronounced phrase, an off-tempo run. And then he’d be gone, leaving me a worried mess, fearing I’d angered him too greatly, terrified he’d never come back.

The first time it happened, I’d sobbed in the dressing room for hours, beseeching the heavens and my father for his return. I’d worked myself into such a state that I couldn’t sing for days after, falling into utter despair and self-loathing.