It is March 20th, and I am called for an actual costume fitting. At last I will be able to discover the 19th-century Parisian I am destined to be. Since the day I was measured I have been trying to imagine how I will look and what sort of person I will become. Will I literally be a Bohemian—a frill-free suffragette type who lives in a garret and burns her petticoats in order to stay warm? Or am I the wife of a successful Parisian businessman dressed for a party in a chic little suit with a bustle and perhaps a small cocktail hat perched on my neatly coiffed head?

Or let’s take it one step further. Maybe I am really upscale, a socialite perhaps, or a famous actress, or even a Russian Countess who has fled the Revolution with jewels hidden in her bodice! At the Metropolitan Opera House, anything is surely possible.

As I ponder all this while waiting for the elevator, I suddenly become aware of the man standing next to me. He has a certain presence about him. Although he is not tall, he looks rather imposing, and although he is not young, he is handsome with his silvery hair. And he looks familiar, like someone I know but can’t really place. I am brazen enough to look at him directly, and I realize he is a singer. Why, he is Paul Plishka, the American bass who is a fixture at the Met, extremely versatile, popping up in all sorts of roles that run the gambit from the title role in Falstaff to Alcindoro in La Bohème. In fact—and I catch my breath as this begins to register—he is portraying Musetta’s wealthy beau this very season. In the Christmas Eve scene at the Café Momus, my scene! I wonder if I should introduce myself. I am only a part of the crowd, but we are sharing the stage. Surely it would not be untoward for one colleague to greet another. As a matter of fact it would be considered ill-mannered if one didn’t.

I take the plunge. My instinct is to address him as “Maestro”—or is that only for conductors? I settle for “Mr. Plishka.” He acknowledges me and smiles politely when I tell him my name and inform him of our collaboration, incidental though it is. Naturally, I explain my role, and he nods with an air of understanding with slightly bemused overtones. He says something like, “How nice.” The elevator arrives and the door opens. He asks if I am going down. I tell him I am going up—to Wardrobe to try on my costume. Since the elevator is heading downward, he steps in and smiles again before the door closes. I am thrilled. What a delightful man! Who says opera singers are temperamental and stuck up?

In the costume shop I am greeted by a woman named Michelle, and we get right down to business. She pulls a long woolen dress from a rack. It is dark blue, imprinted with a sprinkling of tiny beige-colored flowers. It has a high neck and sleeves that pouf out from the elbow, but fit tightly around my wrists. It’s not exactly Countess-like, but it is pretty in a cozy kind of way. I strip down to my underwear and reach for it. But wait. This gown has underpinnings of its own. Not one, but two enormous crinolines. I slip them on. They are beautiful and sway when I walk. They make me want to dance. The dress slides over them and is laced up the back. A black band cinches my waist. The high neck makes my own neck look long. I step into low black shoes with “Mary Jane” style straps over my instep. I stare at myself in the mirror. I like what I see.

Michelle tosses a dark blue stole over my shoulders and places a frilly bonnet on my head. I’m okay with the stole, but the bonnet flattens my hair and gives my face a pinched look. I turn to Michelle and ask if we can try something else. She tells me there is something else, picks up the phone, and asks to be connected to the wig department. The wig department! She asks if Tom Watson can come and have a look at me. I perk up considerably. Mr. Watson is the head of the Met’s wig department, a fantasy place where a woman with limp blond hair can be turned into a sexy redhead with thick shiny curls cascading down her back, or a man with no hair at all can look like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. When Mr. Watson arrives my bonnet is removed and he measures my head. I ask if he can give me something that stands out from the crowd so my friends in the audience will be able to recognize me. He suggests something with flashing lights… Yeah, right. In my dreams. I give a resigned sigh. I have a feeling I’m going to look like Little Bo Peep.

And then it’s over. Mr. Watson leaves, I am unlaced, untied, unshod, and myself again, slipping into my plain black pants and jacket. I no longer sway when I walk, my neck doesn’t resemble a swan’s in the least. But my costume is carefully hung on the rack and my Mary Janes sit beneath. I do not know who wore these things before me or who will wear them in the future. But, for now, these are my clothes, as surely as if they were in my own closet. And the next time I put them on we’ll be going for a walk together—on the great stage of the Metropolitan Opera.

And I expect Mr. Plishka to ask me to call him “Paul” any day now.

This entry was posted by Cherokee La Scala on Thursday, March 27th, 2008 at 12:52 pm and is filed under Guest Super Blog, 2007–08 Season. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.