Thursday, March 27. I arrive at the Met and find that my dear little frock, Mary Jane shoes and Bo Peep bonnet are hanging in one of the dressing rooms in the Principal Artist area, just down the hall from Angela Gheorghiu, our Mimì. I am sharing with Mercedes, whose costume is similar to mine. (Although she does have a better hat!) Michelle is there to help us dress, and Tom Watson comes in to put on our wigs. Mercedes’s wig is a rich auburn and mine is a boring brown. (Where the heck are those flashing lights he promised me?) They both have center parts and both have corkscrew curls. I am sure I will look like Olivia de Havilland in Hush Hush, Sweet Charlotte. (Or is it The Heiress?)

Before the wigs are put on, Tom puts our own hair in tight pin curls, firmly—and I do mean firmly—secured with hairpins. Ouch, Tom! My head isn’t one of those dummy blocks in your shop! Next comes a nylon stocking, which makes us look bald. He actually dares us to have a picture taken at this point. We politely decline. Once the wigs are in place, our hats go on. Mine doesn’t look so limp now, it looks rather sweet atop my Olivia wig. Mercedes has a rather spectacular bonnet that frames her face. We stand in front of the mirrors and turn this way and that. We are totally into this now. We are different people—and we love it!

Victor Callegari, head of the Makeup Department, checks us out and declares us fit for the show. All of the debutantes are herded to the stage, and I see that we have a new colleague. His name is Nathan, (are men called debutantes?) and he looks very handsome and dapper in a three-piece suit, top hat and spiffy walking stick. At the stage door, I am met by Roger, my strolling partner, and he takes my arm and we go into the wings. The stage is much darker than it was yesterday, and we must climb a steep staircase in order to reach our opening position. It is not easy. My skirt is too long, and I keep stepping on my hem as we make our way upward.

To my surprise, we arrive at the upper part of the Latin Quarter set, only at the moment it is not attached to all of the shops. It is on a moving platform called a wagon, and once we are all aboard, it begins to slide in from the wings. I feel a little like I am on a tumbrel, on the way to my beheading. But we arrive without incident, our tumbrel is secured to the adjoining piece, and—voilà!—we are on the stage. We don’t waste any time. The curtain goes up, the orchestra strikes up and we begin our walkabout: greeting friends, sampling the wine, just as we did yesterday. But it feels different. The lighting is much lower, lanterns in the store windows are glowing, streetlights are casting shadows. And, lovely as it seems, I’m pretty sure none of my friends will be able to pick me out.

But what does that matter? I know where I am, and I’m having the time of my life.

The aroma of freshly cooked food wafts up to us from the Café Momus. They are actually eating down there! I later learn the principals have been served roast chicken, salad and French fries. But, alas, the deep red liquid in their wine glasses is only cranberry juice.

The bear dances, the donkey brings in the toys, the horse brings in Musetta and the music preceding the waltz begins. No longer the new kid on the block, I go into my Stanislavski mode and prepare myself for the freeze. I don’t itch, sneeze or breathe on anything. Hey, I’m getting good at this! At the end of the act, we have a curtain call, all of us waving to the audience. I am smiling, waving my tri-colored flag, barely managing to keep myself from jumping up in down with excitement.

And then a remarkable thing occurs. Peter Gelb, the General Manager, walks onto the stage, and from the wings on the opposite side comes a man in a wheelchair. 250 faux Parisians crane their necks and there is an unanimous catching of breath. Our visitor is Franco Zeffirelli, the genius who created this production 27 years ago. He is an icon among film and stage aficionados, and he has given the Met some of its greatest productions.

He rises from the chair. He looks good, very elegant with a long scarf draped around his neck. Ms. Gheorghiu runs out and hugs him. Mr. Gelb shakes his hand. The rest of us are agog. This living legend turns to us and begins to speak. From where I am positioned he is difficult to understand, but I am told that he said he was very pleased with what he saw, and that the production looks exactly as it did when he created it. Everyone is extremely moved by this stunning surprise. We are all a bit weepy as we leave the stage.

We debutantes return to our dressing rooms, but we are not to undress. We are going to be photographed by the renowned portrait artist, Jason Schmidt. Hey, is this Christmas for real? Now I know what they mean by an embarrassment of riches.

Act III has already begun when we return to the wings, where the Café Momus set is now standing. Jason is a great-looking guy, full of energy and bubbling with enthusiasm. For those of us who no longer feel so good about having our picture taken, he is just what the doctor ordered. We know we are safe in his hands. He wants to start with a group photo, and he places us around the café. Most of us are sitting; Melva is leaning against the bar. We are holding glasses of cranberry juice. Or so they tell us. No one braves a taste. At Jason’s urging, we smile at each other, we turn our heads this way and that as the camera clicks. Then—out of the blue—a mystery woman rushes in. It happens so fast it takes a moment to recognize her. She is dressed pretty much the same way we are, but she was definitely not in our crowd scene. She plops herself down beside Mercedes, and Jason’s camera clicks like mad. She is Angela Gheorghiu, on a quick break from the scene in which she lies to Rodolfo about her fatal illness and tells him goodbye forever.

The camera clicks and clicks and clicks and then she is up and dashing off to he stage. We are awed by her spontaneity and sense of fun. Who says opera singers are… Oh, never mind. I went through all this when I encountered Paul Plishka. And we can’t wait to see the pictures!

Jason takes individual shots of us, and we head back to the dressing rooms. Mercedes and I help each other out of our costumes and get back into our street clothes. We join Melva and our wonderful friends Gail and Sandra, the Met liaisons who have been at our sides throughout this journey and who have made the entire experience perfection, in the Met cafeteria. We babble excitedly about the events of the day, and those of us who were on stage don’t know what we will have to live for once our debuts are over. We exchange cards, vowing to stay in touch. This is the last time I will see them as performers as we are appearing on different dates. But none of us will forget the camaraderie we have shared. Did Maria Callas and Birgit Nilsson ever have this much fun when they were hangin’ with their buds?

My big night is two weeks away, but I will not be idle as I wait. I have a party to plan, friends to greet, and a whole lot of bragging to do. I am a Diva!

I’ll let you know if anyone slaps me silly.

This entry was posted by Cherokee La Scala on Tuesday, April 1st, 2008 at 10:13 am and is filed under Guest Super Blog, 2007–08 Season. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.