I’m starting to get butterflies. Not because of my upcoming performance. I have my role nailed down. I’m worried about my friends who are coming in from faraway places. I stay in constant touch with them; so far they are good to go. But what if one of them comes down with something? What if mother nature interferes and hits us with a storm? What if planes are grounded?
And I’m nervous about my party. It starts very late. What if everyone is so strung out by Mimì’s sad end they decide to go home and go straight to bed? No, that won’t happen. Mimì makes a curtain call at the end. They’ll be so exhilarated they won’t be able to sleep for hours. And now I’m wondering if the stars would like to come, too. Dare I ask them? Well, why not? They surely like a party as much as anyone else.
But wait. We’re talking Vargas, Arteta, Tézier, Kelsey, Gradus, Plishka. Not to mention Gheorghiu. Or Luisotti, the conductor. Nah. No way. They’re probably all going to Le Cirque. I’ll drink to them in absentia.
I have to decide what to wear. Some of my friends are wearing black tie in my honor. Shouldn’t I wear black tie as well? What exactly is black tie for a woman? Should I wear a long dress? And I’m concerned about my hair. Naturally, I’m going to the beauty shop Saturday morning. But I’m wearing a wig. The wig will flatten it down. How can I greet my fans with flat hair? What would Anna Netrebko do? Maybe I can get Mr. Watson to come home with me and fluff it up. If he can style wigs, he can surely deal with my hair.
Saturday, April 5. I am taking a family of six on a backstage tour. This is the first tour I’ve led since the dress rehearsal, and I am bursting with new information. I begin in the auditorium. It is Saturday afternoon, and the crew is setting up La Bohème. The performance is going to be broadcast in high definition to movie theaters all over the world. The cameras are already in place. And the Latin Quarter set is on the stage. My family group is wide-eyed as I lead them down the aisle toward the orchestra pit. I have a million things to tell them about the auditorium, from the beautiful crystal chandeliers to the 23-carat gold leaf on the ceiling. I point out the conductor’s podium, the prompter’s box, the elegant gold curtain. And I tell them how utterly incredible it is to stand on the stage surrounded by some of the greatest singers in the world. I tell them about my tiny part, and they seem to catch my enthusiasm.
Our second stop is the stage manager’s console. We are in the wings, we can see and hear the hustle and bustle of sets being rolled around, we can hear the sound of hammers and the voices of the stagehands as they call out to each other. We see what seems like miles of cables snaking around the floor. And we can see Renée Fleming standing under the lights, rehearsing her intermission segment. It is all so exciting my family doesn’t want to leave, but we have much more to see and they follow me out, looking back for one last glimpse of the beautiful Ms. Fleming.
I point out the ramp where the performing animals enter the house, the loading dock where the sets that are no longer needed are loaded into enormous containers and taken away to storage facilities until they are needed again. I take them into the principal artists’ dressing room area and, as it is too early for the cast to have arrived, I let them take a peek at the room Mr. Vargas will be occupying shortly. They check out his dressing table, the chaise lounge, the piano, the intercom that allows the stage manager to give them a heads up when an entrance is near. And they see some of Mr. Vargas’s costumes, which are already hanging in the closet.
I show them many more costumes on the fourth floor, where they are actually made. We walk down a long hall filled with racks of sumptuous ball gowns, dashing tunics, colorful gypsy skirts, ruffled petticoats, sequined toreador pants, officers’ uniforms, Lucia’s bloody wedding veil, the elegant red dress Tosca wears when she puts an end to Scarpia. Many of these creations are adorned with sparkling faux jewels and intricate embroidery. I point out the labels sewn inside on which the names of the singers who wore them are written. Some of them have three or four labels, creating a kind of history. I spot a dress that looks familiar. I reach for it. It’s the dress I wear in La Bohème. I pull it out from the rack to show it to my group. I unzip the back to look at the tag. It says C. La Scala. I stare at it. It just doesn’t get any better than this.
Or does it? In the wig department, Tom Watson is preparing a wig for the matinee, but he graciously takes the time to tell us about the making of these creations, the types of hair he uses, the implement that attaches human hair onto a delicate piece of netting. My group looks in awe at the finished products lining his innumerable shelves. Wigs with long, luscious curls, wigs with braids, wigs for countesses and scullery maids. They are all sitting atop wig blocks with the names of the singers who will wear them written on a tape attached to the bottom. Mr. Watson reaches up and takes one of his masterpieces off the shelf. It is made of brown hair, has a center part and corkscrew curls. The name on the tape is C. La Scala. This time I don’t just stare at it. I take my cell phone out of my purse and start to take a picture. But the young man on my tour offers to take it for me, and both Tom and I are in the photograph.
When the tour is over I decide to return to the artists’ dressing rooms and offer good wishes to my fellow cast members Susan, Melva and Nathan, who are making their debuts in today’s matinee. They are already in their costumes and they are happy and excited. And I am filled with envy. They are going to be having all that fun and I have to wait another week. But I’m happy for them, and I wish them “in bocca al lupo,” which is what Italians say when they wish someone well. The fact that it means “in the mouth of the wolf” doesn’t bother them. Hey! It worked for Pavarotti!
I am on automatic pilot now. I am on a non-stop train heading for the Metropolitan Opera. The glorious twenty-five minutes I’m about to experience are front and center of my mind. I go to sleep at night thinking of the moment when the golden curtain will part, the orchestra will begin to play and four thousand people in the darkened auditorium will feast their eyes on the spectacular Latin Quarter scene.
And I will be there. Walking proudly on Roger’s arm. Puccini’s glorious music filling my ears. Sharing a stage with some of the greatest opera singers in the world.
And my friends sitting in the dark, silently cheering me on.
