Saturday, April 12th
The flowers started arriving two days ago. First, a glorious, enormous arrangement from my special man, Dave. Then a string of smaller, but no less beautiful bouquets from friends. Today my apartment is filled with sweet smells and heavenly blossoms. How did so many people know I was desperate for flowers? I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to appear to be asking for them. Let’s face it. I didn’t want to look pathetic. But my bounty is not limited to flowers. I receive champagne. And the book, “Zeffirelli at the Met,” autographed by the great man.

At 10:30 in the morning I take Carole, Diane, Nina and Marcia, my wonderful friends who flew in from Oklahoma, California and Hawaii, on a backstage tour. They are dazzled by the auditorium, amazed by the quality and detail of the costumes and thrilled to stand on the stage. On the fourth floor, I point out the scale model of Act II of La Bohème and show them the spot where I am most likely to be strutting my stuff. After the tour I go home, hoping to take a nap. But the phone keeps ringing, the flowers keep arriving, and now I’m the one who is dazzled, amazed and thrilled. I think I know what Sally Field meant when she made her “You like me! You really like me!” speech at the Academy Awards.

6 P.M. Dave leaves to pick up the out-of-towners at their hotel and escort them to the Grand Tier Restaurant, where they have a sumptuous pre-opera dinner. Alone in my apartment, I muse on the wonders of this day and feel a delicious sort of joy, not only for my own good fortune, but for my friends who are about to experience Zeffirelli’s La Bohème. My phone continues to ring, but I don’t answer now. I want some quiet time, some time to ponder and speculate on what is less than two hours away. All day people have been asking me if I am excited. Of course I am. But deep down I am serene. And utterly content.

7:30 P.M. I leave for the opera house. The security guard on duty tells me I am glowing so much I am my own spotlight, and there is no way anyone will miss me when I make my entrance. In the principal artists’ dressing room I find two more beautiful flower arrangements. And my “team” is awaiting me: Suzi Gomez, my dresser, a delightful woman who makes me feel as much a star as her other charge, someone by the name of Angela Gheorghiu; Victor Callegari, who gives me cheekbones and luscious, pouty lips with his magical makeup techniques; Joe Barnes, director of supernumeraries, who welcomes me warmly. Tom Watson, head of the wig department, is not here. In his place is his affable assistant, Craig. Charming and amusing, he keeps me smiling as he deftly executes my pin curls, pulls on the stocking cap and arranges the corkscrew curls on my wig. Because it is still early, we leave my bonnet and shawl for later. And of course there is the amazing Gail, ready to offer support, answer questions, help with anything I need. I hand her my camera and she documents this unique experience.

When Roger arrives we greet each other like old friends. He leads me to the stage and suggests looking for a bent nail, the legendary good luck talisman that will insure a stellar performance. We find two. Guaranteed success, we climb the rickety staircase and stand on the wagon that will move us out from the wings. We can see the stars in the cast taking their Act One curtain calls. And we can hear the rapturous applause. I take a deep breath. The wagon begins to move.

Although I have had two rehearsals, I am not prepared for the moment when the curtain parts. While I cannot see the audience in the darkened auditorium, I can feel its presence. It is like a living, breathing organism, something out of a science fiction film, a huge undefined entity with a mind of its own. When the full force of the Latin Quarter kicks in, I can feel a split-second collective silence. Then comes the explosion of excited applause. My spine begins to tingle. Roger and I begin our walk. We move easily through the crowd, we nod to this one and that one, we engage in pantomimed conversation, we inspect a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese.

And I realize I do not have on my bonnet or my shawl. They are still in my dressing room.

I am mad at my forgetfulness, it is almost as if I have let down Zeffirelli himself. And I am embarrassed, as if I am in one of those dreams where you inexplicably find yourself on a busy street without clothes. But I am on the stage, and it is too late for self-recrimination. Roger, unaware of my dismay, slowly, but deliberately, leads me to stage left, where the bear will dance and the fortune teller is reading palms. And where the light will allow me to be seen. But will my friends who, that very morning, saw my costume and all its components, recognize me without my bonnet and shawl? I suppress that thought. Didn’t the security guard tell me I am my own spotlight? The next 25 minutes are for me. I lift my chin and straighten my shoulders. All my secret actress fantasies kick in. I am animated, I smile at Roger as he hands me a flower. I hold out my hand to the palm reader. She tells me I will be taking a long trip, it will be to Tahiti. And she tells me Roger is going to give me a diamond necklace. And that the diamonds will be big. I smile at Roger again.

A woman wearing entirely too much rouge sashays by and holds out her hand to Roger. He does not take it. Minutes later she tries again, a come hither smile on her face. I smack her with my flower.

I am aware of every moment: the wonderful voices of the choristers, the excitement of the children, the waving arms of the conductor. The awe and joy that is emanating from that mysterious, unseeable thing that is the audience. I drink it in like someone who has been lost in the desert and suddenly comes upon a geyser, and I imprint it on my eyes and ears. The 25 minutes go fast, too fast, but when the curtain comes down I do not feel sad. The second act of La Bohème will be with me forever.

When I return to the dressing room, I am blinded by flashbulbs. For one inane second I wonder if the paparazzo has mistaken me for Britney Spears. But, no, the cameras belong to Judy and Mary, two other backstage guides and my good friends, who are yelling “Brava!” and snapping away. They hug me, they say I was great. I pose for pictures with everyone within shooting range, including Paul Plishka, who is already in street clothes and ready to go home.

Back in my dressing room, Suzi unlaces me and helps me out of my costume. Craig removes my wig and fluffs up my hair. Joe Barnes tells me I performed beautifully, as if I had been on the stage all my life. Although I have to go home and get ready for my party, I linger, reluctant to leave this newfound world which, like Brigadoon, is about to disappear into the mist. When I finally do leave, my arms filled with flowers, I am walking on air.

Back in my apartment, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. The glow is still there. But the rouge is too strong for the real world, and I carefully tone it down with makeup base. My party dress is hanging on a closet door. I reach for it, change my mind and rummage around for something else. My plan is to arrive at the restaurant before the opera’s final curtain falls, but when I look at my watch I realize I am going to be late. Instead of greeting my guests as they enter, it is going to be the other way around. I get there as fast as I can.

As I walk into the restaurant, flash bulbs pop, applause rings in my ears and Dave places a cascade of flowers in my arms. As I walk around greeting people, I learn that everyone saw me, bonnet-less as I was, that their opera glasses were trained on me the entire 25 minutes and that many of them missed the horse and donkey completely. The party is warm and fuzzy. I am so happy to see so many of my friends celebrating my half hour of fame, business world meeting music world, academia schmoozing with personal trainers, and none of them at a loss for words. And we have a surprise guest: Maestro James Conlon, who was spotted in the adjacent restaurant having dinner with his daughter, Emmy, and encouraged to come in and join our fun. He is very gracious, and Emmy is a charmer.

The party breaks up at 2 A.M. As I leave the restaurant, the Maitre d’ asks me what I was celebrating. I raise my voice just a little, in case some of his regular clientele are listening.

I say: “I made my debut at the Metropolitan Opera.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone at the Met for making this impossible dream come true. And a very special thank you to Gail Chesler, who made it perfect.

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.

Because my debut is still more than a week away, I feel I should use the time to learn more about La Bohème and the people involved in the production. I have decided to do my best to immerse myself in its magic.

Monday, March 31. Eleven days to go.
The Metropolitan Opera Guild is honoring Franco Zeffirelli at their annual luncheon at the Waldorf Astoria, and I am in attendance. The ballroom is packed, and it looks beautiful with its gilt interior and shining chandeliers. There is a stage at one end that serves as a dais for important guests. It also holds a huge screen on which the speakers and entertainers are projected, allowing the audience a good look at everyone taking part in the tribute.

After a greeting by Guild President Susan Braddock, we are introduced to an array of distinguished artists from theater, film and opera, all of whom have worked in a Zeffirelli production, and many of whom are his personal friends. The parade of stars includes Lucine Amara, Justino Díaz, Rosalind Elias, Marcello Giordani, Sherrill Milnes, Patricia Racette, Regina Resnik, Jeremy Irons, and Michael York.

We dine on Tosca Napoleon, Chicken Turandot and Tiramisù Franco. What? You don’t know what that is? Well, I actually ate it and I still don’t know. But it tasted fine. We pause between courses to listen to accolades delivered by these awesome people. We are treated to two Romanian folksongs sung by Angela Gheorghiu, and her rendering of Puccini’s “O mio babbino caro,” during which Mr. Zeffirelli rises from his table and takes the role of her “beloved Daddy,” overacting shamelessly as he reacts to her pleas to allow her to marry, weeping copiously at the end. They receive a rousing ovation.

Jeremy Irons delivers the keynote speech, recalling his long association with the honoree and offering amusing incites to his personal life. I learn, among other things, that Zeffirelli’s real name is Gianfranco Corsi, that he was dubbed “zefiretti” by his mother (zefiretto means “little breeze” in Italian) and this somehow morphed into Zeffirelli, that he can be bad tempered, that he is a former member of the Italian Senate, and that he sleeps with six dogs. (I am not making this up!) When he is formally introduced, a huge shower of confetti and streamers are released to the strains of “Nessun dorma” from Turandot.

Mr. Zeffirelli seems to be deeply moved by all this. Speaking in what he calls his “Anglo Fiorentino,” he tells us he has never experienced anything in his life like the waves of love that have surrounded him in the past five days. He speaks with charm and humor, and from the heart. He assures us he’s not finished yet, he is 85, he has another half century to live. The audience screams with encouragement. And I am so proud to be appearing in a Zeffirelli production.

Tuesday, April 1. Ten days to go.
I attend a performance of La Bohème. From the moment the curtain opens on the garret shared by Rodolfo, Schaunard, Colline and Marcello, I am lost. The music washes over me and I relax in my seat. It is all familiar, but I can never get enough of it. Angela Gheorghiu as Mimì is heartbreakingly beautiful. The applause at the end of the act echoes my feelings.

There is a short pause before Act ll. The lights go up and latecomers rush to their seats. I am throbbing with anticipation. The next act is the Latin Quarter. Although I am not on stage, my spirit is right up there with the Christmas Eve revelers, the dancing bear, the white horse and the donkey with the red hat. But my eyes are in the auditorium, and I scrutinize the scene, mulling over my chances of being recognized by my friends. Although it is twilight, it is not as dark as I thought. And some areas are brighter than others. I make a mental note to ask Roger to lead me to those places when the time comes. And I study the women’s costumes. The dress styles are similar, but the colors differ. Most of them seem to be dark red, brown or gray. My costume is dark blue. I’m feeling optimistic now. I am going to be seen!

I watch the freeze when Musetta does her star turn. It is quite effective—people who are moving purposefully around the stage suddenly and unanimously turn into department store mannequins. The old-fashioned costumes and the sepia color projected by the lanterns and streetlights make it look like an old Life magazine cover. And, of course, it means I will be standing still for a minute or two, hopefully a little apart from the crowd. Thank you, Mr. Zeffirelli, for giving this opera that lovely unique moment.

The rest of the opera is, of course, glorious, particularly Act III, when a soft snowfall covers the stage. The audience claps and screams “bravo” when it finally ends and the singers take their curtain calls. As I depart, I am walking on air. To think I am going to be a part of all this! Lost in the crowd or not, I must do my very best to live up to the Met’s professional standards. And I realize there is some important preparation I must do between now and my big night.

I must play my recording of La Bohème once or twice a day and practice the freeze every time Musetta sings her waltz.