PHANTOM IN TIME (4 page)

“Hah!”
Bella drew herself upright and shot Gran a scolding look.
“You
send the
roses.”

“I
do not!”

“Gran!”

“They
send the roses,” argued Isabella, “and they also gave you the magnificent gift
of your mother’s voice. You have a responsibility not to forsake that talent—or
their memory.”

Remembering
Lesley Litchfield voicing similar sentiments, Bella muttered, “I suppose . . .
But I'm still afraid my heart may not be in my singing.”

Gran
was aghast, breathing with an effort. “Don't ever say that! You are a De La
Rosa, my girl. Opera is in your blood. Your father always said that if a De La
Rosa opens a vein, a full chorus of
Rigoletto
would come pouring out.
You are meant for life on the stage. You simply have not discovered your true
destiny as yet.”

Bella
fell silent, not wanting to argue with Gran and strain her heart.

Gran
took another nibble of her beignet. “So what did Lesley Litchfield think of
you?”

Bella
laughed. “He said my voice is fine, but lacks conviction.”

“The
conviction will come in time.”

Bella's
expression grew thoughtful. “You know, it's funny . . . I think I may have seen
a couple of ghosts at the theater.”

Isabella
laughed in delight. “Did you?”

“One
of them actually admitted me to the St. Charles.”

“My
word!”

“I
even had a conversation with him—a janitor, named Mr. Usher. Afterward, Lesley
Litchfield told me he's been dead for over twenty years.”

“Yes,
I've heard of Mr. Usher,” remarked Gran. “He haunts the opera house with his
broom.”

Bella
shook her head. “Have you ever encountered him?”

Gran's
eyes widened meaningfully. “No, but I have friends who swear they have.”

“Well,
add me to the list. My other encounter—it was quite brief—was with the ghost of
Jacques LeFevre.”

“Jacques
LeFevre?” Gran clapped her hands. “Oh, I've heard all about that scamp and his
exploits with the ladies. He's a legend in the French Quarter, you know—and to
think my granddaughter actually met him! What did he do?”

Bella
felt another delicious shiver at the memory. “Well, I only saw him for a second
or two, on the stage. He smiled and extended a hand toward me, then he
vanished.”

Gran
chortled. “Be careful, my dear, or that rascal might just sweep you away.”

Lips
twitching, Bella gestured toward the tray. “Eat, Gran.”

Isabella
took a few more nibbles of her doughnut, then set it down and yawned. After
watching her nod off to sleep, Bella retrieved the tray and placed it on the dresser.
She stood for a moment observing her grandmother, poignant feelings welling
inside her. She loved Gran so much. She didn't want to lose her. Even in her
infirm state, she was so full of life!

And
determined to see her granddaughter become a diva. Bella sighed. Isabella meant
well, and was clearly convinced that opera was Bella's destiny. For now, Bella
hadn't the heart to fight her, determined as she was to make Gran's final days
happy ones . . . even though for Bella De La Rosa, opera and passion had always
been linked with obsession and destruction.

For,
just as she had discussed with Lesley Litchfield, Bella had lost her parents to
the opera. Publicly, Carmita and Mario De La Rosa had been renowned opera
stars; privately, they were consumed by the opera and each other. Their
marriage had been marked by passion and jealousy both on and off the stage.

Although
Bella's parents had loved one another fiercely, they had also been ruthless
competitors, often making cruel comparisons: “You sang Mozart tonight with
competence,” Carmita would say to Mario, “but you're no Pavarotti.” Or Bella's
father would remark, “No one can sing Rossini better than Maria Callas,”
ignoring the fact that his wife was currently singing Callas's role in
The
Barber of Seville.
Bella even remembered an occasion when her spiteful
mother had hired a claque to boo Mario's solo during a performance of
Don
Giovanni.
When Bella had asked her father about the incident, he had blamed
an indifferent public and merciless critics, rather than his wife. “Everyone
today is a critic,” Mario had lamented. “Opera singers no longer get the
respect they deserve. Now Caruso, he had respect.”

The
family had been based in San Francisco, but Bella's parents were frequently off
on tour, leaving her with a nanny. The De La Rosas had little time for their
only child, other than to try to enforce their own ambitions on her. Bella had
inherited her mother's world-class voice, but she was a shy, gawky child whose
beauty would not emerge until much later. Still, she had been pushed to take
voice lessons from the time she was four years old. At eight, when her parents
had compelled her prematurely to take the lead role in
Hansel and Gretel,
Bella had frozen at the premiere, and all the children in the audience—students
who had been brought in from schools all over the city—had laughed at her. She
would never forget the image of herself standing at the edge of the stage,
ashen-faced and trembling, rooted to the spot by fear, as the youngsters
cruelly whistled, pointed, and jeered. Humiliated, she had rushed off into the
wings, seeking comfort in her grandmother's arms. But seeing the terrible
disappointment and pity in her parents' eyes had devastated her most of all.

Ever
since her disastrous debut, Bella had been haunted by stage fright. Even when
she managed to struggle through a performance, she sang without conviction or
power. It was as if something had died in her that day she'd been coerced to
perform. Only when she was alone could she give full rein to her brilliant
voice.

Yet
her strong-willed parents had never accepted their only child's limitations.
They had continued to push Bella unmercifully. She had missed her entire
childhood and adolescence, spending all her free hours vocalizing or at
lessons, while other girls her age became cheerleaders or attended the prom. By
the time Bella went on to study opera at the San Francisco Conservatory, she
feared both the stage and emotional intimacy; she had actually felt relieved
that her rigorous studies left her little time for dating or a social life.

Then,
when she was nineteen, she had lost her parents. One terribly stormy night, her
parents were due to perform in San Francisco at the Gaslight Theater. Bella had
begged Carmita and Mario not to leave the family's weekend home above the city,
not just because of the violent weather, but also because Bella was performing
her first recital at the conservatory the following day, and needed her
parents' moral support. But, as always, the impetuous couple refused to miss a
performance; they jauntily headed off for the city and were killed when their
car was swept off the coast highway into the Pacific Ocean.

Devastated
by their deaths, Bella would have abandoned the opera then and there, except
that she could not bear the thought of breaking her grandmother's heart. After
all, Gran was the one who gave her the emotional sustenance she needed to get
through her terrible grief. Thus Bella finished her studies at the conservatory,
and afterward tried out for various companies, even though her heart was not
really in her efforts. Eventually she'd been accepted into the chorus at the
Met, although her life in New York City had never been particularly fulfilling.
It was as if she'd relished the anonymity.

Yet
a month ago, when she had received the call from Gran's doctor and learned of
her failing health, Bella's outlook on life had been drastically altered. She
had immediately settled her affairs in New York and moved to New Orleans.

She
glanced again at Gran, so frail and vulnerable in her chair. Bella’s hands
clenched into fists. She
must
sing lead soprano for Gran, if only once.
She was determined to overcome her fear. Then, once she had dealt with her own
ghosts and made Gran happy, she could safely turn her back on opera forever and
search for meaning in life in her own way.

Chapter Three

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“Good
morning, everyone,” said Lesley Litchfield. “And welcome to
Kaleidoscope
.”

At
10 A.M. Monday morning, Bella sat on the stage of the St. Charles, surrounded
by thirty or so members of the opera company. The vocalists and dancers were
seated in rows on folding chairs, while Lesley Litchfield stood at the edge of
the stage, beneath the splendid old proscenium arch. Beyond him at the back of
the auditorium, workmen were chipping away at cracked plaster and ripping up
seats from the floor; Litchfield had to speak loudly to be heard over the din.

So
far today, Bella had spotted no additional ghosts at the St. Charles; but then,
she had arrived onstage with only seconds to spare, after having been detained
in the wings by the managing director, Robert Mercer. Mercer had introduced
himself to Bella and had asked her to wait for him onstage following
orientation so he could go over her duties and compensation.

“For
those of you who are new to the St. Charles,” Litchfield was saying, “I must
tell you you're going to be in for a real treat. You'll be working in one of
the most famous theaters in the Old South. The St. Charles was built in 1896,
the construction funded by an endowment from the New Orleans philanthropist
Waxton Thurfield. Over the years, the St. Charles has seen performances of such
notables as Adelina Patti, Enrico Caruso, Mario Lanza, and Maria Callas. The
theater has changed ownership at least half a dozen times, but has managed to
stay open despite epidemics, wars, the Great Depression, even hurricanes.
Moreover, the St. Charles has the distinction of having its own resident ghost—the
famous tenor Jacques LeFevre, who was murdered in 1896.”

Snickers
flitted over the company, and the pretty girl sitting next to Bella winked at
her conspiratorially.

Litchfield
raised an eyebrow. “Laugh if you will, people, but I assure you, if you spend
any time here, you will have an encounter with one of our phantoms—either
LeFevre or Walter Usher, a janitor who died over two decades ago. Both seem to
be benevolent spirits, and no harm has come to anyone from encountering them .
. .” Litchfield grinned. “Although LeFevre does have quite a penchant for the
female of the species—so, ladies, be warned.”

Feminine
titters rippled over the gathering.

“Indeed,
since Jacques was killed during a performance of the original
Kaleidoscope
—”

“You're
kidding!” called out an amazed masculine voice, while several of the women
gasped.

“Not
at all,” affirmed Litchfield. “Poor Jacques was done in on this very stage, on
a summer night a hundred years ago. In fact, during the restaging, it's quite
possible Jacques may materialize more than ever, perhaps trying to find his
murderer.”

Stunned
whispers replaced the chuckles.

Litchfield
donned his glasses and consulted his notes. “I think all of you will find
Kaleidoscope
fascinating. We're going to be doing a nostalgic re-creation of the original
1896 production—minus the murder, of course.”

“Or
so we'll hope!” exclaimed the same young man.

Once
the mirth had died down, Litchfield proceeded. “
Kaleidoscope
was one of the
first presentations offered at the St. Charles. It was an evening of mixed
repertoire, combining everything from vignettes from classical opera to folk,
patriotic, and popular tunes from the Gay Nineties era. Although much
Kaleidoscope
memorabilia has been lost over the years, we've been fortunate enough to
acquire an original program and some production notes. We shall follow the 1896
program as faithfully as possible, but, due to its unusual length, we shall be
cutting a few numbers—such as 'Three Little Maids from School.' We will also
replace a couple of the more maudlin tunes with songs we find more apropos to
the Gilded Age. Our set designer and wardrobe mistress will work overtime to
create sets and costumes appropriate to the era. As for the theater itself . .
. “

Glancing
out at the cluttered auditorium, Litchfield shook his head. “One inconvenience
we'll have to endure is the completion of renovation during rehearsals.
However, since the theater is being restored to its original glory, the auditorium
will become the crown jewel in the overall splendor of our restaging.” He
paused as a loud crash resounded from the back of the opera house. “But I'm
afraid the noise cannot be helped.”

“Maybe
it'll scare away the ghosts!” remarked another man.

Litchfield
smiled. “Don't count on it.” He pointed aloft. “A unique aspect of our
production will be the old chandelier hanging above the stage.”

Everyone
glanced up at the massive crystal chandelier, four huge tiers of prisms
yellowed by dust and age.

“In
the original production, the chandelier played a pivotal role,” Litchfield
explained. “During scene changes, the lights would go down, the chandelier
would revolve, and colored spotlights would be bounced off it, shooting
glimmers of light all over the stage. Right now, the rotation device is barely
functional, but our engineer assures me it will be in good order soon. Indeed,
it was during one of the scene changes of the original production—while the
lights were low and the chandelier was revolving—that Jacques LeFevre was
murdered. When the lights came back up, he lay dead onstage with a knife
protruding from his back. And the identity of his assassin remains a mystery to
this day.”

The
company fell hushed, and Bella stifled a shudder.

“Before
we proceed further,” said Litchfield, “I'd like to introduce our principal
singers—and please, everyone stand as I call your name.” He pointed in turn
toward several people in the front row. “Anna Maria Bernard, our soprano. Emily
Throckmorton, our mezzo. Victor Daly, our tenor; Giles Leopold, our baritone.
And I'd like all of you to welcome the newest addition to our chorus, Bella De
La Rosa of the famous De La Rosa family. Bella’s grandmother Isabella is a
cherished patron of this theater. Bella, would you also stand, please?”