Prima Donna at Large (9 page)

Caruso finally got to come out of the wings. Once on stage, he started acting the clown, trying to lighten the mood. While I was doing my dance with the castanets, he made all sorts of improper remarks that normally would have had me in stitches. And when he knelt at my feet to sing the
Flower Song
he kept tickling my ankle. But the Caruso magic just wasn't working; when rehearsal finally ended, everyone left in a sour mood.

I was stopped on my way out by a shabby figure that materialized out of the shadows backstage. “The Duchon wrong,” he said earnestly. “You not listen.”

“Don't you worry about that, Uncle Hummy, I have no intention of listening. You were here the whole time?”

He nodded vigorously. “Here since last night.”

That stopped me. “You spent the
night
in the opera house?”

A look of alarm grew on his face. “Tell Mr. Gatti?”

“No, I'm not going to tell anybody. But I don't think that's such a good idea, Uncle Hummy. Maybe you'd better not do it again.” He looked so distressed I added, “Well, maybe you'd better not
tell
anybody, I mean.”

He understood; his thin lips stretched back in a big grin. He bobbed his head and mumbled something I didn't understand and shuffled off to whatever niche he'd staked out for himself.

When I got home I telephoned Emmy Destinn. “You're right,” I said. “He's a monster.”

She knew right off whom I meant. “What did he do?”

So I told her everything that had happened at rehearsal—Duchon's demand that a door be installed upstage center, his insulting suggestion about my breath control, his walking out of rehearsal. I even told her my own imprudent remark about Duchon's wanting Gatti-Casazza's job.

“You know, I was wondering about that,” Emmy said. “Duchon is so overbearing—he just has to run things. He is not a man to take the loss of his own opera house lying down.”

“You think I'm right, then?”

“Probably.” She giggled. “You may have sabotaged him a little, though, bringing it out into the open like that. He truly did just walk out of rehearsal?”

“He truly did.”

“Sure of himself, isn't he? One performance in this country, and already he is dictating terms.”

“Well, he thinks he has Gatti over a barrel. As long as Pasquale Amato is out, Duchon can pretty much do as he pleases.”

“He must not know about Jimmy Freeman, then.”

“Ah, but he does!” I told her about our encounter with Jimmy in Delmonico's.

“You've had a busy day,” Emmy remarked.

When I'd hung up, I sat and thought about Philippe Duchon. At the time we left the restaurant, we'd been friendly if not actual friends. But that was over now, little as it was. Now we were all going to have to go into our next performance with a baritone who refused to rehearse and with all the ill-will such presumptuousness generated. The man's behavior was unpardonable. Duchon seemed to have forgotten that
Carmen
was the
woman's
opera; he should have taken his cue from
me
.

I called Scotti and told him I was going to need some unusually sympathetic company that evening.

5

“At least Tiffany's does not change,” Caruso said, looking around with an appreciative sigh. “Everything else in the world changes, but not Tiffany's.”

“It's only been here ten years, Rico,” I remarked. Caruso had come along to help me pick out a silver jewel box I wanted to give my mother for her birthday. It was the kind of shopping expedition Jimmy Freeman usually accompanied me on, but I hadn't seen the angry young baritone for more than a week.

“Look at Fifth Avenue!” Caruso went on plaintively. “It turns into the street of commerce! And the lobster palaces, they close down. Rector's, Shanley's—gone, gone!”

Restaurants were important to the tenor. “I miss Rector's too,” I admitted. “It was a good place to be seen.”

“Lobster Newburg and White Seal champagne,” he sighed. “Venison chops. Lynnhaven oysters. The Café de l'Opéra, it is gone too. And this year they make Hammerstein's Victoria into motion picture house!” He made a gesture of disgust. “Motion pictures—pah!”

“You're getting old, Rico,” I laughed. “I remember a time when you were delighted by everything new. It didn't matter what it was, just so long as it was new! Besides, aren't you being a little hard on the motion pictures?”

“But they have no sound!” he cried. “How can you have opera without singing?”

He was thinking of my acceptance of Mr. de Mille's invitation to go to California in the summer and make a film version of
Carmen
. “Don't think of it as opera,” I said. “Think of it as something different.”

Just then the Tiffany's assistant who was helping us and
his
assistant came back with four silver jewel boxes, which they placed ceremoniously on the velvet-covered table where Caruso and I were sitting. The tenor immediately went into a paroxysm of ecstasy; he loved
objets d'art
and couldn't keep his hands off the jewel boxes.

“Look at this one, Gerry, it has secret drawer that you open from the back! And here is one with cherubs on the lid, and fancy posies on the side … and this one! This one, it plays a little tune!”

They
were
nice. My mother would like any one of them—but then she always liked everything I gave her, bless her. Eventually I made my selection. Caruso bought the other three.

We asked that the boxes be delivered and left. Caruso's motor car and chauffeur were waiting out front for us; we climbed in hurriedly to get out of the cold. “The Hotel Astor,” Caruso told the chauffeur, and to me: “We pay Pasquale a little visit, yes?”

I hadn't been to see Amato since the day after the
Madame Sans-Gêne
première. I am as terrified of infection as any other singer, and even that first visit to Amato's sickroom had been motivated more by remorse than by anything else, since I was the one who'd given the baritone his cold. I wanted to go see him … but I didn't want to go see him.

Caruso knew what I was thinking. “Do not worry,
cara
Gerry. I and Scotti, we figure out way to talk to Pasquale safely. You see.”

Well, I saw, all right. Scotti was already there, demonstrating the procedure. What they'd figured out was an arrangement whereby the visitors would sit in one room and shout through the open bedroom door to Amato. Amato, resting his voice, would scribble an answer on a notepad, and a valet would then run into the other room carrying the message. It wasn't the latest thing in rapid communication, but it worked.

Even the ever-cantankerous Dr. Curtis approved. He was putting on his coat to leave, but paused long enough to say, “Amato needs cheering up. He could use some company.”

“And what am I?” Scotti asked indignantly. “A piece of furniture?”

Dr. Curtis ignored him and said to me, low, “Gerry, if Amato asks you about Duchon, tell him you were all a little disappointed in him, or some such. He's feeling just well enough to start worrying about a new rival taking over his roles.”

I glanced at Scotti. “Did you tell Toto?”

He shook his head. “Amato knows Scotti and Caruso both will lie to him and tell him anything they think might cheer him up. But for some reason he trusts you. Tell him what he wants to hear.”

“For some reason!”
I exclaimed. “Well, I like that!”

“Don't be so touchy, Gerry, you know what I mean. Just don't stay too long.” And with that, the good doctor hurried away.

The valet came running in and handed me a piece of paper. It had one word written on it:
Duchon?

I could see only the foot of Amato's bed from where I was sitting. “Frankly, we're a little disappointed in our French import,” I called out, taking my cue from Dr. Curtis. “He sings well enough, but he's not the shining star we'd all been led to expect.”

The valet rushed into the bedroom and returned with another piece of paper:
Trouble?

“Yes, I think you could say there's trouble,” I shouted. Caruso half-laughed, half-groaned. I said, “Duchon is as big a bully as Toscanini.”

Scotti's face lit up. “Is it true?”

“Didn't Rico tell you? He's refused to rehearse.”

“Oh, that. Yes, Rico tells me. I think there is something more.”

“Good heavens, Toto, isn't that enough? But come to think of it, there is something more. He's holding me to a promise I made, to sing a joint concert with him.”

Caruso looked surprised. “You go through with it?”

I sighed. “I did say I'd do it.”

Scotti asked, “Do you sign anything?”

“No, but it's a benefit concert, Toto. For Alsatian war relief. If it were just a regular concert, I wouldn't do it. But I feel obligated to help.” I hadn't told anyone about Duchon's tragic encounter with the Germans when he was a boy; that was his private story and for him to tell, not me.

Amato's valet was back with a new piece of paper:
Talk louder
.

I raised my voice and said, “Duchon invited me to lunch at Delmonico's last week. He apologized for insulting me when we'd first met and was nice as could be. Then we went to rehearsal and he insulted me again! Why did he bother trying to make friends if he was going to insult me all over again?”

“Because he wants something from you,” Scotti said dryly.

“No, no,” Caruso protested. “Duchon is not so, ah, calculating. He is but moody. Good mood one minute, not so good the next.” He asked the valet to bring him some paper from Amato's notepad.

Note from Amato:
How did he insult you?

“The first time, he called me a German-lover,” I shouted. “The second time, he implied I didn't have good breath control.”

Scotti looked amused. “Which is worse?”

“The second one,” I snapped, “and stop smirking.
You
don't have to sing with him.”

“Che fortuna!”
Scotti rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Do you know he complains of sore throat?” Caruso said, sketching away. He was drawing caricatures of Scotti and me. I knew what mine would look like: all mouth and teeth.

“Who is complaining of a sore throat?” I asked. “Duchon?”

“For two days now,” the tenor nodded. “I send him my throat spray.”

Oh, wonderful. That was all we needed. Another baritone flat on his back.

Scotti laughed. “Your young protégé may get his chance after all, Gerry.”

“No, no, it is not that bad,” Caruso said hastily. “Duchon still sings. But we must all be very careful,” he added ominously. “So much sickness around!”

In the next room Amato coughed pitifully, once.

“Poor Pasquale!” Caruso sang out on cue. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

The note the valet brought in was for me.
Move in with me, Gerry, and nurse me back to health and vigor
.

“He's feeling better,” I told the others.

Caruso had finished his sketches and held them up for our inspection. “Very nice,” Scotti said expressionlessly.

“Do I really have that many teeth?” I murmured. But what Caruso had done to me was nothing compared to what he'd done to Scotti. In his sketch he'd made Scotti's long nose droop down below his chin. Caruso sent the caricatures in to Amato.

We talked on for a while, the three of us, and then it was time to leave. It occurred to me I'd been sitting there chatting away and hadn't even
seen
Amato, so I went to the door of his bedroom and looked in. He was asleep, Caruso's caricatures of Scotti and me lying on the covers. Amato was a handsome man, when he wasn't wearing that black wig and drooping mustache he preferred for most of his stage roles. He was still washed-out and weak looking, but he looked better than the last time I'd seen him. Our ailing baritone was definitely on the mend. So, it was only a matter of enduring Duchon just a little longer.

Caruso was singing the following night and wanted to spend the rest of the day practicing, so Scotti took me home. In the lobby of the apartment building we found Jimmy Freeman's vocal coach waiting. The doorman told us he'd been there over an hour.

Osgood Springer came straight to the point. “James wishes to talk to you, Miss Farrar. But he's not sure you're still speaking to him.”

“Well, of course I'm still speaking to him,” I said lightly. “Whyever not?”

“He's afraid that scene he made in Delmonico's might have offended you. May I tell him you'll see him?”

“What scene in Delmonico's?” Scotti wanted to know.

I waved a hand at him vaguely and asked Springer where Jimmy was.

“Across the street.”

I went to the lobby door and looked out. On the other side of West Seventy-fourth a forlorn-looking figure stood shivering in a doorway, a petitioner awaiting permission to enter the palace. “For heaven's sake, Mr. Springer, tell him to come in. He must be freezing.”

Springer glanced quickly at Scotti. “He would like to talk to you alone.”

I turned to my escort. “Do you mind, Toto?”

“Yes,” he answered shortly. “I mind. You are with
me
.”

That surprised me. Scotti had more or less taken it for granted that there would always be young men flocking around me, just as I had taken it for granted there'd always be young women flocking around
him
. But by acting jealous, he was making Jimmy Freeman into a serious rival.

“Miss Farrar,” Springer said urgently, “James won't work, he won't even practice his scales. He won't do anything until he talks to you.”

“He can talk to her another time.” Scotti wasn't giving an inch.

“Please, Miss Farrar. I beg you.” Springer's face had darkened, making the scar on his jaw more livid than ever. It struck me he must hate what he was doing—acting as go-between for a sulking young man who up to now had done exactly as he was told. A demeaning position for Springer.