The Complete Crime Stories (12 page)

The day after she left, I got the telegram from Cecil, dated Rochester:

MY TENOR HAS GOT THE PIP STOP IF YOU LOVE ME FOR GOD'S SAKE HOP ON A PLANE QUICK AND COME UP HERE STOP BRING OLD ITALIAN ANTHOLOGIES ALSO OLD ENGLISH ALSO SOME OPERATIC STUFF ESPECIALLY PAGLIACCI TRAVIATA FACTOTUM AND MASKED BALL ALSO CUTAWAY COAT GRAY PANTS FULL EVENING SOUP AND FISH AND PLENTY OF CLEAN SHIRTS STOP LOVE

CECIL

It caught me at the office about ten in the morning, and the messenger waited, and as soon as I read it my heart began to pump, not from excitement, but from fear. Because up to then it had been just a gag, anyway on my end of it. But this brought me face to face with it: Did I mean it enough to get up before people and sing, or not? I stood there looking at it, and then I thought, well what the hell? I called the Newark airport, found they had a plane leaving around noon, and made a reservation. Then I wrote a wire to Doris telling her I had been called out of town on business, and another one to Cecil, telling her I'd be there. Then I grabbed all the music I might need, went over to the bank and drew some money, hustled up to the house and packed, and grabbed a cab.

She met me at the airport, kissed me, and bundled me into a car she had waiting. “It was sweet of you to come. My but I'm glad to see you.”

“Me too.”

“Terribly glad.”

“But what happened? I didn't even know you had a tenor.”

“Oh, you have to have an assistant artist, to give a little variety. Sometimes the accompanist fills in with some Liebestraum, but my man won't play solo. So I let the music bureau sell me a tenor. He was no good. He was awful in Albany, and he got the bird last night in Buffalo, so when he turned up this morning with a cold I got terribly alarmed for his precious throat and sent him home. That's all.”

“What's the bird?”

“Something you'll never forget, if you ever hear it.”

“Suppose they give
me
the bird?”

We had been riding along on the back seat, her hand in mine, just two people that were even gladder to see each other than they knew they were going to be, and I expected her to laugh and say something about my wonderful voice, and how they would never give
me
the bird. She didn't. She took her hand away, and we rode a little way without saying anything, and then she looked me all over, like she was measuring everything I had. “Then I'll have to get somebody else.”

“Yeah?”

“… They
can
give you the bird.”

“Hey, let's talk about something pleasant.”

“It's a tough racket.”

“Maybe I better go home.”

“They can give you the bird, and they can give it to anybody. I think you'll win, but you've got to win, don't make any mistake about that. You've got to lam it in their teeth and make them like it.”

“So.”

“You can go home if you want to, and if that's how you feel about it, you'd better. But if you do, you're licked for good.”

“I'm here. I'll give it a fall.”

“Look at me now.”

“I'm looking.”

“Don't let that applause fool you, when you come on. They're a pack of hyenas, they're always a pack of hyenas, just waiting to tear in and pull out your vitals, and the only way you can keep them back is to lick them. It's a battle, and you've got to win.

“When is the concert?”

“Tonight.”

“Ouch.”

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

When we got to the hotel I took a room and sent up my stuff, and then we went up to her suite. A guy was there, reading a newspaper. “Mr. Wilkins, who plays our accompaniments. Mr. Borland, Ray. Our baritone.”

We shook hands, and he fished some papers out of his pocket. “The printer's proofs of the program. It came while you were out, Cecil. He's got to have it back, with corrections, by five o'clock. I don't see anything, but you better take a look at it.”

She passed one over to me. It gave me a funny feeling, just to look at it. I've still got that proof, and here it is, in case you're interested, [
see below
]:

JOHN FREDERICK JEVONS

PRESENTS

Miss Cecil Carver

SOPRANO

In a Song Recital

AT

THE EASTMAN THEATRE

Thursday Evening, October 5, at 8:30

Leonard Borland, Baritone

Ray Wilkins, Accompanist

“It's all right, pretty nifty. Except that Leonard Borland is gradually on purpose going to turn into Logan Bennett.”

“Oh, yes. I meant to ask you about that. Yes, I think that's better. Will you change it, Ray? On the proof that goes to the printer. And make sure it's changed on all his groups.”

“I only sing twice?”

“That's all. Did you bring the music I said?”

“Right here in the briefcase.”

“Give it to Ray, so he can go over it. He always plays from memory. He never brings music on stage.”

“I see.”

“You'll attend to the program, Ray?”

“I'm taking it over myself.”

Wilkins left, she had me ha-ha for ten minutes, then said my voice was up and stopped me. Some sandwiches and milk came up. “They fed us on the plane. I'm not hungry.”

“You better eat. You don't get any dinner.”

“… No dinner?”

“You always sing on an empty stomach. We'll have some supper later.”

I tried to eat, and couldn't get much down. Seeing that program made me nervous. When I had eaten what I could, she told me to go in and sleep. “A fat chance I could sleep.”

“Lie down, then. Be quiet. No walking around, no vocalizing. That's one thing you can learn. Don't leave your concert in the hotel room.”

I went in my room, took off my clothes, and lay down. Somewhere downstairs I could hear Wilkins at the piano, going over the Italian songs. It made me sick to my stomach. None of it was turning out the way I thought it was going to. I had expected a kind of a cock-eyed time, with both of us laughing over what a joke it was that I should be up here, singing with her. Instead of that she was as cold as a woman selling potatoes, and over something I didn't really care about. There didn't seem to be any fun in it.

I must have slept, though, because I had put a call in for seven o'clock, and when it came it woke me up. I went in the bathroom, took a quick shower, and started to dress. My fingers trembled so bad I could hardly get the buttons in my shirt. About a quarter to eight I rang her. She seemed friendly, more like her usual self, and told me to come in.

A hotel maid let me in. Cecil was just finishing dressing, and in a minute or two she came out of the bedroom. She had on a chiffon velvet dress, orange-colored, with salmon-colored belt and salmon-colored shoes. It had a kind of Spanish look to it, and was probably what she had always been told she ought to wear with her eyes, hair, and complexion, and yet it was heavy and stuffy, and made her look exactly like an opera singer all dressed up to give a concert. It startled me, because I had been married for so long to a woman that knew all there was to know about dressing that I had forgotten what frumps they can make of themselves when they really try. She saw my look and glanced in the mirror. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't I look right?”

“Sure.”

She told the maid to go, and then she kept looking at herself in the mirror, and then at me again, but when she lit a cigarette and sat down she wasn't friendly any more. “… All right, we'll check over what you're to do.”

“I'm listening.”

“First, when you come on.”

“Yeah, I've been wondering about that. What do I do?”

“At all recitals, the singer comes on from the right, that is, stage right. Left, to the audience. Walk straight out from the wings, past the piano to the center of the stage. Be quick and brisk about it. Be aware of them, but don't look at them till you get there. By that time they'll start to applaud.”

“Suppose they don't?”

“If you come on right, they will. That's part of it. I told you, it's a battle, and it starts the moment you show your face. You've got to make them applaud, and that means you've got to come on right. You go right to the center of the stage, stop, face them, and bow. Bow once, from the hips, as though you meant it.”

“O. K., what then?”

“You bow once, but no more. If it's a friendly house, they may applaud quite a little, but not enough for more than one bow. Besides, it's only a welcome. You haven't done anything yet to warrant more than one bow, and if you begin grinning around, you'll look silly, like some movie star being gracious to his public.”

“All right, I got that. What next?”

“Then you start to sing.”

“Do I give Wilkins a sign or something?”

“I'll come to that, but I'm not done yet about how you come on. Look pleasant, but don't paste any death house smile on your face, don't look sheepish, as though you thought it was a big joke, don't try to look more confident than you really are. Above all, look as though you meant business. They came to hear you sing, and as long as you act as though that's what you're there for, you'll be all right, and you don't have to kid them with some kind of phoney act. If you look nervous, that's all right, you're supposed to be nervous. Have you got that?
Mean
it.”

“All right, I got it.”

“When you finish your song, stop. If the piano has the actual finish, hold everything until the last note has been played, no matter whether they break in with applause or not. Hold everything, then relax. Don't do any more than that, just in your own mind relax. If you've done anything with the song at all, they ought to applaud. When they do, bow. Bow straight to the center. Then take a quarter turn on your feet, and bow to the left. Then turn again, and bow to the right. Then walk off. As quickly as you can get to the wings without actually running, walk off.”

“The way I came on?”

“Right back the way you came on.”

“All right, what then?”

“Are you sure you've got that all straight?”

“Wait a minute. Do I do that after every song, or—”

“No, no, no! Not after every song. At the end of your group. You don't leave the stage after every song. There won't be much applause at the end of your first two songs, they only applaud the group. Bow once after the first song, and when the applause has died down, start the second, and then on with the third.”

“All right, I got it now.”

“If the applause continues, go out, exactly as you went out the first time, and bow three times, first center, then left, then right, then come off.”

“Go ahead. What else?”

“Now about the accompanist. Most singers turn and nod to the accompanist when they are ready, but to my mind it's just one more thing that slows it up, that adds to the chill that hangs over a recital anyway. That's why I have Wilkins. He can feel that audience as well as the singer can, and he knows exactly when it's time to start. Another thing about him is that he plays from memory, has no music to fool with, and so he can watch you the whole time you sing. That gives you better support, and it helps you in another way. They don't really notice him, but they feel him there, and when he can't take his eyes off you, they think you must be pretty good. You wait for him. While you're waiting, look them over. Use those five seconds to get acquainted. Look them over in a friendly way, but don't smirk at them. Be sure you look up at the balcony, and all over the house, so they all feel you're singing to them, and not to just a few. Use that time to get the feel of the house, to project yourself out there, even if it's just a little bit.”