When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(69)
“Toi, toi, toi” was the traditional good-luck wish opera singers exchanged, their version of the theater world’s “break a leg.” The expression was well known among classical singers, but not to the general population, and she was touched that he’d taken the trouble to discover this.
He smiled and opened the door. She stepped back into her world.
*
She’d sung at the Muni multiple times, but nothing felt the same. Yes, the costume department smelled as it always did of steam irons, fabric, and must. The Egyptian headpieces fit well, and her costumes needed only a little alteration. She chatted with the wardrobe mistress as she always had and exchanged pleasantries with the technical director. She passed a rehearsal room where singers were at work on an upcoming concert. But she was more aware of new faces when they passed her in the hallway, more alert as she walked from one room to the next.
On her way to meet with the maestro, she mentally reviewed the master schedule. She wouldn’t have to sing today for the blocking rehearsal, and she could easily mark at piano tech, which was for the benefit of the production team, but she’d have to sing in full voice for sitzprobe, their first rehearsal with the orchestra. And, of course, she needed to bring her best to next Thursday’s dress rehearsal, not to mention Saturday’s opening night.
She braced herself at the door of the maestro’s office and knocked.
“Avanti!”
Sergio Tinari, the Muni’s great conductor, was short in stature but giant in presence. With his lion’s mane of gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and long Tuscan nose, he was a caricaturist’s dream subject. “Olivia, mia cara.” He kissed her hand with Old World graciousness.
She switched to Italian, telling him how happy she was to see him, how much she was looking forward to working with him again, and that she was recovering from a head cold and would need a few days before she could sing.
Sergio replied in his beautifully accented English. “But of course. You must protect your voice. Tomorrow, if you are able to mark, we can rehearse the phrasing in ‘A lui vivo, la tomba!’”
Alive in the tomb . . . She twisted her lips into a smile. “Of course.”
The note she’d just received . . . You destroyed me and now I’m destroying you, my love. Think of me with every note you try to sing.
Her fake ruby pendant felt as if it were choking her.
As she left the maestro’s studio, she knew she couldn’t offer up the excuse of having a cold for very long.
A striking woman about Olivia’s age emerged from the last rehearsal room. Olivia’s spirits immediately brightened. “Sarah!” She hurried down the corridor to greet the gifted South African soprano who would be singing Aida.
She was no longer comfortable singing Amneris opposite a white Aida. Having a black artist singing the enslaved Ethiopian princess added complexity and dimension to the production for modern audiences, and Sarah Mabunda was one of the best. But as Olivia reached out to hug her, Sarah drew away, and her tight smile had an off-putting brittleness to it.
Olivia was taken aback. She and Sarah were friends. They’d performed Aida together before, once in Sydney and once at the Staatsoper in Vienna, where they’d spent free afternoons exploring the city’s museums and where Sarah had told her about her life growing up in Soweto before she’d made her way first to Cape Town Opera School and then on to the Royal Academy of Arts in London. They’d established an immediate connection, and the only part of today she’d been looking forward to was seeing Sarah again.
Olivia searched her mind for what she could have done to offend her but couldn’t think of anything. Maybe Sarah was simply having a bad day? “How have you been?” she asked uncertainly.
“Very well.” With a formal nod, Sarah swept past Olivia.
Olivia stared after her. Stunned, she entered the rehearsal stage. Lena Hodiak, the Polish mezzo who had been covering for her during the early rehearsals, greeted her enthusiastically. “Ms. Shore!” She rushed forward with a wide smile. “It’s such a privilege to be working with you.”
Lena, a statuesque blonde with lush features, regarded Olivia with the adoring eyes of a young singer meeting her idol. Olivia thought how excited Lena would be if she knew she had a real chance of performing in Olivia’s place. But she couldn’t think that way. “Please. Call me Olivia. Rachel Cullen speaks highly of you.”
Olivia remembered her own days covering for bigger artists. The work had given her a steady paycheck when she’d badly needed it, and since covers had to attend every rehearsal, she’d learned from watching the best. But the frustration of perfecting a role, yet not having the chance to perform it, had been real. Still, although stories abounded of a young understudy stepping in at the last minute for the incapacitated star and soaring to instant fame, that seldom happened. In reality, covers spent most of their time stuck in a room offstage playing games on their phones.
“Let me know if I can help in any way,” Lena said.
“Thanks. I will.”
“Someone wants you to stop singing.”
That was Thad’s opinion, and Olivia rejected it. Lena was immensely talented or she couldn’t be here, and taking over a role as important as Amneris—especially on opening night when critics would be present—could advance her career immeasurably. But her welcoming manner hardly marked her as an understudy planning to sabotage the leading lady.