REACHING FOR THE STARS(Charles E.J. Moulton) “Me? No! Why should I?”
“Because you insulted her.”
“I made no mistake, George!”
“Then why did Miss Devereaux report that you harrassed her?”
“Maybe she hates English people.”
George looked at me with his typical look of contempt. It classified him as being one guy that thought he rarely was wrong. He smiled and leaned back in his chair.
After a sip of his coffee, his hand automatically reached for his face. A slow burn made his face appear more red on the other end of his palm.
“George, we are on equal terms, right?”
George’s eyes flung wide open.
“Yeah, besides the fact that I am your boss, we are. Except the fact that you are an accompanist and I run a theatre. Sure, we are on equal terms. We both went to the same school, right?”
“No bullshit,” I spat. “I know Catherine Devereaux told you that I touched her intimate places, but I only tried to check her support. Her breathing technique needs work. Her support is way too tense. You know where the support is, don’t you, George?”
George pointed to the stomach and back area. It expanded when a singer breathed in, only to give the vocalist a better chance of gathering strength not from the throat to produce tones. The support was to the voice what the motor was to a car. “What were you doing trying to teach our leading soprano how to sing?”
“It is my job to correct her. I was merely trying to illustrate how Catherine could prepare that high Bb in Sempre Libera by opening up her throat, mouth and body,” I explained. “I happen to know a great deal.”
“That is not the issue, Bill,” George said. “I know Catherine is an extraordinary artist. She just needs a check-up. Everyone does. But are you the one to tell her?”
“She pushes way too hard in her high range,” I responded. “Violetta has been really bad for a long time. It is better for her if we work on that. It would help her?”
“By laying your hand around the lower part of her right C-cup.”
“You did!”
“No!”
“She said you did.”
I laughed. “She would burn me alive if I did that.”
“In a matter of speaking, she did,” George said. “She told me that she wanted another accompanist. If we assign a pianist to work with her on the music, we should make sure it isn’t you.”
“She is obviously playing hard to catch.”
“That is hard to get, Bill.”
I sat back, trying to grasp what I was hearing. Catherine Devereaux refusing to work with me. Well, shit, I thought. In my three years working here this was the first time. I had worked with so many singers here, male and female. No one had ever had a problem with me. Catherine was a dish, I will admit that. She was fabulous looking. But she had outsung herself in the last year. Anna Bolena, Manon, Brünhilde and Turandot. Four huge roles in four huge houses. People called her the living ping-pong ball. Cruising the Atlantic like others crossed the zebra crossing. I thought that going back to La Traviata would be like a walk in the park. Now I was beginning to see that it wasn’t. Violetta’s high Bb was obviously an issue.
“We can’t fire Catherine,” George said. “We have assigned her to sing Turandot again next season and this one she is up to sing Britten’s Gloriana. Manon in a concert format is under negotiation. She is even signing a contract to sing Brünhilde again.”
“Can’t you see that this is going to ruin her voice. She is thirty-five. By the time she is forty she will be a train-wreck. Her wabble is already the size of Niagra Falls. Let her sing some smoother stuff. Give her some Mozart.”
“Bill,” George said, leaning forward. “This isn’t Europe. We don’t have state subvention. The city doesn’t give us money to produce operas, so we have to cell CDs and T-shirts. We have to charge sixty dollars a ticket, which is cheap for the US. People come for miles to see Catherine. She looks like Anna Nicole Smith in her best Playboy days, acts like Meryl Streep and has the following of June Anderson. If we fire her, we lose half of our audience. We can’t afford that. She won’t work with you. What did you do?”
“No one is speaking of firing her.”
“She asked us to fire you!”
“What?”
“We won’t, but obviously this girl has some serious problems with you.”
“I thought I could give her a vocal tip,” I shrugged. “Man, after that last Traviata performance, I was sure that she would crack. That high note was at least a quarter tone off. She was pushing so hard that her wabble was increasing by the millisecond.”
George smiled. “Her male fans will admire another wabble.”
“Come on, man,” I spat. “We all know we want Cathy in the bedsheets, but this is art. You’re not gonna tell me that the male audience is going to sacrifice their high standards just to see her boobs?”
George shook his head. “Catherine’s following is equally female. I am just saying that it might be exagerrated. Her vocal flair will persevere.”
“Do you know how many Wagner-singers have been forced into early retirement because they started singing Wotan and Alberich too early?”
“Okay,” George said, taking another sip of his coffee. “Let’s say you are right, just for kicks. What would you do about it?”
“I tried to tell her to loosen up her support,” I answered. “I see how she tenses up before that Sempre Libera high note. I wanted to save her the pain. She jerked a notch and my hand slipped up to her bosom. I told her I was sorry.”
“That’s not what I asked,” my boss persevered. “What would you do about it now?”
“Try to solve it, try to speak with her. On the other hand, I am not dependant on her. I have other clients, other students, other concerts, other employers. If she wants to be a diva, then let her be a diva. If she wants my help, great. If not, forget her.”
“I know you want to.”
“Leave me be. Just don’t fire me.”
George shrugged again, told me that he would not fire me. If Catherine could be convinced to work with me, that would be great. George would call her up and “sell” me, as it were, and try his best to act his part of the boss and soothe her soprano emotions.

I left the theatre that day, somewhat bewildered. Yesterday’s rehearsal had been strange enough with Catherine storming out of the rehearsal room, calling me a sexual pervert. Who did I think I was, telling a leading soprano how to sing? Who did I think I was touching her bosom?

As I stepped into my car and turned the ignition, who appeared at the stage door, but Catherine Devereaux dressed in a fur coat and a long flowing pink shawl.
I asked my conscience if she wanted to talk to Catherine. Yes, my conscience was a she. The “anima”-woman that Carl Gustav Jung spoke of said “yes”.
I stepped out of my car and strode toward the stage door, where Catherine was speaking to my fellow conductor Harold MacKenzie. When Catherine heard me, she quickly turned around and faced me. Harold nodded a clean good bye and left. It was clear that she had a fight-or-flight-response. The initial outburst that I knew was dangling on her teeth was quickly replaced by a short. “Hello!”
I nodded, friendly-like.
“Catherine,” I began. “I am sorry about yesterday.”
She was afraid. This famous soprano, who everyone called a diva, was afraid. I didn’t see a million-dollar-primadonna here. I saw a girl, whose feelings were hurt.
For a moment, the diva appeared again and I wondered what that was that I saw in her now. I would’ve expected a slap in the face, but I encountered something else. What was that?
“I have sung Turandot before. I am one of the youngest Turandots ever.”
“Mmh,” I agreed. “I was merely trying to help you with yout Violetta high note. We were concentrating on Puccini, but I thought I would just give you some help. That other thing was a bad mistake. I would never presume to become intimate with you.”
Catherine smiled. She actually smiled. It was a sweet smile.
“I had a bad day yesterday. My agent told me that Vienna cancelled my contract for Manon. Combined with the high note in Sempre Libera, it was all too much.” She looked me in the eyes. “The last time I sang that high note was on the day my brother died. I haven’t been able to sing that role since. That aria was his favorite. Your criticism has a good foundation, though. I have been overworked. I fled and told George to fire you. I hope he won’t.”
“George told me that you never wanted to work with me again, but we studied together. Don’t worry, he won’t.”
There was a long pause. We stood there, saying nothing.
“Cancer of the brain,” she said, calmly.
“Your brother?”
She nodded. “I read his last letter to me before the operation before rehearsal.” She laughed. “That was stupid. I flipped.”
I nodded. “My condolances.”
She closed her eyes and gave me a half-smile. “Thanks. Big diva Cathy is just a person, after all.
She looked dreamily to the side, not really daring to look me in the eye.
“I have a stage rehearsal for Manon Lescaut,” she said, still looking to the side. She was spectacularly beautiful and I kept wondering what that feeling was. Then she looked me in the eyes. “You want to go for a drink tonight?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Artemis is a nice Greek place down the road,” she responded. “They have good wine.”
I nodded. “I have a free evening. Might as well use it. Seven?”
She nodded. “Seven, it is, then.”
We waved good-bye and went our seperate ways.

As I stepped into my car and turned the ignition again, I was baffled by this sudden turn of events. I had butterflies in my stomach. I saw no diva. I saw no million-dollar soprano. I saw a pretty girl. I was in love.
As I turned off Mulligan Road and drove onto Main Street, it occured to me that I had set up to work with a singer tonight. I stopped the car and searched his number in my cellular phone. Fate works in mysterious ways. Accodingly, just in that moment my tenor colleague called me and told me he had to cancel tonight’s rehearsal. He had just been called to guest at the opera in Austin. They needed a Radames for tonight’s performance of Verdi’s Aida and he had to jump in. He was on his way to the one-o-clock business flight now.
It was obviously meant to be.
I looked forward to tonight’s rendezvous.
I had solved both problems.
I kept my job and the quarrel with the diva was now out of the way.
I smiled and sang a song.
The song I sang didn’t belong to an opera.
It was a pop-song and I loved singing it. After all, as Duke Ellington once said, there are only two kinds of music: the good kind and the other kind.
God bless music, it inspired me to do the right thing.

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