T. Bunn - Winner Take All

The early evening traffic was so bad Kirsten finally had the taxi let her off halfway down Piccadilly. The late July evening held an almost autumnal chill, particularly in her new sleeveless number of midnight blue silk. Walking was sweetest anguish. Everything was tainted by earlier memories. She passed swiftly through Leicester Square, skirting the grifters and the crowds. A cluster of Persian boys caught her by the tube stop and chased her with lewd offers. Who’s your daddy, they cried repeatedly as she fled. The litany bit deep.

She walked the length of Garrick Street, past the fashionable spots she knew so very well. The Covent Garden market was alive with its nightly theater when she entered, the first-timers agog over the spice-laden air and the multitude of street performers. Kirsten slipped through the knot of autograph hounds waiting by the stage door and gave her name to the very attentive guard. She was buzzed inside, then had to wait while someone was called from upstairs. Over the guard’s loudspeaker came the sounds of the orchestra warming up. The preperformance bustle and electric tension squeezed her into the far corner.

“Ms. Stansted?” A bony middle-aged woman with a dancer’s stance offered her hand. “Hillary Crampeth. So nice, so nice. Would you care to come this way?”

The guard buzzed them through a second locked door. The hostess led Kirsten past the backstage entrance and hurried up the winding stairs. “We’re so delighted to have Ms. Brandt singing tonight. We’d do absolutely anything for her. Naturally we try to anticipate a star’s every whim in advance, but when she asked us for a prime seat for tonight’s performance, well, it gave us quite a start. Thankfully, sold out never actually means sold out. There are always one or two seats which the house management hold back.”

She knocked smartly on a door with a brass plaque proclaiming it to be the director’s box, then opened it and said, “Your seat is there on the left. Enjoy the performance. I’ll be back to gather you at the intermission.”

The alcove held the feel of a velvet-lined jewelry case, with a high-ceilinged balcony directly overlooking the stage. Kirsten nodded to the two older couples in formal evening wear, who responded with haughty British curiosity.

The performance opened with a number by the orchestra, chorus, and ballet. Kirsten was so close to the stage she could see the dust fly off the dancers’ feet. She observed the cords in the singers’ necks tense up with carefully masked effort. She felt their talent and power in her chest.

Erin Brandt appeared to a spontaneous burst of applause. The diva was stunning. The two women to Kirsten’s left used the word to death as they applauded her opening aria. Kirsten could think of nothing else which described her. Erin was captivatingly small, certainly not the standard big-boned, lard-encased soprano. She floated, she trilled. She spun her magic and carried the house. Every eye was upon her for every instant she remained upon the stage.

At the intermission the aging hostess was back to lead Kirsten away. She ignored the caustic stares of others who wished for such personal treatment and asked, “How do you find the performance so far?”

“Stunning.”

The woman nodded matter-of-fact agreement. “We’ve arranged for you to have a table in the Vinson Floral Balcony. I hope that’s adequate.” She did her best not to appear to hurry Kirsten along while slipping easily down the cramped hallway. She pushed through a side door, marched down a private hallway, and entered a massive chamber awash with noise. “This was originally a Victorian floral market attached to the theater. It was then used for storing stage sets before the changeover.”

They traversed a balcony-restaurant overlooking a main hall with a seventy-foot domed ceiling. The hostess led Kirsten to a table by the balcony’s railing, where an iced bucket and a split of champagne awaited. She signaled to the head waiter, gave Kirsten a tight smile, and departed with “I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

As the waiter was opening her champagne, a bulbous little man with cat’s-eye glasses of electric blue came rushing over. “Ms. Stansted?”

“Yes.”

“Reiner Klatz. I am Ms. Brandt’s manager.” He clipped his heels together and bowed such that his jacket bunched over his belly. “You are most welcome, I am sure.”

The man was so familiar she could have drawn him from a hundred different scenarios. “Thank you.”

“This hall, it is so very British, is it not? It reminds me of a Victorian train station, all glass and steel and noise and bad air.” Klatz found reason for disdain in everything he saw. Another common trait of such hangers-on. “Do you know, they held the final topping out ceremony here when the house’s reconstruction was completed. But the week before, they discovered pigeons nesting in the steel railings. How were they to get them out? Of course with all this glass they could not use guns.” He gave her a tight smile. “So they brought in sparrow hawks. Very hungry ones. Ingenious, no?”

If there was a message intended for her, she missed it entirely. “Ms. Brandt sings beautifully.”

“Of course. Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a reception by one of the corporate sponsors after tonight’s performance. Ms. Brandt has agreed to make a brief appearance. Naturally you’d be welcome to join her.”

“Thank you.”

“If you’ll excuse me.” He bustled away. Kirsten watched him stop at one table after another, hovering like a well-padded moth, but never landing.

The second and third acts were endless and timeless both. Just before Erin began her final aria, she seemed to turn and look directly at Kirsten. The electric quality of her singing intensified to where it left Kirsten breathless. Forget the spotlights, forget even the sun. Erin gestured, and there was such a joy to the movement and the song the audience accepted the invitation and flew with her. Erin gave everything to the crowd, and did so with an abandon that was both ethereal and grippingly erotic.

There came the crescendo and the curtain. The crowd responded with a frenzy. Kirsten could not help but join in-watching them, watching Erin, watching herself.

After the performance she was collected once more by the hostess, who gave her the hasty grimace of one whose night was only gathering steam. “Did you enjoy the performance?”

“Very much.”

“I’m so glad. This way please.” Down the same hallway, then a jink to the left, and the hostess held open a leather-padded door. Beyond stretched a golden Raphaelite chamber illuminated by a tier of mammoth chandeliers. Thirty-foot-high walls were adorned with Renaissance-style paintings of stage performances. The chamber was aswirl with chatter and jewels and perfect makeup and people who pretended not to observe Kirsten’s entry.

Before the hostess could depart, a voice behind them announced, “I’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind.”

The hostess became a fluttering bundle of nerves. “Oh, Ms. Brandt, forgive me, I didn’t see-”

But her apology was swept aside by the throng pressing in from all sides. Erin slipped her hand around Kirsten’s elbow, smiled a benign acknowledgment to the crowd, then said softly, “There are a few people I must speak to here, darling. Then we’ll be off to somewhere more delicious.”

Erin released Kirsten and permitted herself to be drawn into the milling throng. People made room for Kirsten, a glass was offered, a few polite words spoken by those to either side. Kirsten was granted entry because the diva clearly wished it. Just one more courtier.

Eventually Erin waved the others aside and said to Kirsten, “There is a horrid little man over by the bar. He’s the intendant of the Berlin opera. I must go over and pay homage. Would you mind terribly being my support?”