T. Bunn - Winner Take All

“Honey, you tell him what you can.”

“What if …” She couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Fay’s voice reached across the void and gripped her. “Believe you me. He knows. That Marcus is a smart young man. He’s seen inside you long time ago. He’s just been waiting for you to say your piece.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Then you just go and tell God first.” The matter-of-fact tone struck hard as fists. “You’re ready to pour out the oil from your alabaster box now. Ain’t nobody else will ever know the cost of that oil you’re ready to pour on the Master’s feet, or how much you done paid for those tears you’ve been waiting to shed. But he knows. Oh my. Ain’t that the blessed truth. And that’s all you need to remember, child. He’s waiting for you to kneel there and weep for him. He’s already done counted every one of these jewels. And they are precious in his sight.”

Marcus spent the morning at a remembrance service for Charlie Hayes. There was no way of telling which held more intensity, the mourners’ tears or their laughter. By the time he excused himself, he felt internally disfigured by loss. But he had an appointment to keep, as he explained to the family. And the prospect of work offered an illusory means of bottling his grief, at least for a time.

He drove through the Research Triangle Park and exited the highway by the Duke Medical Center. Marcus parked his car and stood in the hotel lot, wishing for a clearer separation between what he had just left and what waited up ahead. An early gloaming had assembled overhead, a harbinger so thick and close the air seemed already wet with the storm still to come. He resigned himself to carrying one more burden with him, and headed inside.

The Wyndham presidential suite was as close to big-city opulence as the region offered. Lightning cut jagged scissor-lines through the cloud cover as Evelyn Lloyd let him in, then returned to the sofa facing the empty fireplace. The suite’s parlor had a wraparound view of forest greens and approaching rain. The entertainment center’s front doors were open, and an opera poured from unseen speakers. Evelyn Lloyd motioned him into a seat, then signaled for a few moments of silence. She paid the approaching storm no mind.

She used a brief hiatus in the music to inquire, “Do you know opera, Mr. Glenwood?”

“Not at all, and please call me Marcus.”

Her voice held a dreamlike quality. “This is one of those essential moments of classical opera. Discovering her lover is dead, Tosca commits suicide by leaping off the battlements of the Castel Sant’ Angelo.”

Marcus’ seat granted him a view of both the woman and the tempest. Lightning danced behind cottony veils, still so distant the sound was muted and constant. From this man-made perch he watched as rain shadows bowed the trees into drenched and windswept submission. The storm offered a soothing balm to his wounded day. There was both harmony and comfort in watching the heavens weep.

When the music ended, Evelyn refocused on him. “In such times, one must take pleasure whenever one can.”

“I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Your company is most welcome. There is tea and coffee on the counter. Might I ask you to serve yourself?”

Marcus walked over to the bar and plied the silver thermos set beside the stacked china and the spray of champagne roses. Evelyn continued, “For those of us who love the milieu, an opera star is the most talented artist on earth. They must sing for hours at the level of a full-throated bellow, embracing four thousand listeners with no amplification whatsoever. They must be consummate musicians. They must also act. And they must be linguists, knowing not only the language, but that culture’s musical styles.”

He took his coffee back over to the suede sofa with its view of the storm that touched neither this woman nor her wealth. “Quite a feat.”

She smiled merely with her eyes. “I suppose you prefer banjos plinking against the stars, lanterns for lighting, and peanut shells covering a hard-plank floor.”

“Add a dose of Carolina barbecue,” Marcus replied, “and you’d be describing my perfect evening.”

The storm flailed their window with liquid whips and the noise of a thousand drums. “Singers lead a strange life, moving from the subterranean world of rehearsal and voice-coach chambers to the blinding light of stardom. It engenders a schizophrenic viewpoint. The worst of them take the normal duality of human nature and magnify it all out of proportion. Incredibly pleasant one moment, venomous the next.”

“What do you think of Erin Brandt?”

She studied him a long moment, then declared flatly, “A costumed snake with the smile of a seraph. Only those who have been around her for a time and seen her on life’s backstage manage a glimpse of her delicate aura of evil.”

“But your husband likes her.”

“My husband is even more of an opera fanatic than I. The Met’s board position originally belonged to my grandfather. My family has been involved with the company since the last century. In the old building we owned one of the boxes in what was referred to as the Diamond Horseshoe. I had allowed the board position to slide. My husband begged me to have it reinstated for himself.”

Marcus did not even pretend to understand. “What does this have to do with Erin Brandt?”

“Everything. Kedrick wanted to claim her as his own personal find. But the Met had recently brought in a new intendant, a sort of combined chief conductor and artistic director. The gentleman refused to have anything to do with Erin.”

He caught the grim satisfaction. “You don’t agree with Kedrick’s assessment?”

“I do not care for the woman personally. As far as Kedrick is concerned, personal traits hold no importance here. Erin is a draw. Not merely a star, you see. Someone who could in time virtually guarantee a sold-out performance. The female equivalent of Placido Domingo.”

“And the conductor, I’m sorry, I don’t recall the word you just used.”

“Intendant. His reasons follow the few critics who have not been swept up in the Erin Brandt craze. He feels that she is too young. He claims that her intonations are off and the quality of her sound comes and goes. She works too hard, or so he says, giving her high notes a shrill edge, a fraction off an actual shriek.” She shrugged. “His is the professional ear, I suppose.”

“I’m still trying to get a feel for her relationship with Dale Steadman.”

“Wilier prey than Dale have been duped by a conniving female.”

“You’re suggesting she went into the marriage planning for it to fail?”

“Those who care for Erin suggest she wanted to give married life a try. See if she could do the family thing and still be sufficiently driven to continue her rise to stardom.”

“You don’t agree?”

Evelyn escaped the intense scrutiny by rising and moving to the bar. “More coffee?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Everything in life affects a singer’s voice. Technique can overcome a great deal, but not all. And never for very long.”

Marcus rose to join her. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Erin Brandt is by nature a lyric coloratura soprano. She is quite young to try and bridge the gap between the lighter roles and those of dramatic coloratura.”

“Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

“No matter.” She made a great procedure of spooning sugar into her tea. “If all goes well with a pregnancy, a soprano’s voice can become much rounder and fuller. It adds an entirely new dimension, one that otherwise might not be gained for years. Afterward she sings with far more feeling and depth.”