Thomas Disch - On Wings of Song

Mr. Ormund burst into silvery laughter, lifting his arms in minstrel merriment. “Dear me, no! Nothing so drastic. Though, to be sure, I’d be the last person to prevent any of the boys from exercising the option . No, we couldn’t require anyone to convert against his will (Though it would be false to deny that I find it an appealing idea ). But there is a uniform that must be worn, and though its essentially a modest sort of uniform, it is rather, how shall I say, jaunty? Maybe blatant comes closer.”

Daniel, who had walked all over the city in nothing but gym shorts, said that he didn’t think that would faze him.

“Also, I’m sorry to say we can’t allow beards.”

“Oh.”

“That is a pity, isn’t it? Yours is so full and emphatic, if I may say so. But you see, the Metastasio is noted for its authenticity. We do the operas the way they first were done, so far as that’s possible. And liveried servants did not have beards in the age of Louis Quinze. One may find precedent for mustachioes, if that’s any consolation, even rather swaggering ones. But no beards. Ahimé , as our Spanish friends say.”

“ Ahimé ,” Daniel agreed sincerely. He bit his lip and looked down at his shoes. His beard had been with him twelve years now. It was as essential a part of his face as his nose. Further, he felt safe behind it. Only once had Daniel been recognized behind his mask of dense black hair, and that once, luckily had done no harm. The risk was small, admittedly, but it couldn’t be denied.

“Forgive my impertinence, Ben, but does your beard conceal some personal defect? A weak chin, perhaps, or scar tissue? I wouldn’t want to have you make the sacrifice only to discover that we couldn’t, after all, hire you.”

“No,” said Daniel, with his smile back in place. “I’m not the Phantom of the Opera.”

“I do so hope you’ll decide to take the job. I like a boy with wit.”

“I’ll have to think about it, Mr. Ormund.”

“Of course. Whatever you decide, do let me hear from you tomorrow morning. In the meantime, if you’d like to see the performance tonight, and get some idea of what exactly is expected, I can offer you a seat in the house’s own box that’s going begging tonight. We’re doing Demofoönte .”

“I’ve read the reviews. And yes, of course, I’d love to.”

“Good. Just ask Leo in the box office as you go out. He has an envelope in your name. Ah: one last thing before you go, Ben. Am I right in assuming that you’ve had some instruction in the use of small arms? Enough to load, and aim, and such.”

“In fact I have — but it seems a strange thing to assume.”

“It’s your accent. Not that it’s at all pronounced, but I have a rather good ear. There’s just the faintest echo of the Midwest in your r ’s and your vowels. Like an off-stage oboe. May I assume, further, that you’ve had some training in self-defense?”

“Only what I got in the regular phys ed program. Anyhow, I thought you wanted an usher, not a bodyguard.”

“Oh, you’ll rarely, if ever, be called on to shoot anyone. It hasn’t come to that yet in this theater (knock on wood). On the other hand, I don’t suppose a week goes by without our having to give the heave-ho to some asshole. Opera still does have the power to excite passions. Then too, there are the claques. You shall surely have a chance to see them this evening, for they’re bound to be out in force. Geoffrey Bladebridge is making his premiere in the title role. Till now only Rey has sung the part. The house will undoubtedly be packed with the partisans of both men.”

“Fighting?”

“Let us hope not. Generally they just scream at each other. That can be nuisance enough, when most of the audience has come here to listen.” Mr. Ormund once again offered his hand. “But enough idle chatter. Duty calls, ta-ra, ta-ra! I hope you enjoy the performance this evening, and I’ll expect to hear from you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Daniel promised, as he was shown the door.

Daniel clapped dutifully when the curtain came down at the end of Act One of Demofoönte , the single wet blanket in an audience berserk with approval. Whatever had stirred them to these raptures he couldn’t work out. Muscially the production was professional but uninspired; mere archaeology pretending to be art. Bladebridge, whom most of this commotion was about, had sung neither wisely nor too well. His stage-manner was one of polite, disdainful boredom, which he varied, when he wished to call attention to a particularly strenuous embellishment, by a gesture (always the same) of the most schematic bravado. At these moments, as he extended his meaty, jeweled hands, tilted back his head (but carefully, so as not to dislodge his towering wig), and let loose a bloodcurdling trill or a long, loud, meandering roulade, he seemed the apotheosis of unnaturalness. The music itself, though a pastiche of four composers’ settings of the same Metastasio libretto, was uniformly monotonous, the slimmest of excuses for the endless flowerings the singers foisted on it. As to drama, or poetry, forget it. The whole unwieldy operation — scenery, costumes, staging — seemed quite defiantly pointless, unless the mere expenditure of so much money, energy, and applause was, in itself, a kind of point.

He felt almost the same befuddlement as when, so many years ago, in the alternate world of his childhood, he had sat in Mrs. Boismortier’s living room and listened to a Mozart string quartet. With this difference — that he had lost the humility that had allowed him, as a child, to go on believing, provisionally, in the worth of what befuddled him. He decided, therefore, when the house-lights finally went up, that he would not return for the second act. Never mind that he probably wouldn’t have the chance to see anything at the Metastasio again (He’d already made up his mind to that). He had too high a respect for his own opinion to go on watching what he’d decided was complete claptrap.

Even so, once he was out in the lobby he couldn’t resist the opportunity of circulating among the Metastasio’s regular patrons, who were (despite their dominos, which were, as in old Venice, de rigueur ) not at all so glittering an assembly as might be found, between the acts, at either the Metropolitan or the State Theater. There were, to be sure, more phoneys. Most castrati of celebrity rank were blacks, just as, in the heyday of bel canto they had been, mainly, Calabrians or Neopolitans, the poorest of the poor. Wherever blacks were offered for public worship, whether in the ring or on the stage, there were certain to be phoneys on hand worshipping. But this lot were an uncommonly discreet sort of phoney; the men tended to dress, like Daniel, in conservative and slightly démodé business suits, the women in dresses of well-nigh conventual plainness. Some of the genuine blacks allowed themselves a higher level of luminescence, with feathers or a bit of lace livening their masks, but the general tone, even among them, was decidedly muted. Possibly, even probably, a different tone was set downstairs in the Metastasio’s casino, but only members with a key were admitted there.

Daniel propped himself against a pillar of fake marble and watched the parade, such as it was. Just as he’d made up his mind, for the second time, to leave, he was suddenly latched on to by the girl he’d met that morning, Jack Levine’s official wife, who saluted him loudly with — “Ben! Ben Bosola! What a pleasant surprise.” For the life of him he couldn’t remember her first name. She lifted her domino.

“Mrs. Levine,” he murmered. “Hello.”