Ann-Marie MacDonald - Fall on Your Knees

fri — 12 — She catches up with me on my way from the lesson and says, “You’re working too hard.” Who asked her? I pretended she hadn’t said anything. She had her chance to be friends and she wrecked it.

sat — “Miss Piper, ze song is not your enemy.”

tues — I have no pride. I asked Miss Music Authority what she meant by “You’re working too hard” and she enjoyed it, I could tell. She paused, just to see me writhe a little on the pin, then she said, “I have to go straight home today, but tomorrow afternoon we could go somewhere and talk.”

wed — July 17 — She is the smartest person I have ever met! Except for Daddy. She’s not like anyone else. She doesn’t have a New York accent or a kind of Harlem southern accent. I wonder where she is from? Maybe she’s rich.

sat — We go to Abernathy’s Cozy Coffee every afternoon. She thinks music is already out there floating around and it’s up to us to give it an opening into our world so we can hear it. As though the world were full of music we can’t hear with “the naked ear”. So today in class I thought, okay, the song as it should be sung is shimmering around me like air in the desert, and all I have to do is welcome it. So I closed my eyes and opened myself up and let the song pass through me and I thought, “Don’t sing the song, just release it.” When I finished, the Kaiser nodded. I looked at Rose and she gave just the most minute smile down at the keys.

mon. — She says I’m really a mezzo!!!! She must be out of her mind.

tues — I asked her if she likes chop suey. But she can’t go anywhere or do anything except our half-hour coffee and she won’t tell me why or where she lives or anything. She pretends it’s boring and changes the subject but I am determined to find out what her secret is. Maybe she’s so poor that she’s ashamed to let me see where she lives. Maybe she’s married. Maybe she has an illegitimate child.

wed — She said, “Malibran was basically a contralto with a very tough attitude.” Malibran sang Desdemona and Otello. And Romeo and Giulietta. And everything in between. But that was almost a hundred years ago, no one’s allowed to do that any more. “They weren’t allowed to do it then either,” she said.

thurs 25 — I invited Rose for supper. I thought, maybe she doesn’t have money to spend on chop suey. She didn’t even think about it, she just said no thank you.

fri — July 26 — I followed her. She lives in apartment three at 85 ½ 135th St between Lenox and Seventh Avenue, over a second-floor church that’s over a butcher shop that’s tucked between a dentist and a haberdashery named “Dash Daniels Harlem Gentlemen’s Emporium”. Take the Eighth St. elevated.

sat — I followed her again today and she nearly caught me because she came running back out of her building five seconds after she went in. I ducked in a doorway and saw her make a phone call in the butcher shop. A little kid offered me a taste of his raspberry icecream. I licked it and for some reason he thought I was hilarious.

The Lord’s Day — Blessed Sunday. Church with Giles and Miss Morriss the only ordeal. I went up to 135th St to see if I could see Rose, and if she left the neighbourhood I could follow her until she got far enough away for us to be able to meet “by accident”.

I got there and there was music rollicking out the second-floor window — if church were like that where I come from, I’d be religious. It was fantastic. Someone was playing piano and there was, I presume, a minister leading the songs, and the congregation joined in, back and forth, back and forth, people taking solos, embellishments like you’ve never heard in a baroque opera, and I swear I saw the building rock. I guess that’s rapture. The crowd in their Sunday best started pouring out onto the street and a big lady, in a hat with more flowers than grow in New Waterford in an entire summer, shooed me away saying, “This is a decent neighbourhood.”

But the church-sized lady served her purpose because she hid me from you-know-who, who also came out with the crowd, wearing an ice-cream-sundae version of her usual embarrassing clothes, and I wondered if that had been her whomping on the piano up there. Somehow I can’t picture it — although I’d like to. Rose headed west and I followed her. She got on the Eighth Ave. I shadowed her all the way to West 14th, where she got off, walked down Greenwich, turned onto my street and went straight up to my building! I felt like I was in a play. The doorman was giving her a hard time so I went in and said in my snobbiest voice, “Thank you Ernie, that will do.” And he said, “I’m sorry, miss, I thought the young lady was mistaken.”

I was dying to tell her that I had just followed her all the way from her place, but something told me she wouldn’t see the humour in it — I’ve seen her smile exactly one half a time. And never laugh. So I tried not to smile, and she was serious as usual when she reached into her leather school-bag and brought out some sheet music. She handed it to me and said, “I think you ought to take a look at these.” So I said thank you, and she said goodbye. She was going to go right home! But I said come for a walk, and she did.

I opened the sheet music when we got to Washington Square and it was Carmen’s “Oiseau Rebelle” and Rosina’s “Una Voce Poco Fa”. She said they were a good contrast to “Cherubino” and “Let the Bright Seraphim” — to say the least — and Mr Gatti-Casazza will probably ask me to sing something of my choice as well as what I’ve prepared and I should just happen to have one of these. She gives a person a present like she was giving them a black-edged telegram. I said, “Setting aside for a moment the fact that I am a soprano, not a mezzo, why are you helping me?” And she said, “You’re going to be a star one way or another, it’s obvious.” I said it’s not obvious to me, at least not lately, and she said, “Your teacher knows it, he’s already told Gatti-Casazza what to expect. There are a lot of singers but you don’t get a voice like yours very often. As well as everything else.” What everything else, I asked. “Presence.”

She said all this as though she were a doctor diagnosing me with a rare disease. I said, “You still haven’t told me why you’re helping me.” And she said, “People pay money to go and listen to stars. I think they should at least hear the music the way it was meant to be heard.” So she’s just doing a public service? She’s awful sure of herself. I asked her if she didn’t agree with everyone else that the Kaiser is one of the best teachers in the world. She said, “He’s a brilliant technician. You can learn a lot from him. And you can unlearn a lot from him, all that nonsense you were doing before. Now you’re ready to stop singing the words and music, and start hearing them.” She could sell the Eiffel Tower to a Frenchman. What she says is smoke, you can’t get ahold of it and it’s basically meaningless. But it works. She couldn’t stay for supper. She’s nineteen; I asked.

Thurs. — I ran quickly after the lesson again, to catch her and get her opinion on the day’s work. She said to me, “You should be paying me for this,” so I offered to. I expected Rose to be insulted by the offer of money but she actually looked as though she was considering it. She said, “Do you really think I could teach for money?” So I said yes, but that it would be an awful waste. “Why?” Because of your gifts as a composer and musician, I said. Then she started walking again and said to the sidewalk, “I’m not a composer. I just make it up.” I told her that’s what is called composing, but she said she doesn’t write it down. That it’s different every time.