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Post by Erik Destler on May 13, 2008 10:26:36 GMT -5
Destler had his usual place up in the flies, where he sat on a left crate with one long leg propped up on the rail. There were no rehersals today, but he'd not felt like sitting down below or going out. The air of the stage had a certain feel to it, a certain smell, or combination of scents that he found pleasant.
He sat reading, with his face burried in the scarf, nearly ready to fall asleep.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 13, 2008 10:37:29 GMT -5
*No upstart tenors or fake phantoms would stop him now. He was finished with running. And though it was not like him, the memory of the triumphs he had seen on this stage--and the tragedy--spurred him on to sing.*
What unknown trouble penetrates me? I sense love taking hold of my being! O Marguerite, at your feet, here I am!
I greet you, home chaste and pure, I greet you, home chaste and pure, Where is manifested the presence Of a soul, innocent and divine! How much richness in this poverty! In this retreat, how much happiness! How much richness What richness in this poverty! O nature, it is here That you have made her so beautiful! It is here that this child Slept under your wing, Grew up under your eyes. Here that your breath Enveloping her soul, You made, with love, the woman blossom Into this angel from heaven! It’s here! Yes, it is here! I greet you, home chaste and pure, I greet you, home chaste and pure, Where is manifested the presence Of a soul, innocent and divine! I greet you, home chaste and pure
*Carlos hit the C at the end with ease, as he had technically perfected every moment of the song.
But he sang mechanically, without emotion, without, it seemed, any comprehension of the sentiments he was supposed to be expressing. He had never had to; for Carlos, opera had always been about glamor and showmanship. The audience didn't come to see Faust or Marguerite. They came to see Carlos Castro, or Christine Nillson, living a life on stage they never could.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 13, 2008 10:46:24 GMT -5
The sudden burst of song woke him and he nearly fell from the walk with a start, but he froze after he regained his wits and listened.
Technically beautiful. But the soul was dead and flat. He leaned over the rail to see who owned the unfamiliar voice.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 13, 2008 10:54:17 GMT -5
*Carlos' wide, youthful face broke into a smile--the kind he could only allow himself when alone. Which was the only time he could truly enjoy singing.
He looked around, to make certain he was alone, and the without warning broke into "The Streets of Laredo":
As I walked out in the Streets of Laredo As I walked out in Laredo one day, I spied a young cowboy, all wrapped in white linen wrapped up in white linen and cold as the clay.
I see by your outfit, that you are a cowboy, These words he did say as I slowly walked by. Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story, For I'm shot in the breast, and I'm dying today.
Twas once in the saddle I used to go dashing, Twas once in the saddle I used to go gay. First to the dradonotuse-house, and then to the card-house, Got shot in the breast, and I'm dying today.
Oh, beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly, And play the dead march as you carry me along; Take me to the green valley, there lay the sod oer me, For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.
Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin, Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall. Put bunches of roses all over my coffin, Roses to deaden the sods as they fall.
Then swing your rope slowly and rattle yours purs lowly, And give a wild whoop as you carry me along; And in the grave throw me and roll the sod o'er me. For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong.
Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water. To cool my parched lips, the cowboy then said. Before I returned, his soul had departed, And gone to the round up - the cowboy was dead.
We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly, And bitterly wept as we bore him along. For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young and handsome, We all loved our comrade, although he'd done wrong.
*Carlos, during this song, was transformed. No longer the haughty, stoic Spanish tenor, he was all at once a joyously sorrowful American performer, singing for his own pleasure.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 13, 2008 11:01:38 GMT -5
Destler had been about to dismiss the young man as another mediocre performer when this new song broke from that subtly handsome face. He frowned, most displeased--nearly angered, actually--and turned to make his way acrobatically down the walks and ropes until he dropped into the shadows of the stage wing, on level with the boy and stood still allowing him to finish the song while his near-anger boiled into a proper, seething rage.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 13, 2008 11:13:53 GMT -5
*As the last note rang out, Carlos suddenly became aware of another presence on the stage. He turned in surprise, unable to hide his shock. Just for a moment.*
"Excuse me, señor. I thought I was solo."
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Post by Erik Destler on May 13, 2008 11:19:22 GMT -5
"Clearly."
He stayed where he was, in shadow, his face mostly hidden behind the scarf which somehow did not muffle his clear voice.
"You seem to be two different people, monsieur."
His head tilted to one side "One worthy of adoration, and one worth nothing at all."
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 13, 2008 11:40:25 GMT -5
*Carlos frowned, his nose instinctively rising at the insult, the better to look down it.*
"Which is why I only practice the one in private. Or what I took pains to ensure was private, wherever you came from. What I do when not in the employ of the Opera is my business; in private, señor, a trite folk song can do no significant harm."
*His brow furrowed. It could do harm to his reputation.*
"You are not with la prensa, are you, señor?"
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Post by Erik Destler on May 13, 2008 11:47:06 GMT -5
"I am with none but the devil--and one is never in private on a stage, young man."
Still he did not move, remaining a taller shadow-in-shadow.
"You believe it was the folk song which was the less worthy of the two pieces. Why?"
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 13, 2008 11:49:57 GMT -5
*Carlos snorted.*
"Is that a trick question? The cowboy song is mere play. Opera... opera is where the art resides."
And the money.
"People only pay for the one."
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Post by Erik Destler on May 13, 2008 11:55:34 GMT -5
"The song selection was unimportant, the second was better performed. Art and play should not be mutually exclusive, and your artful performance of the aria was disgustingly boring. Is that how you plan to sing in the company? I'm not sure I can allow it, having heard your true voice."
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 13, 2008 11:58:24 GMT -5
*Carlos raised an eyebrow.*
"And what do you have to say about it, hmm? I am hired for my ability to sing opera; and though I may not look it, I have done so, very successfully, for many years. If you are not a fan, it is no matter. I have many."
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Post by Erik Destler on May 13, 2008 12:01:57 GMT -5
"You do not enjoy it. At least, not anymore."
He raised his hand and pushed it into the folds of his cloak, barely visible in the shadow, and curled his fingers around the solid handle of the whip.
"As for myself, I happen to know a thing or two of music and opera and fame."
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 13, 2008 12:11:21 GMT -5
"What difference has my enjoyment to do with it?" *Carlos said, forgetting his accent.* "It is a job."
*He peered into the shadows, the shape he conversed with indistinct but suspiciously so.*
"Who are you?"
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Post by Erik Destler on May 13, 2008 12:15:50 GMT -5
"A composer. And a teacher."
He smirked behind the scarf.
"You seem to have lost something. Just as well, your Spanish was terrible."
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