Chapter Text
The back of the stage is a perfect storm. There are barely decent chorus members, singers in dressing gowns and wig caps, spilled rosin and wires on the floor. There were two weeks until the season opening.Perhaps it was just me, but there was an air of fright for the precarious situation of the opera house that could not be masked. If this performance flopped, the opera house would essentially cease to exist for the likes of us and there would be a couple hundred more penniless and possibly homeless artists. A fate I should perhaps have foreseen, but chose to ignore.
In the studio, I could see the splotches of paint on the walls and Alexei’s excited waving.
“Alina!” He mouthed.
The set we were working on was almost complete, bar the inconsistent patterns. I ran my hand over the silk screen, feeling a sense of pride even though my work was not the best. Alexei’s was, and he knew it. He was the artist and I was...I didn’t even know. Some opera singer turned painter. Not even an understudy. His future was in set designing and not simply just the making.
“You seem to be distracted today.” He observed. “Don’t tell me it’s Mal.”
“Alexei.” I rolled my eyes. “No. Just no.”
“Then what could it be?”
“The glorious prospect of losing my job.” I smiled and held up my hands in surrender. “Obviously you’re not going to be affected, so why ask?”
“They’ll sack me too.” He sighed. “There’s this fabulous money bringer called recitals that comes with reduced budget, by sacking the chorus and orchestra and stagehands. Of course.” He shrugged.
“But isn’t it unfair?” Another stagehand chimed in. Eva, somewhat pretty with striking green eyes but a pig-like nose that hardly made them matter. “Why is it singer oriented?”
“Well”, I started. “The orchestra can play gigs.”
“That’s not my point!” She threw her hands up in frustration.
I stayed silent. It was better not to argue with Eva. Instead, I focused on painting the silk screen, measuring the distances between each pattern repeat with a palm.
“I heard a rumor...” I started to Alexei. He immediately perked up.
“What rumor?”
“Finish my screen and I’ll tell you.” I smiled.
“Not fair!” He pouted, but he relented and set out working on the pattern. Alexei was the better artist out of the two of us, and perhaps out of the entire crew.
“Nazyalenskaya is not in the season opening.” I wiggled my eyebrows even though I knew he couldn’t see.
“But how are they going to put on Butterfly without her?” Alexei dropped his brush and stared at me.
“Probably they’ll call in another soprano.” I scoffed. “Hopefully less screamy.”
“Hopefully less banshee.” He smirked. Zoya...was difficult, and that was putting it lightly.
“Bring me my water!” I screeched under my breath. “Oh and make it body temperature. No, no, not like that, no you’re doing it all wrong! Oh no! I must have ten grams of lemon.” Soon, I was laughing albeit quietly, Alexei joining me in our mockery of Zoya.
A pang shot through me. This was what I wished I could have with Mal, but he hardly even looked at me. Last time I saw him he had Zoya over. I had no shelter from the thin walls and sounds coming from the room next to mine. It was more painful next morning to watch exactly how much control she had.
“Alina?” Alexei’s smile vanished. “Are you alright?”
I nodded, blinking to avoid the tears.
“Well, if it’s Mal, there are better options.” He teased. “You know, like...”
“Like what?”
“I actually don’t know. I’m going to feel bad for whoever I unleash you on.”
“Alexei!”
“What? It’s true.”
I shook my head, but I didn’t feel as if I wanted a good cry. “One day. I’ll get over him, one day.”
“Knowing you, that’s the day you die.” He rolled his eyes.
“Still, at least I have aspirations.” I muttered. “Unlike you.”
Someone knocked on the door. “Alina!”
Mal?
Alexei smirked. “Go on, go on.”
“This is not over.” I pouted.
As I exited the room, I found any resentment I had about him and Zoya disappear as he flashed a smile at me before offering me a cup of coffee. “Here you go, Lina.”
I held the cup and took a small sip. “How do you remember all this?”
“Remember what?”
“My coffee order.”
“Oh, that?” Mal shrugged. “It’s always been the two of us. What else do I have left to remember?”
I wanted to scream. Zoya? Her favorites? Days? But at least now, I could pretend he cared. It would probably change in a couple of days, or even tonight, but it was hard enough hearing about what exactly our futures looked like. Grim and uninviting.
“Thank you.” In that moment, I felt happy for the first time in a long time.
“This will not do!” I heard the voice of Beznikov, the lead tenor, Pinkerton. “The tickets will not sell and we have no good understudy for a premiere!” The understudy of Zoya, Nadia, flushed and lowered her head.
“She will have to do if we have no suitable alternative.” A voice cool and smooth as a mirror sounded. There was no mistaking who that was. Aleksandr Morozov.
If he was here, there would certainly be trouble.
“And that is the problem!” Beznikov yelled. “She is no suitable alternative!”
“I said, that I would solve this, Sergei Yegorovich.” Despite the din, his voice could be easily heard. I suppose it was the same principle as singing on a smaller scale, but it was still impressive that he isolated and utilized that one element to make himself prominent. A clever move indeed. And Morozov had always been a clever man.
“Alina would make a good Butterfly.” Somehow, Mal had slipped away and was now facing Morozov and the singers.
“What? The...what is she?” Benznikov laughed. I wanted to slip away and run, but it was difficult Morozov’s gray eyes and his scrutinizing gaze.
“I will take care of it.” Morozov replied, unflinching. “This is no conventional problem and looking for a conventional solution would only make things more difficult, Mr. Beznikov. He gestured to Nadia. “Call Baghra and Misha and tell her to come at seven. She will accompany miss...” He turned to me.
“Starkova.” I said quietly.
“Then it is settled.”
What had Mal gotten me into?
“Miss Starkova,” He turned to me. “Please prepare two arias if you wish, preferably in Italian, and do not fret. As you can see, we are in need of a soprano, and if you are who he says you are,” he pointed to Mal, standing next to Benznikov, looking at me with pleading eyes. “Then you have nothing to be worried about. And if you wish, you may leave now and prepare your audition. It will be in the concert hall”
Somehow, that last sentence only made my problem worse. Audition.
I headed to residence and the house seemed so much larger without Mikhail and Dubrov or Mal or even Zoya. It was much emptier.
With a pang, I realized that I had not touched a score or a keyboard in a long time. I had two hours to make this work.
I dug out an old and frayed score from my college days, titled Sempre Libera. At the time, it seemed so happy and carefree and I had not given a second thought before diving in.
Now? Humming the tune, I realized it might as well as have been a mask more than an expression of happiness. It was a sad mockery of how I perceived my college days. They were an attempt at a childish idea of freedom.
Should I sing it? I wanted to. Verdi wrote beautiful music. I knew I could sing it, but as I produced the syllables and notes, something felt wrong. My voice was there, the tone was right, so what else could be wrong?
I ran through the aria portion a few times before deciding that it was alright. He asked for two, and I flipped through more scores.
I found a score of Casta Diva and I laughed. Ingenuity at it’s finest. Still, I could not resist humming it. The music was some of the best but it was just...difficult? No, that was not the right word. It was more than difficult to pull off correctly.
Finally, at the bottom, I found a copy of Ah non credea.
My teacher in college had scolded me for the lack of sadness that I projected, and the ornaments I improvised on top of the suggested variations. I paid her no attention, but singing through the version I wrote, I could see why she would put it that way. That was not sadness. That was merely just forming notes. It was hardly singing, for singing was the production of notes with proper intent and I had no sense or proper intent.
I sang the aria without any ornament for the first time and I decided that perhaps I should go with this one after all. Six thirty. I ran all the way to the bus stop and after getting off the bus I ran.
The opera house was so empty without the cast and crew and audience to fill the empty spaces. I hurried up the stairs to the main concert hall and at the piano sat Baghra. A face we all knew, and not a welcome one. Her cane was not there, thank goodness, but her scowl was.
“Girl, if you want to do well, you should be earlier.”
I mumbled some apologies and handed her the music.
She grumbled something and sized me up. “If what you just did was your voice, then the boy is stupid. And deaf” It took me a moment to realize the boy in question was Morozov. “One, two, three – starting from the sempre libera portion.”
I sang to the best of abilities, although I could feel my chest tightening up from anxiety.
“No.” She shook her head. “Not like that. You are much too tight. Everywhere. Is this what they teach in college?”
I bit my lip to refrain from giving a scalding retort.
“Well, girl, you better get started.” She tossed aside sempre libera with a grunt. “Ah non credea. Go. I am not accompanying you this time.”
“Ah non credea mirarti...” I felt the pressure cease and suddenly it felt like flying. It felt right. It felt good. In the corner of my vision I could see a few people arriving and amongst them Morozov but I didn’t care and I did not stop at the end. I sang all the way to the e-flat of the cabaletta and the final b-flat. For a moment, I felt as if I possessed everything I should have. I felt worthy, somehow.
“Brava.” I heard a man’s voice.
Alexander Lanstov? As in, the benefactor?
“Thank you.” I curtsied.
“Will you sing for us the other aria?” The blonde woman next to him asked.
“Of course.” Even if I didn’t want to, I had to, for them.
Baghra rolled her eyes and muttered something about bad taste, but she looked at me with less contempt than she had before.
And she started at the aria section.
“Ah for’sei lui...” The cadenzas seemed much easier, somehow, and even sempre libera went alright. I still felt the tightness, but I managed. It was not too bad, I hoped.
I was met with silence, and then frenzied clapping from both Lanstovs.
“Brava.” Yekaterina Lanstov smiled, although it did not reach her eyes. She did not care, I realized.
“And as I have told you, Miss Starkova is a brilliant soprano and will bring in tickets more than Miss Nazyalenskaya ever could...” Morozov’s voice echoed in the hall as he lead both of them out of the doors and I beamed at Baghra, although she was less than pleased.
“I am stuck with you.” She muttered. “And I am already sick of you. Misha, out.” The boy obliged, scampering out of the room. “They are pleased, but what do they know of music?” She sighed, and I was left with a chill that shook me down to the bones.
“Have you studied Concone and Panofka?” She asked. I nodded. “Good. At least you are not as useless as some other sopranos.”
I wonder who she meant.
“Panofka 1. Sing that.” I wanted to protest and tell her how many more difficult pieces I could sing, but I did not feel like facing this woman.
Being called useless allowed me to at least scowl, albeit not in Baghra’s direction. God forbid I set her off more than I had already.