Authors: Cat Grant
EntangledTrio (5 page)
Aleks had given their chef the holiday off, so later that evening they bundled up in their coats, scarves and boots and ventured out into the village. Barely an hour after sunset, and the sky was already the clearest, deepest blue Colette had ever seen, dusted with bright stars. The fresh, clean alpine air was so cold it almost froze her lungs. She and Aleks linked arms as they strolled through the cobblestoned streets, marveling at the utter silence. Zermatt lay high up in the Alps, with the train the only way in or out. There were no cars here, just sleighs and foot traffic. It was as if they’d been hurled back in time to the nineteenth century.
Surprisingly, a number of restaurants were open tonight. They settled on a small, intimate place with sturdy wooden tables and a long bar with an impressive number of beer steins perched on it. The host came over and greeted them in rapid-fire German, showed them to a table near the fireplace, then took their order.
They lingered over a pot of fondue chased down by a light, crisp Riesling. After, as they did a slow circuit of the town before heading back to the chalet, Aleks remarked, “Is something wrong? You haven’t uttered a word since we left the restaurant.”
Why did he keep asking her that? With a stifled sigh, she glanced up at the mountains looming above them. “I’m just enjoying the ambiance and the quiet. It’s so peaceful here.”
“It is indeed.” No sooner had he spoken the words when he spied a newspaper vending machine on a nearby corner and darted over to buy one. Colette’s lips went tight, but she’d decided not to say anything until he looked at her, forehead crinkled. “What is it?”
“We’re on holiday, Aleks. Can’t we go even a couple of days without the outside world intruding?”
“It’s just a newspaper.”
“My point exactly.”
“Fine, then.” Now his lips tightened, but he marched back to leave the paper on top of the vending machine. “Shall we go?”
They arrived back at the chalet a few minutes later, with Colette shivering from a distinct new chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. She headed upstairs by herself to wash her face and put on her nightgown and robe, but when she fished in her purse for her hairbrush, everything in it spilled onto the floor. Wallet. Makeup bag. Cell phone…
Which looked like it had a voice message on it. Well, whatever it was, it could wait.
Except she didn’t put it back in her bag. She sank down on the edge of the bed and stared at it, then hit the button to see who’d left the message.
David.
As if she hadn’t already suspected as much. She would’ve thought he’d have better sense than to call her, especially today. God, why hadn’t she blocked his number when she had the chance?
She should’ve erased it, but instead she hit the “play” button. “Hi, Colette. It’s… Well, you know who it is. I wanted to wish you merry Christmas.” A short pause, and then, “I really miss you, you know. I think about you every day. And every night.” There was a muffled noise that sounded like coughing or nervous laughter, followed by, “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry. Don’t worry, I won’t call again. I was just hoping to hear your voice.”
The line clicked off.
This time she did erase it, then hastily flipped back a couple of screens to delete his number. Her thumb hovered between the “delete” and “call” buttons for a second or two—until she heard a clomp-clomping up the stairs, and Aleks poked his head in the doorway.
“I’m sorry about our disagreement. You’re right—we came here to relax, not read newspapers.” He smiled. “Would you care to join me on the sofa for a glass of wine?”
Her startled heart tripped like a snare drum, though she managed to force a weak smile. “Give me a few minutes to change, and I’ll be right down.” She breathed deep as his footsteps faded, decisively hitting the “delete” button at last. There. It was done.
But she still felt awful. Anxious.
Wrong.
As if Aleks had caught her in the act. As if she’d betrayed him simply by listening to David’s message, when it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t as if she’d
asked
him to call.
But she’d been thinking about him too, and that was her fault. And now that she’d heard his voice again, there was little chance she’d get it out of her mind—at least, not tonight.
After an entire week of blessed peace and quiet, returning home to noisy, gloomy Paris felt like a distinct comedown. Colette put on her best smile and tried to ignore the strange restlessness pricking at the back of her mind as she and Aleks settled into a regular routine. Each morning he went off to rehearse with the
Orchestre de Paris
, while she sat down at the piano and tried to concentrate on learning her new role. Rehearsals for
Carmen
started in another week, and she was nowhere near ready.
It shouldn’t have been so difficult. She’d learned Carmen’s two major arias, the
Habañera
and the
Seguidilla
, years ago at the
conservatoire
, but there were still duets and a host of other ensemble pieces to memorize. She’d even have to sing and dance at the same time, and she’d never been terribly confident about her dancing. Never mind that
Carmen
was one of the best-known operas of all time. Parisian audiences knew it like they knew the alphabet—which meant there was no room for mistakes.
None.
Every day she spent studying the role of Bizet’s fiery gypsy left Colette more convinced that she had no hope of pulling it off. How could she compare with Callas, Price or Berganza? Oh she could hit all the notes, but what did she have to
say
about the role that hadn’t been said before? Finding something fresh and new in the century-old opera seemed not only elusive, but downright impossible.
At last the first day of rehearsals arrived. Colette’s hands trembled as she styled her hair and applied makeup, then put on a simple A-line plum wool dress and plain black flats. It was bound to be a long day, so she might as well be comfortable. Henri drove her and Aleks to the
Opéra Bastille
and dropped them off at the stage door, where general director Sergei Popov shook Colette’s hand, slapped Aleks on the back and led them to their side-by-side dressing rooms.
“We don’t normally put the conductor and prima donna so close together, but in this case…” Popov grinned, practically bouncing on his feet. “I cannot tell you how excited we all are to have you here. I’m sure this will be an outstanding production.”
“And I’m sure that was more for your benefit than mine,” Colette murmured to Aleks once Popov had moved out of earshot.
“Stop it.” Aleks’ expression went suddenly as dark as the January storm clouds outside. “Never let me hear you talk that way again.”
She’d just turned to hang up her coat, but his sharp, no-nonsense tone made her swing back to face him. “All I meant was—”
“I only work with the best. And if you cast doubt on your own talent, you not only insult yourself, but me as well.” Then he reached for her hand, carrying it to his chest. The slow, steady thump of his heart beat dully against her palm. God, how could he be so calm at a time like this? “Do you trust me, my angel?”
He usually asked her that in the bedroom, after she’d sunk to her knees before him. She would’ve given anything to do that right here and now, but the dressing room door stood half-open, with people darting up and down the hallway outside. “Of course,” she whispered finally. “I trust you without question. But it still feels as if I’m standing atop a hundred-story building, poised to fall.”
“Then let yourself fall. I will always be there to catch you. It’s part of a conductor’s job, after all. And a husband’s too.” A soft kiss on her cheek, and then, “Come along, Carmencita. Time to meet the rest of our cast.”
They took the elevator down to the rehearsal hall in the opera house’s basement, where the orchestra, adult and children’s chorus and the other principal singers awaited them. Colette had only previously worked with soprano Nicole Maurel, who was singing the role of peasant girl Micaëla. They’d gotten along famously when they’d done
Rosenkavalier
in London last spring. But she was taken aback to see Alberto Bernini sitting in the chair next to hers. She’d long admired the veteran Italian tenor, but good God, he had to be at least fifty! A bit long in the tooth to play a romantic lead like Don José.
Colette simply smiled, shook his hand and opened the score on the podium in front of her. It was ridiculous of her to write him off when she hadn’t even heard him sing yet. If it were Domingo she wouldn’t be having misgivings—and he was in his sixties.
Aleks tapped his baton on his own podium to bring the room to order, then launched into the score. The orchestra worked like a well-oiled machine, hardly requiring any correction—not surprising, considering they played this opera every other season. Most of the inevitable fits and starts had to do with the children’s chorus, which sounded a bit ragged. Aleks had to take the choral director aside for a short conference, then sent him and his charges off to rehearse on their own.
At last he moved on to working with the principals. By now Colette’s nerves were well and truly jangled, but when Aleks signaled the start of the
Habañera
, she opened her mouth and sang as if it were her last chance to sing anything ever again. Wrapping the notes in a rich, smoky purr, she glided through the aria’s four seductive verses, with the chorus coming in on the refrains. For a split second she was afraid she wouldn’t make the final B-flat, but out it came, sailing above their heads like a shooting star.
The room burst into spontaneous applause—orchestra, chorus and cast alike. Even Aleks gave her a smile and a nod before signaling for Nicole and Alberto to stand and begin their duet. Relief nearly buckling her knees, Colette sank into her seat gratefully, sipping water while she thumbed through the score to find her next cue.
Then she closed her eyes and listened. Amazingly, Bernini was in as fine a voice as he’d ever been, his mellifluous lyric tenor pouring from him like a golden stream. But that was before he hit the duet’s first high note—or rather, tried to. His voice wavered, wobbled and finally cracked.
The poor man looked mortified but recovered quickly. He even managed to hit the missed note dead on in the duet’s subsequent verses. No doubt it was just first-day jitters.
It could’ve happened to anyone
, Colette told herself.
Even me.
Especially me.
“I thought it went fairly well today,” she remarked to Aleks over dinner at home that evening. “At least I didn’t faint from sheer terror.”
“See? Didn’t I say you had nothing to worry about?” He picked up his glass of wine and swirled it, then took a healthy sip. “There were a few other things that seemed a bit rough though. Unnecessarily so.”
“Believe me, I’ve witnessed much worse at first rehearsals. But I did feel for poor Alberto. It’s embarrassing to miss a note like that in front of everyone.”
“Did he seem a bit…stiff to you during the
Seguidilla
?”
“His singing sounded perfectly fine.”
“That’s not what I meant. You were supposed to be seducing him, but he behaved as if he were petrified. Literally. A good breeze would’ve snapped him in two.”
She sighed, setting her fork down. “Aleks, you haven’t conducted opera in a long time. It’s not like a symphony or a concerto. Things aren’t going to be perfect after you’ve run through it once, or even two or three times. In fact, it’ll probably never be perfect—there are just too many variables. There’s music rehearsals and staging rehearsals and costume fittings and—”
“I see your point. So I’m being too difficult a taskmaster, am I?”
“You could ease up a bit. At least for the first week.”
“Very well. Since this is your field of expertise, I bow to your better judgment.” A tiny smile, and then he returned to scowling into his Pinot noir.
Colette took a few bites of her salad, chewing slowly. Finally the continued silence became too much to bear. “There’s something else bothering you, isn’t there? Tell me.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Aleks…” She did her best not to sound exasperated, but it truly was an effort. “If it concerns the production, I want to know.”
He sighed and put down his glass. “I’ve heard some rumors about Bernini. Namely, that he has a drinking problem. And a gambling problem. And a mistress-with-two-children problem.”
Her eyes widened. “Well, I can’t speak to the other things, but he didn’t seem drunk today, just nervous. Like at least one other person in the room.”
“I shouldn’t have told you. I knew you wouldn’t take it seriously.”
“There’s nothing to take seriously. They’re
rumors
. And even if they are true, it still doesn’t make them any of our business. People could tell plenty of stories about us, you know.”
Now he gave her a sharp look. “Indeed.”
The next couple of music rehearsals went much better. Colette finally let herself relax and enjoy playing with the score, making the role her own. Aleks was right—as far as her own performance went, she had nothing to worry about.
But that was before staging rehearsals started the following week. That evening she arrived home exhausted and with a pounding headache, then marched right into Aleks’ study, dropping into the chair in front of his desk.
Aleks glanced up from his seat at the piano, instant concern crinkling his eyes. “What happened?”
“Bernini doesn’t want to do anything. Every time Sophia asked him to emote or move around the stage, he just glared at her.”
He sighed, ambling over to perch on the edge of his desk. “Perhaps I should have a word with Popov.”
“It won’t do any good. Alberto’s one of those old-school singers who thinks all he needs to do is stand there and bathe the room in his beautiful voice. And it is still beautiful. He won’t disappoint on that score, but…”
“But he’s too old for the role, and he knows it.”
She nodded wearily. “And I can’t be sure, but I think I smelled wine on his breath after lunch. He did seem a bit unsteady from that point onward.”
“Well, there’s no question then. I should definitely speak to Popov.”
“No, Aleks—please don’t.” Panic gripped her, but she forced it back down. She was
not
about to see this production go down in flames. “Popov will only upset him and make him dig in his heels. The last thing I need is to have to play love scenes with a tenor who thinks I’m trying to sabotage him.”
Aleks thought about it a moment, then finally nodded. “Fine. But if he shows up for any of my rehearsals in that condition, he’ll have to deal with me. And I’m not nearly as diplomatic as Sergei.”