Delights In Wine Country

Chapter One

I had been back home for only a few short hours when I realized that the Maestro had been consuming my thoughts to the point that I didn’t remember the cross-country plane trip or the taxi ride home.  The Maestro had tried to get me to call him by his first name after our encounter.  Even lying naked together side-by-side, his genius and power as a conductor at the Metropolitan Opera would always brand him Maestro for me.

I had to focus on what was next for me.  I was a 24 year old award winning mezzo-soprano, soon to be singing with the American Opera Company in San Francisco.  I had to center my attention on what was at stake for my developing career.  Though, It was hard to think about my upcoming trip to Europe, all my thoughts were on the Maestro and what was to be done about him.

It had been very unfair to take advantage of the Maestro’s vulnerability the way I did, but it was hard to care, when I was determined to bed him from the first vocal lesson at the university in Edinburgh.  The fact that he was in a relationship at the time didn’t matter.  I knew that the Maestro’s bleached blonde noodle was going to break his heart in the end, and I wanted to be around to nurse the wound.  My only regret was that the breakup had taken four years to arrive, so our affair had been a brief few weeks before I graduated.  I would have liked more time.  I sighed and gathered my scattered thoughts.

My studio apartment above Mrs. Andersen’s garage was hot.  I turned on the air conditioner and nestled into the nook by the window.  I looked out at the summer afternoon and watched as a neighbor sprayed her lawn with a hose.  It was a hot day with a heat wave of 100 degrees.  The tree-lined street showed a few parked cars and occasional cars passing by.

I stood up and took off my t-shirt, then stretched out on my stomach over the bed and opened my laptop.  It was too hot in the day to wear anything in the privacy of my flat.  I inwardly giggled about lying half-naked writing an email to the Maestro.  It made my n*****s hard, but I shook it off, propped a pillow under my torso and began to type.

Email To: Maestro

From:  Celeste

Re: Have I got a job for you

Dearest Maestro:  It’s confirmed.  They want you.  Stop moping.  Come.  You can have my apartment and car while I’m in Germany.  I’m arranging travel as you read this and will email the ticket info.  Your contract is on its way.  See you soon, C. 

p.s. On the bed and emailing topless ;)

I didn’t leave room for any questions.  This wasn’t really a request and I was proud at how assertive the text was.  I missed him.

*********

The Maestro read Celeste’s email, not the first such he had ever received from her, with the usual overt s****l suggestions, always surrounded with news of her doings or offers he usually refused.  He didn’t like being commanded by his sweet Celeste, he was the one in control.  Time takes its toll on everyone, and he no longer felt like fighting the battles, which came with the operatic package.  Why couldn’t everyone just be sane?

He fumbled through his scores, put them aside with great disinterest, and closed the piano.  Who needed another Don Pasquale or Carmen?  The answer was obvious:  the Great Audience needed them, and they paid the bills.

Yet, routine started to settle in, and fighting it became more and more difficult.  Life became more and more difficult, and Celeste, somehow, a fading chimera.  Yet, her approaches, separated by half the world, never failed to reach him.  No matter what, she remained a steadfast friend, through events and non-events.  Her smile always changed the world, her energy always lit him from inside, her spirit talked to him about things he thought he had forgotten, and her erotic aura mad him realize he was not yet slipping out of the thrills life had to offer.  

He Wrote:

Email to:  Celeste

From:  Maestro

Re: San Francisco

Dear C,

Always nice to hear from you!  The only person I ever want to hear from anymore.

NY currently bores me.  Shall I blame NY?  Of course the fault lies solely with me.  Here you can find everything you might want to do.  But, it sometimes feels as though I have done everything already, anyway.  The big disappointment here comes with the final realization that NY boils down to being rather provincial.  The damned place became self-satisfied and glorified, cut off from the rest of the world.  I give you an example:  where else in the world does the audience routinely applaud the scenery when the curtain goes up?  Or sell out another Oklahoma!

Enough of that.  You know, of course, writing to you creates problems for me.  Shall I see if you can guess what kind?  Right, the first one being below the belt.  Mozart used to write to his wife that his “Little Corporal” was standing at attention.  I could write to you that the Commander-in-chief salutes you, and that it does regularly.  Going to San Francisco has a certain attraction, the Commander can relax now and then, subdued by a tireless enemy, my sweet seductress. 

Not that you give me a choice.  Contract in the mail?  It better be damned good this time.  Whom did you sleep with to get it for me? (Just Joking, I think)

In your usual rush to get to the s****l obligations, I must assume, you neglect to say what the hell I have to conduct.  Do, you sweet Celeste, tell me it is not another Donizettil revival or, God forbid, another La Travianta with some Gay Scandinavian tenor pretending to be interred in the again Violetta!  Some prices exceed what I am willing to pay, even for you!

And so, you will meet me at the airport!  Yes, you will!  Sweet Celeste, how I need to see you, just to be reassured that life has value, after all.  Later, will you stand before me, smiling, naked as you came into the world?  You put the drive of life into me, something whole and healthy.  NO PRESS.  Otherwise I will take the next flight to Acapulco.

You will know that John is executing me back in Edinburgh.  He did not come to NY this time.  I know he would send you regards.  Someday you must meet him.  His work with the UN peacekeeping teams keeps him jumping.

Write soon.  

I must play the Schubert Trout Quintet tonight.  The Kiev String players have been here for a week.  Why should a great piece begin to bore me?  Over exposure.  I suffer no over exposure from you, however.

You could call, you know.  My hours at home are easier for you to guess than your hours are for me.

Greetings from the commander.  The immodest Commander.  A caress from, M.

********

I didn’t reply to the Maestro right away, which was extremely uncharacteristic for me.  I was normally bold and decisive.  The problem was, I just wasn’t sure how the Maestro would react to directing an original opera from an unknown local composer.  The Maestro’s talent was of a class far beyond conducting what could be considered an unknown dilettante’s folly.

I knew the real deal no matter how newly degreed I was.  Besides, the motive for having the Maestro come to my backwater was in the realm of his personal healing, not career advancement.  Nonetheless, I was aware that men especially had to have their ego stroked by a worthy challenge.  The Maestro had never exhibited arrogance and had always been accepting of my humble musical theater beginnings.  He was definitely not a snob and had shown no visible reference for either disadvantaged small-town rhubarbs or over-privileged, spoiled sophisticates.  I Maestro was motivated by true talent, regardless of where it came from.

That said, I didn’t want to piss him off with the truth, that this show was not very good, and have him refuse to come.  After two days of hemming and hawing, I decided to acknowledge his email.  I knew it could possibly cause trouble for me as I wandered the globe in pursuit of my own career.

Email to:  Maestro

From:  Celeste

Re:  Gig’s up

You’ve got the contract by now, sign it and come.  The score is waiting for you here.  It’s an original.  I know, I know, you’re fuming, arent you?  I promise you it’s good and not a waste of your time.

Remember me mentioning Dameon Slovinisic? You know, dark curly hair, bushy brows, thin, a bit pasty, but intense and talented?  It's his work.  I know you aren’t prejudiced about someone's humble beginnings, so i'll see you in San Fran right?

And before you tear your hair out, remember, Dameon has credentials, he just needs the “big break.”  Even Verdi had to start somewhere, right?  You'll have total control of the production and a practically unlimited budget.  It's the perfect cherry on top because you'll pull off the West Coast Premiere of the “up and coming.”

Also then remember, there’s the money, my dear.  Did you see the advance check?  I know it’s huge because I negotiated it.  Cash it and buy me dinner.

See you next week.

Groveling and licking at your feet (and everywhere else you desire), C.

I bit my fingers and contemplated sending the email.  I desperately wanted to feel his hands on me again.  It had been so long since I saw him in person and the ache was starting to burn.  

What if he didn't come because he finds the Opera a waste of his talents.  He had a choice to come with me to San Francisco before, and squandered my plans before I even had the chance to tell him about the production.  I was kidding myself if I thought that this mediocre play would catch his eye enough to travel.  I could only hope that seeing me, like he says, will be enough temptation.

The arrow that was hovering over send disappeared with a click.  I had made my decision and now the balls were in the Maestro’s courts. I closed my laptop and placed it beside my bed on the nightstand.  It was still hot in the late evening and a cool shower sounded heavenly.  After my shower I made my way to the kitchenette in my small apartment.  It was supposed to be grocery day, but with the excitement of finally reaching out to the Maestro, I had forgotten.  

My stomach was rumbling like a growling tiger, it needed food and quickly!  The only food I had left that didn’t require more ingredients from the store was an overripe banana and some chicken noodle soup.  I caved and dove right into the soup, cooking it over the stove while watching some tv, waiting for my dinner to be served.  The smell was making my mouth water and I was thrilled when it was finally ready.  Taking the soup off of the stove, I poured the deliciousness into a large mug, because it was also dishes day then, I settled back into bed.

With a full belly and a new found hope, my eyes started to close and I let the day melt away and happily welcomed sleep.  I didn’t dream that night.  But I woke up refreshed as if I had the best sleep in a while.  Hopefully the Maestro didn't too long to respond.  I quickly dressed and grabbed the browning banana for breakfast before closing my apartment door and making my way to campus.

************

Some time had gone by since Celeste's email arrived.  The Maestro withdrew into his New York hotel room, slept, watched TV and read novels provided by the hotel.  Some degree of apathy overtook the let down from a production and he needed to unwind his nervous energy.  Meals came erratically due to the nature of his work and were expensive.

During the times when he went out he rambled from one bookstore to another.  Often he would forget the time, if some used bookstore caught his interest. The books piled up.  Old music took more of his time than he realized, this fascination of printing done on copper plates, by hand requiring half of the worker wo did it all.

He found an oblong piano score of Beethoven's Fidelio, originally done in copper plate.  The pressure of the plate, on the soft paper left raised edges around each page.  The ink was turning an evil brown, covered in a meaningless pale blue paper with a label written by hand.  Who used this?  How old?  Who dreamed over it?  Who thrilled to it?  Where had it been all these years?  Obviously a European product.  A humble little score, squeezed illogically in among huge editions of Wagner's operas bound in hard-skinned leather, embossed in gold for piano four-hands.  A sheep among wolves.  Caressing it, he felt human again.  Something in the pages came to life and spoke to him.  Oddly, he could not speak back.  What does one say to something like this?

When he finally recovered from his lethargic state, he recognized once again a truth that faced him more and more.  Not an unpleasant truth, exactly, but certainly an undeniable one which greeted him at unexpected moments.  He did not travel with the birds of youth anymore, nor did he know how long the road stretched ahead of him into the future.  The fires often burned as before, but more and more were dampened.  The Maestro knew well that he might not get over the next hill.  It relieved him to think of this.  A journey is a journey, and every journey has an end.

At last he wrote back to Celeste. 

Email to: Celeste

From: Maestro

Re: Gig's up-- It's not the only thing that's up!

What can I say? I suspect a trap.  A tender trap, but a trap nonetheless.

And where the hell did they find a composer named Dameon?

Dear Celeste, you will be appropriately punished if this new masterwork rides my nerves!  I promise!  Unheard of punishments which you have not yet dreamed of!

I have some inclination NOT to sign the contract until I have spent every cent of the check those local ladies have stupidly sent me.  Then, if I hate this new opera I only have to leave and disappear.  Recourse, they have none.  We have no agreement, spoken or written.

But, I won't cash the check or sign the contract yet.  When my plane arrives in San Francisco, well, then I can find time to commit myself to a torture reserved for Iraqi soldier in American prisons. (Do I hear you groaning?)  Ok then, in British Prisons.  As a Brit I have enough to lament in my own backyard.

Permit me to say that I doubt your veracity when you say there is an "unlimited budget."  Face it, sweet Celeste, it is all about social events and the money will go towards parties.

So, you have been told how New York has affected me.  That being said, I miss the Pacific air, Chinese Restaurants, adult stories, ice cream sundaes with Ghirardelli chocolate, and the light sun over the harbor at night.  

OK, OK-- I'll see you at the airport.  I promise not to insult the composer until I know how awful his music is and I will be nice to the Ladies who Lunch.

See you soon, Big "M" ;)