The Boundary

Rémy- Two Years Ago

Rémy- Two Years Ago

I hadn’t uttered a single word in months. Nor had I imbibed a single drop of caffeine or alcohol. No dairy products or heavily spiced foods, just a steady diet of bland crap and hot tea with honey. Singing was everything to me, and I’d do whatever it took to preserve my one and only talent, so except for my work onstage, I was totally silent.

After my voice cracked performing at the Met, I limited myself to handwritten notes and text messages, anything to prevent that embarrassment from ever happening again. I’d consulted doctors and specialists and all had said the same thing: either slow down my performance schedule or stop any unnecessary speech. I chose to keep my trap shut.

Only last month I’d appeared on the cover of Opera Magazine, hailed as the next Placido Domingo. I’d signed a record deal, and my agent had my calendar booked solid for the next year and a half. There was no possible way I could put the brakes on my career. Too many people were depending on me, and with my star on the rise I needed to work as much as possible. But, the fear of failing on stage in front of thousands of people never left me.

Now here I was on one of the grandest stages of all, The Royal Opera house in Covent Garden, with sweat pouring down my sides while I waited for the curtain to rise. The orchestra had begun to tune their instruments and the low roar of the crowd taking their seats had dissipated. My costume was this ridiculous purple toga, and the brass laurel leaf I wore on my head was digging into my scalp.

“Toi toi toi!” My co-star Adrianna whispered in my ear, the equivalent of break a leg for opera singers. I grinned at her, hoping my terror wasn’t obvious. She was an emerging star, a Lyric Soprano with an agile voice and stunning looks that guaranteed her a grand career.

As long as she didn’t lose her voice.

Moments later the scarlet and gold curtain rose, and the performance began.

Usually I lost myself in the music, immersing myself in whatever role I was playing. But tonight I feared the worst. I loved Baroque Opera and had begged my agent Clarissa to find me the perfect role. She had, and to my regret I found it insanely difficult to perform. It was composed by Handel and was originally meant to be performed by castrati singers. Thankfully, there are no more of them, but even with my role being recast from a soprano to a tenor the arias were extremely difficult. Every single note had to be sung correctly. It was a battle between substance and style, and the insane number of glissandos and trills was stretching my voice to its limits, even with my complete and utter silence when not singing. Yet I was doing what I had dreamt of doing my entire life, and if it meant I could not speak in order to sing, by God I’d never talk again.

Instead of period costumes, the stage director had chosen a much more avant garde production, and I felt pity for the women who performed with little more than a few strategically draped pieces of gauze. Despite the near nudity, the effect was very elegant and refined. We were in the second week of performances, and though I’d had my misgivings, the reviews had been superb, if not the best of my career.

“Bel Canto Tenor Rémy Grosjean Makes Royal Opera Debut.”

“... Grosjean’s voice makes you forget that it was once castrated singers performing such vocal acrobatics. His technique and style is sheer perfection and his star is definitely on the rise!”

But the reviews did nothing to quell my fear. At last night's performance my voice had wobbled while hitting the upper limits of my vocal register. The audience hadn’t noticed since it was peppered in between a flurry of sixteenth notes, but the conductor had immediately glanced up with a look of concern on his face. After the performance I went directly to my dressing room and stared at my reflection in the brightly lit mirror, little streaks of black kohl snaking down my cheeks.

“Please God, don’t let that happen again.” I mouthed, then swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand.

The fog created from the dry ice wreaked havoc on my vocal cords. Though I’d written a note of complaint to the stage director he’d shrugged it off. It appeared purple thanks to the footlights and allowed the singers to look like they were floating instead of walking across the stage. It was my final aria before I was killed by the king, my love interest’s father.

Slowly, I glided up the stage, the spotlight following my every move. Once there, I waited for the music to begin. The conductor lifted his baton, and the strings began to swirl, followed by the slow thunder of the timpani.

Then, my worst nightmare, the one thing I dreaded the most happened.

I opened my mouth and only the barest hint of my voice emerged. Forcing myself to continue, I opened my chest and my mouth wider, hoping to propel more volume through my vocal cords but instead of the luscious, natural sound I’d been heralded for all I heard was a croak.

The conductor silenced the orchestra, and the audience glared in my direction. There was nothing I could do to stop the tears, but I didn’t want to have thousands of witnesses. I ran off the stage and locked myself in my dressing room. Soon there was a pounding at the door, and I heard a key entering the lock. It had to be the stage director, for he was the only one with the key. The door flew open, banging against the wall, and the elderly man’s eyes were filled with pity.

I loathed pity.

“Rémy, I’m so sorry. I know a voice specialist who can…”

“Shut up!” I rasped, then snatched a container filled with greasepaint off the scratched wooden counter and threw it at my reflection in the mirror. A long crack splintered it down the middle.

I sank to my knees and sobbed.