Swansong part 2

The lighting is stark in this production. A lone, unfiltered spot follows her, harsh white throwing shadows into stark relief as she moves across the stage. The route is carefully choreographed to appear random; it takes her to key points on the stage at the right time for her actions to coincide with the music. Cymbals crash as she sweeps a vase to the floor; the brass thunders as she upends a table. And all the while, her voice must remain pitch-perfect, enveloping the audience in a spiralling expression of depression that makes the music come alive.

It is a difficult piece for her to perform; the acting forces her to use her muscles in different ways to her singing. It is a balancing act between the two that drains her physically and emotionally.

The applause washes over her. She feels it is undeserved. There were flaws in her performance; she is acutely aware of that. Several notes in the top register were off, in one case by almost half a tone. There is a tremendous pressure building inside her head, like her ears are going to pop at any minute.

The interval is a godsend. She hurries to her dressing room and manages to swallow a couple of tablets to delay the headache before returning for the final act. She knows it will not be her finest hour. The vocal acrobatics demanded by Donizetti is draining and she finds none of the beauty in the score tonight. The finale arrives, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of relief, and she returns to her dressing room to slump in a chair.

The noise of the departing audience is audible overhead, muffled and indistinct. She runs a shaking hand through her hair and pulls her phone close. It takes several minutes and numerous spelling errors before she has drafted an email. She reads it over once, then sends it before her courage deserts her. By tomorrow, she will have an appointment with a hearing specialist; for now, all she can do is hold her head in her hands and wait for the migraine to take her into its clutches.

The bar is vibrating under her hands. It is slight, ever so slight, but it is there. She also thinks she can hear something, which is ludicrous – the auditorium is deserted apart from herself, as far as she is aware.

Yet it persists. After a moment, she identifies it as a violin, playing the Meditation from Thais. Her forehead creases as she considers this. The acoustics of the room must help, she decides as she takes another step. After all, she reasons, an opera house is designed to project sound as well as possible.

Still, her hearing has degenerated to the point now where hearing a solo violin should be difficult and identifying the piece of music almost impossible. Yet here she is, three-quarters of the way back from the stage and she can follow the piece almost note for note.

She is reminded of something Beethoven is reputed to have said when his deafness overcame him: “I compose in my head; I can hear the music perfectly that way.”

She can empathise with this. Her thoughts have increasingly turned inward, finding solace in the memory of pieces she has heard before. Perhaps this is another one of those phantom memories.

The music grows louder as she takes a few more steps. She stops again. This is not expected; the volume dial in her head is creeping upwards. She looks around, half expecting to see…what? Someone behind her, or in one of the seats? She shakes her head. She is being ridiculous. The place is empty, she is sure of that.

Are you? a silent voice asks her.

The last few steps are hesitant; then she is at the railing that guards the pit. The music stops as a figure looks up. She recognises Jonathon, principal violinist as he smiles at her.

“Hello, Carla.”

She nods and returns the smile. “Jonathon.” She has always liked Jonathon, has found him to be, like herself, utterly devoted to music. She worried at first that he would mistake her attention for something more, but it never became an issue between them. Someone told her much later that he was gay, but by that point it was irrelevant. She had discovered a kindred spirit who shared her love of all things operatic; they delighted each other with the discoveries they made – rare recordings, early copies of scores and librettos. Theirs was a marriage of intellects.

“I heard you’d popped back up here,” he says. He holds his instrument up as an apologetic shrug. “I thought you might like a little music. After all…” His voice trails away. She knows he was about to mention the deafness and is grateful he hasn’t.

“It’s okay,” she says. She is aware for the first time that she is watching the way his lips move and filling in the silences from the shape the words make. “It was nice.” The word is too small, incapable of expressing the depth of emotion she feels. “Really, very nice,” she adds, thinking to underscore her first statement. She can see from his expression that he doesn’t quite understand, but she cannot say more; she cannot express herself any deeper than that.

“Play for me,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence between them. “Something by Beethoven.”

He nods and lifts the violin. A pause, whilst he considers which piece to play. The first few notes ring out, and Carla recognizes it almost immediately, the eighth violin sonata from Opus 30. It is a piece that holds special meaning for her. Her eyes glisten again as she looks at Jonathon. The bow glides effortlessly over the strings, drawing sweet purity from the strings with each note.

“The Heiligenstadt Testament,” she whispers.

Jonathon manages to nod – no mean feat when playing the violin. He speaks slowly, his diction perfect. “I thought it was suitable. You know how he began the Testament, of course.”

Carla manages a smile. “Ich bin taub,” she says. “I am deaf.”

Her entrance is drawing close. Carla swallows her nerves and strides out onto the stage. Her smile betrays nothing of the fear she feels.

She begins to sing. Wrapping her voice around the words, she imbues the notes with life, setting them free like little birds. It is Mozart, Die Zauberflot, her first role as a principal.

By the end of the first act, she knows she is good; by the time the curtain comes down to rapturous applause, she is aware that she has triumphed. It is the beginning of what she hopes will be a long and satisfying career. There is no doubt other roles will follow on the heels of tonight’s performance.

The curtain rises for another call and someone hands her flowers. She curtsies, accepting them, her smile radiant. Sweet fragrance fills the air as she makes her way to the dressing rooms, her feet seeming to float above the floor.

“Carla, you were magnificent!” Rebecca’s smile matches Carla’s in wattage; she is overjoyed with her client’s success tonight. “This is the next level for you!”

“And you!” Carla is shocked that Rebecca doesn’t include herself.

“Well, if you want me. I mean, there are bound to be lots of people offering to represent you now.”

Carla shakes her head. “No. You got me this far. Let us go on together. Let us see how far this journey can take us.” Her excitement overrides the usual irritation at the way her English still sounds formal and stilted.

They shake hands on it; both are aware that this is a deal sealed for life.

Strauss follows Mozart, and Dvorak follows Strauss. She remembers each performance in minute detail. By the time her fortieth year arrives, she is tackling heavyweight Wagnerian roles with deft elegance, defying those critics who questioned her stamina for such parts.

But she is always drawn back to Beethoven. She has sung Leonore more times than any other part, and still, it sparkles in her memory. Every performance reveals new facets of Beethoven’s complex, flawed character to her. It is the piece she will choose to be her swansong.