Читать книгу Adventures In the Scream Trade: Scenes from an Operatic Life - Charles Long - Страница 3

I sat at the grand piano, repeatedly banging out the same pitch for a tone-deaf student. It was dark and dank in the studio. Even the blanket around my shoulders couldn’t keep out the numbing chill. The student seemed not to notice and fished for the pitch. He missed by a fourth. I sighed, smiled, and played it again.

I had come full circle—from aspiring student to international star to jaded teacher. I thought about how my parents had beseeched me to get a college degree so I would have something to “fall back on.” Well, I had indeed fallen back—farther than I imagined possible. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.

I was awakened from my wistful reminiscence by another abrupt attempt at the pitch. It was a minor third too low this time. At least he was getting closer. I contemplated shooting him and feeding him to the dogs, thus putting an end to both our miseries. Surely no jury would convict me. A musician of my caliber couldn’t be expected to endure this!

The realm of the classical musician is frequently perceived as a thing of ethereal, intangible beauty, distant and aloof, an untouchable museum piece, a world preserved by ectomorphic scholars in cobwebbed libraries, scrutinizing hieroglyphic scribbles called semi-demi-quavers, sextuplets, and acciaccaturas. Bullshit! This was hell on earth.

I looked at the pictures covering the walls of my studio: rows of 8x10, black-and-white glossies, the only legacy of a once-illustrious career. My mind wandered to a radio interview I had given years before. The interviewer was amused when I said that singing opera was little more than controlled screaming. I certainly felt like screaming now. I thought about my life and laughed bitterly.

The student looked at me aghast, perhaps thinking that I was laughing at him. Then, in a moment of inspiration, I stood and closed the piano.

“We’re done. I can’t do this anymore. The lesson is on me.”

Without another word, I escorted him to the door, shook his hand, and watched him drive away. I felt a twinge of compassion, but not enough to call him back.

I walked from the foyer, through the living room, and out the sliding doors to the back deck. The sky was a relentless Seattle gray, and a light drizzle caressed the evergreen forest. This was as far removed from my fantasy of retirement as I could get. I’d always imagined myself on a beach with three Polynesian girls—one stirring my drink, one fanning me with a palm leaf, and the other … oh well.

I’ve lived a fascinating life, I mused. Perhaps people would be interested to read about it. I should write a book. Yes, that’s it! I’ll write my story and I’ll call it Adventures in the Scream Trade.