Читать книгу An Ode to Life - Manja Siber - Страница 8

Chapter 03

In Garvanos’ experience, things tended to develop in a certain way until he was sure they possibly couldn’t get much worse. Usually this meant that things got very much worse. Sometimes this also meant that things were already bad and would continue to be bad for a long time rather than getting better in any way.

Of course, it was the latter.

The few times Mr. Wagner had Garvanos sing his part in Undine in rehearsal, he was not happy with him. “You don’t seriously call this a baritone, I hope?” was the most common comment Garvanos heard, “You do know how weak and thin you sound, right? Who even trained you?!”

“Your posture, boy, your posture!” was another favourite and Garvanos checked and paid attention to himself. His posture he concluded, was fine. So, it was something else.

Garvanos then made it a habit to wear the corset for the rehearsals, just to see if Mr. Wagner would notice a difference. He most definitely heard one. Mr. Wagner didn’t seem to, though, and the endless stream of complaints continued.

Garvanos had never fared well under pressure. Mauro of course had understood and had tried his best to ease Garvanos’s troubles. Mr Kirsch had understood as well and had been considerate, even kind, without ever taking all of the pressure away. It had helped. A lot, even. By now Garvanos was almost sure, that he could keep his stage fright in check, at least.

Nothing could have prepared him for a director who was constantly making his blood rush and boil in panic whenever he saw that typical beret dancing around a corner and heard Mr. Wagner’s’ voice, despite it rarely ever rising above a soft whisper. Mr. Kirsch’s’ hoarse bellow had never caused him to break out in cold sweat or his mind to go entirely blank when he was supposed to sing his roles.

Now, at rehearsal he stood there, August leaning to a pole as they were going through the dialogue where Huldbrandt mourned the loss of his dear Undine, whom he himself had driven away.

They had sung this so often, Garvanos knew the words by heart now and he knew how to react to August's Huldbrandt grieving over the loss of his beloved and his inability to turn back.

He knew the words; he knew the moment he had to set in. He also knew he was supposed to walk up to August and place a hand on his shoulder. H was supposed to be a comforting, fatherly friend, offering help and advice, which would both be rejected.

Garvanos walked up to August.

He placed a hand on his shoulder.

And then Mr. Wagner down in the auditorium, looked up to them. And he smiled.

Garvanos’ mind turned white.

What were the words?

“Halt fest-” An admonishment to hold on to something- but to what?

August looked up to him.

The words wouldn’t come. Why wouldn’t they come, he knew them he knew-

Finally, the music died.

Mr. Wagner rose from his seat.

Garvanos could see with strange clarity, how he arched his eyebrow.

“Oh my. Mr. Scimia, you look awfully pale, are you alright?”

Something in Garvanos’ stomach recoiled at Mr. Wagner’s’ voice. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to run.

He stayed. His mouth remained shut.

Mr. Wagner sighed. “I had hoped you have recovered from whatever ailment is plaguing you.”

“I am-” Bile rose up in his throat and he swallowed. “Sorry.”

Again Mr. Wagner sighed. “I would say that this is just a bad day and order you to go home and get some rest, but you have not performed too well the last few days in general.”

Garvanos knew that. It didn’t help the least.

“You were a decent Rienzi, as I have witnessed,” Mr. Wagner said, “and you can be good in the Heilmann role, I have been told, although I have yet to witness you giving a performance that is even remotely satisfying.” He nodded. “I wonder if your previous successes are, in fact, not entirely owed to some source material that is simply impossible to mess up, regardless of talent or skill.”

What?

The pit of nausea in Garvanos’ stomach was filling up with something white-hot, scalding, blinding– he bit down on it.

Mr. Wagner was still looking at him. “What do you say, Mr. Scimia?”

Breathe. Breathe, he had to breathe, even though his throat felt like it was on fire, like he would scald everyone around them the moment a gust of air escaped his mouth.

Breathe.

Breathe…

He breathed. “I'd say we start from the top.” His voice scratched against his throat; such an ugly feeling.

Mr. Wagner's gaze turned to August. “Mr. Stadler, what do you say? Would it be of use to give him another try?”

Oh, great. Garvanos bid todays’ rehearsal farewell.

August glanced at him and shrugged. “Eh. Why not.”

What?

Garvanos blinked at him.

August shrugged. “It’s not like he will show some sudden hidden talent anyways, so we might as well amuse ourselves.”

Garvanos’ world slipped back into place.

Mr. Wagner sighed. “Ah well. I figure we won’t lose too much time on it.”

Again, white-hot fire rose in Garvanos’ throat. That wasn’t good, he had to be compassionate, kind, comforting – insisting.

The piano played again.

Garvanos still felt the anger burning, but no, that was not the way to go about this, not at all.

So, when the music rose and his moment came, he was there, a hand on August’s shoulder as if they were already deeply in conversation. It was so strange how easy emotions could be transformed to express something entirely different.

His anger transformed to firm, gentle insistence. The bile in his mouth turned to strength, as he urged Huldbrandt to remain faithful to his wife Undine.

He watched as August blinked at him, evidently surprised. But then he himself found back into his role and their dialogue continued with August as Knight Huldbrandt insisting that his love for Undine had been a folly, he could not persist in. And still, he was filled with fear and regret and grief and regret had changed the great, self-assured knight. But it was decided. Huldbrandt would marry Berthalda and cast aside any thought of Undine forever.

The music died.

For a moment Garvanos actually felt fine.

Then Mr. Wagner nodded. “Yes, yes, fine!”

The call made his nausea flare up again, but it was already intermingling with the same, blazing anger from before.

Andreas shot him a glance and then made a show of flinching back away from him. “Oh God,” he whispered, “Really don’t wanna meet you after nightfall right now.”

Garvanos raised an eyebrow. “What?”

But Andreas didn’t get a chance to answer.

“Mr. Scimia!”

Garvanos sighed. “Go ahead, yes?”

“Sure?” Andreas asked.

Garvanos nodded, tried to force a neutral expression on his face and then turned around. “Mr. Wagner?” he asked.

“Ah. There you are.” Mr. Wagner smiled and once again Garvanos’ stomach lurched, as if his insides had begun to dissolve, along with his bravado. He bit his lip.

“I am pleasantly surprised that apparently you can be capable of giving a performance after all.”

In his stomach a tight coil heated and hardened where his insides presumably once had been. Ah. The anger hadn’t dissolved after all, then.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, voice steady. He curled his fingers into fists.

“Your nerves have gotten the better of you quite often lately. There is hardly a rehearsal where you don’t struggle.”

Garvanos wanted to point out that he did very well in chorus rehearsal, but Mr. Wagner would have loved to jump at the chance to officially demote Garvanos back the chorus singer. He forced himself to lift his chin. “I think if you asked Mr. Kirsch, he would confirm to you that I was remarkably stable when working under him on a solo.”

Mr. Wagner’s smile didn’t waver. “Mr. Kirsch was always a mellow character.”

For a moment Garvanos was tempted to break into laughter at the suggestion.

“Always giving yet another chance, always forgiving,” Mr. Wagner continued. “It might be nice for the moment, but in the long run it won’t do to carry along on a singer who cannot perform without flaws.”

Garvanos had to remind himself to breathe. Apparently Mr. Wagner had never paid attention to any night Undine was performed on stage so far.

Why would he? He had not been at the helm of the production. There was little reason for him to pay it any mind. He only saw Garvanos during rehearsal. And yes, as of late Garvanos was abysmal in these.

He should have worked harder. And he shouldn't give Mr. Wagner so much attitude. But still. But still.

He took another deep breath. “So far there have been no reports of me failing to give a performance – or giving an underwhelming one for that matter.” His voice didn’t shake. Garvanos wondered if it was alright for him to be proud of himself.

Mr. Wagner looked unimpressed. “Well then. That was all I wanted to say to. Have a good day. Goodbye.” He turned around and left.

Deborah came up to him from behind and huffed. She as well had seen little time spent on her during rehearsal in the last few days, despite the fact that she was the lead singer of Undine and most definitely either Kunigunde or Röschen – Faust's two paramours – in the upcoming Faust opera. There were rumours that Mr. Wagner was thinking about changing up his rollcall again. Did that mean Garvanos would lose the Wagner role too? If yes, it was probably deserved. Mr. Wagner this, Mr. Wagner that, Garvanos’ couldn’t even argue with that

He sighed and exchanged a glance with her.

“That went wonderful, huh?” she asked.

“Truly magnificent.” Garvanos rolled his eyes. “Don’t we all love to be scared into silence until all we want is to vomit all over the place?”

“Until we get a grip and do really well, because something pissed us off enough,” Alexej commented, joining them. “Told you.”

Garvanos couldn’t quite remember what Alexej was referring to. He had told him so many things during the last months.

“Anger is great to fuel you through something and trust me when I tell you that spite is the best reason you can have to excel.” He grinned.

Garvanos smiled weakly. “Don’t think I excelled too much today.”

“But you got better than before.” Alexej shrugged. “That’s important. You can’t get good without working your ass off. I worked my ass off in Russia because whenever I got a role, some of the other, older singers back there claimed I was only picked for my pretty face.” He lifted his chin. “Some of the house servants had the gall to suggest the same. Only way to get back to them was to be good and be really good, so hard work it was. And they pissed me off enough that it wasn’t even exhausting.”

“Yes,” Garvanos sighed, rubbing his temple. “I was pretty pissed. Gave me some fire, yes.”

“See?!” Beljajew grinned. “It’s great, right?”

Maybe on short term, Garvanos thought. Maybe. He doubted it could last, though.

“It is time we paid more attention on our home-grown talents,” Mr Wagner declared a few days later, looking around, “Our foreign singers are fine and good, yes. But by now I think it is quite enough. Time to focus on we again and get rid of most of the degeneration that has already started to spread here. Thank goodness I had the sense to have left behind detailed plans for the next few seasons. And thank goodness that they were well followed, so far. At least some German spirit has survived long enough to now fight back against these foul influences.”

Garvanos had turned to Thomas to softly whisper, “Maybe my German is not good enough to understand him, but – what is he talking about?”

Thomas had turned to him and, just as softly, whispered back, “Jews and other folks, but – I mean, he means Mr. Kirsch, but – I mean, what’s the deal about him? Mr. Kirsch’s good.”

Yes, Mr. Kirsch was good.

But some of the chorus singers had nodded along with Mr. Wagner’s words and it left his stomach churning and curdling when rehearsal ended. Jews and other folks – that included him as well. Maybe not now, not yet, but who could say for how long?

Marianne was one of the singers Wagner worked the most with. She didn’t like it at all, often complaining about feeling like an overworked mule, although she never dared to say so to Mr. Wagner’s face, but Garvanos often enough caught her complaining to Deborah about it. “It’s not fair,” she declared once, when she thought nobody around, “you are the prima donna of the house, he should really work more with you as well, instead of pushing an unknown nobody.”

“He tries to get you ahead,” Deborah, leaning against a beam post, argued in the tired tone of one who had gone over this argument time and again before. “Others would be grateful for that chance.”

“But not at your expense!”

Deborah lifted her hand. “Not so loud, people will hear us.”

It occurred to Garvanos that maybe he should not be eavesdropping.

Marianne took a deep breath. “I will be grateful,” she then said, “the day Mr. Wagner supports and nourishes all talent in the house equally.”

“Sweet thought,” Deborah sighed, a smile in her voice. “Thank you. But ultimately useless, I fear. He will not listen to you just because you are his new darling.” She shrugged, placing her hand on Marianne’s arm. “It might be for the best anyways. I originally hadn’t planned to stay here as long as I did.”

Garvanos definitely wasn’t supposed to hearing this.

“What do you mean?”

“I thought about staying here for maybe two years, not three and a half, but-” Deborah laughed softly. “Then you happened. And I stayed and stayed and stayed. And my career flourished and then you started to blossom and-” She sighed. “I can go back to Italy, you know. I have a big name there and you’d have no contestant here.”

Mauro would be happy to get his hands on that bit of information, Garvanos was sure.

“I can come too, yes?” Marianne asked.

Deborah shook her head and her dark, silky curls bobbed around her brow. “That would be a bad idea. You’d have to start over, all from scratch, and you’d have to drastically improve your Italian while doing so, and-” She sighed. “Would you be able to take that? Could you go back to being no one after you had just started to be someone here?”

For a moment Marianne was silent. Then she said, “So you want me to stay and watch you leave?”

Deborah sighed. Then Garvanos saw her head move in something that looked a lot like a nod and at the same time as if she was denial about something.

And finally, Marianne asked, “So what does that mean?” She didn’t add, “for us” but it hung in the ear thickly enough for even an outsider or an eavesdropper to hear.

Garvanos, finally turning around and slinking away, wondered whether he should talk to Deborah. Mauro had mentioned his willingness to fulfil quite a few conditions the famed prima donna might have for him to accept his offer and come to sing and the Scala.

Not now, though. Not now.

He stepped back the moment Marianne rushed past him.

Deborah sighed, turned, and saw Garvanos, giving him a quizzical look.

Damn it.

Deborah walked up to him. “You heard that,” she said.

Garvanos winced. “In my defence, it wasn’t on purpose.”

“I know.” Deborah sighed.

Garvanos didn't quite know what to say, but “So, you’re leaving?”

“I am thinking about it. No future here, to be honest.” Then she switched to Italian. “For me, at least. Marianne, though? If she plays her cards with Wagner right, she will get one big role after another and she would take the audience in a storm. She’s so-” She smiled with an agonizing mixture of adoration and pain.

Good. Hard working. Talented. Garvanos saw how each word wandered through Deborah’s head and how each was deemed insufficient.

“She’s not the sort of person who likes stepping over others to get ahead,” he said, “You know her better than me, but I’m pretty positive about that.”

Deborah sighed. “It’s not about her stepping over others – or over me if that’s what you are saying. It’s about what she can do to get ahead and get a chance to make something of herself. I would very much like her to not throw away her opportunities on a whim.” She made a face as if she wanted to say more but didn’t. Maybe she would have if they had been in the relative privacy of either of their dressing rooms. Most definitely Deborah would have said more in the safety of her and Marianne’s home, but they were here.

Garvanos nodded softly and she breathed out in relief of being understood. Some things needed to be talked about with someone who understood. With most of these things and under most circumstances the best way to communicate was obtuse silence shared with someone who knew how to read it. It was just a pity that there had to be silence at all.

Silent company, though, was still better than no company at all.

“If I can help,” he thus offered, but Deborah shook her head.

“I appreciate it, but this has nothing to do with you. There is nothing you can do.”

Deborah was not entirely right. Garvanos most certainly could not fix the mess that was Richard Wagner’s’ continued presence at the theatre, nor could he put Deborah’s worries to rest by guaranteeing Marianne a brilliant career in Italy.

However, there was nothing keeping him from writing a letter to his guardian and mentor directly, right? Mauro hadn’t heard from him for too long anyways.

So, this was what he was doing the next morning after breakfast, borrowing Ivan’s desk and a few sheets of paper as well as his inkwell.

Dear Maestro Mauro,

please don't think I have forgotten all about you, for nothing could be further from the truth.

He paused for a moment, looking for the right words.

We experienced a big change here lately. I already wrote to you about the try-outs for Undine and that I indeed got the part of Pater Heilmann, which I am – I hope – justly proud of.

Even more reason for indulging in pride is the fact that the theatre staged a private performance of Richard Wagner’s Rienzi with me in the title role. You can imagine how hard Mr. Kirsch made us all work for it. But it paid off and the show went over well with the Saxonian king and his guests.

Ah, yes, the guests. He sighed.

“Is everything alright?” Ivan asked from his chaise-lounge and over his book.

Garvanos shot him a smile. “Yes.” Then he turned his attention back to the letter.

One of these guests was a big surprise. We all had been under the impression that Mr. Richard Wagner, the previous head director of the Royal Court Theatre of Dresden, had been relieved and retired from his position permanently. However, as it turned out we all have been wrong.

For several weeks now Mr. Wagner has been back. I am sure this development is as unpleasant for you as it is for me. These last few weeks have been an exercise in exhaustion. I doubt I could withstand it on my own, but thankfully by now I have found a few friends here. Their camaraderie and company go a long way to keep me in reasonably good spirit. It is such a marked difference from the Scala, and I will forever be grateful for you insisting that I leave. Not even Mr. Wagner’s presence will never change that. Or so I hope. The people I met here – one in particular – are the reason I will gladly stay in Dresden, no matter how hard it will get.

He was tempted to add yet another “Or so I hope” but refrained from it.

Not everyone is of the same disposition, though. Miss Deborah Santelli is of a mind of leaving Dresden, as is her close friend Miss Marianne Bergmann. Miss Marianne is a relatively new soloist here, having sung a small role in the Magic Flute and then bigger parts in almost every opera we staged here since I arrived.

Mr. Wagner, too, thinks highly of her, and rightfully so. The feeling does not appear to be mutual. Mostly, Miss Marianne is angry about the way Mr. Wagner ignores Miss Deborah most of the time. These two are thick as thieves. If you see one of them the other is not far away and both of them perform best when singing opposite of each other. Miss Deborah was friendly and kind to me from the start and both she and Miss Marianne have become good friends to me. Of Deborah Santelli’s talent I need not to speak. You know all about her. Miss Marianne is a soprano of her range but shows a slightly different colouring in her voice. I am sure you will find her both interesting and a delight to work with.

I am mentioning all this so you can approach Miss Deborah accordingly. You mentioned that you would be glad if she was to agree to sing at the Scala.

Yes, good. If the letter got to Mauro quickly enough, he would know to pen a note to Deborah at once before she would have left Dresden already.

Miss Deborah, you once have told me yourself, would only have to name her conditions and you would see them fulfilled. I suppose this was half in jest. But be informed now that Miss Deborah probably has only the condition that you offer Miss Marianne the chance to prove herself to be as capable at the Scala as she is here in Dresden.

Knowing her that is probably her main condition and with her payment she will be the most agreeable person you have ever dealt with. And considering I am recommending Miss Marianne to you; I am sure that you won’t regret deciding in her favour.

Otherwise, I am getting by. I try my best to focus on the good.

Mr. Kirsch remains in charge of the chorus. Most of the soloists are open with their feelings about the matter and I am sure you would be warmed by the fervour with which most of us support him.

With that I bid you farewell and hope that this letter may find you in good health.

With much love,

Garvanos Scimia

He sighed, folded the papers, and shoved them into the envelope he had brought with him, designation and stamps already applied. He would stop by the post office today in his break between rehearsals; it was only two streets down from here, something he could do in maybe ten minutes.

Again, Ivan looked up. “Is everything alright?”

The Good. Garvanos managed a smile. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine.” He stretched a bit; writing the letter had taken the better part of an hour and his shoulders were a bit cramped. “What time is it?”

Ivan fumbled out a small pocket watch. “Oh dear,” he sighed. “It is almost eight, you should hurry.”

“Damn it, no!” With a rush he grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket before he hurried to jump into his waistcoat and jacket.

Rehearsals were starting at a quarter past eight and Garvanos had made a point of being upstairs some time before that, whether or not Alexej accompanied him. He had always been there a bit earlier than the other singers and it would have been odd, if he now suddenly came in in the nick of time, especially without appearing rushed.

“I’ll be back in the afternoon, yes?”

“Alright. I shall be here, same as always.” Ivan stretched and straightened up to reach Garvanos for a kiss.

Garvanos quickly pressed his lips on Ivan’s’.

“Let him not bother you too much, dear,” Ivan whispered.

Garvanos chuckled. “Who? August Stadler? Alexej? Mr. Kirsch? As if any of them bother me- well, maybe August, when he’s in a particularly talkative mood.”

Ivan placed a hand in his neck. “We know whom.”

“Oh. Him.” Garvanos sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

“I know you do.” Once more Ivan brushed his lips against Garvanos’. “You always do.”

Doing his best not to let Mr. Wagner get under his skin was not always enough and it most certainly was not enough today.

When the rehearsal for the soloists was done and dealt with and he finally could slip back downstairs to Ivan’s cave, Garvanos felt underworked, overwhelmed irritated, five other kinds of worthless and in general not in a too pleasant mood.

He wasn’t paying too much attention on his way down, he wasn’t paying too much attention to the way the cave was lit up, he was only paying attention to the fact that Ivan sat on the dinner table and looked up to him when he stumbled in.

“It was bad, I take?” he asked and Garvanos, grateful for the understanding, just stumbled towards him and let himself fall against him and into his arms.

Ivan wrapped himself around him, pulling him down and onto his lap and Garvanos closed his eyes, too exhausted, frustrated, wound down, wound up – too much of everything – to talk.

Ivan’s presence helped. After a while Garvanos felt his shoulders unclench.

Ivan ran a hand through his hair. “Very bad then, huh?”

He still couldn't find words, so he just grunted something that probably sounded like a confirmation.

“I guessed as much. You are not the only one done in by him today.”

“Not first here, too, he is not,” a very grouchy rumble declared.

Garvanos looked up, only now noticing Mr. Kirsch sitting on the table as well.

Garvanos was too exhausted to feel embarrassment over the way he had practically dropped into Ivan'’ lap, nor the fact that he still was sitting there, and Mr. Kirsch didn’t seem to care too much.

They just exchanged equally weary glances and then Mr. Kirsch poured a clear liquid from a bottle into a small glass in front of him and emptied it with one hearty swig.

“Worse than last one, you are,” he finally sighed.

Ivan’s arms tightened around Garvanos' waist and he gently commented, “Claude was never through with his nerves because of-” He moved his head in lieu of his hands, “that one. Also, you walked in on us a few times, so I still maintain that Claude is, on your list, in your words, the worst of my liaisons.”

“No need for memory,” Mr. Kirsch sighed. He poured another drink and pushed it to Garvanos. “There. Drink. Need it.”

Garvanos wondered if he really should. Alcohol had never been his approach to problem solving, not to mention that he hadn’t eaten much today. Getting drunk was definitely not something he should do in front of Mr. Kirsch if he wanted the man to respect him at least a little.

“Drink,” Mr. Kirsch insisted, though, and so Garvanos obliged and took the glass.

The liquid had no real smell like wine or beer, giving off only a somewhat floating, light sensation to his nose, and when he emptied the glass in one swig it was tasteless, but burned when he swallowed.

He shuddered.

“Eh,” Mr. Kirsch sighed. “Only grain spirit. Wish was vodka, but no getting it here.”

He poured a drink for Ivan, who downed it without flinching.

Finally, he took another for himself. “Bad. Bad. Just had chorus under control and in line – now mess again. You know how was before?”

Garvanos shook his head.

“He picks favourite. He heats up favourite.” This wasn’t a proper German phrase, Garvanos was sure, but he was not native to the language either and he was too tired to comment on it. “He heats up favourite and puts favourite against other singers. And I loose good singers with good promise. Why? Because cannot take stress and mess like that long. Is normal. Is bad.” He shot Garvanos a sardonic glance. “Would have lost you. You value nerves and stay sane. Would have left in May.”

“I-” Oh god, Garvanos’ voice sounded just plain awful. How had he gotten through today like that? “I- I am not leaving,” he managed to get out.

Mr. Kirsch nodded. “Good. You stick out now. But would have lost you if he had been here in May. Lost many singers who could have been good. Many. Man not good with inexperienced and insecure new singers.”

Now something like a laugh, coarse and raw and painful, bubbled up in Garvanos’ throat and out of his mouth like a ball of thorns. “I couldn’t help but notice.”

Now Mr. Kirsch took another close look at him. “Look like shit,” he then stated, “you do.”

Garvanos let his head loll back a bit and leaned it against Ivan's. “I know.” God, his temples were throbbing.

Ivan pressed a kiss on the line of his jaw. “Well, on the upside, Alyosha does seem to hang around,” again he only moved his head, “him a lot less than we feared.”

“Is enough already,” Mr. Kirsch said. “Is too much already. Never said something when – that one – talked about Jews and sully arts and culture and not deserve life.”

Mr. Kirsch was right. Alexej had never said anything about or against Mr. Wagner’s rants – and the rants, much like his needling of both Garvanos and even Deborah, had become ever more frequent in the last few weeks.

Most of them he had held towards his singers.

Garvanos had heard them. Alexej had heard them.

Garvanos had seen Alexej’s face when he had heard them.

“I don't think he agrees with any of what – he – says.” It was stupid not calling Richard Wagner by his name. What was he, a demon from hell to be summoned by speaking of him? “He looked angry, even. Either angry or- shocked the first few times.”

“That sounds good. Or at least not bad,” Ivan said. “Maybe he is about to wisen up.”

“Would mean is smart,” Mr. Kirsch said. “Is not. Is Russian. We are Russian. Are many things. Smart not one of them.”

Ivan solemnly nodded to that. “Da,” he sighed, “my smartest decisions were only ever related to my lovers.”

Now Mr. Kirsch barked out a laugh. “Ha! Once decided backstage with ballet practising on stage was good time for-”

“The smartest,” Ivan quickly interrupted him, “I never said smart. Only the smartest. And also, not only would I consider Garvanos my smartest decision yet, but a smart decision in general.”

Mr. Kirsch pulled a face – and then mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “for once in agreement”.

“So,” Ivan sighed, running a hand up and down on Garvanos’ waist, “what can be done about the situation? Can you file a complaint?”

Mr. Kirsch snorted.

“Well, maybe not you alone, but that one junior conductor – what was his name again?”

“Sperling, Robert Sperling,” Mr. Kirsch said. “Father is goyim. But mother was Jewish. Makes him Jewish too, arguably.”

“His complaints being heard is as unlikely as yours,” Garvanos sighed.

Mr. Kirsch nodded grimly. “And is annoyed too. He- he likes show up when orchestra works with him.”

“Like he does with the chorus,” Garvanos grumbled. “It’s almost as if he wants to take over the whole theatre by himself.”

“Not almost,” Mr. Kirsch sighed. “Is that. “Want control back to himself.” Another drink followed. “Control, control, is all about control. He has no control, he hates, he gets away with it.” He stared at Garvanos. “If you smart, boy, you leave soon. Of course, you consider not just yourself.” He poured another drink for Ivan.

Ivan saluted him and downed the grain liquor in one sip.

Mr. Kirsch poured another one. “Told Deborah. Leave now, I say to her, before too bad. But she listens?” He snorted. “No. Silly girl not wants to leave. Silly girl, you hear me, silly girl. In love. Bah! Hate when singers in love!”

“Well,” Garvanos grumbled, now taking the glass, “Sorry that we’re human and not made of stone.” With that he downed his glass.

Mr. Kirsch blinked at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.

Oh dear. That apparently had been a bad move. Garvanos wanted to scramble together an apology, but then again – that would mean that he agreed with him and furthermore, that he thought his and Ivan’s’ relationship was bad for him, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Ivan’s’ hand ran over his back and he leaned into it.

Finally, Mr. Kirsch collected himself again and barked out a laugh. “Ha! You talk back! Can do! Great! Did think not you had it,” Mr. Kirsch continued.

Garvanos managed a weak smile. “You don’t look like a grouchy old bear right now, so maybe I feel less in danger of being ripped apart? Or maybe it’s the alcohol, that always has funny effects on me.”

“And are sarcastic.” Mr. Kirsch sighed. “Of course. Ivan know how to pick them.”

“I know.” Ivan smiled dryly. “Maybe I should have fallen for someone who does not keep me from dropping a chandelier on – his – head.”

“Too much blood,” Mr. Kirsch sighed. “Waste of good chandelier, too.”

They sat like this for a little longer, wrapped in heavy silence; Garvanos felt himself drifting off bit by bit, slowly, slowly. The silence was weighing him down. It wasn’t even the usual, peaceful silence he and Ivan shared so often. There was companionship in the way they all sat around the table, but it was mostly tinted in misery.

Finally, Mr. Kirsch downed one last glass of alcohol and then got up. “Good evening then. Bye.” Without further ado he got up and left Garvanos and Ivan alone.

And the silence commenced.

“Poor Papy,” Ivan sighed. “Not an easy time for him.” His grip around Garvanos’ waist loosened up a little. “I think we might better skip our lesson for today.”

Garvanos felt a pang of disappointment. “What?”

“You look terrible, dear. I think sleep would benefit you far more than a few hours of work. You would not be able to do to your own satisfaction in your state. It would only anger and frustrate you even more.”

“Enough with the scrutiny, yes?!”

“Apologies, dear. It is just an observation. Do you think you can work?”

Garvanos pondered the question for a moment and then, with a sigh, shook his head. “Not really, no, but-”

“If not, then go to sleep.” Ivan kissed him gently on the cheek.

A last bit of resistance flared up in him. “But it's still so early.”

“You sleep when you need to sleep,” Ivan said. “So, sleep. And sleep again tonight.”

“Must be boring for you,” Garvanos mumbled, but he did get up now.

“It is alright,” Ivan said, “I enjoy your company no matter how tired you are. Your presence alone lights up these rooms and considering the amount of work I have still left to do; I can use as much light as I can get.”

“If you say so.” Suddenly there was a chair in his way Garvanos could have sworn had not been there before and he stumbled trying to avoid it.

Ivan caught him. “It was a really bad day, huh?” he asked gently, leading Garvanos to the bed. “I do not think I have ever seen you exhausted like this.”

“I think you can exhaust me just as good, if not better,” Garvanos mumbled.

Ivan clucked his tongue. “I do beg to differ. I do strive to exhaust you on regular basis, yes and I am proud of my successes. But I do hope you actually like the sort of exhaustion I cause you.”

“A lot.” Garvanos yawned. “Am always coming back for more in case you haven’t noticed.”

Ivan laughed softly and gave him a slight push and he stumbled and fell onto the bed. “Sleep, yes?” he said and obediently Garvanos crawled under the blankets.

If he was honest, he was not sleepy, not really, but the exhaustion had settled in his bones, weighing him down, making hard to move now that he was covered by several layers of wool and linen.

“What you gonna do?” he asked.

“I have still some work to do.” He smiled, running a hand through Garvanos’ hair.

“What are you working on?” It wasn’t even sleep that was overwhelming him, just annoyance and frustration with his life, with his singing, with Wagner. But annoyance and frustration were exhausting as well and added to his weariness.

Ivan ran a hand through his hair and then bent over to kiss him on the temple. “You will see, dear.”

He then left him and Garvanos nodded off to the sound of him stepping away and then the scratch of a metal quill over paper. The soft, clear note when Ivan clanked it against the inkwell to shake off drops of ink.

And then a while later the soft, sweet strings of Ivan’s violin that carried him through his slumber. How nice to be like that. How nice.

“I like that,” he heard Alexej comment at some point.

“Let me hear it, please, Ivan said, “I would like to hear it.”

“It’s in tenor, though?”

“It is. Only the first half of this part is in baritone. After the death scene he is a tenor, befitting his otherworldly nature now.”

Garvanos heard Alexej chuckle. “You actually kill him off, I am amazed.”

“He comes back as a ghost.”

“You still kill him.”

“I kill you.”

“Only at the end. Where you kill him twice over.”

Ivan chuckled now. It rippled through the air and reached Garvanos’ ears, running through him like warm water. “Are you warm?”

“Play on.”

And again, Ivan’s violin wept.

“Time is swift and ever fleeting, impossible for me, impossible for even you to hold a single moment and never let it go,” Alexej sang, his voice high and glass clear and cool as water, “How can it be that suddenly it all is over, gone and done?” It wasn’t for him. His voice was too clear, too ethereal; he could tell as much even half-asleep, even after only a few lines of music. “There was a life just now to live and fill with happiness - gone and wasted now and still - not even a moment of regret.”

“I really like that,” Alexej repeated. “it suits him.”

Again, there was the violin, gentler this time, sweeter, happier, and the music wove itself into the air, into Garvanos’ hair and lingered on his skin and Garvanos wanted to sing along to it, once he was awake-

The music died and now there was mumbling, the soft, foreign sound of Russian weaving a cocoon around the room.

But then there was more singing, more sweet, sweet music to envelop Garvanos and to carry him off and off and off.