Читать книгу An Ode to Life - Manja Siber - Страница 9

Chapter 04

What remained of July and then August passed in a blur of stress, anxiety and maybe one or two breakdowns on Garvanos’s part. September came with rainfall and cool winds, sweeping the remnants of summer away, leaving a grey sky, puddle-infested streets, and yellowing leaves behind, the latter two much to the delight of the Dresden children. Garvanos was often tempted to join them. Gleefully hey rustled through neatly forked up stacks of autumn foliage and splashed in the puddles. Sometimes, when he was by himself, he deliberately did likewise. It was a bright spot in these weeks.

Throughout the last few months Garvanos had fuelled himself with what Alexej lovingly called The Power of Spite through the last few months which was a whole new world of exhaustion. It was a good thing that Ivan, having suffered under Mr. Wagner before, was a remarkably understanding man when Garvanos once more was not in the mood for anything more than falling asleep in his arms after their lessons and some dinner or when he felt the rare need to burst out some long bottled-up grievances with his general situation. Ivan listened. Ivan held him when he had another breakdown and was crying and ranting and drowning in self-loathing once again, and he talked him through it.

Faust had come and gone, and the audience had loved it. Garvanos had garnered some more praise for his small role. Some newspapers stated that he was most definitely continuing to deliver on the promise his first performance in Undine had given. So Garvanos continued to get solo roles. No lead, but small roles or support characters of middling proportions, enough for him to keep his dressing room, which he appreciated.

Tonight’s performance of Il Sogno di Scipione had gone well enough. Garvanos had enjoyed the preparations for the opera, and he enjoyed the chance to sing in Italian again; his mother tongue was a comfort he sorely needed these days. And it was nice to be able to help his friends and his co-workers with the Italian libretto, be it by translating the text with them when they tried to understand what they were singing or by correcting their pronunciation.

It had been an alright evening and Garvanos was somewhat content and mostly exhausted when he went to change out of his costume.

The first thing he noticed when he walked through the door of his dressing room was that Ivan was there. That in itself wasn’t unusual. Ivan often waited for him after a performance.

Unusual was the large bouquet of several yellow and red flowers on his vanity, interwoven with an occasional splash of white.

Well, first things first. “Hello, love.” Garvanos greeted Ivan with a kiss. “How did you like it tonight?”

“Wonderful.” Ivan pulled him into a hug. “Marvellous I would say, but you had a moment in the second act-”

“Urgh, that.” Garvanos sighed. “Yes, I stubbed my toe, just before getting out on stage.”

“I do not think anyone in the audience has noticed, though. But maybe do not stub your toe anymore. I quite like your feet; it would be a shame if you hurt them.”

Garvanos laughed. “I will pay more attention to any crates standing around.” They kissed again. “Thanks for the flowers.”

But Ivan shook his head. “They are not from me.”

Oh.

Garvanos cocked his head and peered at the bouquet over Ivan’s shoulder.

“It is not like I can just go out and to a flower shop to order a bouquet, now, can I?” There was a hint of bitterness in Ivan’s voice, but Garvanos let it slide for now.

He made his way around Ivan to inspect the flowers more closely. “If they are not from you, do you have an idea who could have sent them?”

Ivan shook his head. “I got in just before you and they were here already and-” He laughed nervously. “I may or may not have had a minor moment of panic imagining what would have happened if the deliverer had discovered me here.”

“That would have been most unfortunate,” Garvanos agreed, as he

Garvanos plucked out a card from between two large, sunset-red rudbeckias.

The writing was stiff, and the letters stood individually, like the writer was not entirely familiar with the alphabet, but each of them was done with precision and the German was impeccable.

Garvanos recognized the handwriting at once and eagerly ran his eyes over the note.

Dear Garvanos,

I am back and I would love to catch up with you over dinner next Thursday if it is alright with you. My address is the same as before so please send me a note whether it is alright with you.

You were lovely tonight.

I hope we reunite as friends, nonetheless.

Ajahn

Garvanos felt a smile settling in on his face at the prospect of his Siamese sponsor returning from his business trip.

“Who sent it?” Ivan asked now. Garvanos handed the card over to him.

Ivan read it and then only said, “Huh.”

Garvanos raised an eyebrow. “What’s the matter?”

“He wants to see you.”

“Which was to be expected, you said so yourself,” Garvanos pointed out.

“Yes, I did.” Ivan sighed and then asked, “Do you want to go?”

“I’d like to, yes. I haven’t seen him in a while, and I want to catch up with him. Plus, it might be wise to spend some time with my sponsor when he asks me to.”

“Yes.” Ivan pressed his lips together to a fine line. “I suppose.”

Garvanos put the card aside and then went on to change out of his costume. “It isn’t a problem for you, isn’t it?” he asked. “He suggested Thursday.”

“Yes. I had hoped you would spend the evening with me.”

Garvanos furrowed his brow. “I don’t usually come down on a Thursday. Ajahn knows on which days I am occupied, that’s why he suggested it.”

“Yes, but-” Ivan sighed. “Can you maybe-”

Finally, he was out of his costume and could throw on his shirt. “So, you don’t want me to go?” He peered around his screen.

Ivan stood next to his vanity, playing with a strand of his long, grey hair, wrapping it around his finger, releasing it and wrapping it up again. He was biting his lip. “That is not it.”

“Then what is it?” He stepped into his trousers as he said that.

“Nothing. I just think we have had too little time with each other as of late.” Ivan's voice gained an edge.

Garvanos found it surprisingly hard to believe him, despite it being a valid reason. “Well-” He was engaged for dinner with his friends. “I can stay in tonight, what do you say?”

Ivan blinked at him. “I- no need to go-”

“I come back afterwards then,” Garvanos said, although he found it rather telling that Ivan didn't want him to miss out on an evening with his friends, but wasn’t keen on him catching up with Ajahn.

He came out, throwing on his jacket.

Outside he heard a group of people passing by, chatting, and laughing.

Ivan flinched and turned as if to find a hiding place before he realized what he was doing.

He paused in his movement and sighed.

Garvanos came to him and took his hand between his own. “I can stay.”

But Ivan shook his head, brow furrowed. “No, you go and have dinner with your friends. And then you go home and have a good night’s sleep. I will see you tomorrow.” He drew in a deep breath and what he said next seemed to cost him a lot of willpower, “and think about what to wear on Thursday, I am sure you will be treated to a very fine dinner in a very fine establishment. You should look appropriately.”

So that was settled then? Really?

Garvanos looked up to him and again couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

Garvanos still didn’t quite believe it on Thursday when he – in his good evening suit – was sitting down with Ajahn over dinner which was held, as predicted by Ivan, in a fine location near the Caroline Square on the other side of the Albert bridge, overlooking the promenade on the riverbanks. Ajahn had picked a table near a window from which they had a wonderful view over the Elbe and to the Royal Court Chapel, the theatre and the Royal city castle, windows alight so that they glittered and gleamed like the stars in the clear evening sky. The river glimmered and sparkled with them, reflecting both stars and bright windows. It was too nice a view for Garvanos to spoil it with the less enjoyable tales of the Royal Court Theatre under the recently re-established rule of Richard Wagner and so he had decided to keep that bit to himself for now.

There would be other days in the near future for him to complain and bring Ajahn up to date with his recent woes.

It could have been a perfectly nice evening, but Garvanos found it hard to focus on his dish of baked trout and rice when he still had Ivan’s unhappy face in mind as he had bid Garvanos a nice evening, a silent “Without me” hanging in the air between them.

Garvanos had left feeling bad for doing so and he was still feeling bad for actually having started to enjoy both the food and Ajahn's company; then he had realized that he was enjoying himself and had felt bad again, which was currently spoiling his enjoyment considerably. He barely managed to pay attention to Ajahn’s’ tales about London. Another thing to feel bad about.

“-and apparently the queen and one of her daughters are having quite a row with each other,” Ajahn right now was saying. “I saw the Princess Royal, young Victoria Adelaide visiting the St. Georges Gallery. I overheard her discussing a few sculptures on display with her companions and her governess. Clever girl, she made interesting observations.”

“I wasn’t aware princesses attend public museums,” Garvanos said. He didn’t even know which princess Ajahn was talking about; Queen Victoria seemed to consider procreation a recreational past time. As Mauro had once commented, it was impossible to turn your head without the German Royal couple filling the royal palaces of Great Britain with more and more of their brood.

“Well, the English Royal Family tries for a popular touch. You cannot go into any shop without seeing collectible pictures you can buy. And with every new prince or princess the flood of pictures increases, which is kind of baffling, if you ask me; there are so many of them already one would think the people have had enough by now.”

“Most People find babies adorable and the image of a supposedly happy young mother inspiring. I am not surprised they keep polishing up their image with more and more children,” Garvanos remarked, taking a bite of his baked trout.

Ajahn laughed. “Most people. To me, infants loos like large, fat, pink frogs. Loud ones, too.”

“Thank God, I though, I was the only one thinking that” Garvanos sighed. Time to put his thought back to where they belonged at the moment.

“So, what was the row between the queen and her daughter about?”

“The Princess Royal complained rather vocally about the strict regimen her mother put on her and about the rare hours she ever sees her mother – and then she added, But this is just as well, considering our dear father cares better for us anyway. Papa can make up for that. Her governess quickly tried to shush her, of course, suggesting she might make some sketches to show her parents, surely the Queen would like that?”

Garvanos chuckled. “More drama than at the opera.” Admittedly, he had been worried things might be awkward now, but so far, the evening had been very pleasant indeed or could have been if it hadn’t been for his guilty conscience over Ivan. “It is – I mean, unless it is awkward for you, then-”

Ajahn played with his fork. “It is better than I thought,” he said. “Mainly I am happy to be here with you again. Your rejection before I left didn’t change that.

“Indeed.”

Garvanos listened to him some more, laughed about the amusing stories he had to tell and asked questions about the art he had seen and the people he had met. It was good to have him back to talk and laugh and exchange jokes with.

But every time he thought that Ivan crept back up in his mind with his hard expression and his silent plea for Garvanos to stay and he felt guilty.

“I hope you’re enjoying the evening?” Ajahn asked, putting his glass down.

“Yes!” Garvanos blinked. “Of course, I am!”

“I see.” Ajahn smiled, but unlike all evening, it was tense now and terse. “I made things awkward, haven’t I? I shouldn’t have said anything.”

But something’s the matter for you.”

Maybe Ajahn wasn’t the right person to confide in, but still. Somehow, he was, if just by virtue of being here, of not being involved with both him and Ivan and by somewhat understanding Garvanos’ situation without demanding him to introduce him to his lover, like Marianne and Deborah might have done.

“My lover knows of you,” he said and Ajahn nodded.

“Obviously. I apparently have been the cause for trouble?”

Garvanos shook his head. “No really. From what he heard about you he liked you and deemed you a decent man.”

“Oh my.” Ajahn shook his head, clearly amused. “I am deeply flattered by this assessment.”

Garvanos smiled. “I will deliver you being flattered to him. Who knows what it might do.” He sighed. “In any case, for some reason it has become a problem now. I mean, before he had never taken any issue with me going out with you, but-”

Ajahn took a sip of wine and then put down his glass, slowly and deliberately. “I should not have sent flowers,” he said. “One would be bound to take that the wrong way.”

“Or not.” Garvanos furrowed his brow. “The flowers amused him. It was your note that troubled him. All of a sudden he wanted to spend the evening today with me, but he wasn’t opposed to me going out with some other singers for dinner yesterday.”

Ajahn shook his head. “Then I have sparked his jealousy,” he sighed. “I am really sorry.”

“But-” Garvanos shook his head and stabbed his fish with his fork with far more vigour than was due. He took a sip of wine and breathed out. “But it never had been a problem before. Why would it be now?”

“Just because it was not a problem before doesn't mean that it will never be one.” Ajahn finished his glass of wine the same moment as Garvanos did. “Maybe something in his circumstances changed that he now sees things differently.” A server came, bearing a carafe of cut crystal, filled with the same pale golden liquid they had had all evening and refilled their glasses.

Ajahn took a bite of his fish and then another sip of his wine. “I thought about having something for dessert here, they have a wonderful almond pudding. Then a leisurely stroll along the Elbe. But maybe we should eat up, call it a night and you go home. I don’t want to cause you any more problems.”

Ajahn, Garvanos decided, was undoubtedly a human being, but one who made a valid bid for being raised to holiness in his lifetime – Saint Ajahn Petchara, protector of gracefully rejected men. Had a nice ring to it.

It still made him feel bad to eat and drink up, pay for the wine (he insisted. After all he had cut the evening short), have Ajahn pay for the food (Ajahn insisted; Garvanos was his guest after all) and then leave the place with him.

“I still would like to make it up to you,” he said as they strolled back over the Albert bridge to the other side of the river.

Ajahn shook his head. “No need.”

“But-”

Ajahn shrugged. “I would have liked for the evening to have lasted a little longer, yes. You still haven’t brought me up to date about what has happened – why is Mr. Wagner back anyway?”

Garvanos laughed weakly. “Well, that’s something we all would like to know, really.” He ran a hand through his hair. “How are your plans for Saturday?”

“I have a meeting in the morning, but afterwards I am free.”

“We meet for lunch and I can tell you about it? How does that sound?”

As Garvanos had hoped, Ajahn’s face lightened up as he said this. “Gladly! After your rehearsals I take it?”

“Currently we’re done around half past eleven, so if you want to pick me up around that time?”

“Sure. I would love to listen to the rehearsal, but well, business.”

Garvanos didn’t have the heart to tell him that rehearsals as of late really weren’t all that much anyways and that he didn’t miss anything.”

“You haven't told me anything about how the trip went in,” he noted to change the topic

“It is pretty boring to someone who is not directly involved or interested in international spice trade and I didn’t want to make you regret having dinner with me.” Ajahn laughed. “I will gladly tell you about it if you tell me about Mr. Wagner.”

They clasped hands on that and then parted ways, Ajahn back to his hotel, Garvanos to the theatre, slinking around the building until he found the side entrance that was the closest to the basement door.

He had sneaked out through this so often during the last few months that he found his way just as easily through the darkness here as down in Ivan's cave when all the candles were out.

Still, he carefully moved his feet over the floor before stepping through the room, to the door and then into the even fuller, more all-encompassing darkness.

His steps echoed so loudly that surely Ivan would hear him if he was still awake and maybe meet him at the entrance, curious what would have brought him back here now.

When he came into the cave, a few candles were burning, directing Garvanos' attention towards the back of the living area, to Ivan’s work desk.

He was sitting there, writing, but only ever for a few moments before crumbling up the paper and letting it fall off his desk, where it joined an ever-growing pile.

Garvanos could see that his brow was furrowed, and his nose crunched up. Occasionally he put his pen aside to rub his eye and then took it up again, running a hand through his hair as he worked.

Coming closer Garvanos could take a look on the dinner table. There was some bread and cheese put out and a bowl of soup that had long gone cold and grown a skin.

Ivan didn’t look up when Garvanos came closer and accordingly Garvanos softened his step even further.

Now he heard him mutter under his breath in Russian.

He was using paper that had been written on, Garvanos noted, and blotched with ink before, bits of music, a few lines. Then it had been crumpled up, put away and then later straightened to be used again.

He crumpled the current sheet, threw it away and then started again, writing in long, loopy, inattentive lines. Very often a drop of ink splotched over the paper.

Garvanos didn’t read what he was trying to work on. Not without permission. “You know,” he said, “maybe it would be easier to focus on your work if you didn’t do it with an empty stomach.”

The effect was immediate; Ivan flinched and turned around to him, his eye wide. “Garvanos, what- I did not- I did not expect you, you are-” He cleared his throat. “I thought you were out with your sponsor, darling.”

Garvanos nodded. “I was. But now I’m not, as you can see.”

Again, Ivan cleared his throat. “And what are you doing here?”

“Among other things, delivering the message that Ajahn has no intention regarding my person.”

“Message,” Ivan repeated.

Garvanos nodded. “From Ajahn, yes.”

Ivan laughed softly. “If he says so.”

Again, Garvanos nodded. “He does and for my part I do believe him.” He took a breath. “The question is, do you trust me and my judgement?”

Ivan got up so abruptly that his chair fell over. “Of course, I do!”

Garvanos looked up to him with a careful smile. “It doesn’t feel that way right now, though.”

Ivan swallowed. “I am sorry.”

He was. Garvanos could hear it. “I know.” Once again, he sighed. “I know that you don’t like it when sponsors have interest in their protégés and that you worry where that might lead and that I might feel pressure and- I understand, I do.”

Ivan smiled or at least his mouth did. “Really?”

Garvanos withstood the urge to sigh in frustration. “Yes!”

Damn.

He and Ivan shouldn’t have need for this kind of discussions, yet here they were. “If I thought there was anything going on I would have cut the evening short much earlier than I did anyway.”

“Why did you, by the way?” Ivan asked.

Garvanos was tempted to answer truthfully with Because I felt bad about leaving you alone and because I don’t want you to think I am going behind your back.

But that was another point he should bring up in another discussion when it was not used to distract from the one at hand.

“And sponsorship or not, I do want to be friends with him,” he finally said and looked up to meet Ivan’s eyes.

Ivan did not look happy. A shadow moved over his tense, stony face as he moved his jaw. Then the shadow hushed over his throat as he swallowed. Then he sighed. “You really do like him.” It wasn’t a question.

Still, Garvanos answered. “I do,” he said. “Ajahn is a good man, kind, generous, intelligent and a very entertaining storyteller. Who wouldn’t like him?”

Ivan bit his lips and then sighed as if defeated.

It needled Garvanos in a way he didn’t know how to explain. It shouldn’t needle him. He was right and Ivan was in no position to act like he had made a concession to him with a heavy heart.

“I am sorry,” he repeated, “I really am.”

He should be. And Garvanos accepted the apology with a smile, a press on Ivan’s hand and a kiss on Ivan’s cheek. “I’m happy to hear that,” he said sincerely.

It still needled him. Maybe because Ivan hadn’t specified what he was sorry for.

Ivan sighed once more and then smiled at him. “I have been working on something lately.”

Another change of topic. That was alright for now, they could discuss that issue later. Garvanos smiled. “Can I hear it?”

Ivan smiled brightly and turned around to grab his violin. His smile in itself was enough to blow away any annoyance Garvanos might still have felt. It was replaced by a tingle of excitement at the prospect of Ivan presenting him with a new piece of music, one he had created himself.

Ivan put the violin on his shoulder raised the bow and then began to play.

Garvanos knew it, he knew the melody. So airy and light and at the same time slow and heavy and mournful. He had heard it before, half-asleep and with words sung along.

Without the lyrics it sounded even sweeter, full of emotion that was too raw, too fresh, too direct to be put into words. And still Garvanos wanted to sing with it if he only could recall the words.

“It’s lovely,” he said when Ivan ended. “Where’s the text?”

“Wait, I-” Ivan paused. “Oh, you have heard it already!” he exclaimed with something a little like dismay in his voice.

“A little,” Garvanos said. “You went though it with Alexej while I was falling asleep the other day. I caught a little. This is the first time I hear it awake and in full.”

“Ah.”

Garvanos looked at him. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

“No.” Ivan shook his head. “I just- well, I might be silly, but I would have liked to make a present of it. It would have been something. Better than nothing.”

Garvanos felt his knees weaken just a little. “I love what I have heard back then,” he said, “and I adore what I heard just now. And I really want to see the text.”

“Alright. Here.” Ivan handed him a paper covered in his scrawly, loopy handwriting Garvanos had trouble to decipher.

Often, he had struck through the lines he had written and scrawled something above them.

Garvanos still could make out a few words and he remember-recognized a few of the lines. “The character is dying,” he said.

Ivan nodded and waved a hand. “He already is dead at that point. Already a ghost. Already bemoaning his lost life. Already seeing a tragedy unfold.”

“He has realized his own mortality, but too late?” Garvanos asked.

Ivan shook his head. “He knew how quickly a human life could end, but he had hoped to live long enough to see a few more wonders of the world. But then he dies, protecting someone he holds dearer than anything in the world and he realizes that his death will spell a great tragedy.”

Garvanos focussed on the words on the paper. May my time not pass in full ‘ere I wandered, wondered, worked

“He wants to be useful even in death. He wants his life to have meaning-” He continued reading. “And he wants to serve.”

“Can you sing it?” Ivan asked, watching him carefully.

“I think so.” Garvanos read the lines again.

Ivan’s’ face brightened up. “Warm yourself up then, will you?”

Obediently Garvanos nodded and proceeded to breathe, in, out, then sing scales up and down, had his breath carry notes.

“Play it to me once more, will you?” he then asked.

Ivan lifted his violin to his chin and the melody wept and mourned as Garvanos found the words again. “Time is swift and ever fleeting, impossible for me, impossible for even you,” he sang, the same words he had hear Alexej sing, and he had to force the words through his throat, “to hold a single moment and never let it go. How can it be that suddenly it all is over, go- sorry-” He swallowed and sighed.

“It is that bad?” Ivan asked, reaching out for him. “It is not my first composition, but this is the first time I put words to a melody or try to tell a long story with them. I am probably not good at this yet. And German is still not my native tongue.”

“No, no, it is- I really like it. Let’s start again, maybe?”

“Are you sure it is not my writing that makes you cry?”

Garvanos chuckled. “Very sure. If you want a really honest opinion and criticism though, maybe better ask Mr. Kirsch.”

Ivan laughed. “I want to finish this work and soon, not throw it into the fire. Ossip would find fault with every other line. No, no, he will be asked for his valued opinion when I am positive, he will take issue with only every third or so.”

Garvanos chuckled. “Keep working then. Can we start again?”

Ivan complied and this time Garvanos sang through it.

It was ethereal, befitting for a ghost, but as Garvanos had suspected, strangely unsuited for Alexej’s’ glass clear voice. It had lent an eerie note to the song, almost befitting of a romantic horror novel.

But the song worked well with his tenor, a little deeper than Alexej’s’, but nonetheless clear and piercing when he focussed.

“I might sound self-congratulatory,” Ivan said, “and it is strange that I would notice only now, but your voice has changed a lot.”

It had. Garvanos had developed more volume, a firmness and a mass behind his voice that had not been his before. Maybe it had something to do with the way Ivan, even nowadays, would pull Garvanos’ shoulders back and straighten his posture.

Garvanos prayed he would never stop doing this.

Maybe came from the attention they had paid to his baritone. Mauro had firmly and irrevocably considered him a tenor and Garvanos’ vocal education had been thus. It had been a good while later that Mauro had relented and admitted that maybe he could dabble in his lower ranges as well. Under Ivan’s tutelage he had been able to truly develop his baritone, with the exception of Rienzi, which had brought them back to his tenor.

Now he sounded much graver, stronger and earthy even when hitting the high notes. And yet his voice had never been lighter.

He had never sounded so much like the person he had wanted to be in Italy. How good it felt to finally hear his own voice properly again – or maybe he heard it for the first time.

It was in good part due to the music. He had been a good, competent singer when he had arrived in Dresden, albeit too nervous, too anxious, too easily scared to be of any use in any solo role ever. But the music, Ivan’s music, oh, how it raised him, raised his voice towards ever new levels, to ever new heights.

He listened after the last note he had sung, turning around to Ivan. “It’s wonderful.” Ivan’s’ face brightened up in an instant. “You do like it?”

“I love it!” Garvanos exclaimed. He had never been more honest in his entire life. “What does it belong to? You said this is your first time telling a longer story with music! Tell me more!”

Ivan nodded. “I will and I am glad you like it. That means both my leads are cast already.”

“What?” Garvanos blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I have been working on this for years now. Originally, I had only one sympathetic lead role. For Alyosha. But then I hit a wall, so to speak.” Ivan scratched the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly. “I had no idea how to progress the story and the development of the lead role and I could not work out until I started working with you. The more I knew you and the more I heard you sing and witnessed your voice develop the more I wanted to compose and write something for you. Then there is your ability to go from baritone to tenor and back without much trouble and how well you and Alyosha match each other-” He sat down. “It is fun to implement. A constant source of inspiration.”

Garvanos chuckled. “Why, thank you. What is the opera about?”

“No romance,” Ivan said, “not explicitly, anyways. It was intended this way from the start, but when I hit that wall, I did briefly think about adding a romance to it anyway. I decided against it again.”

Thank goodness, Garvanos thought.

“In any case, I kept Alyosha’s’ part ambiguous. A russalka, a water spirit. They are usually female.” Ivan chuckled. “When I first presented him with it, he laughed about it and commented that it was a smarter idea than I usually have. The colouration for the Russalka role is high enough to be sung by an alto or maybe even a mezzo soprano if one wants to play up a romantic angle without offending any sensibilities. You both were to be genderless at first, two spirits rebelling against and then fleeing from the Elven king. Then I decided to make use of your voice range and the second spirit became a human man.”

“You still haven't told me the story,” Garvanos reminded him.

“Oh dear.” Ivan sighed. “I got carried away. The story is of a man and a russalka who meet and become friends, close friends, sworn to love and protect each other at all costs. You might even say they are lovers, depending on the cast and their interpretation.”

“How does it end?” Garvanos asked.

“In tragedy and rebellion,” Ivan replied. And in a changed world.

“Oh.”

“Yes. See, there was a law, forbidding the spirits to have contact with humans. This sparks rebellion. In the end, with the Elven King destroyed and both Russalka and the human man dead, the remaining spirits decide to depart from this world and humans and spirits live separate from each other, each for their own.”

“Tragic,” Garvanos sighed. “But then again, what else to expect from an opera with supernatural beings?”

“You do like it though?” Ivan asked, wringing his hands, smiling nervously.

“Of course,” Garvanos said, relishing in how Ivan’s face relaxed, “And I’d be honoured to sing it.”

Ivan’s face brightened up and what a sight it was. All Garvanos could do was smile and delight in it. Nothing else, nobody else could give him such pleasure with just a smile, this delight, this hopeful prospects of a future together, nothing, nobody, no role he had ever sung, no amount of money, no sponsor, regardless how kind and friendly they may be, not even any of his friends could make his stomach feel so warm and soft and pliable with delight.

Ivan handed him another sheet of paper. Then he grabbed his violin and started to play another melody, lighter, sweeter and with much variation. It was a duet, Garvanos realized, written for a baritone and a tenor.

He let Ivan finish.

“Indeed. It sounds a lot like the other piece. Change the harmony and key and speed a little and it should work out just fine.”

“I think it is called a leitmotif. An invention of that man upstairs. I hate to admit it, but this is a good thing. Assigning a certain basic melody to a role or a certain story element and assigning particular instruments to a mood makes it a lot easier to follow the story, even when it becomes more complex – even when you do not understand the language in which the opera is sung.” He smiled. “It was always my belief that music is great at building bridges. Far better than at being some holy, national treasure that has to be kept as pure as possible. How ironic that – He – enables narrative music to be truly international.”

“Richard Wagner,” Garvanos said, “just in case you really are about to forget his name.”

Ivan made a face. Then he sighed and turned it into the start of a breathing exercise.

Garvanos listened to him holding a note, admiring how smoothly his voice could waft through the air, how it seeped under his skin, into his bones, warming him through and through.

“I’ll do the tenor part then, right?” he asked.

Ivan nodded. “You do remember the melody, yes?”

In reply Garvanos hummed it and then, glancing at the sheet for the lyrics, sang.

“How quickly time can flow and pass, blown away with one swift breeze without one ever gaining hold of it. Mortal humans are a pity as they grasp and reach in vain-” How gently the words flowed, a constant murmur, up and down the melody went, like the water the spirit belonged to who was singing here.

And then a shift, maybe the inner thoughts of Russalka had come to a halt as he addressed the human man. “But here you are in front of me and in your hand a piece of sweet eternity.”

Ivan smiled proudly as Garvanos sang the words before he picked up the ongoing melody. “Fleeting like a moment, fragile like a whisper your life appears to me.”

Garvanos had to suppress a shiver at Ivan’s words and at his fingers that brushed against his hand.

“And strange as well or so you say. But how can I be strange to you?” Sharp, punctuated staccato, each syllable a little knife, “Eternity for sure must see many more thousands that come and go and pass you by, so many more like me.”

“Thousands, yes and thousands more,” Garvanos answered, now adopting the staccato himself, “who come and go with just a breath, who grow and ripen and then rot too quickly for eternity to grasp.” He looked up to Ivan as the melody rose. “And yet our hands entwine.”

“A spirit, fleeting and unreal to me, I never dared to dream to touch,” Ivan countered. “Woven from eternity, like a dream and are yet true. And still, you claim your ignorance what wat’ry grave you’d give to any man who comes to close.”

Ah, the water. Russalkas killed their victims by luring them to the water and then drowning them, a murder by instinct, without intent or care.

“How can I understand a creature that’s here and then already gone?” Garvanos asked in answer, “And you are even stranger then, you know and seem to understand and still- and still you’re holding on to me and never seem to fear-”

“Your leaving is my only fear,” Ivan finished. Then he cleared his throat. “I am still working on the follow up to this line,” he said, “but the duet will not be got much longer. They pledge friendship to each other and then the scene ends when Human has to leave for now.” He smiled. “Was it worth cutting short your evening?”

“Hm,” Garvanos hummed, tilting his head, “almost.”

Ivan leaned over to kiss him.

Garvanos could taste strong black tea on his breath.

“Now?”

“Alright, now.” He lifted a hand and ran it through Ivan’s hair. “But just so we’re clear, this is the first and last time.”

Ivan pressed his full, arched lips into a thin line, but he nodded. “I understand. I am sorry.”

Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. It didn’t matter. The point was made.

“And -” Garvanos felt his resolve waver a little. “And I meet him for lunch on Saturday. To make up for tonight.”

He was half-expecting protest. Or at least for Ivan to make a face. Or to give some barbed remark about how much Garvanos seemed to enjoy Ajahn’s company.

If Ivan was intent on saying something to that effect Garvanos was prepared to answer him in kind. He had to stand the ground he just now had established.

But Ivan didn’t say anything. He kept his face very, very neutral, very calm and he nodded very, very slowly. “That seems just right.”

Garvanos had no words to express his relief. He pulled Ivan closer to him. Maybe to make up for anything that had come before. Maybe to let him know that no matter what, Garvanos loved him and would always love to spend time with him. Maybe simply because he liked to kiss Ivan and wanted to do so right now.

The kiss turned out longer than Garvanos had anticipated, and he was most definitely not unhappy about it, leaning in closer to it.

And when Ivan asked, “Please stay?”, Garvanos of course gladly agreed.

“So?” Alexej asked while they waited in the wings for Mr. Wagner to finish dealing with Johannes Erhard, “how was your evening?”

“Nice,” Garvanos answered, watching as Johannes Erhard listened to the criticism heaved upon him, face growing ever more akin to a very overripe strawberry. “It’s good that Ajahn's back. I did miss him. It was fun to catch up with him.”

Alexej’s smile was as dry as that godawful German wine.

Garvanos sighed and rubbed his temple. “Ivan asked you to ask, right?”

The dry wine turned to vinegar. “He did.”

“And here I thought we’ve been through that.”

“I think it’s stupid too,” Alexej admitted, “But-”

“You still did as he told you and asked to see if-” If what? If he had gone behind Ivan’s back? That he was looking for a new lover? Garvanos shook his head.

“It’s stupid, I know, but he wouldn’t be quiet until I promised to ask, and he can be so annoying when he decides he wants to know something and-”

Garvanos sighed. “I know. If he wants to know what I told you – we had a nice walk along the riverbanks, the food was good, the wine delicious and both were too expensive for me to afford on my own. I missed dessert. And Ajahn’s business has gone well, it seems. He said he got some new contracts in London, some even reaching overseas to the Americas. I need to ask him about that on Saturday.” He sighed, recalling a few bits of their conversation. “Spice trade seems a lot more complicated than I ever thought.”

Alexej nodded thoughtfully. “This does sound reassuring. Almost as if you had this comment prepared in case, he, or anyone else asked you and you wanted to really drive home the point that you are really, really, very much not interested in the guy. Someone extremely jealous now would probably grow suspicious that you secretly actually are.”

Garvanos blinked and then shook his head. “You’re right, this is stupid,” he sighed.

“It’s one of the reasons I prefer going without a sponsor,” Alexej said. “In the end they always want something from you and that sucks.”

That sounded so much like what Ivan was always preaching that Garvanos would have liked to laugh.

“And even if your sponsor and you don’t have any interest in each other, rumours will gladly claim otherwise in any case,” Alexej continued, “and when the person who believes this is your lover, it gets annoying. I suppose. I mean, I only have to look at you.”

Garvanos raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware that my life is setting any sort of example to other people.”

“I see you almost every day and I see how you and Ivan deal with each other. Judging by the current state of your affairs I’d rather not get a sponsorship.”

Garvanos shrugged. “You can do that. Or you can simply remain single and not get into any relationship of that nature. Life might be generally less complicated that way. But then again, it might be a little too late for that, huh?”

He would never cease to be amazed – or amused – at how quickly Alexej’s face could change colour.

He turned beet red in an instant.

Garvanos chuckled. “I think you’re up in a bit.”

On stage Johannes Erhard was listening to some instructions by Mr. Wagner. Once again, his face was turning a very unhealthy colour, not unlike the shades on Alexej’s face.

And indeed, a moment later Mr. Wagner called, “Mr. Beljajew, my boy, come! Your part!” and Alexej ran on stage.

Garvanos watched and listened, half smiling. He could relax. Mr. Wagner would not call for him to work with today; he rarely ever looked at him more than once a week or so and he had given him five minutes of his precious time on Tuesday already.

Alexej sang through his lines, listened to the criticism Mr. Wagner gave him and then returned.

They stood in almost companionable silence next to each other and listened to Marianne going through two of her arias.

“That’s it?” Alexej then asked, “no questions?”

“I can hardly pester you when you’re up to sing, right?” Garvanos asked.

“I’m back now,” Alexej pointed out.

“Barely.”

Alexej sighed. “Ivan would have already pestered me with questions. Or needled me with remarks.”

He wanted to be asked. He was young and in love and wanted to talk and be happy and have someone share in on that happiness. Garvanos could understand that very well.

Or maybe he was used to being interrogated and was not expecting to be left alone.

“You are not curious?” Alexej asked and he sounded like he was somewhere between relief and disappointment.

Garvanos managed to keep his smile subtle. “Very much. But I also have an inkling whom you’re spending your time with. And people might be listening in here.”

Alexej furrowed his brow. “Several of these people are your friends,” he pointed out.

“They are,” Garvanos agreed.

“And you worry what they might hear?”

“Exactly,” he said.

“You don’t trust them? I mean, isn’t that the point of having friends? I wouldn’t know, that’s why I’m asking you.”

Garvanos shrugged. “I started making friends only when I got here. And mind you, two of my friends go by the names of Deborah and Marianne. With them and with you – with Mr. Kirsch, too – I know I am safe. With anyone else I can never be sure. Friends or not, I don’t know how far their affection and friendship for me might reach. I don’t wish to explore it and risk a trip to the correction prison.”

Alexej shook his head. “That’s bullshit.”

Garvanos glanced over to Mr. Kirsch who was silently leaning against a beam and watched the rehearsals with a deeply furrowed brow. Apparently Alexej’s use of foul language had gone unnoticed, not that Mr. Kirsch had ever been too keen to punish the boy for his mouth.

“Maybe,” Garvanos sighed, “Welcome to life, I guess.”

“But what do you have friends for if you can’t trust them?”

“I do trust them, I simply don’t know how deeply I can trust them with-” Garvanos sighed, “with some matters. But when it comes to other things, I know I can trust them unconditionally and they will stand behind me just as unconditionally in these matters. But with some things-” again he sighed, “as I said, it is difficult. And annoying. And, yes, stupid.”

Alexej ran a hand through his hair. “You know, that’s what’s good about not having too many friends,” he sighed. “One thing less to worry about, you know, and it’s not like people like us don’t have enough to worry about as is.”

Garvanos leaned against the beam, nodding in an invitation for Alexej to continue.

Alexej gladly took him up on this.

“I mean, I've been thinking about this shit and-” The boy shook his head, his pale hair swishing around his face. “I- it’s-” He ran a hand over his face. “It-”

“Hiding?” Garvanos offered.

Alexej nodded. “I mean, you’re right. Correction houses are hell. Or so I’ve been told. And nobody wants to go there, but if you are not careful around most people – and if anyone wants to set my career on fire, all they would need to do is-” He shook his head again, eyes glazing over a little. “I- oh, shit.”

“I think your chamber pot is in your dressing room,” Garvanos said, “At least I hope so.”

“No, that's not-” Again Alexej shook his head. “Shit, shit, shit-” He swallowed. “Are you meeting him today?”

“Ivan?”

“No, the Emperor of China! Of course, I mean Ivan.”

“Yes, of course. We have lessons.”

“Say, can I just-” Alexej paused and took a deep breath. “Can you take your lessons tomorrow instead of today, I think I need- or maybe not tomorrow, I think it’d be enough if-”

Garvanos nodded. “It’s alright. I’ll do some shopping in the city and be down a few hours later.”

“Good, that would be it for today!” Mr. Wagner called and they heard steps approaching.

“Better go now,” Garvanos whispered, “before he has something to say to you.”

Alexej nodded. “Thank you.” He shot Garvanos a smile, one of the rare ones, without any barbs or hooks sticking out like fangs from a tiger’s maw.

And then he turned around and rushed off.

“Mr. Beljajew!” Mr. Wagner called, but the boy didn’t pay him any heed, rushing off and away, steps hammering a notable staccato as he disappeared.

Deborah blinked. “Oh my, that is new.”

Marianne shook her head. “Indeed. He left the fire in the stove running or what?”

“I do hope for a better explanation than that,” Mr. Wagner said, eyes almost disappearing under his furrowed brow. “I asked him for a moment after today’s rehearsal. I would have expected him to remember this and stay.” He turned to Garvanos. “What have you said to him?”

Garvanos raised an eyebrow. “Surely, Mr. Wagner, you don’t think I have ordered him to rush away so he may not listen to whatever wisdom you have to bestow on him?” Oh, wonderful. He surely wouldn’t regret that later. But he really couldn’t bring himself to care right now.

Mr. Wagner snorted softly. “Of course not. But since you are close to our young prodigy, maybe you can divulge what you think might be the reason for his sudden departure?”

Garvanos thought of the sudden understanding that had dawned behind Alexej’s eyes, the shock at the realization and the urgency with which he had wanted to go to Ivan.

“I suspect a sudden onset of maturity,” he finally answered truthfully and forced himself to hold Mr. Wagner’s gaze.

Deborah’s eyes began to sparkle. “Oh, how adorable,” she cooed, elbowing Marianne in the ribs, “our Aliccino is in love!” She had never called Alexej anything like that to his face. If she valued her life, she never would.

“Bah,” Mr. Wagner said, “the lad’s too young for this nonsense.”

“The younger you are, the easier to fall in love and fall hard,” Deborah answered and Garvanos noticed that she was laying on the accent quite thickly. “Or have you never been young, maestro?”

“I was, my dear, that’s why I can attest you that women are nothing but an unnecessary distraction to a young man who should focus on his work and on improving his skills.”

“But wasn’t it you,” Marianne chirped, hooking her arm around Deborah’s, “who declared love to be the ultimate, pure, perfect goal for any upright young man? At least your current body of work would suggest this. Look at your Rienzi and how much Adriano are inspired by his love for Irene.”

“Adriano was mostly inspired by his desire to serve Rome,” Mr. Wagner huffed.

“But he was swayed by his love,” Deborah purred. “And you cannot deny that you portrayed this as his big motivator and the great source of conflict for him. Such a deep feeling, so troubling.” She sighed. “Surely you want us to portray this exact feeling as accurately and captivatingly as possible? How would one achieve that without having ever tasted the sweetness of loving and being loved so deeply as only the young and the very old can?” She tilted her head. “Leave the boy to his personal joys. He will gladly bring them into his performance and portray them properly on stage.” And with that, arm still hooked up with Marianne, she turned around, smiling, skirts swishing and swaying, they left, their steps clicking away.

Marianne grinned back at them and waved.

Mr. Wagner snorted. “Silly girl. She won’t make it much further than this if she doesn’t let go of such foolish ideas.” He turned around. “In any case, I hope to see you all tomorrow for rehearsal. Have a nice day and to those of you on stage tonight – break a leg.” With that he as well left.

Andreas blinked several times and then he sighed. “Tell me, are they not wonderful, both of them?”

Garvanos blinked. “What?”

“The Santelli. Deborah. And Marianne. Both of them. Are they not wonderful?”

It was too early in the day for this, Garvanos concluded, far too early. But he nodded. “Yes, they are.”

“Such charm, such wit, such cleverness.”

Such an inability to keep themselves somewhat covered, so to speak, but that was exactly what Garvanos was not doing.

Andreas sighed again, eyes gleaming. “What women.”

It was too early for Garvanos to need a drink.

Didn’t change the fact that he needed one, though.