Read Online 1 - Interrupted Aria by Beverle Graves Myers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Beverle Graves Myers
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the stage crew stepped out of the wings and called to Adelina. “Signora, we’ve been working on the gears that raise and lower this platform. Could you go up and see if it does any better for you?”
Torani pounded a jangling chord on the harpsichord and jumped up. He ascended halfway up the stairs to the stage and addressed the foreman in a snappish tone. “Signora Belluna is busy and so am I. Can’t you fix that thing without interrupting us?”
Adelina joined me and whispered, “We rehearsed my descent from Mt. Olympus at least ten times yesterday. That platform jerked so hard I thought I’d end up going over the side.”
To create the illusion of the goddess Juno descending to earth, Adelina had to climb a ladder-like stair behind the backdrop painted with a distant prospect of Mt. Olympus. Above the view of the audience, she stepped onto a platform disguised as a fluffy cloud, and the massive machinery floated her slowly down and forward as she sang.
The foreman disguised a sigh, attempting to maintain a respectful façade. “My men have been out in the workroom retooling the gears all afternoon. We’ve put them in place, but we can’t complete the job until we see that the apparatus is balanced to Signora Belluna’s height and weight.”
Running a hand through his gray frizz, Torani mounted the last few steps to the stage. I followed his squinting gaze up into the shadowy heights above us, the hanging maze of catwalks, ropes, and pulleys that the audience never sees.
“Is that Beppo up there?” The director had spotted the carpenters’ young apprentice. “Put him on the platform. He’s about Signora Belluna’s size.”
The foreman on the stage looked doubtful, but Torani was insistent. “Use the boy to test the mechanism. All he has to do is stand there and hang on to the railing.”
Adelina went back to her scores and Torani resumed his criticism of my style. “I know the maestros at San Remo favor this lamenting tone, but Venetian audiences demand a more cheerful.…”
Torani stopped short, distracted by a triplet of grating creaks. “ Dio mio ,” he grumbled. “What now?”
I looked up to see the fluff-covered platform suspended in the air thirty feet or so above center stage. Beppo’s curly head popped over the railing; there was an anxious look on his round face. From the wings, the foreman glared up at the intricate machinery with his hands on his hips.
Without further warning, the front of the apparatus gave way. The apprentice grabbed frantically for a handhold but found only air. He screamed as he plummeted to the stage with a resounding thud.
Everyone in the theater hastened to Beppo’s still form, but the boy was beyond help. His head was twisted back over his shoulder and a dribble of blood stained his chin. I remembered seeing him when I had first entered the theater. The workmen had been shifting flats of scenery behind the rehearsing singers and, with youthful energy and a lively grin, Beppo had run to help. Now Torani was covering the apprentice with a sheet of canvas, and the stagehands were waiting to carry the body away.
Adelina clutched my sleeve, crying “Poor little Beppo” over and over. Still stunned, I put my arm around her waist and tried to find some soothing words, but the soprano refused to be comforted. She tore herself from my grasp and shook me by my shoulders. “Don’t you see, Tito? That could have been me. I should have been the next one to step onto that platform.”
The platform in question sailed slowly down to the stage floor. It landed with a dull clunk, raising a hail of dust. Torani coughed and flapped his shawl to clear the air. We knelt to examine the damage. The foreman twirled the rings that accommodated the ropes supporting the front of the platform. Each ring had been sliced through.
“Look. Someone’s been very clever,” the foreman observed. “These cuts are too thin to be noticed, and the strength of the rings allowed us to
Torani pounded a jangling chord on the harpsichord and jumped up. He ascended halfway up the stairs to the stage and addressed the foreman in a snappish tone. “Signora Belluna is busy and so am I. Can’t you fix that thing without interrupting us?”
Adelina joined me and whispered, “We rehearsed my descent from Mt. Olympus at least ten times yesterday. That platform jerked so hard I thought I’d end up going over the side.”
To create the illusion of the goddess Juno descending to earth, Adelina had to climb a ladder-like stair behind the backdrop painted with a distant prospect of Mt. Olympus. Above the view of the audience, she stepped onto a platform disguised as a fluffy cloud, and the massive machinery floated her slowly down and forward as she sang.
The foreman disguised a sigh, attempting to maintain a respectful façade. “My men have been out in the workroom retooling the gears all afternoon. We’ve put them in place, but we can’t complete the job until we see that the apparatus is balanced to Signora Belluna’s height and weight.”
Running a hand through his gray frizz, Torani mounted the last few steps to the stage. I followed his squinting gaze up into the shadowy heights above us, the hanging maze of catwalks, ropes, and pulleys that the audience never sees.
“Is that Beppo up there?” The director had spotted the carpenters’ young apprentice. “Put him on the platform. He’s about Signora Belluna’s size.”
The foreman on the stage looked doubtful, but Torani was insistent. “Use the boy to test the mechanism. All he has to do is stand there and hang on to the railing.”
Adelina went back to her scores and Torani resumed his criticism of my style. “I know the maestros at San Remo favor this lamenting tone, but Venetian audiences demand a more cheerful.…”
Torani stopped short, distracted by a triplet of grating creaks. “ Dio mio ,” he grumbled. “What now?”
I looked up to see the fluff-covered platform suspended in the air thirty feet or so above center stage. Beppo’s curly head popped over the railing; there was an anxious look on his round face. From the wings, the foreman glared up at the intricate machinery with his hands on his hips.
Without further warning, the front of the apparatus gave way. The apprentice grabbed frantically for a handhold but found only air. He screamed as he plummeted to the stage with a resounding thud.
Everyone in the theater hastened to Beppo’s still form, but the boy was beyond help. His head was twisted back over his shoulder and a dribble of blood stained his chin. I remembered seeing him when I had first entered the theater. The workmen had been shifting flats of scenery behind the rehearsing singers and, with youthful energy and a lively grin, Beppo had run to help. Now Torani was covering the apprentice with a sheet of canvas, and the stagehands were waiting to carry the body away.
Adelina clutched my sleeve, crying “Poor little Beppo” over and over. Still stunned, I put my arm around her waist and tried to find some soothing words, but the soprano refused to be comforted. She tore herself from my grasp and shook me by my shoulders. “Don’t you see, Tito? That could have been me. I should have been the next one to step onto that platform.”
The platform in question sailed slowly down to the stage floor. It landed with a dull clunk, raising a hail of dust. Torani coughed and flapped his shawl to clear the air. We knelt to examine the damage. The foreman twirled the rings that accommodated the ropes supporting the front of the platform. Each ring had been sliced through.
“Look. Someone’s been very clever,” the foreman observed. “These cuts are too thin to be noticed, and the strength of the rings allowed us to
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