The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [117]
Maria tried to decide if she was annoyed that a stranger had offered unsolicited advice but figured that, under the circumstances, any distraction was a good idea. Also—whoever he was—he seemed important; he was maybe fifty or so, his wide shoulders and slight paunch giving him the look of a knighted actor of the British stage, while a bronze hue to his skin and an impressive nose made her suspect he was Italian or Greek. She guessed that he was a singer and—based on his first-name relationship with Ronald Spelton and a certain ease with which he stood, hands in pockets, as if above the fray—a successful one. “Yeah, I might go,” she said and immediately regretted the impetuousness of her reply. “I’m sorry,” she quickly added. “I’m having one of the worst days ever.”
“I know what that’s like.” He nodded. “Bad lesson?”
She shook her head. “I have a Queen of the Night in three weeks, and I’m feeling overwhelmed and unmotivated.”
“Quelle horreur!” he said, but then added, “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I can’t.” He grinned. “But I thought you might like to hear it.”
Maria smiled wryly. “I guess I’ll take what I can get,” she offered before she looked at him more closely. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” she continued, “but you look kind of familiar.”
“Maybe you’ve heard me sing?” he suggested, and for a second Maria could see him as a young man, eager to impress, as he affably held out his hand. “Leo Metropolis.”
“Leo Metropolis!” she cried, forgetting her anomie.
He laughed. “Is that a problem?”
“No, no—of course not.” Maria now felt embarrassed and wished that she had met him a day earlier, before her collapse, which had left her feeling so weak and tentative. “It’s just that my roommate saw you in Walküre like five years ago,” she managed, “and still talks about how great it was, and—well—she’ll die when she hears I met you.”
“I’m happy to be of service,” he said, but in a distant, inscrutable tone that reminded her he was an enigmatic figure in the opera world, a leading heldentenor who performed rarely and only with certain companies, almost always in Europe except for the rare appearance at the Met. Moreover, he refused to give interviews or appear in publicity photographs, which helped to explain why Maria didn’t recognize him. Many who had been fortunate enough to hear him—and his performances were often unannounced—claimed he was the greatest Wagnerian of the century, while others tended to dismiss him as a spectacle, hardly deserving of accolades. Nobody knew where he lived, although she had heard rumors that he was exceedingly wealthy and when not singing could most often be found in castles, seaside villas, and luxury apartment buildings like Anna’s.
Maria felt childish for having complained about anything, like he was really going to care. She wanted to emulate him instead of falling back on the brash arrogance and disdain that had possessed her since she’d marched out of the terminal after breaking up with Richie. She saw herself as shrill and forced, displaying a lack of dimension that had literally made her susceptible to being knocked out. “Can I ask you something?” she ventured in a halting but earnest tone as it occurred to her that he was in a position to help. “About singing? Do you ever have doubts? I mean, would you still be a singer if you could do anything else?”
“It’s not an easy question,” he said before reflecting. “Right now I’d say yes—there’s nothing