The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [118]
“Why—what happened?” asked Maria, at once incredulous and despondent, because she had been expecting a more reaffirming answer from someone in his position.
“When I was your age—maybe a little older—I thought everything was perfect with my career and my life, and maybe it was—I don’t know, it’s always hard to judge, except for those few minutes right after a performance, when every doubt seems far away—but then I had some real problems, not so much with my singing but with the relationships in my life, and I wasn’t old enough to understand that turmoil is inevitable—especially for those of us in the theater—and I ended up in a crisis. I was so sure that my voice was hurting me—or more important, those I cared for—that I gave up singing. I vowed never to enter an opera house again.”
Stunned by this information, Maria took a moment to respond. “But how—how was it hurting you?”
He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “I didn’t think I could do both—sing and live. I thought that to sing with any passion was making me too vulnerable, so that I felt wounded both on and off the stage, and also too self-centered, oblivious to the suffering of those around me or—even if I was aware—incapable of helping. When you perform, everything seems so alive, and—as much as I tried—I couldn’t make myself acknowledge real life because by comparison it was so tedious and messy and unrehearsed.” He laughed quietly and sighed. “It took me a long time to learn how to separate the two, which also isn’t easy, because you can’t be two completely different people—you have to give yourself to the stage, obviously, but you have to maintain some kind of distance, too.”
“How did you come back?” she asked and already felt a little bereft as she considered the answer, and what it might entail for her or, for that matter, already had. For years she had told herself that there was nothing she wouldn’t do to be the best singer she could be, yet the resolution now sounded hollow and frightening.
“One night I went to the opera, and I realized as I was watching it—I was sitting there with tears streaming down my face the entire time, just shy of sobbing, much to the horror of those around me, I’m sure!—I realized it was killing me not to sing. I knew I had ostracized myself from what I loved most, and for those few hours I saw my life the way you sometimes do—like you’re viewing it as another person—and I knew that I was barely going through the motions, not really enjoying anything or anyone, like I was already dead. There was no love in my life! I knew that I had to sing, that it was the only way I could offer myself any kind of beauty or forgiveness, which is ultimately what mattered most. I thought singing was the problem—and maybe it was—but from then on, I knew it was also the solution.” As he finished this thought, he focused his attention on her. “Was that more than you expected?”
“I’m not sure,” Maria said, “but thank you—it’s helpful.” As she spoke, she felt a shift in her perspective, something indefinable but present, so that the previous hours seemed no more consequential than a few errant clouds crossing the vista of her life. As she and Leo spent a few more minutes idly chatting—about some of his favorite roles and her upcoming Magic Flute—she could imagine herself like him, a working singer with a battle-weary sense of pride and resignation, which was an end that—at least for now—seemed better to justify the means.
A FEW MINUTES later she arrived at Ronald Spelton’s master class. She found a seat near the back of the amphitheater—not surprisingly, it was crowded—and tried to enjoy the mild buzz of affirmation that continued to spread through her in the wake of her conversation with Leo Metropolis. She felt like she had taken a big fall but with his help had landed safely in a pool of water. The only problem was that not more than two seconds after Ronald stood up and began to speak, her resolve was shattered by a dry-throat,