The first time my understudy tried to kill me was on the day we met.
We got off on the wrong foot, Yolanda and I, and while most of that was due to Yolanda being a very . . . complicated individual, some of the blame lies with me. Our difficulties started at our initial run-through, the first time the cast was assembled, and when Daniel introduced Yolanda to the group and announced that she’d be my understudy, covering me in the titular role of Barbarella, I felt a flash of irritation, uncharitable yet valid. She didn’t need to be there. She shouldn’t be there.
Back in July, before the original performance schedule had been torpedoed by the discovery of patches of asbestos in the theater, Daniel had cast Roksana Kahele as the lead in Astrid Busk’s brand-new work, a two-act chamber opera based on the 1968 cult sci-fi film Barbarella. When he’d asked me to cover Roksana, I’d felt honored and excited. Early last year she’d starred in Astrid’s attention-grabbing Charlie’s Angels opera, and The New Yorker had published a short yet flattering profile of her in their Talk of the Town column; her popularity had only grown since then. Her presence would bring greater attention to the opera, and as her understudy, some of that attention would inevitably land on me.
From the start, Daniel had made it clear I wouldn’t be needed until rehearsals moved to the stage. This is standard: Opera singers are paid per performance, whereas understudies are paid per rehearsal. As understudies rarely get a chance to perform, requiring them to show up to early rehearsals serves no useful purpose and bloats the budget. When Roksana was forced to drop out of Barbarella due to schedule conflicts created by the delay, Daniel quietly bumped me up to the lead. I expected him to pick someone who’d worked with the company before to cover me, maybe Akiko, the coloratura soprano who’d covered the role of Criside in his production of Satyricon the previous fall. I also expected not to see or hear from whomever it was until later in the process.
But here we were on the first day of rehearsal, and here was this complete stranger.
“Yolanda Archambeau,” Daniel said, pronouncing her surname like he was sipping a fruity Beaujolais on the banks of the Seine. “She comes to us from New Orleans, and we are delighted to have her.”
Voluptuous and radiating sexual confidence, Yolanda was gorgeous. Regardless of all the bad blood that would flow between us during our brief yet tumultuous acquaintance, I freely admit she was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. She’d styled her platinum hair in soft waves, paired with eyelashes like crow feathers and lips so red and wet they looked like she’d dipped them in paint. She was probably aping Marilyn Monroe, down to the small black mole drawn above her lip in a precise eyeliner dot, but my thoughts immediately went to the late Anna Nicole Smith, model/reality star/tragic train wreck.
Years ago, before I was born, some tabloid ran a photo of Anna Nicole hanging out with my mom at a bash at the Playboy Mansion, both of them treading the line between glamorous and gaudy in low-cut evening gowns in glittery pastels. Soft white arms encircling each other’s waists, ample bosom pressed to ample bosom, they looked like decadent sisters with matching smeared-lipstick smiles and shiny, unfocused eyes. Throughout my early childhood, that photo was taped to the refrigerator in our Pasadena home, probably to remind my mom daily of everything she’d lost by giving birth to me.
“Nice to be here,” Yolanda said. She waggled the fingers of one hand at the group. All of us singers were seated in folding chairs arranged in a semicircle. Marla, our music director, sat at the upright piano; Astrid, who was pulling triple duty as the production’s composer, librettist, and unofficial dramaturg, hunched into her battered silver motocross jacket and leaned against the wall by the door, like she was ready to slink off if we started to bore her.
Chamber operas are small, so there were only a dozen of us in the room: the eight of us in the cast, plus Yolanda, Marla, Astrid, and Daniel, who stood at a music stand in front of us, rocking from side to side like a fidgety child. The twelve-piece orchestra would join our group in two weeks when rehearsals moved to the stage.
Carlo looked up from the bound score in his lap and frowned at Yolanda. Sleek and handsome, Carlo was my leading man, the chaste winged angel Pygar. On the surface, the casting didn’t make sense to me. I’d seen Carlo in Chelsea Opera’s production of Carmen last spring, and he’d been glorious, sidestepping the expected path of playing Don José as a lovesick fool in favor of excavating the character’s cruel and manipulative undertones. He’d let something dark and poisonous slither around the edges of his crystalline tenor, and it had been a masterful choice. Carlo was destined for a career built around a repertoire of beautiful and complicated villains; virtuous sylphs were a waste of his abilities.
“So Roksana’s not coming back for any of the performances?” Carlo asked. “She’ll be finished at the Met before our run wraps, right?”
“Correct. Her commitment to the Met’s production of La Traviata only overlaps with our first two weeks of performances, but she and I both agreed it would be simpler if she bowed out. Fortunately, Kit was available to step in.” Daniel dipped his head in my direction.
Carlo’s frown turned toward me. “Okay. That’s cool,” he said after a pause that was just long enough to make his feelings about the casting change clear.
Much as Carlo wasn’t how I envisioned Pygar, I probably wasn’t his physical ideal of Barbarella, the sweet-natured planet-hopping vixen made famous by a young and beautiful Jane Fonda. I wasn’t worried about looking right for the part; clever costumes paired with heavy makeup would transform me from a mouse into a wide-eyed, big-haired, swimsuit-clad sex goddess. It could be problematic, though, if Carlo’s frown indicated that he didn’t think my voice was up to the rigors of the role. We’d worked together in Satyricon, but he’d been the lead while I was in the chorus, so I suppose I couldn’t blame him for feeling ambivalent about me.
No worries, though. I had the ability. I had the training, the knowledge, the skills. I met Carlo’s frown with a friendly smile and turned my attention to Daniel.
Somewhere in his early thirties, Daniel looked like a posh schoolboy, with a wardrobe consisting of shrunken blazers paired with vests and messily knotted neckties. He was tall and angular, with a great deal of black hair that managed to look both freshly cut and untidy. When he spoke, his diction was precise, words chosen with care. It surprised me during rehearsals for Satyricon to learn he’d been born and raised in New York; everything about him suggested dusty mansions and vast ancestral wealth.
“I want to thank all of you for having the patience to bear with this production despite some setbacks.” Daniel’s eyes darted toward Astrid, as though expecting her to chew him out for the exposed asbestos behind the crumbling walls backstage that had delayed the production. Astrid twitched one eyebrow skyward, but remained silent. “Barring further emergencies, we should have no trouble meeting our new performance dates. Thank you to Kit for stepping in to fill Roksana’s shoes, and thank you to Yolanda for joining the Brio family.” He gave Yolanda one of his signature tight-lipped smiles, prim and exact.
He didn’t look at me, which stung. I didn’t mind that I hadn’t been his first pick; I wasn’t in Roksana’s league, not yet. But it was hard to shrug off the hunch that he’d dropped quite a ways down on his list of ideal Barbarellas before reaching my name. It didn’t matter. I was ready for this, my big debut. It was time. It was past time, honestly; my professional career thus far had consisted of back-of-stage ensemble parts mixed with long fallow stretches. Back when I was studying at Eastman—and even before that, back when the choir instructor at my boarding school had first guided me toward private lessons—I’d thought my future would be bursting with juicy prima donna roles.
Now? I’d turned thirty earlier in the year. No cause for worry, not yet; opera stardom often arrives late due to the years of training required to develop vocal skills worthy of a professional stage. Thirty was still a respectable age for my current level of accomplishment, but doors would close soon, and if I couldn’t make the most of my opportunities, I’d find myself facing a lifetime of chorus work, perhaps interspersed with the occasional lucky comprimario role.
We warmed up as a group, Marla assembling us around the piano and leading us through a series of exercises. I didn’t need the warm-up, as I’d arrived early to hole up in one of the practice rooms to get my vocal cords relaxed and flexible. Carlo had done the same, I’d noticed, as had Jerome, the portly baritone who’d be playing Barbarella’s villainous Durand-Durand.
Warm-up concluded, the official run-through began. Marla pounded out an abbreviated version of the overture, then I rose from my chair and launched into the opening duet with Claudette, another Satyricon survivor, who was playing the President of Earth.
I’d worked tirelessly on the score since July. I’d badgered Gerard for extra lessons, asking for as many of his evenings as he could spare, even as he begged me to keep in mind that he was an elderly man of declining vigor who enjoyed his free time very much, thank you. I’d rehearsed daily by myself in my minuscule apartment, driving the retired firefighter next door mad with what he termed my “incessant warbling.”
We sounded good. Better than good, really; Claudette’s rich mezzo voice melded with my higher, lighter, more agile tones and created something magnificent and complicated. Since this was our first time performing for Marla and Daniel, I didn’t bother with marking, the opera singer’s time-honored tactic of performing at only a fraction of full volume during rehearsals to prevent wear and tear on the vocal cords. Astrid had written a series of complicated trills into this introductory duet, and I nailed them, every note distinct. When Claudette and I finished and sat back down, Carlo leaned over and silently bumped his fist against mine.
We progressed through the material. We were good at our craft, all eight of us, doing justice to Astrid’s work. Astrid’s native language was Icelandic, but her libretto was in English, her lyrics clever and complex. She hailed from a prestigious artist collective in Reykjavik; knowing her background, when I’d first looked at the Barbarella score, I’d expected it to be esoteric and experimental, the music atonal and calculatedly disharmonious. Instead, it was a bold crowd-pleaser, an opera singer’s dream, overflowing with opportunities to dazzle. Even if Barbarella sank into obscurity at the conclusion of our run, I’d keep the music fresh in my repertoire, ready to perform arias from it at auditions throughout my professional career.
I didn’t think it would sink, though. I had a hunch the production would do well. People would come for the gimmick of an opera based on a kitschy cult film, but they’d leave with the satisfied feeling that comes from an evening spent exposed to wonderful art. The show might get good reviews. I might be singled out by critics as someone to watch, a prima donna on the rise.
We reached my big aria, the climax of act 1, Barbarella’s realization that she must return to the debauched city of Sogo to battle the Great Tyrant and rescue Pygar. This was a big showy piece, the one I’d spent the most time rehearsing, poring over the score to get every intake of breath right, to hit every note cleanly, to make certain my diction was precise enough so audiences could understand every syllable.
Here’s what thrills me to my core about well-trained voices: precision. I once read a review of a performance of The Magic Flute where the critic praised the soprano playing the Queen of the Night for what he referred to as the “giddy uncertainty” of her voice; he claimed to be on the edge of his seat for the entire performance, heart racing, because he was never certain she was going to hit her infernally tricky high notes. I didn’t understand that review, and I don’t imagine I ever will. I love the confidence that comes from knowing that each note will be hit, that the technique will be flawless, that the entire experience will radiate artistry and professionalism.
I started the climb to the top. C6 and up to E, then all the way to G, nailing the high notes with confidence, knowing how much strength to give them so I wouldn’t risk my voice cracking . . . I saw Marla, head bent over the piano keys, break into a smile; I saw Daniel exhale, his shoulders loosening in relief. I felt a sensation of triumph, which vanished as soon as I glanced at Yolanda.
Because Yolanda was yawning, right in the middle of my goddamned aria.
She tried to smother it, or pretended to try, covering her mouth with her hand. When my eyes met hers, she smiled prettily at me, her eyes wide and bright.
I finished, the final note echoing in the room. I waited. Daniel cleared his throat. “That was very nice, Kit,” he said.
“It’s clear you’ve been working hard on this. We’ll get into the nuts and bolts this afternoon, but here’s the big picture: The craft is there, but it’s a little passionless right now. Marla and I are going to have to work on helping you find your spirit.” He glanced over at the piano. “Marla?”
“The precision of your upper range is admirable, Kit. I can tell you’ve put in the practice. Please pass my kudos along to Gerard on his coaching.” Marla smiled at me. “I think it’ll be a matter of forging that connection with the audience, making it seem not quite so soulless. Precision is a wonderful quality, and we’re so glad you’re bringing that to the table already, but I think you could use more . . .” She considered her words, tilting her head from side to side as though ransacking her brain for the right way to phrase it. “Charm.”
“I see. Thank you very much.” I made sure to smile, though it probably looked as unnatural on my face as it felt. “I’ll pay special attention to that.” I’d trained myself to trot out that response whenever vocal coaches gave me critical feedback: Make eye contact, smile, thank them with every indication of respect and sincerity, looking nothing less than grateful to them for slicing and gutting my ego with a thousand sharpened blades.
I’m being dramatic. Obviously, nothing in that criticism was harsh or unjust. I’d done a good job; Marla and Daniel knew that. But I’d thought I’d done an exceptional job, one that deserved a soft round of applause from Daniel, or even a murmured “Brava” from Marla. Receiving praise for working hard is much less satisfying than receiving praise for being exceptional.
From her place near the door, Astrid caught my eye. Her expression grim, she nodded once, her pointed chin dipping toward her chest. She was trying to communicate something, but I couldn’t interpret what she meant. Agreement with Marla’s and Daniel’s consensus, most likely.
“We’ll leave that for now and move on,” said Daniel. “Beginning of act two, everyone.”
Marla raised her hands above the keyboard, then paused as Yolanda spoke. “Can I try that?” she asked. For a Louisiana girl, she had no trace of a drawl. “Can I do that song before we move on?”
I almost gasped, my breath hitching in secondhand embarrassment at her lapse in etiquette. I’d been an understudy often enough to know that covering a role requires invisibility, unless the director or conductor specifically calls upon you to become visible. You learn the role on your own, then you keep close at hand during dress rehearsals, staying silent and out of the way until the director decides it’s time to run through your blocking. I waited for Daniel to tell her, politely but with enough repressive emphasis to drive the point home, that she was overstepping.
Instead, he considered her request, pursing his lips in thought. “Yes, I think that would be a good idea, Yolanda,” he said at last. He gestured for her to stand. “Whenever you’re ready. Marla?”
Yolanda rose to her feet. She shrugged off her coat, which was fluffy and voluminous, made of faux fur the color of cherry pie filling. As Marla began to play, she squared her shoulders, inhaled, and sang.
I closed my eyes. In the moment before she hit her first note, I realized I was torn between wanting her to be great and wanting her to be terrible. On the one hand, there’s nothing I love more than listening to world-class singing.
On the other hand? Bitch had yawned during my aria.
She was . . . fine. From her opening notes, her voice was sweet and clear. She started out softer than I had, slower, and
it wouldn’t have been my choice, but it made sense, built some drama. Slowly, slowly, she rose to a crescendo.
Oh. Her enunciation wasn’t great; she’d have to work on that. One of my instructors at Eastman had lambasted several of my classmates—never me, never ever me—for what she called mushmouth. Yolanda had a bad case of mushmouth: a lazy tongue, sloppy consonants. Worse, she slid up and down between her notes on the trill instead of hitting each one dead on. Sliding around is fine, even encouraged, for many styles of singing—pop music careers have been built on well-deployed vocal scoops—but unless an artist really knows what she’s doing, it’s considered a bad move in opera.
She started the upward climb, and I inhaled, heartbeat quickening. I opened my eyes and gazed at her, so gorgeous and so radiant, her expression rapturous, her body vibrating with the music. I couldn’t understand why it should make any difference, but when I looked at her, her voice sounded better, richer, more resonant.
She hit the C with strength, then went thin and strained on the E. Her G came out weak, more air than sound.
Okay. She had a lovely voice, but her skills weren’t where they needed to be to perform a lead role. Still, she’d be an adequate understudy. Moot point, in any case; I wasn’t going to let her replace me onstage. We were scheduled for twelve performances over four weekends in November, and I would be there, hale and hearty and in the best possible voice, for every single one.
She finished. She beamed. “How was that, Danny?”
Danny. Jesus. Nothing about Daniel suggested he’d enjoy being called Danny.
“Nicely done, Yolanda. The emotion in your voice gave me goose bumps at moments.” Daniel looked thoughtful. “Those high notes weren’t there for you today, huh?”
Yolanda shrugged. “I was close.”
“You have a beautiful voice,” Marla said. “You infused the lyrics with great depth of meaning. It’s not there yet, but you and I, we’ll get those top notes where we need them to be.”
Yolanda laughed. “Thanks so much.” She had a great laugh, light and musical yet somehow sophisticated. When she lifted one arm to push her hair off her face, her cropped jersey rode up well above her navel. Everything about her was voluptuous: those breasts, those hips, that provocative glimpse of her abdomen.
At her laugh, seductive and knowing, I felt a crude and spiteful suspicion that Daniel wanted to sleep with her, that maybe he was sleeping with her, that maybe that was why he let her get away with calling him Danny. Maybe that was why he wanted her at the first rehearsal, and maybe that was why she gave him goose bumps while I failed to move him.
The most memorable divas tend to be larger than life in all ways: tall, shapely, powerful enough to project their voices to the back wall of a packed auditorium, beautiful enough to grab an audience’s attention from the moment they swan onstage. That is . . . not me. I have the power, but not the size or beauty. I’m short, boxy, and plain. I have a wide rib cage with plenty of room for my lungs to expand, which is great for breath control and volume, but there are no curves anywhere on me. My hair is an indeterminate shade of beige; it grows out as thick and stiff as dried grass, so I keep it short to attract the least amount of notice. My face is unremarkable in all ways.
But my underwhelming appearance matters less on the stage than you’d think, thanks to the magic of costumes and makeup. It’s only in rehearsals where a little imagination is necessary.
Yolanda, of course, had an advantage in that respect, thanks to her extravagant beauty. I could easily picture her as Barbarella, even in her street clothes, which already looked like a costume. So could Daniel, and Marla, and Astrid, and everyone else in this room.
Yolanda took her chair and swilled from her water bottle. She crossed her legs at the knee and sat back, radiating satisfaction. Her eyes darted over to me, and she grinned. It looked a bit like a smirk. I tried to grin back, hoping to appear friendly and relaxed and not at all threatened by her, not one tiny bit, but by the time I coordinated my reluctant facial muscles enough to come up with something resembling a smile, she had already looked away.
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