Maybe
it was because I had spent the last three days opening doors every fifteen
minutes or so to workmen who had, it seemed, invaded my space and trashed my
tranquility. True, they were doing what I wanted, and what I was unwilling to
do. Because among the experiences that I don’t need to have my life fulfilled
is rappelling 20 twenty feet down the side of my patio under a hot tropical sun
to plaster a large area on the side of the wall. So why was I complaining?
Well,
there was the power washer, which has for adult men, apparently, all the allure
and charm of a car for teenage boys. A spot of mold appears on some surface in
your home? Any red-blooded American man will be running for the pressure
washer.
The
problem was the noise—well, for me at least. Granted, it was infinitesimally
quieter than a jet engine, but not by much. And it went on for hours.
Or
maybe it was the habit of workmen appearing suddenly in view, as I looked up in
the study where I was trying to write. The door was closed, I had let no one
in; how did they get there? Well, it turns out that you can rappel down, but
rappelling up is a more taxing affair. So they rappelled halfway down the
building, did some plastering, and rappelled down to the window and hopped in.
Right—so I would get up and let them out. (Why not keep the door open? A
four-letter word: cats….)
Or
it could have been dealing with the excitable Spaniard who owns the first
floor. We generally get along, but he requires—no, I require—coffee
before the encounter. And so when he arrived shortly before seven in the
morning, I was unarmed. And then cross. In addition, he shares a peculiarly
Puerto Rican trait: a dislike verging on hate of vegetation.
Who
can explain it? For every Puerto Rican who loves plants and trees, there are
two at least who much prefer concrete. And so García, to give the gentleman his
name, took a look at the jungle that is the patio and instantly salivated for a
machete. So every second sentence included a reference to the day when all of
those plants would be gone. This, of course, didn’t sit well with Mr.
Fernández, who would much prefer to tackle the situation with other
implements—perhaps tweezers and embroidery scissors.
They
were good guys, generally, and they cleaned up after themselves, but guess
what? Walking barefoot through the gallery is like walking on the beach—not
surprising, given the amount of grit, sand, concrete and dust they generated.
And
they came on time, except for two days. Then they didn’t. But they did respond
to García’s clarion call; who doesn’t?
So
I was ready for last night, when they were rebroadcasting Tosca, the famous opera by Puccini. And here, for those who
may not know what in the world this woman is acting so crazy for, is a short
synopsis of the plot.
Tosca
is a singer, in love with a young painter and revolutionary named Cavaradossi.
While painting in a church, he encounters another revolutionary, who has
escaped from prison. The hounds will be after him, so Cavaradossi agrees to
give him shelter.
Enter
one of opera’s most sadistic creatures: Scarpia, the police chief, who tracks
down the revolutionary at Cavaradossi’s house. Or rather, he doesn’t, but he
smells something fishy. So what to do? Easy, subject Cavaradossi to torture;
Tosca is permitted to hear the gruesome business being done off stage. And so
for a whole act, Scarpia is playing a deadly mind game with Tosca. And how can
she stop the torture of her lover? Old story, sweetheart—put out.
She
tries to move him, and sings Visi d’arte, the aria below.
Well,
it didn’t work on Scarpia, except for perhaps making him more determined in his
lechery. But me?
Got
it completely….
I lived for art, I lived for love,
I never did harm to a living soul!
With a secret hand
I relieved as many misfortunes as I knew of.
Ever in true faith
My prayer
Rose to the holy shrines.
Ever in true faith
I gave flowers to the altar.
In the hour of grief
Why, why, Lord,
Why do you reward me thus?
I gave jewels for the Madonna's mantle,
And songs for the stars, in heaven,
That shone forth with greater radiance.
In the hour of grief
Why, why, Lord,
Ah, why do you reward me thus?
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