‘Gee, I
wonder why,’ I thought, as I imagined the comments. Half would be shrieks of
vitriol, the other half would be raving panegyrics, and, in between? A void
only slightly smaller that the Milky Way.
Which is
how it should be, I think, and also how—someone tell me if I’m wrong, here—it
increasingly isn’t. And I’m thinking this after bumping into my older Puerto
Rican brother, Pablo, at the opera yesterday.
We had
decided to take Montalvo to the opera, or rather to the rebroadcast
of the Metropolitan’s Otello, Guiseppe Verdi’s
penultimate opera. So there Pablo was: the man who had morphed over time from a
landlord into a brother, who had provided more than a shoulder for me to cry on
after lost auditions and the occasional marital spat. He’d been a constant
source of encouragement, as well as the source of some amusement; once, during
a session of extremely vocal sex coming from the second floor, Raf and I had
played the last movement of the Rachmaninoff
Second Piano Concerto, turning up the volume at the climax, all the better
to spur them on. Pablo had loved it; his anonymous young companion fled the
house.
“I’m
getting tired of Renée
Fleming and that damned smile,” said Pablo, last night at the opera. “She’s
perfect, but she’s bland….”
I knew what
he meant. I had felt it myself, but had also changed in my feelings about
Fleming: after seeing an interview with her, I had been impressed with how
remarkably candid she had been, how much she had paid for her career, and how
she had been afflicted with extreme stage fright. And is it her fault that she
had done the Herculean job of becoming technically and musically perfect, as
well has polishing her image to a diamond shine? Have we all done as much? Now
she has to listen to us call her bland?
Pablo’s
words, however, had stuck, and in the middle of the “Willow Song,” which has
the word salice—Italian
for willow—I could help thinking: couldn’t she do more with it? Each time she
repeated the word, it was all exactly the same—lush, ravishingly beautiful,
poised. What would Callas
have done?
“She ruined
us all,” said Pablo, giving us a ride home, and referring to Maria Callas, the
great American-born Greek soprano whom you loved or whom you hated. Did she
always deliver? By no means, and when it was bad, it wasn’t bad: it was awful,
terrible, wincingly embarrassing. You wanted to crawl under your seat, or out
of the opera house.
But when
she was good, equally, she wasn’t good, she was glorious, magnificent,
stupendous—you know, all those adjectives that oddly tend not be applied to you
and me. Presuming, of course, you could stomach the voice. Here is
the critic Rodolfo
Celletti’s assessment:
The
timbre of Callas's voice, considered purely as sound, was essentially
ugly: it was a thick sound, which gave the impression of dryness, of aridity.
It lacked those elements which, in a singer's jargon, are described as velvet
and varnish... yet I really believe that part of her appeal was precisely due
to this fact. Why? Because for all its natural lack of varnish, velvet and
richness, this voice could acquire such distinctive colours and timbres as to
be unforgettable.
Well, my
take is shorter: the voice is otherworldly. If a will-o-the-wisp could sing, it
might sound like Callas. Hearing her voice, I think of the sound of geese
flying overhead: it’s a sound that encapsulates the chill of autumn, the cold
marsh water soaking you feet, the reeds rustling and the smell of burning
leaves.
Well, it was
all something to think about, and we may have to, since, Montalvo’s reaction?
Well, he dozed off a bit for the first part of the opera, but it was hardly
surprising, since in the time it took for Raf and me to arrange the napkins in
our laps, raise the glass to toast, and glance over at Montalvo, the lad had
polished off a large salad, a large mofongo and a large plate of rice and beans. So
there were three empty plates—had he licked them?—and there was Montalvo,
waiting with dog-at-the-table patience for me to feed him French fries. Such a
repast requires a little nap.
But who
cannot like Otello?
It has, after all, Iago
(hah! That my computer should be such a Philistine!): a man so evil you could
smell the sulfur in the theater. And Montalvo, having learned that we’ve just
joined the 21st century by subscribing to Netflix, asked afterward
if the service had operas.
“Think so,”
I said.
“I’m gonna
watch ‘em all,” he said.
Well he
may, because in addition to hearing opera? He’s written a villanelle, and it’s good,
though lacking the—as he called it, he was angry at the time—“motherfucking
iamb thing.” So it’s occasionally-iambic pentameter; here it is:
Summoning Strength
Power comes from a need not a
desire,
Protect and save yourself
from certain death.
Light shines through the dark
in the form of fire.
My fists will turn into earth
as hard iron
Exerting all my energy with
breath.
Power comes from a need not a
desire.
My feelings of love will
never expire,
And until I die my soul will
express.
Light shines through the dark
in the form of fire.
I will always find the need
to require
Strength that is needed at
moment’s request.
Power comes from a need not a
desire.
Risking your life for another
to aspire
Love and sacrifice— erupting
through flesh.
Light shines through the dark
in the form of fire.
Why has hate and fury lead
this to transpire?
Break free from the chains
and let your soul dance.
Power comes from a need not a
desire.
Light shines through the dark
in the form of fire.
