Disclaimer: BSG (2003) and all the characters are property of Ron D. Moore. I merely borrowed his playthings to play a bit in his sandbox.
Enjoy! L
"Dad, I really really need you to do me a favour..."
Bill ran a hand through his hair, took a gulp from his coffee and sighed. Whatever this was, it couldn't be good. Lee didn't usually call him this early on Saturday mornings, not to mention asking any favours of him when he knew his father had taken a week off.
Already dreading the answer, he mumbled into his phone while he put two slices of bread into his toaster. "Lee, what's wrong?"
He heard his son take a deep breath on the other end, then, apparently trying to find the right words, pause for another second. When he finally started to speak again, he himself didn't seem to like what he was about to say. "Well, dad, you know this concert we're having tonight? I've told you about it when we had dinner last week?" Bill nodded curtly, then realised his son couldn't see his reaction and slapped himself on his forehead. Thinking before his first cup of coffee in the morning was not really one of his strengths. "Yup, you told me." Lee paused again. "The thing is, our bass soloist had an accident this morning and is still in surgery. Nothing life-threatening, but he won't be able to perform tonight. So..." Bill closed his eyes for a moment. He saw where this was going. "So, you need someone to fill in for him because you can't possibly cancel the concert. That's why you're calling me?" "Yeah."
Now it was Bill's turn to pause and be quiet for a moment. He saw his bubble of a lovely quiet weekend bursting in front of his eyes, the two final days of a week off – that had been filled with trips to museums, visiting friends, buying some art for his flat and lots of reading – which he had wanted to spend looking for new projects and watching some concerts he had missed. As a freelance artist, he appreciated the freedom of choosing what to work on next without being dependent on opera house policies and he didn't mind the craziness of travelling for weeks or having performances every night. But he also loved having some peace and quiet once in a while, which was why he wasn't too happy with what was going on here now.
"Okay, Lee, what is it that you're performing? And how on earth do you think I'll be able to get the preparation of weeks done in a couple of hours?" Lee's voice sounded a bit firmer, a bit more confident, when he replied. "It's Verdi's 'Messa da Requiem', dad. And I know that you can do it because you did it two years ago already, and that was in the Met." Bill inhaled sharply. He couldn't really bring up any arguments against his son now, especially since this particular performance had been celebrated by media and critics across the country. He grumbled into the phone again. "Son, I still don't do religious stuff very well."
Lee chuckled, seemingly relieved that his father appeared to have less objections than he had feared. "I know. But you know better than me that you don't have to believe in those lyrics. You're an actor as well, like every other singer is up to a certain point, so whether you believe in the afterlife or the day of judgement is really rather irrelevant. I need you, dad, please." Bill huffed and put the slices of toast, more burnt than edible, on his plate. "Alright, Lee, I've still got the score somewhere here. But you owe me. When do you want me to be there?" He knew his son was close to jumping around in his flat when he replied. "2 pm for the final rehearsal, the concert is at 8. We have a buffet & plenty of coffee and tea for the soloists as well." "See you at 2 then," Bill murmured, being angry with himself for not being able to say no to his son. "Yep. And: thanks, dad! I really appreciate it!"
With a grunt, Bill hung up the phone and looked outside the window. It would be a beautiful sunny day, but he'd be stuck inside. Shaking his head, he reminded himself that he'd actually liked this piece of music despite its religious content. And, apart from that, he hadn't been working with Lee in a while and he was rather looking forward to watching his son at work in his current position as Music & Artistic Director of the Caprica Philharmonic which he seemed to enjoy very much after years of looking for the "perfect" job.
Bill spent the remainder of the morning reading through the score, checking whether his new dark suit was crease-free, and ironing his crisp white dress shirt. Then, after a shower and another shave, he got dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a black shirt, packed up his things, left his flat with a last regretful look at the DVDs on his TV waiting to be watched and took a cab to the philharmonic hall. When he arrived there at 1.45 pm, he saw plenty of fellow musicians, carrying instrument cases, scores and suits or dresses draped over their shoulders streaming into the building and joined them.
They were mostly rather young, probably in their twenties, and, being in his late fifties and feeling a little out of place, Bill suddenly realised that he had no idea who the other three soloists were. When they all shuffled over to the concert hall and took their seats among those of the orchestra and the choir who were already there, his eyes fell onto the chairs that had been placed in front of the orchestra and behind the conductors rostra. Only one of them was occupied, judging from the position, apparently by the soprano soloist who seemed deeply absorbed in her score. Bill, trying to determine whether he knew her, moved closer towards her, but she seemed unfamiliar to him. From what he could determine from the distance, she was probably in her forties, slender, had her red hair piled up in a messy bun on top of her head and was wearing black leggings, a dark red tunic and black ballet flats. He placed his things on his chair and, given that there was nothing else to do before the rehearsal started and that he most likely didn't know anyone in the room, walked over to her to introduce himself.
When he was standing right in front of her, she looked up from her score and eyed him over the rims of her glasses with a scrutinising look on her face. He was startled by the green of her eyes which seemed to be looking right through him, taken by the texture of her fair skin and his eyes wandered to her flawlessly painted red lips for a second, but he quickly pushed any thoughts of seeing this woman as anything else than tonight's colleague out of his mind, reminding himself that just because it had been a while, he couldn't simply fancy any woman that came along his way.
The woman put down her score, leaned back in her chair and raised an eyebrow at him. "Can I help you?" she asked with a voice that was both soft and husky at the same time, something he didn't come across very often – and he was a professional singer after all. He cleared his throat. "Um, yeah, I just wanted to introduce myself, I'm filling in for the bass soloist tonight." Surprisingly enough for him, her stern look changed into one of relief and she gave him a little smile. "Oh, I see. I'm so glad that Lee did actually find someone on such short notice. "
She offered him her right hand and her smile widened a little more, making his heart jump for a moment for which he chastised himself internally. "Laura Roslin." He accepted her hand with a nod and replied with as much of a smile as he could manage without seeming too eager. "Bill Adama." Her eyes widened. "Bill Adama? As in, THE Bill Adama, and Lee's father?" Bill couldn't prevent himself from grinning now. "Yep, that would be me," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Laura Roslin, her hand still wrapped in his, looked rather pleasantly surprised. "How amazing! What a pleasure to meet you!" Before Bill could reply and maybe exchange some more polite formalities to cover that he was deeply confused by this woman's existence, and in a positive way, and maybe also to find out more about her before they would perform together, a noise behind him made him turn around.
Lee had taken his place on the conductors rostra and had tapped the stand with his baton several times. He glanced over to his father and winked at him before he turned back to face the orchestra and the choir who had become quiet by now. "So, people, this is it, our final rehearsal. I hope you're all well-rested, well-fed, well-watered and at least half as scared as I am." He earned himself several laughs from the artists and grinned at them. Bill couldn't help but look at the woman next to him again who was now scanning the rows of musicians behind her with a thoughtful look on her face. Then Lee continued to address them. "First things first. As you probably have heard, Richard had an accident this morning and won't be able to perform tonight." The crowd started mumbling, some of them exchanging shocked glances. "But," Lee interrupted them before they could get into any more conversations,"I've found someone who has agreed to replace him and who has plenty of experience with Verdi, this piece in particular." He pointed at Bill who suddenly felt very self-aware. "In case you don't know him, Bill Adama – who, yes, also is my father – will be our bass soloist tonight." A round of enthusiastic applause of people who were more than happy that their performance would be saved filled the hall. Bill smiled at the two hundred or so people and offered them a playful bow. When the applause ceased again, he saw that the other two soloists, who also seemed unknown to him, had arrived in the meantime and, with a last nod and smile at Laura Roslin who, however, seemed occupied with her score again, he moved over to his chair.
Three exhausting hours and a more than disastrous rehearsal later – the orchestra and the choir seemed like they'd never rehearsed together before which had completely messed up all the soloists' entries until Lee had lost his nerves at some point and yelled at all of them – he collapsed on a chair in the backstage area, poured himself some tea and closed his eyes. He knew that final rehearsals were not supposed to go too well so that people would not loosen the tension necessary for a performance, but this was less than ideal. He took several deep breaths and then opened his eyes again. Except for the mezzo-soprano and the tenor, the room was empty, and they also seemed less than happy with the result of the last few hours and were occupying armchairs in the corner of the room, both with their eyes closed and ear plugs in their ears.
With a frown on his face, Bill wondered where Laura – he had started to think of her as Laura, artists were mostly on a first-name basis anyway – had gone. He had been observing her during the rehearsal and had been deeply affected by how she embodied the words she was singing and how she lived the music, not only giving each and every note a special nuance, but it was like she was really consciously feeling what the lyrics meant – words that, to him, were nothing but religious superstition even if they dealt with deeply human fears, death, loss and looking for a being that would guide them through hard times. He just couldn't wrap his mind around the idea that there was something beyond this life and that something would happen after he died, but still, her performance had touched him and he couldn't really put his finger on it.
Laura did, however, not reappear until shortly before they were all supposed to meet outside the concert hall and wait for the signal to come on stage. He had spent the remainder of the time by doing crossword puzzles and doodling on some blank pages he always had with him, anything really that would distract him from having to think about the performance. Standing diagonally opposite Laura outside the large doors now, he was eyeing her from time to time, observing that she looked rather pale and thoughtful, if not sad, but, he admitted to himself, really beautiful in her dark red velvet dress, a shawl the same colour wrapped around her shoulders, wearing black heels that perfectly accentuated her pale, slender legs. Her hair was now falling over her shoulders in soft waves and she had changed her glasses against contact lenses, revealing her stunningly green eyes even more.
He had to drag his eyes away from her to stop wondering why she appeared sorrowful, telling himself that they were mere minutes away from a performance they were by now all anxious to get over with. When the doors to the hall were being opened from the inside, he took a deep breath and looked over to the tenor soloist, a young man called Felix Gaeta whom he had exchanged a few words with, and they smiled at each other reassuringly before they entered the stage next to each other under a hurricane of applause.
The whole performance went by in a blur for him. Despite their catastrophic rehearsal earlier that day, everyone seemed to pull themselves together and orchestra, choir and soloists melted together into a single body of sound. Bill felt himself being carried away by the richness and majesty of the Sanctus, and pierced and shaken by the hopelessly aggressive Dies Irae, the tympani and trumpets vibrating through him throughout almost every choral part of Verdi's opus which he had never experienced this way before. But what shook him most was Laura's performance toward the end of the Requiem, during her solo in Libera Me. She had given a stunningly emotional and vibrant performance throughout all the other parts, but she seemed to fully immerse herself in the words she was bringing to life in those last ten minutes.
Dies irae, dies illa calamitatis et miseriae; dies magna et amara valde.
The day of wrath, that day of calamity and misery; a great and bitter day, indeed.
Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna in die illa tremenda.
Deliver me, Lord, from eternal death on that awful day.
Libera me.
Deliver me.
Laura's facial expression was changing momentarily from one of despair, to pleading, to fear and rage, to, in those last two words which were more a whisper than anything else, deepest hopelessness with which she ended their performance, remaining in a position of looking up to the ceiling, her fingers clutching the music stand in front of her, her mouth still slightly open. Only after a second or two, Bill realised that his breathing had sped up and that his hands were trembling, and looking to his right to Lee on his rostra, he seemed equally affected by the music, hands still in the air, not willing to end it just yet. Bill couldn't tear his eyes away from Laura who still hadn't moved, but seemed to wait for Lee to give the audience the cathartic sign of lowering his hands and the baton.
When he finally did, the concert hall was quiet for another moment, then erupted into applause and standing ovations, giving them all the redemption they had been hoping for since the afternoon. Bill closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. They had done it. Again. Another frightening performance done that left them all shaky and exhausted, but also incredibly fulfilled. Swiftly, he got up from his seat and left the hall through the doors together with the other three soloists and Lee, only to come back again another three times as the audience didn't seem to want it to be over. Every time they entered the stage again, he checked on Laura who looked incredibly worn out and had to fight against the urge to put an arm around her waist. Instead, he patted his son on his shoulder and happily accepted his embrace and his mumbled "Thanks, dad," before they all took a bow again and then turned around to give a final round of applause for the choir and the orchestra.
This time, when Laura also clapped her hands at hundreds of relieved faces in the back of the hall, she looked more at ease than before, her face slowly breaking into a small smile that tugged at Bill's heart and he told himself to focus on his son again who had put his arm around his shoulder and, while the audience slowly started to make their way out, was grinning at him with the expression of an artists whose wildest dreams had just come true. Bill, not caring whether there were other people around them, pinched his son's cheek and moved over to whisper in his ear. "I'm proud of you, son. Now, let's get out of here and celebrate you." Lee's grin became even wider and he was suddenly encircled by a bunch of musicians who wanted to thank him as well. Bill mouthed him that he'd see him later and motioned to his seat to gather his things.
When he had picked up his score, water bottle and a bag with pastilles, he turned around again and, to his surprise, found Laura still packing up her things at a glacial pace. Bill pinched his nose and was unsure of whether to move over and ask her whether she'd also join them for drinks now, but in that moment, she looked up and found his eyes. Despite still looking exhausted – which, he reminded himself, they all were, he didn't have to worry about a grown up woman he didn't even know – a smile lit up her face and, after she had gathered her stuff, she came over to him. "You truly are a talent, you do know that, right, Mr Adama?" Bill smiled back at her, not even trying to hide that her saying this meant a lot to him. "Right back at you! And please, call me Bill, otherwise I feel so old."
To his great surprise, she suddenly started giggling. "Oh Gods, I thought I was the only one feeling too old with all these kids here. Okay, Bill it is then. Laura." Bill looked at her with a mixture of amusement and indignation on his face. "I won't get into a discussion on how much older I am than you are, but how about you and I join these kids in the bar for drinks now?" Laura looked into his eyes and he felt himself being drawn into their green depths. Then she smiled at him again and, with a twinkle in her eye, she replied. "The night is young, so, sure. I thought it's obligatory anyway to keep an eye on these kids." With that, she turned towards the door, tucked her arm under his and led him towards the backstage area, causing Bill to marvel at how professional she was at regulating her emotions. And causing him to long to know more about this enigmatic woman, hoping that the evening would illuminate him a little more.