Chapter 2
American Jazz singer Loreto Clair entered the theater by a side door, guided by the house director. He apologized time and time again for still not being able to offer her a better dressing room due to the rehearsals for their current opera production reaching its final phase, and was soon to premiere. Loreto would alternate stage with the classical soloists while she would carry out her residence at the theater two nights per week. The director showed her the available dressing room and reassured her once again that he was at her disposal. His servile attitude made her uncomfortable, but she understood why he did it. The contract recently signed with the Grand Theater was a fast and simple agreement between her agent and the direction. After coming back from a three-year world tour, the fatigue of endless flight hours, the tight concert agenda and hotel life away from home almost threatened to kill her passion for singing. She was at the limits of her strength. On the other side, to disappear from the music world to take a well-deserved rest was not in good business. Record labels replaced their artists as lightly and with as much disregard as Formula One teams replaced their racers as soon as they suffered an accident and were on the road to the hospital. Fifteen uninterrupted years of musical career were taking its toll on her. The ideal solution had been to accept a residence in the middle of the Big Apple. Two concerts a week for six months in New York. To make things more interesting, Loreto and her producer would vary songs night after night. It would also be a splendid opportunity to try out fresh material and allow herself some indulgences, such as a night only for covers of her personal favorites.
After checking what would be her dressing room, she walked the backstage aisles captivated by the theater world the audience didn't have a chance to see. As she entered the music school a good fifteen years ago, she had wanted to become a classical concert pianist, but her love for Jazz won her over. She greeted the singers passing by, admiring their costumes. Today was the general rehearsal with the orchestra and costumes. She asked the director whether she could watch from the box seats. The man reassured her she didn't need to ask for permission, and that if she wished to, she'd have free entrance for every show of the theater. She made herself comfortable on a seat and got carried away by the passion of Claude Debussy's only opera, Peleas et Melisande.
As she arrived home that night, she felt excited by the prospect of the concert season before her. After the rehearsal, she talked with some singers and flatteries were exchanged. On the road to her apartment Loreto caught the sight of a huge advertisement through the taxi roof window featuring a zoom in of her face, announcing her residence at the Grand Theater, and that the first concert would take place in three days. The driver recognized her. He studied her through the rear-view mirror and checked her liking with the billboard. He repeated the gesture once and again. She simply smiled and immersed herself in her cell phone.
The day of her first concert had arrived. Loreto got up early to fulfill a tight agenda of interviews, promotion on television and photo sessions. A sudden dizziness and a stab in her stomach scared her for a minute and she feared getting sick on the night of her premiere at the Grand Theater. She suppressed the symptoms with two painkillers and didn't pay much attention. That afternoon she left for the theater and checked with her sound engineer and producer that the stage was ready and available for the rehearsal. She sat at the piano and, as she was about to play, the building shook like there was an earthquake. The impact made the chandelier high above tremble as the wooden floor quaked through her boots. Her hair stood on end, overwhelmed by a chill, and she feared the worst. New York didn't get earthquakes. The thought of such an impact being produced supernaturally was an even scarier prospect. She checked with her sound engineer whether to continue with the rehearsal. They took a break and checked the news. In a matter of minutes everything seemed to have gone back to normal. The theater crew was nervous, but their professionalism was stronger. Tickets for that night were sold out. They resumed the rehearsal and went through the track list to play. Afterwards, Loreto retreated to her dressing room and tried to focus on the concert. Afar she heard some ladies of the costume department gossiping about a giant green monster that had just emerged from the streets at the other extreme of the city. She was skeptical, though, and ignored them. She switched off her cell phone. The last thing she needed at that moment was to get distracted by crazy rumors.
It was a full house that night, and the audience's ovation was immediate as Loreto walked on the stage. It was good to be back. She thanked them for coming and wished them a nice evening. As she sang, she still felt restless about the event from a few hours ago, not allowing her growing anxiety to be visible. Her abdomen constantly contracted as a painful tight ball she could not explain, but she tried to ignore it with all her strength. Such was her years-long training onstage. The public senses the artist's fear as dogs smell adrenaline. One display of weakness onstage and they'll eat you alive.
She was secretly happy when the concert ended. It hadn't been one of her best performances and she was sure the critics would destroy her tomorrow, but for now she just wanted to go home and sleep. A stubborn and pulsing migraine insisted on drilling into her skull. Quickly, Loreto refreshed herself in her dressing room and changed to her casual clothes. Her stomach was still tight. Normally after every concert she liked to eat a snack, yet for weeks she had barely felt any appetite. She approached the theater's side door when suddenly her knees gave out and she stumbled. She feared passing out before everyone and creating speculations about her health. She leaned on the wall and cursed to herself. As she made her way out the side door, she found a large group of fans who immediately reached notebooks and pens her way asking for autographs. Camera flashes blinded and dumbfounded her. She barely managed to please her fans while two theater bouncers helped to open her way to her transportation. The record label had insisted on arranging a car with tinted windows and driver for her. She entered through the back door and, for an instant at the corners of her eyes, she believed having seen a pale man with long white hair somewhere at her right. She stared through the tinted window, unable to spot him. She was exhausted, so she decided that she was most likely hallucinating. She ordered the driver to take her home. Her next concert was in three days, and hopefully nothing strange would happen, like the sudden earthquake or alleged giant monsters terrorizing the city.
New York was a jungle of concrete and madness. This city, which as an independent republic cultivates lunatics of ambition and power, or feeds into the illusion of a romantic Hollywood-esque love, could host all kinds of legends and myths to add more mysticism to its already prominent world reputation. New York was noise, life and death down every corner you turn. One could not find peace here, but money was everywhere.