It was late in the afternoon, just as Christine was nodding off in the middle of another duet, when a man – no more tall than he was round – wandered past her in the auditorium of the Opera House. He must have been lost from the market downstairs. His waxy bowler hat sat askew atop his head, as through it would defy both modern sensibility and gravity in its peaked position. He had to be a tourist. Only someone from a very large city would be caught dead in fashion like his.
He stood before Mol, shooting impatient glances from the stage to her until the end of the number. Christine wondered if the darkness of the room made him look more rosy than normal. Surely the strange purple color that mottled his nose and cheeks had to be a play of the light.
When Mol snapped at him about his business, he presented a letter for her to read. "It's about time. She's back there and hasn't shut up about you in weeks. You won't bother anyone in the upstairs loft." The two knew each other and there was no love lost between them.
The man didn't so much as acknowledge Mol's answer. Instead, he made a brisk turn and sauntered toward Christine, greeting her with a broad smile. "Miss. My name is Herbert Greene. Mr. Y sent me to be your pianist. He is deeply sorry for the delay in my arrival and thanks you for your thoughtful reminder."
Christine beamed at him. If she was truthful with herself, she was smiling more with her own self-pride than with the news Mr. Greene brought. Whatever the politics of this place, Christine's frank request to Mr. Y had garnered her exactly what she had wanted. Well, one request at least.
Following Mr. Greene up a winding set of stairs behind the stage, they arrived at a set of practice room hidden amongst the rafters. "Do you have your music?" he called over his shoulder, fiddling with the lock.
She did not. There had been no reason to before this moment. Mol only allowed her rehearsal time once a day for two songs. The same two songs for the last week. She tightened her hand on the rail, "I'm afraid it wasn't needed before."
"No matter. Sam!" The boy from before materialized behind her. Had he been in the theatre with Mr. Greene the whole time? At the boy's answering holler, Mr. Greene continued, "Go get the Diva's music from Leeran and be quick about it." He turned his attention to the piano sitting in the middle of the room. His fat fingers plucked in octaves at the C keys. "Always perfect," he mumbled to himself. "You can call me Herbert, Miss. While I am not as accomplished at the piano as Mr. Y, I will be a good second. He wishes he could play for you himself, but he is quite busy with the Phantasma."
"I'm sure you will be exactly the person I need." At Christine's smile, he blushed from head to toe. The purple wasn't purple after all, merely freckles kissed brightly red by the sun.
"How 'bout we begin with warm up scales in the minor cord? And then I do have some selections that Mr. Y thought you would find stimulating." He pulled out sheets and sheets of music from his worn leather bag, all of it new, with only minor markings in the margins.
"Which minor cord?"
"Oh, my dear. There is only one." His hands pressed sweetly upon the keys and filled the room with a melancholy harmony. D minor then. In mere moments, Christine imagined she knew much more about the gentle, round man named Herbert Greene than could be gathered in years – a man who's only minor cord, and therefore key, was D. This would be a lovely day.
.
They broke for lunch two hours after they'd begun. Sam had brought up a light fair of smoked meats and cheeses from the market below and was careful to keep his hands before him the entire time he laid it out. When the boy did not make a move to eat with them, Christine ripped a piece of soft bread from the loaf and handed it to him. "I mustn't eat too much if we will sing again and this food should not go to waste. Eat, Sam."
Herbert, for his part, seemed pleased at Christine's direction, and nodded in agreement when Sam looked to him for confirmation. "He's not normally so polite. We don't want you to get the wrong idea. He eats very well at home."
"I'm sure. Growing boys are always hungry."
"I must say, Miss. Your type of singing will be a remarkable addition to this town. Mr. Y has outdone himself. I don't believe we've had a real opera diva sing here since…well, I don't know when."
"Thank you, Herbert. After listening to the other acts for these last weeks, I was beginning to worry my talents would not be what the audience wants."
"I'll be honest, Miss. It doesn't really matter what the audience wants. It matters what Mr. Y wants and he wants you to sing."
"Will you sing at Phantasma?" Sam asked through a mouthful of sharp cheddar.
"I don't believe so. My engagement is for the Opera House. What is Phantasma like?"
Sam looked eagerly to Herbert again and the man nodded his permission through another bite of bologna roll. That was all Sam needed, "It's like no other place in the world, Miss! There are rides and games, men who perform feats of strength and ladies who sing like mermaids. Mr. Y has mechanical humans and rollercoasters! We even have the electric light throughout all our streets. I can look like daytime in the middle of the night!"
"So, it's more a town than a carnival."
"It's more like a place between," Herbert interjected. "I believe some call it an amusement park."
"It is like Coney Island?"
"I'm not sure what that is."
Before Christine could explain, Sam spoke, "You would love it, Miss! If you come tonight, we could ride the pirate ship and I'd show you the merry go round and we could listen to—well, you might not enjoy Miss Meg's musical numbers, but you could see them anyway. And you can stand on the moon!"
So, something like Coney Island, then.
"Thank you, Sam. That is very thoughtful. Let me think about it. Could we meet Mr. Y?"
The boy's smile faded a bit at the request, and he looked again to Mr. Greene. It was the pianist who answered, "No one really meets Mr. Y. Mr. Y welcomes you to Phantasma." He dusted off his hands and took to standing. "Sam wants to tell you yes, but we all learned a long time ago that we don't make promises concerning Mr. Y. We can promise to take you to him, but we can't promise you'd meet him. Even if you used that lovely voice of yours to draw him out."
They returned to practice, Christine selecting one of Mr. Y's pieces of sheet music for the afternoon. She was not clear on who the composer was, but the piece was in French, a fact she was grateful for. They spent the remainder of the evening perfecting the piece's swelling notes and steep octavos.
Herbert proved a competent pianist and even more competent director. With a type of kindness she was sure she'd never seen before, he would recommend a phrase change or ask her to adjust her pitch. It was refreshing and welcome to her. As though they were equals moving toward a similar goal; not maestro and diva fighting to a finish line. She found that she'd enjoyed this more deeply than any rehearsal before. And for the first time in years, Christine felt her voice tire from practice. A fact that led to a wide smile on her face.
As they made their way down the stairs from the practice room, Herbert asked, "Do you want to join us at Phantasma tonight, Miss?"
"Please call me Christine. And I don't think tonight. I'm rather tired from all our work today."
"But Christine-" Sam began before Herbert chuffed the boy softly at the neck.
"I can call her Christine. She is still Miss Day to you." She tried not to grimace at yet another horrible mispronunciation of her name. He was a nice man. His playing had been very good today. She needed him. The older man smiled. "Of course. I will see you tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock in the practice room. There will be several more times for her to join us on the train."
She smiled at them both and bid them goodnight. Tomorrow she would make sure to let Sam know he could call her Christine. At least, when it was just the two of them. Surely, American informality was sweet in children?
