I love opera. Sometimes it makes my heart beat so wildly that I expect the people around me to start shushing. I love it when the tenor's voice strains for the high notes until it sounds thin enough to rip apart like old cloth. That's why I wanted to see Carmen in Barcelona last fall.
We didn't have tickets because they cost $225 and we are but humble farmers, but I had read somewhere that the Gran Liceu holds out a few to discount on the day of the show. So on our way back from Gaudi's Sagrada Familia on Saturday evening, I stopped at the box office. It was about 5:00, and the window was still closed, but there was already a lady waiting beside it on the bench.
The lady told me she had flown in from Switzerland just to see
Carmen because the Barcelona opera is the best in Europe and the tenor scheduled for that night was the season's fair young man. Her story weakened my knees just a little, and I sank onto the bench beside her; soon, a German couple and their friend joined us there, and with the bench filled, a Spanish couple started the line up the steps toward the street. After that, people just poured in. A sign said to take a number, the box office would open at 7:00 p.m. That's right; at the Gran Teatre del Liceu in Barcelona, the queu take numbers.
Our only discomfort was that the little number dispensing machine wasn't working. Every time somebody new showed up, he came downstairs to where we were waiting, pushed the button, and got a ticket that said
No Servicio. Someone from the bench, usually the German friend, would explain that the machine was broken, the box office would open at 7:00, and we headed the line; and then she would count us off, Swiss lady number 1, me number 2, German couple 3 and 4, friend number 5, and the newcomer would go up the stairs to wait. But every time we did that, I guess we felt a little more vulnerable because the only thing that stood between our orderly line and a crushing mob was bare naked civility. With one little push, we could all be characters in an opera of our own.
And sure enough, before long, the pusher arrived. We knew her before she opened her mouth. Something about her stood out like a boil on a baby's bottom and none of us could take our eyes off her. She was aloof and glowering and she did not return up the stairs after we had explained about the dispenser and the line. Instead, she just stood there at the bottom, studying our faces and surveying the room like a mechanical, shrouded lighthouse. For what seemed a very long time, we returned the stare, but no one really moved until the German man stepped forward.
Like a tenor, he was a very large middle-aged man, and he somehow managed to get right down into the woman's face. It began as a duet -- he ordered her up the stairs, she declined, he began to taunt her, she replied in kind -- but then the rest of us joined in for a grand, full-company number. People jeered over the rail and shook their fists; people began to spill down toward the floor. Over in my corner by the ticket window, I imagined a crushing melee because the woman was out of line. I hear from time to time Americans say they don't want to go to Europe because Europe is so much like the states. But Europe has its own character. Although we Americans love our sports, we don't make operas like the Europeans. We don't riot when someone steps out of line.
But our group didn't riot that day either. In fact, the number ended inexplicably, abruptly and silently. The woman scanned the room as if to say,
"I'll get you and your little dog, too." And when she had seen enough, she backed onto the stairs, stooped and whirled just like in the movie, and simply melted away.
The crowd went wild, of course. In an opera at this point, the chorus would be singing cheerfully, turning awkwardly back and forth among themselves, patting each other on the back, and nodding their heads like church goers giving a reluctant kiss of peace. On the stairs, people did much the same, acknowledging one another, patting themselves on the back, and when the ticket booth finally raised its shades, it jubilantly ushered the Swiss lady to the first window and me to the second. But, jubilation notwithstanding, this last act is sad. The ticket lady held up a seating chart and said in English -- and I paraphrase here -- that the only seats I could afford were behind posts. A man had come into the building an hour earlier with center orchestra seats for €149 each, the internet price, and I had turned them down. And now, the ticket lady was lifting the shell to reveal that the pea was not there. And out I walked, empty handed.
It was Saturday night in Barcelona and I had nowhere to go. Fred was napping at the hotel and Bill and Susan were nowhere to be found. We were hosteled in the medieval quarter, right on Las Ramblas. So I decided to walk.
Normally when I am feeling low, I just walk until the seratonin kicks in, but that night its little foot must have fallen asleep. I made my way from Las Ramblas to the cathedral, stopping along the way to see the old city wall. I read the history of Ramon Berenguer and listened for a while to a Chilean street harpist and then to a violinist. But I had to drape my bottom lip over my arm to keep from tripping over it, and not even the historic markers cheered me up. The narrow, winding alleys made it hard to keep up with where I was and the night chill was forming -- all of this to say that I was just turning a corner from bad to worse when I heard someone singing.
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| The Tenor |
It was a confident, soaring voice backed by an inconceivable full orchestra and chorus. My failing spririt caught hold of it and rode it like a wave to shore. For, you see, children, miracles do happen, even to the worst of us.
There in the alley behind the ancient Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Saint Eulalia stood a tenor. He was dressed in a baggy black shirt and pants and a bright coral jacket; he had greasy shoulder-length hair; and he was straining for the high notes until his voice tore like old cloth. His orchestra was a little Karaoke boom box on a hand cart; his chorus was six retirees in lawn chairs. They were reading the lyrics from cheat sheets.
I sat down on the steps to a 15th-century doorway. The tenor sang The March of the Toreador from Carmen, La Donna a Mobile from Rigoletto, and some others I couldn't name. Then he played an introduction to O Solo Mio on his boom box and invited us all to sing along. I pulled out my little Olympus voice recorder and captured it. I wish I could get the file to load here, but I'm afraid you will have to use your imagination. And if you do, people, be generous, because it was very, very grand.
This is the chorus -- the three people standing in a row and the three people sitting upright in front of them.
Every now and then the tall man stepped out of the line and hobbled into the alley to pick up a satchel.
He passed it around the crowd for donations and then put it back where he had gotten it and returned to his place in the chorus. I gave the tenor all the money I had with me, but it was nowhere near the 149 Euros, I owed.
The tenor was from Zaragoza, but I don't remember his name, and I have not been able to find him on the internet. If you know him, if you see him, please tell him I mentioned him. And, if you would, please tell him, "Thank You."
