Alla Scala

Selected story from “Thirteen Views” (Senior Honors Thesis)

Inside La Scala in Milan, Italy.

I.

When Henry brought his new wife to La Scala, he anticipated a quiet evening at the opera. They had just taken their box seats in the palco centrale with a perfect view of the stage. He had been to La Scala only once before – on his honeymoon with the first wife – but the opera house had a familiarity that made him feel as if he’d never left.

Even before the conductor raised his arms, Henry expected the pompous flourish of the baton, motioning the orchestra to begin. He anticipated the excited whispering of the audience before the curtains opened. And he heard the urgent rustle of the red velvet curtains as the singers walked onto stage before the curtains had yet unfurled. All of this he replayed in his mind so often that he could not distinguish memory from present reality.

Only when his new wife, Gwenyth, squeezed his knee, did Henry realize that he was in fact truly in the theater. She was almost regal, her long neck inclined slightly to look at the people below and the backs of her legs brushing the plush red velvet cushion of her seat. With thick blond locks and milky skin, she was beautiful in a different way than his first wife, Francesca. Instead of stormy gray eyes, Gwenyth had light blue-green eyes he wanted to swim in.

“This is just the perfect honeymoon,” Gwenyth cooed in his ear.

“It’s only just started,” Henry smiled. “And tomorrow we’ll tour the duomo.”

Henry had met Francesca in concert at a tiny theater in Milan. She was the soprano and played Violetta Valéry in “La Traviata.” Henry thought she sang like an angel. Afterward, a friend introduced them, and they had walked to the duomo, admiring how the lacy white marble glowed, making the cathedral grand and luminous. She had started to sing, her voice carrying far beyond the piazza. Sometimes Henry still dreamed of Francesca singing just for him as she had that night, the heated lilt of her voice in his ear.

The rich rustle of red velvet curtains and then the singers walked onto stage for the first act of “La Traviata.” That’s when Gwenyth’s questions began. Henry hadn’t expected all of the questions.

“Where are the subtitles?” she asked, tapping his shoulder.

“You mean the surtitles?” He spoke quietly, his words soft and heavy in her ear. 

“Yeah, where are they?”

“We’re at an Italian opera.”

“Right, and I don’t speak Italian.”

“We’re in Italy.”

Gwenyth turned back to the stage, and Henry rejoiced that his answer had sufficed. But then: “Yes, Henry, I know we’re in Italy, but I still don’t understand about the surtitles.”

Henry wasn’t used to all the questions. Francesca had always glowered at the couples that whispered during a performance. He squirmed at the thought of her frowning at them.

On stage, the performers had gathered in a crowded Parisian salon. They hugged and toasted one another and kissed all around.

“What a party!” Gwenyth exclaimed. “But why are they celebrating?”

“The protagonist, Violetta, was very ill,” Henry explained. “But she got better, and Alfredo has just pronounced his love for her.”

Alfredo’s rich tenor voice belted:

Un dì, felice, eterea,


Mi balenaste innante,


E da quel dì tremante


Vissi d'ignoto amor.


Di quell'amor, quell'amor ch'è palpito


Dell'universo, Dell'universo intero,


Misterioso, Misterioso altero,


Croce, croce e delizia.

Croce e delizia, delizia al cor.

***

Translation:                One day, you, happy, ethereal

Appeared before me.

And ever since, trembling,

I lived from unknown love.

Love is the
pulse of the universe,

The whole universe,


Mysterious, mysterious and proud,


Torture, torture and delight


Torture and delight, delight to the heart.

“That makes no sense,” Gwenyth complained, when Henry whispered the loose translation. “Torture and delight? Unknown love? This Alfredo is one confused man.”

“That’s opera,” Henry said.

II.

In the second act, Gwenyth fell asleep. She was not a graceful sleeper. Her head fell back and her mouth opened in a lopsided O. The dimmed lights cast grotesque shadows across her face, giving her the appearance of a Picasso sketch. From his chair, Henry decided she couldn’t be less like Francesca.

Even when Francesca had fallen ill, she had still looked beautiful. After losing the color in her cheeks and after her frail frame had receded into the bed – even then her gray eyes gleamed and she hummed softly.

On stage, Violetta clung to Alfredo, squeezing his shoulders and moving her hands around to his back. She must leave, she told him, although she did not want to. “Amami, Alfredo, amami quant'io t'amo,” she said. “Love me, Alfredo. Love me as I love you.”

“I will,” Henry whispered and then he caught himself.

“Promise me that you’ll marry again,” Francesca had told him one day.

The sun streamed into the window, lighting her face and making her look almost well.

“I could never marry anyone but you,” he’d said.

Francesca rolled her eyes. “There are other me’s,” she’d said. And then she squeezed his hand to soften the blow. “You found me once. You can find me again. But you will have to try.”

Gwenyth’s breathing was heavy and slow. At intermission, Henry nudged her awake. He was ready to leave. “Do you want a drink at the bar?” he asked.

“That sounds nice,” Gwenyth said.

She shrugged on her coat, and he escorted her to the lobby bar, his hand on the curve of her back. The crowd had gathered along the spiral staircase and into the bar. Tailored coats and long gowns paraded around the lounge with steaming cups of espresso.

The room was just as he remembered: the mosaic marble floors underfoot, the gold-framed mirrors behind the bar reflecting the many liquor bottles in endless rows and the crystal chandeliers refracting rainbows above their heads. The scene was a bit overwhelming, Henry decided, with the hushed frenzy of voices exclaiming over the opera and the ceaseless rattle of china cups clinking against saucers.

One woman caught Henry’s particular attention. The soft creamy pudge of her back peaked over a green strapless dress. From behind, she looked exactly like Francesca: dark ringlets fell in wispy locks down her waist, and she had a way of standing with her arm crooked on her hip and leaning ever so slightly as if she was better trying to hear those around her. He wanted to turn her around just to make sure.

Francesca had died more than a year ago, and since then he had seen her in many people but never such an exact likeness, not even in Gwenyth. Henry could not quite hear her voice over the dull roar, but he could tell by the way that she moved almost her whole body while speaking that she was an animated storyteller. She twisted her long black sash around her finger as she spoke.

“Let’s have champagne,” Gwenyth said, grabbing Henry’s arm. Gwenyth had the unfortunate habit of puffing her lips in a whine when she didn’t get her way, and she did so now.

Henry turned toward her, patting her hand a little too hard. He ordered two glasses of champagne. He drank his quickly and got another.

“Henry,” Gwenyth said, eyeing him over the rim of her glass, but Henry was not listening.

The woman in the green dress had turned from her group to Henry. As her eyes swept the room, they met his fleetingly. A flicker of recognition crossed her eyes: dark gray with gold rays, like the sun streaming through. She raised her martini glass slightly, and Henry imagined that this was just for him.

As the woman let loose a rich laugh, Henry decided she not only looked like Francesca, but sounded like her, too. He felt that he was drawing closer toward her, yet he hadn’t moved, just his gaze had somehow narrowed in so that she was all that he saw in the room.

“Henry,” from his new wife, and Henry found that he was once again holding an empty glass.

“I’m sorry, darling,” and then an idea seized him. “I’m sure you want to get back to your seat.” He guided her from the bar by the crook of her elbow.

“No, Henry, I’m really quite happy right here,” she said, struggling, but they were already halfway up the staircase. “I just want to talk. Henry, Henry, stop.”

Henry only stopped after he’d helped her from her jacket and into her seat.

“Excuse me,” he said and hurried back down the curved staircase.   

Returning to the swarming bar, Henry scanned the crowd for the woman in the green dress. He found the group of men she’d been talking to, but there was no trace of her.

“Excuse me,” he said, coming to the group of men. “But have you seen the woman you were talking with?”

A mustachioed man in the middle raised his eyebrows.

“You know, the one in the green dress,” Henry said.

The man frowned and the others shrugged, closing him out of their circle. Henry cursed his inability to speak Italian.

Henry wrapped his knuckles on the marble countertop, and the bartender looked up. “May I help you, signor?” the bartender asked in stilted English.

“The woman that was just here – ” Henry began. “She was wearing a green dress, and she was drinking a martini. Do you know where she is?”

The bartender shook his head. “There are many women drinking tonight, signor.”

Henry nodded and turned quickly. A blur of green hurried past him and skimmed up the staircase. He followed, but she had disappeared into a thick crowd, all sipping their drinks and laughing lightly and in no way bothered by his hurried gate. He shoved past them, tripping up the stairs.

Henry knew that the woman in the green dress couldn’t be his wife. He did not believe in ghosts. And yet – he could just see the sliver of green bobbing behind a couple at the top of the stairs. He lunged for her sash but grasped air instead.

The startled couple sidestepped out of his way, but the lady in the green dress had disappeared. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

He smiled at the familiar lilt and turned. “Francesca?”

“No, Gwenyth.” She puffed her lips.

“I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean –”

“Don’t.” She held a hand to stop him. “Just don’t.”

Henry wondered vaguely if the woman in the green dress had ascended another staircase to her seat. He hoped his conversation with Gwenyth wouldn’t ruin his chances of finding her.

“Look, I realize that I’m acting a little strange.”

“A little. You think?”

“But I thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Your wife? Your dead wife.” It wasn’t a question. Her lip shuttered. “And what does that make me?”

She slipped past him, leaving Henry at the top of the staircase. The lights flickered and the crowd rushed by. He felt that they went through him.

III.

Henry returned in time for the third and final act. He found Gwenyth’s seat empty.

Violetta sang her aria: “Addio, del passato bei sogni ridenti.” Her voice was soft and melodic. She ambled slowly about the stage and collapsed on a large white clock, the hour and minute hands stilled at midnight. “Farewell past, happy dreams of days gone bye.”

From his seat, he could not find the woman in the green dress, and Henry began to think she’d never really been there at all.

Gwenyth’s chair was warm to the touch, and Henry kept his hand on the seat cushion long after the final curtain call.