I
had a chance to dress up and change my location-scout attire of
jeans and T-shirt for a few hours to date-attire in a real
dress.
My schedule for the last few days had been to
tramp around Prague and little villages nearby checking out spooky
castles for Shay, so I hadn’t been able to even dream about donning
fancy clothes and high heels. But blessedly, my invisible fashion
fairy-godmother had seen fit back in New York to make me pack a
little number that should keep Mr. Gerard’s mind off of murals,
flutes and treasure. The salesgirl at the funky boutique in
Manhattan had called the color Champagne, and proclaimed it perfect
for a chestnut-brunette (even one with steaks of green.) The
material was a combination of lace and stretchy rayon, the skirt
was handkerchief hemmed and the neckline was “sweetheart taking the
plunge.” I’d thrown in the pair of ecru lace granny boots I’d
planned to wear to the wedding Shay was supposedly attending before
she’d begged, pleaded and thrown herself on my mercy to go castle
hunting instead. A 1950s vintage black velvet coat was warm enough
for the short walk to the theatre.
I even had a cute little black lace beret
that covered most of the green in my hair. Eye shadow, a ton of
mascara, and a tinge of blush and lipstick—I was set. Bring ‘em
on.
“On” was definitely the operative word. As I
entered the lobby of the hotel, I was dazzled by the sight of
Johnny in a black tux. He looked—well—damn good.
I headed directly to him, curtseyed and
fluttered my lashes. “My, my, Mr. Gerard, but you do clean up well.
I’m impressed.”
He bowed in turn. “Let me return the
compliment.” He stared at me. “Dang, Abby, let me go one further
and tell you that you’re a knock-out. Saint Agnes would be
proud.”
He dropped a light kiss on my cheek, then
extended his arm, crooked at the elbow, to me. I placed my own hand
over his elbow with as much grace as heroine Honoria would have
managed in the late Nineteenth Century. This was no night for
rampant feminism. It was a night at the opera.
Which quickly turned into a farce closer to
the Marx Brothers movie with that same title. As soon as Johnny and
I left the hotel we were joined by none other than Franz Hart also
decked out in splendor in a black tuxedo nearly identical to my
stylish escort.
Franz yelled loud enough to engage all of
Prague. “Abby! I got tickets. I thought I’d join you both and we
can all go together, yes?”
The Estates Theatre , in the section of
Prague called Old Town, was walking distance from the hotel. So our
little trio walked. We tried strolling arm-in-arm, but the sidewalk
wasn’t big enough, so first Johnny took my arm and we left Franz to
walk behind, then Franz cut in and a scowling Mr. Gerard was forced
away. I waited for Johnny to stake his valid claim to Ms. Fouchet
and watch Franz back off, but Mr. Gerard stayed silent on the
subject.
Finally I pulled away from both. “Okay, guys.
Enough. Tell you what? I’ll drop back and you can just march to the
theatre together. You’re nearly the same height and your tuxes are
matching black. You’ll look like you’re part of a gay dance
team.”
I love a sense of humor in anyone. And bless
them, both Johnny and Franz took me at my word. They linked arms
and sauntered down the street with matching strides and total
nonchalance. I expected a tango at any moment.
We finally reached the theatre. Johnny’s two
tickets were next to each other. Somehow, Franz had managed to find
a seat right there with us. I took the middle, glanced at my watch
and breathed in my surroundings. The Estates Theatre . The
very history of the place was overwhelming. The Magic Flute was not the first of Mozart’s operas to be performed here. Wolfgang
A. personally conducted the premiere of Don Giovanni and Mozart’s other operas, such as Cosi Fan Tutte and Marriage of Figaro were regular staples.
The Estates Theatre was indeed, as
Franz originally told us,
had a chance to dress up and change my location-scout attire of
jeans and T-shirt for a few hours to date-attire in a real
dress.
My schedule for the last few days had been to
tramp around Prague and little villages nearby checking out spooky
castles for Shay, so I hadn’t been able to even dream about donning
fancy clothes and high heels. But blessedly, my invisible fashion
fairy-godmother had seen fit back in New York to make me pack a
little number that should keep Mr. Gerard’s mind off of murals,
flutes and treasure. The salesgirl at the funky boutique in
Manhattan had called the color Champagne, and proclaimed it perfect
for a chestnut-brunette (even one with steaks of green.) The
material was a combination of lace and stretchy rayon, the skirt
was handkerchief hemmed and the neckline was “sweetheart taking the
plunge.” I’d thrown in the pair of ecru lace granny boots I’d
planned to wear to the wedding Shay was supposedly attending before
she’d begged, pleaded and thrown herself on my mercy to go castle
hunting instead. A 1950s vintage black velvet coat was warm enough
for the short walk to the theatre.
I even had a cute little black lace beret
that covered most of the green in my hair. Eye shadow, a ton of
mascara, and a tinge of blush and lipstick—I was set. Bring ‘em
on.
“On” was definitely the operative word. As I
entered the lobby of the hotel, I was dazzled by the sight of
Johnny in a black tux. He looked—well—damn good.
I headed directly to him, curtseyed and
fluttered my lashes. “My, my, Mr. Gerard, but you do clean up well.
I’m impressed.”
He bowed in turn. “Let me return the
compliment.” He stared at me. “Dang, Abby, let me go one further
and tell you that you’re a knock-out. Saint Agnes would be
proud.”
He dropped a light kiss on my cheek, then
extended his arm, crooked at the elbow, to me. I placed my own hand
over his elbow with as much grace as heroine Honoria would have
managed in the late Nineteenth Century. This was no night for
rampant feminism. It was a night at the opera.
Which quickly turned into a farce closer to
the Marx Brothers movie with that same title. As soon as Johnny and
I left the hotel we were joined by none other than Franz Hart also
decked out in splendor in a black tuxedo nearly identical to my
stylish escort.
Franz yelled loud enough to engage all of
Prague. “Abby! I got tickets. I thought I’d join you both and we
can all go together, yes?”
The Estates Theatre , in the section of
Prague called Old Town, was walking distance from the hotel. So our
little trio walked. We tried strolling arm-in-arm, but the sidewalk
wasn’t big enough, so first Johnny took my arm and we left Franz to
walk behind, then Franz cut in and a scowling Mr. Gerard was forced
away. I waited for Johnny to stake his valid claim to Ms. Fouchet
and watch Franz back off, but Mr. Gerard stayed silent on the
subject.
Finally I pulled away from both. “Okay, guys.
Enough. Tell you what? I’ll drop back and you can just march to the
theatre together. You’re nearly the same height and your tuxes are
matching black. You’ll look like you’re part of a gay dance
team.”
I love a sense of humor in anyone. And bless
them, both Johnny and Franz took me at my word. They linked arms
and sauntered down the street with matching strides and total
nonchalance. I expected a tango at any moment.
We finally reached the theatre. Johnny’s two
tickets were next to each other. Somehow, Franz had managed to find
a seat right there with us. I took the middle, glanced at my watch
and breathed in my surroundings. The Estates Theatre . The
very history of the place was overwhelming. The Magic Flute was not the first of Mozart’s operas to be performed here. Wolfgang
A. personally conducted the premiere of Don Giovanni and Mozart’s other operas, such as Cosi Fan Tutte and Marriage of Figaro were regular staples.
The Estates Theatre was indeed, as
Franz originally told us,
Similar Books
