it. An incredible montage greeted her. On the old
banquettes stretching past quaint, shuttered shops, businessmen in sedate suits
and bowler hats walked briskly about on their day's activities, and housewives
with baskets and small children in tow marched purposefully toward the French
Market. Colorfully dressed cala ladies wended their way through the
crowds, balancing large baskets of rice fritters on their turban-clad heads and
calling out, “ Bels calas—bels calas!”, to tempt passersby. Vendors
pushing carts laden with everything from fruit to flowers to furniture added to
the general tumult.
The
parade of conveyances navigating its way down the street was even more
fascinating. First came a butcher's cart chased by a pack of yapping dogs,
followed by a brightly painted cream cheese wagon, then an elegant carriage
conveying several nuns and a priest, and finally an electric trolley car of the
St. Louis Line, its bell loudly clanging. A Metropolitan Policeman on
horseback, his features set in a scowl, followed the entourage.
Bella
could only shake her head. She could have observed the astounding scene all
day, but then she remembered her audition.
“Oh,
mercy!” she cried.
Although
she had left her wristwatch back in the present, she feared she was already
late. She tore on, running the several blocks to the opera house, despite the
affliction of badly pinching shoes. At last she reached the pillared facade of
the St. Charles, politely declining an offer of pralines from a black lady
hawking her confections on the front steps. She bounded up to the entrance and
was greatly relieved to find the front door unlocked.
By
the time Bella arrived inside the auditorium, she was flushed and panting. At
the front of the theater, Etienne Ravel popped up to glare at her approach,
removing a watch from the pocket of his vest and flipping it open.
She
lurched to a halt in front of him. “Mr. Ravel,” she greeted him breathlessly.
“I hope I'm not late.”
“You
are,” he snapped back, “by a full ten minutes.” He pointed toward the stage. “Kindly
take your place before I lose all patience and show you the door. Mr. Raspberry
is already at the piano.”
“Thank
you,” muttered Bella, pulling a face as she tore off for the stage.
“Oh, Miss De La Rosa!” called Etienne.
She
whirled. “Yes, sir?”
“What
will you sing for us?”
Bella did not hesitate. “Perhaps ‘Una voce poco fa’?
“Very
well.”
Bella
rushed up to the stage and took her place at its center. After taking several
deep, steadying breaths, she nodded to the pianist, who was an older black man
with a kind face. Hearing the Rossini intro, she tried her best to steady her
frazzled nerves. She knew that trying out for the chorus under these rushed,
stressful conditions was not a good idea, but she had little choice.
Yet
as soon as she raised her faint, quavery voice, she knew she would muddle
through the audition. Surely she had not traveled back in time a hundred years
only to be blocked from the outset by stage fright. Her instincts told her
she'd been sent here to help Jacques LeFevre, and she could not help him unless
she became a part of this company. She wondered at the irony of finding herself
once again auditioning to music from The Barber of Seville, just as she
had done in the present. Would she qualify for the chorus here as well?
As
she vocalized a delicate run in her pure but weak soprano, she glimpsed Etienne
Ravel listening to her with a bored expression. To her astonishment, he even
lit a cheroot and blew smoke rings! She finished her solo with a sinking
feeling, but grateful she had not succumbed to panic. Tensely she watched Ravel
stand and thrust his fingers through his black hair.
“Very
well, young lady, you're hired for the chorus,” he muttered wearily. “Your
voice is technically competent, but lacks conviction.”
“So
I've been told,” Bella replied ironically.
“You're
fortunate that we need another
banquettes stretching past quaint, shuttered shops, businessmen in sedate suits
and bowler hats walked briskly about on their day's activities, and housewives
with baskets and small children in tow marched purposefully toward the French
Market. Colorfully dressed cala ladies wended their way through the
crowds, balancing large baskets of rice fritters on their turban-clad heads and
calling out, “ Bels calas—bels calas!”, to tempt passersby. Vendors
pushing carts laden with everything from fruit to flowers to furniture added to
the general tumult.
The
parade of conveyances navigating its way down the street was even more
fascinating. First came a butcher's cart chased by a pack of yapping dogs,
followed by a brightly painted cream cheese wagon, then an elegant carriage
conveying several nuns and a priest, and finally an electric trolley car of the
St. Louis Line, its bell loudly clanging. A Metropolitan Policeman on
horseback, his features set in a scowl, followed the entourage.
Bella
could only shake her head. She could have observed the astounding scene all
day, but then she remembered her audition.
“Oh,
mercy!” she cried.
Although
she had left her wristwatch back in the present, she feared she was already
late. She tore on, running the several blocks to the opera house, despite the
affliction of badly pinching shoes. At last she reached the pillared facade of
the St. Charles, politely declining an offer of pralines from a black lady
hawking her confections on the front steps. She bounded up to the entrance and
was greatly relieved to find the front door unlocked.
By
the time Bella arrived inside the auditorium, she was flushed and panting. At
the front of the theater, Etienne Ravel popped up to glare at her approach,
removing a watch from the pocket of his vest and flipping it open.
She
lurched to a halt in front of him. “Mr. Ravel,” she greeted him breathlessly.
“I hope I'm not late.”
“You
are,” he snapped back, “by a full ten minutes.” He pointed toward the stage. “Kindly
take your place before I lose all patience and show you the door. Mr. Raspberry
is already at the piano.”
“Thank
you,” muttered Bella, pulling a face as she tore off for the stage.
“Oh, Miss De La Rosa!” called Etienne.
She
whirled. “Yes, sir?”
“What
will you sing for us?”
Bella did not hesitate. “Perhaps ‘Una voce poco fa’?
“Very
well.”
Bella
rushed up to the stage and took her place at its center. After taking several
deep, steadying breaths, she nodded to the pianist, who was an older black man
with a kind face. Hearing the Rossini intro, she tried her best to steady her
frazzled nerves. She knew that trying out for the chorus under these rushed,
stressful conditions was not a good idea, but she had little choice.
Yet
as soon as she raised her faint, quavery voice, she knew she would muddle
through the audition. Surely she had not traveled back in time a hundred years
only to be blocked from the outset by stage fright. Her instincts told her
she'd been sent here to help Jacques LeFevre, and she could not help him unless
she became a part of this company. She wondered at the irony of finding herself
once again auditioning to music from The Barber of Seville, just as she
had done in the present. Would she qualify for the chorus here as well?
As
she vocalized a delicate run in her pure but weak soprano, she glimpsed Etienne
Ravel listening to her with a bored expression. To her astonishment, he even
lit a cheroot and blew smoke rings! She finished her solo with a sinking
feeling, but grateful she had not succumbed to panic. Tensely she watched Ravel
stand and thrust his fingers through his black hair.
“Very
well, young lady, you're hired for the chorus,” he muttered wearily. “Your
voice is technically competent, but lacks conviction.”
“So
I've been told,” Bella replied ironically.
“You're
fortunate that we need another
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