begs her father to allow her to marry the man she loves. She wants him to give her his blessing. If he doesnât . . .â
âSheâll throw herself off the Ponte Vecchio.â That part I remember. Bit of a drama queen, this girl Lauretta, but Iâve acted the fool over a boy a time or two myself, as poor Lily could tell you.
âYes. She would rather die than be without love. Now you try.â
Me? Is she kidding? âButâbut Miss Krause, I could never sing it as well as you.â
She shakes her head. âForget me, forget everyone. You must sing it as you. In your voice. Now ask your father for his blessing. Ask him as if your life depends on it.â
I picture myself standing on that old bridge in Florence, tottering on the edge, ready to hurl myself into the rushing waters of the Arno. For some reason it works. The music swells and I make a sound like Iâve never made before. Big, open, sailing out of me like someoneâs pulling it out by a string. The feeling lasts, all the way to the end.
â Babbo, pietà , pietà !
Babbo, pietà , pietà ! â
My voice is much bigger than I am, I realize.
âNot bad,â she says, and jots something in her calendar. âNot bad. Come back next week.â
. . . . .
Niall hears me singing in the shower this morning, I know he does, because he pounds on the door while Iâm in the middle of the aria. I sound like an angel in there, to be honest.
âFee!â he roars. âWill ya get out? Itâs the only bathroom we have, you know!â
I realize heâs probably got to do something that canât wait. Weâve all been there, when it comes to needing the bathroom.
But would it have killed him to say something about the song?
. . . . .
Itâs my third trip to Central Park West in as many weeks, and I feel like a regular, but Miss Krause is not up to speed. She looks like crap, frankly. A skeleton in a Chanel suit. (Sure, I know what a Chanel suit is, doesnât everyone? Watch an Audrey Hepburn film, for Peteâs sake.)
Itâs not much of a lesson today. Sheâs tired or something. We stop after a bit, and she closes the piano and hobbles to her armchair. I figure weâre done, and pick up my coat. Iâm disappointed, really. Iâve been singing that aria all week. Mr. Scharf even gave me a thumbs-up at school when he heard me in the practice room.
âDonât go yet,â she says, leaning back in the chair. âSing me a song you knew as a child. Not something you learned for school.â
âNot the potty songs?â I ask, alarmed.
She smiles. âNo, not the potty songs. Sing . . . sing what you sang for your father. On his birthday.â
Really? At school they never want to hear my pub repertoire. Thatâs alla bit low rent for Scharfâs taste.
âAll right,â I say. âBut Iâve no music.â
âA cappella,â she says, and closes her eyes.
Not knowing what else to do, I sing. I do it quietly, though, in case she falls asleep.
â Oh, Danny boy ,
The pipes, the pipes are calling . . .â
Itâs a lovely tune, really. One forgets that. I think I did all right with it. Ended soft as a whisper.
Well, the old girl doesnât say a word. I wait.
âMiss Krause, are you all right?â
Her eyes float open. âWhy do you ask?â
I look at her face. Her skin seems papery to me. Thin, like a light could shine right through it.
âYou look pale, is all. A bit yellow. You might take some vitamins, you know. My sister, Evelyn, swears by them.â
She looks at me. âIs your sister a doctor?â
âA dental hygienist,â I say.
At that, the world famous Sabrina Krause does something Iâd never thought Iâd live to see. She grins, and she opens that resonant cavern of a mouth, and she laughs, deep from the belly. And believe me, there is no laugh like the laugh of the greatest
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