Prima Donna at Large by Barbara Paul

singer’s whim, even when that singer was Philippe Duchon. Toscanini had just made it Gatti’s battle instead of his own. Duchon didn’t know it, but he didn’t have a chance of winning this one.
    Gatti stared at Toscanini with murderous dislike, and the conductor returned the look glare for glare. There really was bad feeling growing between the two men, and ultimately that could cause more trouble than anything Duchon might do. “Can we get on with the rehearsal?” I asked.
    â€œNot until we settle the matter of the door.” Duchon dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
    He dismissed me . With a wave of his hand! “Maestro,” I said angrily, “who is in charge here?”
    Before Toscanini could answer, Gatti said, “Gerry, please, do not be angry. I am sure Monsieur Duchon is simply trying to achieve the best production possible—”
    â€œWhy are you siding with him?” I demanded. “Don’t you understand it’s your job he’s after?”
    And then I realized what I’d said. Gatti turned white, Toscanini snickered, and Duchon shot me a look that told me our previously friendly entente was now at an undeniable end. There was no way to unsay what I’d said, so I just sat back down at my table and waited. Gatti recovered quickly enough and informed our imperious baritone that there would be no door installed in the set for him, and that he would have to make do with a stage-left entrance.
    â€œIn that case,” Duchon said, “I do not rehearse.” He turned to go.
    â€œMonsieur!” Gatti cried. “You sign a contract!”
    â€œAnd I intend to honor it,” Duchon nodded. “I will sing every performance I am contracted for. But I do not rehearse.” And with that, he walked off the stage and out of the opera house.
    An absolutely dead silence fell. Everyone avoided looking at everyone else. Then Caruso said from his place in the wings, “I think he means it.”
    Nothing like stating the obvious to relieve the tension a little. Toscanini became all business, deciding what we would rehearse next, issuing orders, snapping at people, being Toscanini. Gatti resumed his seat in the auditorium, but he looked a little shaken and kept pulling at his beard in distress. I wished I had kept my mouth shut. Duchon had indeed lost the management of his own opera house because of the war and undoubtedly was looking for a replacement, but I shouldn’t have said anything about it. Not here, not under these circumstances.
    Caruso finally got to come out of the wings. Once on stage, he started acting the clown, trying to lighten the mood. While I was doing my dance with the castanets, he made all sorts of improper remarks that normally would have had me in stitches. And when he knelt at my feet to sing the Flower Song he kept tickling my ankle. But the Caruso magic just wasn’t working; when rehearsal finally ended, everyone left in a sour mood.
    I was stopped on my way out by a shabby figure that materialized out of the shadows backstage. “The Duchon wrong,” he said earnestly. “You not listen.”
    â€œDon’t you worry about that, Uncle Hummy, I have no intention of listening. You were here the whole time?”
    He nodded vigorously. “Here since last night.”
    That stopped me. “You spent the night in the opera house?”
    A look of alarm grew on his face. “Tell Mr. Gatti?”
    â€œNo, I’m not going to tell anybody. But I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Uncle Hummy. Maybe you’d better not do it again.” He looked so distressed I added, “Well, maybe you’d better not tell anybody, I mean.”
    He understood; his thin lips stretched back in a big grin. He bobbed his head and mumbled something I didn’t understand and shuffled off to whatever niche he’d staked out for himself.
    When I got home I telephoned Emmy Destinn.