Prima Donna at Large by Barbara Paul Page B

his hands off the jewel boxes.
    â€œLook at this one, Gerry, it has secret drawer that you open from the back! And here is one with cherubs on the lid, and fancy posies on the side … and this one! This one, it plays a little tune!”
    They were nice. My mother would like any one of them—but then she always liked everything I gave her, bless her. Eventually I made my selection. Caruso bought the other three.
    We asked that the boxes be delivered and left. Caruso’s motor car and chauffeur were waiting out front for us; we climbed in hurriedly to get out of the cold. “The Hotel Astor,” Caruso told the chauffeur, and to me: “We pay Pasquale a little visit, yes?”
    I hadn’t been to see Amato since the day after the Madame Sans-Gêne première. I am as terrified of infection as any other singer, and even that first visit to Amato’s sickroom had been motivated more by remorse than by anything else, since I was the one who’d given the baritone his cold. I wanted to go see him … but I didn’t want to go see him.
    Caruso knew what I was thinking. “Do not worry, cara Gerry. I and Scotti, we figure out way to talk to Pasquale safely. You see.”
    Well, I saw, all right. Scotti was already there, demonstrating the procedure. What they’d figured out was an arrangement whereby the visitors would sit in one room and shout through the open bedroom door to Amato. Amato, resting his voice, would scribble an answer on a notepad, and a valet would then run into the other room carrying the message. It wasn’t the latest thing in rapid communication, but it worked.
    Even the ever-cantankerous Dr. Curtis approved. He was putting on his coat to leave, but paused long enough to say, “Amato needs cheering up. He could use some company.”
    â€œAnd what am I?” Scotti asked indignantly. “A piece of furniture?”
    Dr. Curtis ignored him and said to me, low, “Gerry, if Amato asks you about Duchon, tell him you were all a little disappointed in him, or some such. He’s feeling just well enough to start worrying about a new rival taking over his roles.”
    I glanced at Scotti. “Did you tell Toto?”
    He shook his head. “Amato knows Scotti and Caruso both will lie to him and tell him anything they think might cheer him up. But for some reason he trusts you. Tell him what he wants to hear.”
    â€œFor some reason!” I exclaimed. “Well, I like that!”
    â€œDon’t be so touchy, Gerry, you know what I mean. Just don’t stay too long.” And with that, the good doctor hurried away.
    The valet came running in and handed me a piece of paper. It had one word written on it: Duchon?
    I could see only the foot of Amato’s bed from where I was sitting. “Frankly, we’re a little disappointed in our French import,” I called out, taking my cue from Dr. Curtis. “He sings well enough, but he’s not the shining star we’d all been led to expect.”
    The valet rushed into the bedroom and returned with another piece of paper: Trouble?
    â€œYes, I think you could say there’s trouble,” I shouted. Caruso half-laughed, half-groaned. I said, “Duchon is as big a bully as Toscanini.”
    Scotti’s face lit up. “Is it true?”
    â€œDidn’t Rico tell you? He’s refused to rehearse.”
    â€œOh, that. Yes, Rico tells me. I think there is something more.”
    â€œGood heavens, Toto, isn’t that enough? But come to think of it, there is something more. He’s holding me to a promise I made, to sing a joint concert with him.”
    Caruso looked surprised. “You go through with it?”
    I sighed. “I did say I’d do it.”
    Scotti asked, “Do you sign anything?”
    â€œNo, but it’s a benefit concert, Toto. For Alsatian war relief. If it were just a regular concert, I wouldn’t do it. But I feel obligated to