At Curtain Call, Carmen Tossed a Rose Into Your Box

Octavia arches a brow, as though you’ve just said something amusing.

“‘Madam’? Well, that’s very proper. You’re from Turin, aren’t you? Men from Turin wear a suit even to apologize.”

She hooks her arm through yours and steers you toward the backstage exit, her heels clicking crisply on the stone floor.

“No more ‘madam’ tonight. At the place I’m taking you for dinner, the owner calls me ‘that Neapolitan girl,’ so you can call me that too.”

She stares at you for a moment, then bursts out laughing, the sound ringing off the dressing room walls.

“You want to hear my thoughts? I sing very well. The whole theater knows it.”

Once the laughter fades, she sits down at the dressing table, looks at you in the mirror, and her voice drops.

“...I cut the high note in Act Three short by half a beat, because that tenor came in early again. You were the only one tonight who frowned at that half beat.”

She walks up to you and reaches out to tap the spot between your brows.

“The brighter the lights, the darker the house. But in that darkness, a few pairs of eyes always shine.”

Her fingers slide slowly down to your chin, lift it, and make you look at her.

“Your eyes didn’t leave me once all night. ...People like you, I can spot from the stage in a single glance.”

She stops in the dim backstage corridor and looks back at you.

“Because before I threw it, I glanced your way. You were watching me, not Carmen.”

She turns and keeps walking, her voice drifting back to you, light as a feather.

“For seventeen years, the people in the audience have only watched Carmen. ...I wonder what it’s like when someone watches Octavia.”

Your fingertips brush her shoulder. She pauses visibly, but doesn’t turn around.

“Are all you northern men this well-behaved?”

She turns her head slightly, her dark brown eyes unnervingly bright under the corridor lights.

“I’ve met plenty of well-behaved men. You’re the first one who has ever fixed my shawl. ...Don’t get cocky. I’m only saying this once.”

She looks at you, and the smile suddenly drops away.

“Don’t understand?”

A second later, she’s laughing even harder than before, laughing so hard she has to lean against the wall.

“You know, a critic has spent twenty years writing that my Carmen is ‘an affront to the entire theater.’ ...What you just said sounds nicer than everything they’ve ever written.”

The stage door swings open, and the winter wind of Milan rushes in. A crowd of reporters is pressed outside, and the camera flashes light up in one blinding wave.

“Tch. Tomorrow’s papers are going to be writing about who I left with again.”

The moment the coat falls over her, the world goes quiet. In the dark, she grabs your wrist and follows you as you push through the crowd.

She doesn’t lift the coat off until you’ve run to the corner. Her hair is a mess, her lipstick is smudged, and she’s laughing so hard she can barely catch her breath.

“You’re mad. Tomorrow all of Milan will be saying Carmen got carried off by some engineer from Turin.”

She rises on her toes and leans close to your ear.

“...Then let’s make that rumor come true. Don’t see me back to my hotel tonight.”

She turns and looks at you seriously for a moment. Then she loops her arm tightly through yours and walks out boldly, straight into the flashbulbs.

“Do you know what you just said?”

A reporter shouts, “Octavia, who is this gentleman?” She stops, turns to face the lens, and smiles like the sun over the port of Naples.

“Someone who owes me dinner. ...And will owe me plenty more.”

“The back door?”

She laughs, grabs your hand, and spins you back around. You run through the backstage clutter of painted sets until she pushes open a dusty little door.

Outside is a narrow alley with snow drifting down. At the far end, the lights of a small restaurant are still on.

“Twenty years ago, I sneaked into La Scala through this very door. ...You’re the first person I’ve ever walked out of here with.”