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The energy in the theater is electric. This is a last-minute show organized by Don Accardo. Everyone is curious, everyone wants to attend the event of the year. The crowd murmurs excitedly as the lights dim and the velvet curtain rises.
Slowly, Tatiana comes unhidden as the curtain rises. She is clutching her hands tightly, her entire body tense. This is it. Her watershed moment. I give her a nod of encouragement as the first mournful notes of ‘Vissi d'arte' fromToscafill the theater.
She looks out at the audience, her voice joining the music as she begins to sing, resembling a goddamn dazzling diamond in a sea of black.
Tatiana's voice soars through the opera hall, clear and haunting. She holds the audience spellbound from the very first note. I sit on the edge of my seat, mesmerized. Tatiana, my Songbird, graces the spotlight, weaving her magic of‘Vissi d'arte’.
Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore,
(I lived for my art, I lived for love,)
non feci mai male ad anima viva!
(I never did harm to a living soul!)
Her notes, both powerful and delicate, captivate me as she chokes on just the right word. I'm entranced by the haunting beauty that resonates within the depths of my soul. When she sings of harming a living soul, I can read her mind.
She's thinking of her parents. Tears fall down her cheeks. Around me, people sit with downcast eyes, hiding their emotions from the others.
Some cry, some cheer, some sit with stone-cold faces, each thinking of the things they've seen in life. The power of her voice alone is conducting them.
Con man furtiva, quante miserie conobbi, aiutai.
(With a secret hand, I relieved as many misfortunes as I knew of.)
I watch, breath caught, as Tatiana becomes a vessel for the character's anguish, each note a brushstroke on the canvas of her soul.
Sempre con fè sincera la mia preghiera ai santi tabernacoli salì.
(Always with true faith, my prayer rose to the holy shrines.)
Her eyes reflect unwavering love—the devotion in her gaze, a revelation of everything I cherish.
Sempre con fè sincera diedi fiori agli altar.
(Always with true faith, I gave flowers to the altar.)
My heart swells with love and pride. This is my Songbird, radiant in her artistry.
Nell'ora del dolore, perchè, perchè, Signore, perchè me ne rimuneri così?
(In the hour of grief, why, why, Lord, why do you reward me like this?)
Her plea resonates, and a lump forms in my throat. I ache for her.
As the final notes linger, tears glisten in my eyes. The Met Philadelphia stage holds not just a remarkable performance but the essence of my love—my Songbird. I don't even notice that I'm clutching the side of my seat until my knuckles begin to hurt.
The final note echoes through the silent theater. For a breathless moment, no one moves. Then the audience erupts into thunderous applause and a standing ovation—cries of "Brava!" and demands for an encore ring out.
Tatiana stands frozen on the stage, stunned. Then, her eyes fill with tears. The cheers become deafening, but she turns and flees behind the curtain.
People around me look astonished, wondering whatever made the songbird flee.
My heart clenches. I jump up and hurry backstage, pushing past stagehands and equipment. I find Tatiana in a darkened alcove, her body shaking with sobs.
"Tatiana," I say gently, pulling her into my arms. "It's alright, Songbird. Just breathe."
She clings to me, tears soaking into my shirt. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "It was too much. I got overwhelmed."
