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Chapter 3
A Night at the Opera, a Sad Farewell
Carefully, Philip explained the plot summary to Michelle: "This is Puccini's most expressive opera," he said, "It draws from a collection of true-life sketches describing life among the original bohemians, the poor artists of Paris's Latin Quarter.
"Hungry but cheerful, the poet Rodolfo shares a garret with the painter Marcello and two others. One moonlit Christmas Eve, in Paris, 1830, the frail seamstress Mimi comes to Rodolfo's door for help, to light that famous candle of hers, and the two fall passionately in love, while Marcello carries on a turbulent affair with flirtatious Musetta. But Rodolfo is impossibly jealous of Mimi, and the two regretfully part, until Musetta reveals that Mimi is dying of consumption. Rodolfo flies to Mimi's side, and the lovers are united, only to be separated forever by Mimi's death.
"The orchestrations emphasize the libretto, the sung words of the opera, which consists of common language turned poetic. For example, when Rudolfo and Marcello burn Marcello's play for warmth, the orchestra depicts the reviving fire with a brilliant texture of pizzicato strings and detached woodwind and brass chords. Also, when Rodolfo learns Mimi is dead, the French horns play these long, powerful chords that are just hair-raising . . . . among the saddest and tragic in all opera, in my mind. Even the musicians themselves are frequently moved.
"I know Pavarotti and Flemming will be somewhere near their peak in this one and this is a performance not to be missed: the choruses, the solos, the arias and duets cover the range of human emotion -- from love and flirtation, to life and death, to fate and the human condition – all in two hours. A real, timeless love story; set in Paris, in 1830 and just as poignant today as it was then.
"Now, If you're quite ready, milady, let's go – and may I say, once again, Ms. Murrin, you look absolutely ravishing, just as Mimi did to Rodolfo in 1898."
Michelle was thrilled to be stepping out in formal gown -- to the Lincoln Center's Metropolitan Opera – to see two famous singers sing their hearts out to each other -- and to her.
"A taxi's waiting, Michelle, time to go," Philip announced.
Michelle picked up her little wrap to ward off the cool New York spring night air and they walked down into the lobby, Michelle's cuffs and anklets reminding her always of their presence with her every step. Her breasts undulated invitingly, her sensitive, ringed nipples poking through again under her thin bodice, as Philip glanced over appreciatively.
Michelle smiled back at her man, proud that her body could still turn him on at a glance.
" Lincoln Center, please," Philip said to the taxi driver. "Right away," the young driver replied. Ten minutes."
And in 10 minutes the happy couple rolled up to the brightly-lit, ornate steps of the famous Lincoln Center. Throngs of people were entering as Michelle and Philip ascended the big, marble stairs into the huge, cathedral-ceilinged lobby loaded with chandeliers, portraits and music from a chamber quartet playing selections from La Boheme .
They were escorted to their box and Michelle and Philip sat, holding hands, waiting for the audience to fill and settle down as the orchestra members filed into the pit, already tuned and ready for the concertmaster and conductor. Michelle quietly wished she could have sex with this man who sat beside her right then and there.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthems of the United States of America and France," said a voice over the huge sound system.
Pavarotti and Renee Flemming, as the fated lovers, walked out onstage, holding hands both dressed in period costumes, as the orchestra and audience rose as one. A hush fell. Philip and Michelle rose, holding hands still, and the lights dimmed as conductor Claudio Abbado stroked the downbeat as the majestic strains of The Star-Spangled Banner filled the huge opera.
Hundreds of voices sang as one, led by the tenor, Pavarotti, and soprano, Flemming, as pride, sentiment and emotion filled the classic edifice, bringing a lump to every American throat.
Michelle thought the Star-Spangled Banner was the most patriotic anthem she had ever heard. But after a long tympani roll, when the orchestra broke into La Marseillaise, the emotional music and words, borne of the French Revolution's pain, struggle, rally, victory and resolution, took her breath away.
The audience seated and Michelle and Philip sat quietly as curtain rose. From 8:30 to 10:30 p.m., the couple were swept up in a spell of rapturous Romantic music expressing unrequited love, coquettishness, tragedy and death as only opera can do.
Although Michelle could not understand the librettos, Philip guided her gently by whispered explanations of who was doing what to whom and why and what would happen next.
Too soon, Rodolfo's haunting cries of "Mimi! Mimi!!" on learning his love has died, was over. And to rapturous applause, Michelle's first La Boheme -- one of the world's most beloved operas -- was concluded.
Back at their hotel a half-hour later, Philip, utterly moved by what he had just seen and heard, asked Michelle if she would like go out dancing.
After hearing the wonderful Puccini music and libretti, Michelle had to decline. She wanted to spend the last several hours with this special man, snuggle with him one last night; Sunday afternoon loomed too quickly.
That night, they lay together, naked, Michelle unbound for the first time in two days, and they hugged and kissed as though it was their last night on earth.
"Happy Witchie?" Philip asked, caressing his lover's left breast gently. "A penny for your thoughts."
Michelle was silent, struggling for words to describe how she felt about her weekend.
"Just hug me, Philip; tie me if you wish but I know I am safe, happy and content with you just as I am. I can still feel the ropes and chains on my body , even though they are not there. Your presence is like the ropes and chains that have bound me and I love it."
She felt Philip's manhood stirring against her and snuggled closer still. Philip drew his arms around Michelle's hips and she gently slid her body on top of his. Unbound, using her own strength, she impaled her sex deeply on his stiffening, thick cock.
Philip groaned as Michelle made love to him, passionately, deeply, meaningfully, communicating with him with her eyes only, filling her mental boudoir once again with as many memories as she could before they had to say goodbye.
Their sex that last night was steamy, yet romantic but, somehow, elusive as Michelle and Philip lay in one another's arms, silent, thoughtful, resting, Philip's manhood still embedded deeply inside his woman. They had feasted on each other's minds and bodies and had consummated their appetites, their libidos, their imaginations -- their very beings -- and they had loved every moment
Too soon, it was over, almost with operatic denouement.
Sunday afternoon, a grey, drizzly day in New York City, arrived far too early for both of them and they were quiet, sad, as they made their way back across the Brooklyn Bridge to JFK Airport, 40 minutes to the southeast from their charming hotel.
Hand-in-hand, they walked slowly to Gate 38D, looked at the huge digital clock overhead and Michelle and Philip held each other, unwilling, unready to let the weekend go.
"Air Canada Flight 128 now boarding for Halifax International Airport; last boarding call, please," the PA system announced.
The two sat quietly, each immersed in their own thoughts, on the way back. At Halifax, far too soon, Philip bade Michelle a warm farewell as she found the small gate for her connecting flight to Charlottetown.
"Write soon," Michelle told Philip as she let him go for the last time. "Thank you for this wonderful time; I shall never forget New York City. Or you."
"Goodbye, Michelle," Philip waved solemnly. "Go now. I'll write." Philip turned away, unable to say goodbye any other way without feeling vague, remote pain, a remnant of his years on sea duty in the navy.
Michelle sat on her short flight home with a heavy heart, wondering if she would ever hear from this wonderful man again who had made her feel like such a woman in such an incredibly romantic city, in such an unimaginably short time.
At home many hours later, Michelle did not hear from Philip for several weeks and her several questioning emails went unanswered. She thought he had abandoned her; heartbroken, bereft, she felt utterly abandoned, alone.
June 6, 2004, dawned bright, sunny and warm over her little white bungalow and Michelle sat disconsolately at her keyboard, checking her inbox for the usual spam and stuff.
She sat at her keyboard and waited, thinking idly of Samuel Becket's theatre-of-the-absurd play, Waiting for Godot . Nothingness.
Suddenly, "Ping!" and the message "You have one new email" appeared on her monitor. It was from him!
"Goodness," Michelle thought. "Where has he been?"
"Hi Witchie," it said lightly. "Are you up to another story collaboration, dear heart?"
"Where the hell have you been, sailor?" Michelle wrote back.
"Not far, my love," came the prompt reply. "Not far away at all."
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