Nick

“So, what’s it about, anyway?” I ask, just to have something to say. I feel wildly out of place. Lina’s luminous, in a dress that’s about a thousand times more distracting than I’d pictured, all layers of sheer silk and sparkles that ripple over her curves. She said something earlier about wishing we were going to The Magic Flute, so everyone would think she was dressed as the Queen of the Night, not wearing last decade’s couture. If the style’s dated, I can’t tell. She looks radiant.

And... She’s looking at me funny.

“Hm?”

She gives me a searching look. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

“I, uh...might’ve spaced out, just a bit.”

She shrugs in a way that draws my eye to her bare shoulders and the gentle swell of her breasts. Not helping. “I said it’s about the same things every opera’s about: sex and death.”

“Oh, spoiler alert!”

“Hey, you asked! Besides, can you actually call spoiler alert on something nearly two hundred years old?”

“Just did.”

“Fair enough.” She seems a little distracted, herself, taking in the surroundings, the crowd. Suddenly, she leans in close enough that I can pick up the scent of her freshly-washed hair. “Don’t look now, but do you know an Amazon warrior-looking woman, about five foot eleven, with hair so blonde it’s almost white and jet black eyebrows?”

Aw, come on! Kennedy Rajania, Mrs. Nouveau Riche herself? “I think so, yeah—dressed in black, white, or beige, dripping with diamonds?” I scan the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her reflection. No such luck.

“That’d be her. Who is she?”

“She’s my, ah...a friend of the family. Not a fan of mine.”

“Thought she might be an ex, the way she’s burning a hole in your back.”

I can’t quite hold back a shudder. I’ve got to tell Lina about Katie soon—there’s no way to properly explain Kennedy Rajania, without including her reign of terror over the PTA. I still have nightmares of her towering over me in her sky-high stilettos, all New business opens at the end, Mr. Carter. Way more horrifying than it sounds. It’s the dripping contempt that gets you, not the words themselves. “She’s sort of unavoidable,” I say. “We sit on a committee together. Our interests tend not to align.”

“Let’s sweep right past her and pretend not to notice she’s there.”

“Really?” Got to admit I like that idea.

“Sure. We should find our seats anyway.”

I feel a little lightheaded, in a good way, as I link arms with Lina and walk her past Kennedy Rajania’s court of admirers, close enough that her skirt almost brushes Kennedy’s shoe. Lina leans against me and laughs like I’ve just said something so funny she can barely keep her feet. It’s a spiteful little triumph, and I’m sure I’ll pay for it at the next PTA meeting, but it feels good.

Another thing that feels nice is the way Lina brushes against me. Soft and yielding. Makes me wonder how much privacy there is in an opera box.

Turns out, not much, which is probably just as well—Lina looks genuinely excited to be here, leaning out to peer at the stage and the orchestra. Wish I’d thought to get opera glasses. It hadn’t occurred to me they were still a thing: I always thought they were something people had in the 17- and 1800s, something quaint and half-forgotten, like bustles or snuffboxes. But, nope: the place is bristling with them.

I lower my voice, to keep anyone in the adjoining boxes from hearing my dumb questions. “So, how do I know what’s going on? Do they sing it in English, or...?”

“No, here—“ Lina points me to a screen mounted in front of my seat. “It’ll prompt you to press the button at the start of each act. You can pick a language for the translation.”

“Are you going to... Do you speak Italian?”

She shakes her head. “Not really—I mean, I understand enough to know what’s going on, but I’m not fluent or anything.”

“I was meaning to ask you—you had songs in all these different languages on your iPod. Which ones do you speak?”

“English, Russian, and French,” she says. “Bit of Hungarian, from my grandmother.”

I’m about to ask her why French—that one seems out of place—when the lights go down. Most of the chatter dies with them. It’s quiet enough that I can hear someone fucking with a candy wrapper—really? Who does that?—and a scattering of dry coughs. The screen in front of me comes to life, just like Lina said. I press the red button, feeling vaguely like the President executing the nuclear option. But all that pops up is a language menu. I go for English.

The opera seems sort of dorky at first—like an old movie, set more for stage than screen. There’s maybe ten guys standing by a pile of rocks—some kind of lynch mob, I guess—but they’re not doing much, beyond making threats. And discussing an annoying neighbor. Looks like some things never change.

It gets better when the mob shuffles offstage. The leading lady’s definitely not opera’s answer to Nicholas Cage. Even I can tell her voice is good, and the music’s got a chilling quality to it. I keep forgetting to look at the translation, especially when the main man joins the scene.

Projected clouds scud across an enormous moon, while the leads sing a duet I can only describe as haunting. Couldn’t make sense of the cascading notes of the soprano’s solo, but the simple refrain of the duet’s going to stick with me for weeks. By the time they’re singing their goodbyes, I’m hanging on every note. I’m actually disappointed when the curtain goes down on Act I.

Lina sighs and stretches when the lights come up. I offer my hand to help her up. Her skirt’s ridden up a little, and I can’t help but notice she’s wearing the same sensible black shoes as the other day. Maybe they’re her only pair.

She smiles. “So? What’s the verdict?”

“Mm?”

“You a fan?”

“Oh—oh, yeah. Think so. The beginning was a bit... Ever hear of ‘show, don’t tell?’. But the love duet, that was so....”

“Eerie?”

“Yeah. When you said it’s about sex and death... Those two die, right?”

“Oh, now you want spoilers?” She looks over her shoulder at me. The low lights gleam in her red hair. “Yes. They die.”

“If he wanted that to be a surprise...yeah. Probably should’ve done something different with that theme, that—y’know, the line about the wind and the sea carrying their sighs to each other?” I hum the theme as best I can. An opera singer I’m not. “It’s like music from beyond the grave.”

“Oh, giusto cielo; par dalla tomba uscita.”

“What?”

“It’s a line from later in the opera. Pretty much what you just said. Something from beyond the grave.”

I can’t resist: I walk my cold fingers down the back of her neck. She jumps.

“Oh, you suck!”

I’m having a way better time than I thought I would. Lina seems to enjoy sharing her knowledge, and her excitement’s rubbing off on me. The staging’s a bit Tales from the Crypt, and the music takes some getting used to—I feel like I’m seesawing between totally transfixed and a hundred percent lost—but the good parts are really good.

I’m just starting to consider whether I might be able to convince Lina to stay out all night when the third act takes a seriously dark turn. Not just dark—dangerous. Straight for my real phobia, the one I couldn’t admit to—not silverfish, but—

I’d figured the leading man would get whacked by his girlfriend’s brother, but... No. This is something else. This looks like—

Oh, hell no.

I can’t—I wasn’t expecting this.

No way can I watch this unfold. Got to get out of here. I glance at Lina. An excuse—I need....

No. Too weird—it would look too weird. Especially if it’s not...not what I’m thinking.

They wouldn’t. It’s an opera, not Breaking Bad.

The singer steps into the spotlight, alone, knife in hand. I lower my eyes, and there it is on the translation screen, staring me in the face: I want to die.

“I—“

Lina looks my way, half-smiling.

I can’t help it. I raise my head. Onstage, the singer turns the knife on himself, and—

“No!”

Shit—that was out loud.

Everyone’s looking. It’s too dark to see their eyes, but I see their faces, an ocean of blurred white ovals, all turned in my direction. Lina’s hand’s on my arm. I need to get out of here, right now, this second.

Onstage, the guy’s actually bleeding, gushing blood; it’s a massacre—no. No. Only red fabric, yards of red fabric.

Blood.

I surge to my feet, violently enough to rattle my seat. Now, they’re really looking, all of them, probably Kennedy Rajania—me, the star attraction at the Met! Who’d’ve thought?

“Nick?” I feel Lina tugging at my sleeve.

“I’ve got to—I—“ My voice is barely a croak, drowned out by the tragedy unfolding onstage. That’s making it worse, somehow, the thought of him still alive, still singing, while he—

Mark survived too. At least fifteen minutes. Waiting for...waiting for—

“Come on.” There’s another tug on my arm, more forceful this time, and my feet start to move. Yes. Yes—this is good. Leaving the scene. Away from the....

Don’t think about it.

Right—that’s right. Got to come up with an excuse. A migraine, maybe. Food poisoning. Something....

“Sit.”

Lina’s hand’s on my shoulder, pushing me to sit. My knees give out halfway down, and I flop gracelessly onto the stairs. A wave of gratitude washes over me when Lina sits beside me. Her arm slides around my waist. Everything’s cold; there’s clammy sweat down my back and between my thighs, a chill in my gut, but she’s warm.

“Now breathe in slow, and hold it for five seconds.”

I try. I really do. I cough and pant.

“No, again. C’mon—one...two...three....” She’s rubbing my back. Hope she can’t feel how bad I’m sweating, how gross I am right now. I gulp and gag.

“Ugh...gonna puke....”

“No, you’re not. Breathe out slow. Let your limbs go loose.”

If I do that, I’ll collapse in her lap. I’ll—I’ll.... I don’t even realize I’m following orders till I hear my breath hissing between my teeth.

“Good. Now, in again.”

My head’s swimming, and there’s an uncomfortable tingling under my skin, but I think I can hear individual heartbeats again, in the blood thundering through my ears. Or maybe that’s her pulse against my side.

“You’re good. You’re good.”

I’m good.

“Just catch your breath, and we’ll get out of here. Get some fresh air.”

Fresh air, yeah. Yeah. That sounds good too. At least... At least I didn’t throw up in front of her. Not yet, anyway. My stomach’s still doing this oily ocean-waves thing. I swallow hard and feel a little better.

The faint sound of applause reaches my ears. Not good—that means, soon....

“Come on.”

Lina’s saving me again. She’s an angel. A saint. My legs turn to jelly as I try to stand. She staggers under my weight, but doesn’t let me fall. Going to owe her...owe her so big, so....

And then, the night air’s hitting me full force. I take great gulps of it, as shivers wrack my body. I’m not sure whether it’s cold or fading adrenaline, but I feel like I could rattle apart, right here in front of Lincoln Center.

“You won’t let me, though, will you?”

“What?” Lina sounds a little scared. Fuck—I’m not making any sense. She must think I’ve gone nuts.

“Sorry. Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Let’s... Let’s get out of the cold.”

I let myself space out as she leads me through the night. She seems to know where she’s going. I just need a minute, a minute to get hold of myself. The raw panic’s wearing off—I’m more...more dazed, now. Like someone clocked me on the head with the world’s biggest Nerf bat.

And the calmer I get the more it’s sinking in: there’s not an excuse in the world that’s going to cover this one. I can be honest, or come off like a maniac.

Might be a relief to tell someone...finally....