Dominated By Robert And His Cock 1

It began to rain hard a few minutes before two that Saturday afternoon, preventing me from meeting Robert at the Lincoln Center fountain. Forced indoors, I stood dripping wet in the cavernous lobby of Avery Fisher Hall, searching among the similarly hapless figures hurrying by outside in the central plaza, fearing that I might miss him altogether. I needn't have worried.

"Jim! There you are." The commanding voice was exactly as I remembered. I turned and saw Robert striding across the lobby, shaking an umbrella. He projected an effortless authority that made him seem taller than he in fact was. The beard he had grown for the current run of Eugene Onegin at the Met softened the determined lines of his jaw, and enhanced the brightness of his smile. His nearly forty years rested lightly on him; time had burnished his looks as it had his art.

"I'm so glad I found you," he said, coming up to where I stood. "Can you believe this rain? How are you?" he cried, clasping me in a damp embrace. After a moment, I hugged him back.

He released me and stepped away, still beaming. "You look great, my friend."

"Likewise, Signor Lucarelli," I replied. "Metropolitan Opera stardom agrees with you."

"So formal, Professor," he mocked. "I'm not quite a star, yet."

"You've changed your name. Don't stars do that?"

"Oh, that," Robert said. "It makes people think of another tenor named Roberto."

"I'm sure no one was wishing for Alagna last night--your Lensky was wonderful." It had always been easy to be Robert's fan, far more difficult to be his coach and critic.

"Thank you, Jim. It was good last night. I'm glad you heard it." A pause, then Robert said, "Listen, I haven't had lunch. How about you?"

We sat in a crowded coffee shop across Broadway. Robert continued to smile, as if his good will alone could bring back the old days.

"I really haven't changed that much, have I?" he said.

"You have. Usually, you say to someone you haven't seen in a long time, 'You haven't changed a bit.' Well, I can't say that to you. You look different. Your name is different. You even talk with an accent now."

"That might be true. I've spent so much time in Europe the last few years."

"So," I said, "Bobby Lucarelli, kid from the Connecticut suburbs, has become Roberto Lucarelli, tenor of mysterious origin. No wonder my post bugged you--it blew your cover."

Months before, someone on Usenet had mentioned Robert's singing of Pinkerton in Madam Butterfly in Chicago in glowing terms, and wondered if his rise signaled a new era of great Italian voices. Unable to resist, I had posted a response: "Roberto Lucarelli's success is not a signal of the comeback of Italian singing, because he's no Italian. When I knew and accompanied him at the University of Texas and Tanglewood in the early 80s he was Bob Lucarelli, tenor, from Stamford, Connecticut." My message had gone out into cyberspace signed with my screen name, Tailorman. To my surprise, an e-mail had appeared in my in-box a few days later: "Tailorman, how is it you know so much of my dark past? Could you possibly be Jim Schneider, pianist extraordinaire? Would love to hear from you. Regards, Bob Lucarelli." So when the University sent me up to New York to look at new Steinway grand pianos for our main concert hall, I had told Robert of my impending visit. I received a delighted response and a ticket to one of his performances at the Met. Now, here we were, and already things were starting to go much as they had during our last few months together as lovers.

"If you're going to make me sound like a CIA spy, at least give me credit for figuring out your identity from your screen name."

Robert's good-humored refusal to rise to my bait perversely irritated me. "Well," I said, "something stuck from those late-night German study sessions." It was true that I wouldn't have thought he'd remember that "Schneider" meant "tailor." Robert had hated German.

"Yes, it did. You were a great teacher."

"The man behind Lucarelli's fame," I said, "I'm sure that's how the world knows me today."

"Jim, I know we lost touch, but I didn't plan it that way. Anyway, I didn't think you'd be particularly interested in what I was doing."

"Not true. I heard you sing a few years back."

"Really?" Robert said. "Where? What?"

"La Rondine in Houston, spring of '89."

"So how did you like it?"

"Do I need to tell you it was magnificent?" It was the first time I had heard him since our break. His high B-flats in the second act quartet had brought me to tears.

"That's the only time I've sung Ruggero." He frowned quizzically. "Why didn't you come see me? We could have had this out years ago and be having a good time now."

"I am having a good time," I retorted. "I don't know why I didn't look you up. Maybe I couldn't stand the sight of you successful and happy."

"You won't believe this, but I would have enjoyed seeing you. I've often wished you were here, especially when I had to sing with some wretched pianist at an audition."

"Yes, I was a useful pair of hands, wasn't I?"

"Jim. Is there any point in continuing this? Maybe I should go." His tone was even, but exasperation glinted in his eyes. He had walked out more than a decade ago, after our last, incendiary quarrel. He was about to do it again, thanks to me.

I felt tired, and ashamed. "No, Robert, stay. I'm sorry." The rain had ceased and gray afternoon light filtered through the restaurant window. "You know what I'd like to do? Take the subway to the Village and walk around. Do you have time?"

I thought he would refuse, but after a moment he shrugged and said, "Sure. I haven't been there in ages." We rose and Robert paid the check, waving away my protests. Outside it was still damp, an unseasonably warm March day. We took the A train to 14th Street, then wended our way toward the river on foot, Robert taking a wool scarf from his coat pocket and carefully wrapping it around his throat. Determined to keep things pleasant, I adhered to safe topics, his travels, his singing. He was to do Pinkerton, and Cavaradossi in Tosca at the Met next season, Lensky again at Covent Garden. La Scala was not a reality yet, but his management was working on it. He asked about his former professors at the university, now my colleagues.

"How's Margaret?"

Margaret Foster had been Robert's voice teacher. "Pretty frail, but as sharp as ever. She'll be glad to know I saw you. She still talks about that Fledermaus we all did."

Robert was amused. "The low-budget Fledermaus with no onstage party in Act Two? What happened to that girl who tried to sing Rosalinda?"

"LeAnne Millsaps is now the wife of a Texas Senator. She is not singing."

"Thank God. And Falke, that lean baritone with the incredibly blue eyes, what was his name--Brian Jones?"

"Died of AIDS, about five years ago."

"Oh. Sad, I liked Brian."

"Yes," I said dryly. "Enough to give him head on our living room couch. Too bad my piano lesson was cancelled that day."

Robert groaned. "You'll never let me live that down."

"Oh, I've long since forgiven you for that," I said. "Anyway, he came over the next week while you were auditioning in Houston and fucked me silly."

Robert's look of astonishment was so transparently sincere that I laughed. "What can I say, Roberto, that singing cowboy was a slut. Fastest zipper in the West."

He shook his head. "I never knew. You still amaze me, Jim, after all these years."

Silence fell between us. By now we had reached the river, and watched the Westway traffic rush by.

Suddenly I felt my hand enfolded in his. "James," he said. The tone of his voice compelled me to look into his sorrowful eyes. "Why didn't you come with me? We would have had fun."

His fury on the night I refused to make the move to New York with him had been a dark memory shadowing this day together. I had been anticipating and dreading this moment, but his gentleness took me by surprise--so much so that I answered honestly.

"Fear--and ego," I said.

"What are you talking about? You were always so humble."

"All an act. I was afraid that if we came here together, your career would take off while I labored in obscurity." I shrugged. "That's more or less what happened anyway."

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written by ivrys88