Our carriage, I noted. He had seen her for some time.
I should choose my own present, I said. And you haven’t yet proposed. Let me choose then, when you do.
In the cool dark, something like the heat of Hell’s own door opening passed between us.
She won’t likely find a footman, I said. Or if she does, she won’t remember her duties.
No, the tenor said. I suspect she knows her duties well. Even in front of footmen.
She’s a better match for you, I said. You should marry her instead.
A moment passed, a duel of a kind, silent.
We both know better, he said. You are my one match.
You’re only proposing because of him, I said. A test. He knew instantly whom I meant.
No, he said.
Propose to me when he is nowhere around, I said. But let him live. He smiled then nodded. I’d added that perhaps only just in time.
Only then I will consider it, I said. But only then. Do I have your word?
On the asking or the living?
Both. I’ll not accept you otherwise.
And why not? How could you refuse?
Think again what it is you ask of me, I said, refusing to answer him. I’ll return the emeralds if you like. There’s only one engagement present I want, and I’ve asked for it.
Maxine returned then, beckoning the tenor; she was not as drunk as she had seemed before. And he turned as if in a trance, remembering her, before he looked back to me.
Keep them also, he said softly, so only I could hear. As for the rest, I agree. I will ask you again—though I have asked you once before. For now, I will let him live against the day you say yes and become my bride. Name the hour you will say yes, and it will be done. He leaned in then, kissed my cheek, and waited to hear my response. But refuse and I keep no promises, he said.
We are at terms, then, I said.
We are, comprimaria. But do not take too long.
He kissed me once more before heading to the door, where he took Maxine’s hand in his and led her out.
I sat back into the chair and drew my cape closer. The night air was cool, too cold for me to remain much longer, but I could not bring myself to enter yet. I looked into the candelabra, the only light in the garden. The flames took turns erupting in little gouts, like little fire-breathers at practice, and all at once, oh, how I missed Flambeau.
To my surprise, I missed the rest as well, as it paraded before me in the dark: the show, the act, my old horse, my buckskin. I missed Ernesto and Priscilla, the tiny city of tents and carts, the feeling of the world moving in the night around you rather than you moving in it, of being on a long journey without a destination, the tour your home. I wondered where the cirque was then and if they missed me, even as I knew there was sure to be another girl in my old costume, wheeling a horse around a ring, firing my old rifle into the air.
Another girl practicing with Flambeau, perhaps, hoping to give herself a voice made only of fire.
I took out my cigar in remembrance and lit it on the candle. As I shot smoke rings into the air and poked them with the cigar, I heard from behind me the click of the cane on the stones and knew it instantly, as if it searched across my own heart.
I did not move or even look to him.
I thought you gone, I said.
He came a few steps closer. I thought I could stay and then I could not. But I have returned for the story, he said.
There was no longer anything to tell him. The tenor would likely keep his promise to me, but he would do better if Aristafeo was far from here. If I was to tell the story I promised, Aristafeo would stay, insist I try to leave with him, be with him; and if he stayed and insisted, I might relent; and then he would most likely be killed; and I would fail us both. All I needed to do was to play the part of that pretty petty liar, the courtesan driven only by the pursuit of luxury, prestige, fame—to become the woman he feared I was. This was what would drive him from me, back to his mysterious benefactress, back into the secret hiding place he had emerged from, where he might live on in safety without me.
The one way to save this love, always, it seemed, no matter the place or time, was to refuse it.
Will you really sing Carmen with him? And not Le Cirque du Monde Déchu?
Yes, I said.
He looked down and was silent, and so I continued.
I have refused you, I said. You, you said you would leave if I did. So, please. Leave. Leave and let it be done.
The candles burning were the only sound as now we stared at each other.
I wrote the opera I said I would, he said. With the hope one day I could get it to you and it would remind you of me—me, but also of you. Of us.
Keep your word, I said.
I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, he was right in front of me.
What were you to tell me? he asked. Why did you ask me to stay?
Keep your word, I said again. Keep your word and go. Leave and do not return.
At this, he finally looked away.
I was always happy that at least one of us was saved, he said. He turned to leave and then paused and looked back.
I will still try to be happy for that.
And with that, he was gone.
Four
THE SETTING IN Carmen for that song known as the Habanera in the first act: Carmen has been surrounded by young men who are insisting to know when she will love them, on what day. She spins, acting as if she were ignoring them as she walks and sings:
Quand je vous aimerai? Ma foi, je ne sais pas,
peut-être jamais, peut-être demain.
Mais pas aujourd’hui, c’est certain.
L’amour est un oiseau rebelle
Que nul ne peut apprivoiser.
Et c’est bien en vain qu’on l’appelle,
S’il lui convient de refuser.
Rien n’y fait, menace ou prière
When will I love you? My faith, I don’t know,
maybe never, maybe tomorrow.
But not today, that is certain.
Love is a rebel bird
that no one can tame,
and we call in vain
if it is convenient for it to refuse.
Threat or prayer, nothing will work.
Carmen is accustomed to the attention of every man everywhere she goes. It insults her to have one who will not look.
There is a rose between her breasts. Near the end of the act she throws it to the young soldier who will not look at her for shame over the feelings she arouses in him. He wants to keep himself for the young Mica?la, the girl his mother wants him to marry. His mother is dying and would like him to be settled with a good girl.
He picks up the rose and smiles at Carmen, and the string section trills with the premonition of death.
I was still singing songs with roses.
L’amour, la mort, she sings, by turns gaily and seductively. Love, death. Love. Only in French do they rhyme.
§
The weeks went by with no word from him. The autumn deepened; the trees turned black and gold again. Faust ended; rehearsals for Carmen began in earnest. The rumor of the curse, that I was leaving the stage, meant, as I’d expected, more new offers came in and the tickets for Carmen went at a run. Nothing had been repudiated by my accepting the role, and it did not matter except to me.
Now my plan was underway. I had only to survive it.
Aristafeo’s opera would succeed without me, and he would find future patrons, lovers, and stars. And the honor of originating a role, of performing in his opera, was nothing beside the honor of protecting him as he returned.