The Old Met
One day the young man approached me very upset. A close family friend and partner of a New York law firm had urgently called him that morning. The lawyer, a part-time Metropolitan Opera chorus member, asked my friend to fill a minor role at the “Old Met” that night. As my friend had already accepted another commitment, the lawyer’s offer was declined. Aware of my fondness for opera, my friend turned to me with hat in hand, begging that I accept the vacant role. I didn’t have to think twice. I leapt at his offer — a rare, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and one of the last for anyone to perform on the “Old Met’s” stage. It was known that the opera house was to be torn down the following year. I was overjoyed.
Early that afternoon I left work and headed uptown to the old Metropolitan Opera House at Broadway and 39th Street. On its marquee, I was pleasantly surprised to see: Verdi’s “Aida.” My interest in opera had been growing since 1950 when Mom and Dad first introduced our family to the Teatro del’ Opera in Rome. A few years later while I was visiting Egypt, my parents introduced me to Verdi’s spectacle for the first time. It was there I first learned that “Aida” had been commissioned in Cairo in the late 1800s. In fact, the libretto sets “Aida” in ancient Egypt’s Old Kingdom. Over the years, “Aida” had become a favorite grand opera of mine.
Conflict
On gazing up at the marquee, suddenly it dawned on me I had previously booked a dinner date that very evening. Quickly, I located a telephone booth nearby from which I tried to explain my horrible conflict to Bea. My difficult-to-believe “opera story,” wrapped in a flimsy apology, only nurtured further suspicion. I could sense Bea was trying her best to accept my story. In fact, for the first time as a couple, my integrity had come under fire. I tried to assure Bea that everything was on the up-and-up and, of course, that our date that evening was still intact. Was our mutual trust unraveling? Over the phone, I could tell she was disappointed. Finally, I had to tell her that as time was running out at my end, I had to hang up. I reaffirmed we must meet around 10:30 that evening ...and hung up the phone.
Hallowed Hall
My instructions led me to the Met’s stage door. Once signed in, I was issued further instructions. An old man blurted out, “Downstairs — men to the left, women to the right.”
The theatre had been built in the early 1890s. It soon became apparent the building had limited lighting below street level. Naked light bulbs dangled from the ceiling along the seemingly endless, brick corridors. Everywhere, electric wires were dangerously frayed and exposed. Cobwebs hung menacingly from overhead. As I walked further into the frigid catacombs of the building, I became increasingly concerned with the risk of fire.
Dressing Rooms
Eventually, I came to a large room where male actors were running about and shouting while changing into their costumes. I was stunned by their casual nudity. Many strutted about naked while acting out their operatic roles. Most were minor professionals who’d been contracted for small parts throughout the opera season.
In time I found my soldier’s costume folded on a shelf marked, “Spear Carrier.” Commandeering an unoccupied locker, I stripped to my underwear as a woman’s growly voice from somewhere down the hall bellowed my name. I was to report to the make-up table immediately. Once there, my face, arms and legs were browned. Another woman applied heavy red lipstick and darkened my eyebrows heavily.
There was little levity among the professionals. The overall environment was more like a confused nightmare. Everyone seemed to bark at everyone else. Foul language reigned from every corner. It soon became clear that in staging an opera, time was everyone’s enemy.
Onstage
My dyed, burlap-like costume included a golden sash, hat, and a seven-foot spear. As many were dressing, another voice rang out from the hall. “Everyone upstairs -- quickly.” Confusion ran rampant among the slow dressers. Once costumed, close to a hundred actors were herded up the stairs. Some giggled, pushed, and shoved; others cursed as they were forced down the hall and out onto the huge stage immediately behind the Met’s closed curtain. It was a cold space. Beyond us, I could hear, but not see, several of the major actors exercising their voices. A stage hand guided us soldiers to spots where we were to stand during different acts. Coded symbols were chalked everywhere on the stage floor. In thin sandals, my feet became numb from the cold well before curtain time. For an hour -- perhaps even longer -- the cast members were led silently through their motions. Sneaking a peek at the auditorium through a side curtain, I was awed by its grandeur and vastness. Its backmost rows of seats disappeared into the darkness. Some of the auditorium’s balconies were so high and far from the stage they were known as “the heavens.”
Overture
Before the curtain rose, I could hear commands being urgently whispered to various actors and groupings. Some of the lead actors, a huge chorus, and crowds of minor players shuffled passed me into formations on the stage. Most seemed to know exactly where and when to perform. For much of the time I found myself disoriented among the ceaseless turmoil. Novices were reminded not to sing, or even hum, during the opera itself. I, too, found my chalk marks on the stage floor. As the orchestra on the audience side of the closed curtain completed Aida’s Overture, the cast members of Act One positioned themselves prior to curtaintime.
Robert Merrill
Then, as the massive curtains began to rise, we on the stage could hear the audience already oohing and aahing as it was savoring the first act of the “Old Met’s” last performance of “Aida.” It was a full house.
There I was on the stage in my first operatic appearance standing no more than ten feet from Amonasro, King of Ethiopia and Aida’s father. I was dumbstruck on seeing Robert Merrill, one of opera’s all-time great baritones.
Later in the opera, and standing not far from Merrill, I observed him preparing himself ever so subtly for his magnificent aria. From behind, I could see him purposely square off before his adoring audience. His techniques involved resetting and then planting firmly both feet to posture himself bigger-than-life before “his” audience. Employing old school acting techniques, Merrill would lift his chin ever so slightly to further enhance his profile. Even on stage and in anticipation of singing, close up one could see Merrill working on his deep breathing. During his arias, Merrill’s remarkable volume could project his clear, baritone voice up, out, and into every nook and cranny throughout the auditorium as few baritones could. In those days, no head mics were in use. Never before had I ever heard just how powerful, and still beautiful, the human voice could be. To me, Merrill’s glorious sounds always came across to me as mellow. That evening, through teary eyes, the audience’s response to his most noted aria produced thunderous ovation. Shivers shot down my spine. During the audience’s extended applause, for a brief moment I found myself wholly mesmerized.
...and, Martina Arroyo
Not far from the area where Merrill and I were on stage, was the talented Martina Arroyo playing Aida. And, as I recall, Jess Thomas, a Wagnerian tenor of considerable note, played Radames. What a stunning performance it was — and, the last “Aida” in the “Old Met.”
Reconciliation
“Aida” is a long opera. That evening it ended well beyond the time Bea and I had promised to meet. Without showering to wash off my make-up, I dressed hurriedly before racing back through the Met’s subterranean tunnels and eventually out onto the bustling streets of New York. I taxied downtown to Greenwich Village. Though still anxious, Bea was waiting patiently at our Irish pub. Much of my body, and face in particular, was still covered with heavy make-up. It didn’t take long to convince Bea of my once-in-a-lifetime story. In fact, our tete-a-tete dinner turned into a beautiful evening. Our cocktails became elixirs, the food memorable, and our shared crepe suzettes sweeter than ever. Bea, also an aficionado of opera, was all smiles.
