Prima Donna at Large by Barbara Paul

help.” I hadn’t told anyone about Duchon’s tragic encounter with the Germans when he was a boy; that was his private story and for him to tell, not me.
    Amato’s valet was back with a new piece of paper: Talk louder .
    I raised my voice and said, “Duchon invited me to lunch at Delmonico’s last week. He apologized for insulting me when we’d first met and was nice as could be. Then we went to rehearsal and he insulted me again! Why did he bother trying to make friends if he was going to insult me all over again?”
    â€œBecause he wants something from you,” Scotti said dryly.
    â€œNo, no,” Caruso protested. “Duchon is not so, ah, calculating. He is but moody. Good mood one minute, not so good the next.” He asked the valet to bring him some paper from Amato’s notepad.
    Note from Amato: How did he insult you?
    â€œThe first time, he called me a German-lover,” I shouted. “The second time, he implied I didn’t have good breath control.”
    Scotti looked amused. “Which is worse?”
    â€œThe second one,” I snapped, “and stop smirking. You don’t have to sing with him.”
    â€œChe fortuna!” Scotti rolled his eyes heavenward.
    â€œDo you know he complains of sore throat?” Caruso said, sketching away. He was drawing caricatures of Scotti and me. I knew what mine would look like: all mouth and teeth.
    â€œWho is complaining of a sore throat?” I asked. “Duchon?”
    â€œFor two days now,” the tenor nodded. “I send him my throat spray.”
    Oh, wonderful. That was all we needed. Another baritone flat on his back.
    Scotti laughed. “Your young protégé may get his chance after all, Gerry.”
    â€œNo, no, it is not that bad,” Caruso said hastily. “Duchon still sings. But we must all be very careful,” he added ominously. “So much sickness around!”
    In the next room Amato coughed pitifully, once.
    â€œPoor Pasquale!” Caruso sang out on cue. “Is there anything we can do for you?”
    The note the valet brought in was for me. Move in with me, Gerry, and nurse me back to health and vigor .
    â€œHe’s feeling better,” I told the others.
    Caruso had finished his sketches and held them up for our inspection. “Very nice,” Scotti said expressionlessly.
    â€œDo I really have that many teeth?” I murmured. But what Caruso had done to me was nothing compared to what he’d done to Scotti. In his sketch he’d made Scotti’s long nose droop down below his chin. Caruso sent the caricatures in to Amato.
    We talked on for a while, the three of us, and then it was time to leave. It occurred to me I’d been sitting there chatting away and hadn’t even seen Amato, so I went to the door of his bedroom and looked in. He was asleep, Caruso’s caricatures of Scotti and me lying on the covers. Amato was a handsome man, when he wasn’t wearing that black wig and drooping mustache he preferred for most of his stage roles. He was still washed-out and weak looking, but he looked better than the last time I’d seen him. Our ailing baritone was definitely on the mend. So, it was only a matter of enduring Duchon just a little longer.
    Caruso was singing the following night and wanted to spend the rest of the day practicing, so Scotti took me home. In the lobby of the apartment building we found Jimmy Freeman’s vocal coach waiting. The doorman told us he’d been there over an hour.
    Osgood Springer came straight to the point. “James wishes to talk to you, Miss Farrar. But he’s not sure you’re still speaking to him.”
    â€œWell, of course I’m still speaking to him,” I said lightly. “Whyever not?”
    â€œHe’s afraid that scene he made in Delmonico’s might have offended you. May I tell him you’ll see him?”
    â€œWhat scene in Delmonico’s?”