The storm had given way to a surprising calm. The snow was falling outside now in a quiet little flakes. It was an ordinary Sunday morning croissants, coffee, newspaper.
The phone does not sound today, not Sunday. He enjoyed the luxury of a little rest between tours at the end of the world. The radio broadcast of nostalgic melodies of Chopin. He wondered what could have been his life if he had followed a different path. If, like most children, he had returned home after school to do homework or have fun, instead of spending his evenings at the Conservatory, singing lessons in music theory lessons.
Since the death of his father three months earlier, he had logged 12 concerts, 18,000 kilometers, three different roles: a prince, a beggar, an Account. The role of the Prince not really passionate about it had played too much, and especially did not feel the soul of a seducer. He continued, however, interpret it, often at short notice to replace a missing singer. The role
Account suited him well at the moment: character dogmatic, authoritarian, incarnation of the tradition. Lately, he had a delicious pleasure in playing the role of the colossus with feet of clay, kneaded to interpret the beliefs and father proud, whose power is so illusory. His favorite role
was nevertheless one of the Beggar, this being miserable but surprisingly free of his words and deeds. This figure of marginality, this character who has nothing to lose, fascinated him.
He wanted that morning to embody all the beggars in history. Of no more than a insignificant man on the edge of a road, an individual who we expect nothing; a solitary and helpless without illusions. He would like to say that the vacuum was seized from him since the death of his father. Otherwise, what good singing ...
Turning the table to the sofa, he sank into the chair rambling old and faded, thinking wearily to the week for him. He no longer dreamed of the stage, applause, lights and flashes, interviews and triumphs. At this time, he wanted to withdraw from the world in an old building that he restored and where he saw his children grow up. Nothing mattered more than fly planes, hotel rooms and personal opera houses, smiling and admiring excessive.
The morning passed, he read a little, drank one of his suitcases, then sat on the couch, eyes half closed, listening to the radio. The air station broadcast of Rigoletto that he had read in his youth when the phone rang. He muttered a few insults, lowered the volume, ends up picking up the handset without conviction. His agent told bluntly:
- Novosibirsk needs a Prince tonight to represent ...
He interrupted the agent of an angry tone:
- And then?
- and how it then? I naturally thought of you to replace ...
- I can replace nobody, stop and bother me. In fact, I forbid you to call me on Sundays now.
He hung up, annoyed.
So this was the singer's life: spend twenty years of his life struggling to make themselves known and the twenty following at any give time, energy, enthusiasm over finally being up one morning as shadow of itself, void of all energy.
He put the radio very hard to break the silence. Classical radio broadcast to air this Figaro. The interpreter was young and frisky. His voice whirled, chanted words played at full speed, his diction was flawless. He said that the role of Figaro was well suited to this young singer he wondered who he was. Perhaps one of his pupils, who knows.
The monotonous voice of the announcer cut the last chord of music just made.
- You've just heard, in the role of Figaro, a singer who was then in its infancy ...
He jumped. It was him. Himself 32 years earlier, in one of his earliest roles. It then just came out of the conservatory. It does not even remember that a record was made that day.
He said suddenly decided he wanted to stay that being full of energy and hope, fiery, passionate. Otherwise what would become? A former singer, embittered and lonely old professor?
He picked up the phone, his agent recalled.
- Do not ask no questions, it's good for tonight. I take the first flight to Novosibirsk.
- But ... Maestro.
He felt embarrassed voice of his interlocutor.
- It's too late Maestro, you have refused the role. I appealed to a young Russian singer. This will be the first time he will play on a stage as important, but it is extremely talented and will, I am sure the challenge.
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