Queen of the Night

So, it's been a little while since my last post--there have been a number of higher priority matters, like grad school and being in Madama Butterfly. Nevertheless, this little blog of mine (I'm gonna let it shine?) has not been entirely forgotten; I'll be posting new content here soon enough.

In the meantime, however, this here short story was my entry for the second Machine of Death anthology. It didn't get picked, but hey--they can only use about 30 stories, and mine was one of almost 2,000 entries. I believe "healthy competition" is something of an understatement in this case.

A number of you have already read this, I know. Well, you poor bastards will just have to wait until I think of something new to write. It shouldn't be long, though; I just saw the new Three Musketeers and holy crap there's so much material I don't even know where to begin.

Anyway. Enjoy!

QUEEN OF THE NIGHT

Charlie Hyland

Occasionally, Anna had to remind herself that a half-fulfilled dream was better than nothing at all. You're onstage in a production at the Metropolitan Opera, she would think. So many singers your age would kill to be where you are right now. But no matter how many times she reassured herself, she would always come back to one disheartening fact:

She wasn't singing.

Anna Banks, twenty-nine year old coloratura soprano, was on a glorified death-watch for a perfectly healthy – if borderline psychotic – diva. Of course, the technical term for her position was “understudy,” but the reality of the situation was far more macabre.

It had all started with the machine, the Thanatomatic X-500: just a pin-prick and a blood sample, and anyone in the world could find out how they were going to die. To say that the machine changed the world would be an understatement – people had been throwing around the term “culture of death” for years, but the sudden advent of the machine made the idea much more literal. The X-500 was a cold, metal reminder of human mortality, and many people compensated for their own fears by becoming fascinated with the deaths of others.

Almost overnight, a whole new branch of reality television sprang into existence, documenting the daily lives of people with unusual death predictions. Shows like She's On Fire! (about a Latino drag queen who would die of SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION) and Polar Opposites (about a squabbling married couple destined to be MAULED BY A POLAR BEAR) became huge successes, with people from all across the country tuning in every week to see whether or not these new celebrities would meet their maker on national television. Every network that wanted to boost its ratings had a machine-related show, with clothing and product lines to match – and people ate it up.

In short, death had never been more profitable.

Anna would never forget the day that she had taken the test for the first time. She had been curious, of course, and even strangely excited – but the thing she remembered most was the feeling of vague dread that had hung in the air. Then came the pin-prick on her fingertip, the whirring of the machine, and finally, the card. The X-500 always spat the card out face down, so all you could see at first was the faint green stamp on the back that read “Made from 100% recycled materials.” That part had somehow been the hardest for Anna – she was about to find out how she would spend her final moments on Earth, and the machine seemed to be trying to soften the blow by saying, “That CAR ACCIDENT is going to be horrific, but at least you're reducing the size of your carbon footprint.” Anna had been tempted to walk away right then and there and forget about the whole thing, but her curiosity got the better of her. She had come this far; she just had to know. She took the card, turned it over in her hands, and saw her death sentence spelled out in rigid capital letters: DROWNING.

Anna cried herself to sleep that night and for several nights afterward, and her dreams were of dark water and soundless screams. One day, she knew, she would die in pain and terror, with her lungs burning and her vision fading and the water closing in over her head. There was nothing she could do to stop it. The machine had introduced despair into Anna's life, and she would never be quite the same.

The rest of the world, however, remained fascinated with the X-500. The frenzy surrounding the so-called “machine of death” was in full swing when Rosalinda Ericson first saw her death card. Rosalinda was a soprano – an aging one, past her vocal and physical prime, but a soprano nonetheless – who had achieved a certain degree of notoriety in her youth for her terrifying rendition of the Queen of the Night in Mozart's The Magic Flute. The passage of time had taken its toll on her, however, and the introduction of high-definition video broadcasts to the world of opera had already prompted many major opera houses to start hiring younger, prettier stars.

This only exacerbated Rosalinda's already prickly demeanor, and she soon became unbearable to work with. Directors hated her, other singers avoided her, and a few stagehands even began to actively sabotage her during performance. Finally, after a spectacular meltdown during a performance of Die Fledermaus at the Washington National Opera, her job offers began to dry up entirely. Faced with a dying career and a rapidly dwindling bank account, Rosalinda retreated from the public eye, wormed her way into the bed of a twice-divorced patron of the arts, and watched the musical world move on without her. By the time the X-500 had been tested and released for public use, she was nearing seventy and hadn't sung at a major opera house in over ten years. What did she have to lose? Her career was dead already; she supposed it couldn't hurt to find out how the rest would come to an end.

Her death card, however, contained a spark of hope. As Rosalinda read the words printed on the slip of recycled paper, her eyes began to fill with tears of joy. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore. She would indeed die, as everyone must eventually, but she would die while reliving her glory days: she would die singing the QUEEN OF THE NIGHT.

Rosalinda knew immediately what had to be done. She was accustomed to getting what she wanted by any means necessary – flattery, bribery, threats, and even blackmail, on a few occasions – and years of languishing in obscurity had done little to diminish her capacity for professional ruthlessness. It took nearly two years of making new contacts and rebuilding burned bridges (not to mention several sizable donations of her new husband's money) to arrange it, but she finally found herself in a position to submit herself as a candidate for the Queen of the Night in the Metropolitan Opera's upcoming production of The Magic Flute. She made her pitch at a meeting with the artistic staff and the board of directors, spelling out her proposal in the simplest terms possible:

“Money,” Rosalinda announced in a steely voice. “You need money. As everyone knows, ticket sales have been declining for years, and the average age of members and season-ticket-holders has been going up.” She swept her eyes across the room, judging the reactions of the board members. “Your audience is going to start dying soon, ladies and gentlemen. You need to attract a younger audience as soon as possible, or you will find yourselves in dire financial straits. And that's where I come in.” She smiled. “Put me on that stage next season. If you properly advertise my prediction, the audience will be overflowing with death-watchers.”

“That's a bit morbid, isn't it?” asked a bespectacled man in the back of the room.

Several people nodded in agreement, and Rosalinda snorted with disdain. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, Mr. Greenwood. You need to appeal to a new demographic, and this sort of event will draw in people who've never been to an opera before.” She paused for effect. “This is your chance to make a whole new generation of opera enthusiasts.”

“That's all well and good, Ms. Ericson,” Greenwood replied, “But it's a moot point. We've already offered the role to someone else.”

Rosalinda's eyes narrowed. “To whom?”

“Anna Banks,” a woman said. She was relatively new to the board, and Rosalinda couldn't be bothered to remember her name. “We offered her the role almost a year ago. Twenty-eight years old, beautiful voice, and a capable actress.”

“And a great body,” Greenwood added.

Rosalinda made no attempt to conceal her contempt. “And this would be her Met debut?”

“Yes,” What's-her-name said, “but I don't see what that has to do with—”

“Fire her,” Rosalinda demanded. “Rescind the contract. She's too young and she won't bring you half the publicity that I will. The little tart can have her debut some other time. And besides,” she added, throwing a venomous look at Greenwood, “you don't need to look like a pin-up girl to sing the Queen.”

After a great deal of consideration, the board decided to go along with Rosalinda's proposal. Anna's contract was “re-evaluated” the following week, and she was relegated to the position of the Queen's understudy. To the board, it appeared to be an ideal compromise: they would capitalize on Rosalinda's death card for the ticket sales, and Anna would take over the role in the event of the old diva's untimely demise.

Anna would have preferred to have been fired outright, though she didn't have the heart to walk away from the production entirely. Even if it was only half a dream come true, it was still a step in the right direction. Despite her optimism, though, she couldn't deny that it was humiliating: she had been ready to skyrocket to stardom, but now she had to shadow her own usurper around the stage, ready to take over without missing a beat when the old hag got around to dying. Anna had no idea when her next big break would arrive, to say nothing of whether or not that would fall through as well. All she knew for sure was that she hated Rosalinda Ericson.

As it turned out, however, Rosalinda had been right. The new production opened to sold-out houses and rave reviews, though Rosalinda's own performance garnered fewer accolades than she had hoped. The Times praised her “frightening stage presence and manic energy,” but remarked that her voice was “showing its age” and her technique was “passable but imprecise.” The New Yorker, on the other hand, commented on the “bloodthirsty audience” that “seemed noticeably disappointed every time Ms. Ericson left the stage unscathed.”

The rest of the cast felt much the same way.

“I can't believe the bitch isn't dead yet,” Tom Winchester remarked loudly after the third performance. Tom was singing the role of Papageno, the opera's eccentric bird-catcher, with whom he shared several character traits – most notably, a tendency to say whatever crossed his mind, consequences be damned. It had already caused a number of problems, especially because he never bothered to check whether or not Rosalinda was within earshot.

This was one of those times.

“Excuse me?” Rosalinda emerged from her dressing room, glaring daggers at the offending baritone. She had already removed her crown and let down her hair, but her face was still covered with the Queen's imposing stage makeup.

“You heard me, Rosie.”

“Ms. Ericson,” she replied sharply.

“Fine. Ms. Ericson.” Tom folded his arms. “I was just asking the rest of the cast when they thought you'd bugger off and die.”

“Don't think you can speak to me that way,” Rosalinda snapped. “You will give me the respect I'm due, or so help me God, I'll talk to the board—”

“And then what?” He let out a short laugh. “You act like you're some sort of legend, but you seem to forget that you pissed your career and all your friends away because you were – are – a harpy.”

“I am the reason this production is so successful,” she hissed furiously.

“It's your death card,” Tom sneered. “Not you. The only reason you have this job in the first place is because people are understandably eager to see you die, so maybe you should get on with it and leave the singing to someone remotely competent.”

Rosalinda moved faster than anyone anticipated, striking Tom across the face with a vicious slap. There was a moment of stunned silence before the baritone lunged at her, and only the immediate intervention of Sarastro, the First Armored Man, and the stage manager prevented an all-out brawl. Volleys of profanity were unleashed from both sides, but the two were finally separated, and both of them were assured that any further altercations would result in the immediate termination of their contracts. Needless to say, Tom and Rosalinda stayed far away from each other from that point on. Anna, however, had found an ally in the baritone, and she began to spend much of her time backstage in his company.

“I'm just saying, it could be a hoax,” Tom grumbled. It was the intermission of the seventh performance, and he and Anna had taken refuge in his dressing room to avoid Rosalinda's customary mid-show tantrum. “Who's to say she didn't have it printed up somewhere?”

Anna sighed and took a sip from the straw in her water bottle. “Trust me, I've asked that question already. They had her get tested again before they hired her. There were lawyers present and everything.”

“Well, there goes my plan to publicly discredit her.” Tom sighed. “So we're stuck with her until she kicks the bucket – and for all we know, she could sing the Queen for another ten years before it kills her.”

“If it kills her at all,” Anna reminded him. “It doesn't say HEART ATTACK WHILE SINGING A HIGH C. Just QUEEN OF THE NIGHT.”

“So what else do you think it would be?”

“I dunno.” Anna shrugged. “Isn't 'Queen of the Night' the name of a Whitney Houston song?”

“That seems like a bit of a stretch.” A mischievous grin spread across Tom's face. “I'm thinking more along the lines of a jealous understudy.”

Anna grimaced. “At this rate, I wouldn't rule it out. I've been trying to avoid her whenever possible, but still... I've never had to deal with anyone so difficult.”

“Welcome to show business, kid,” Tom said with a smirk. “Death cards or not, performers are insane. We don't spend our lives pretending to be other people because we're well-adjusted.”

Anna thought for a moment. “Have you ever worked with anyone whose death prediction was performance-related?”

“Not until now, thank God. But I heard about a tenor in Germany whose card read BASSOON. Or whatever the German word for bassoon is.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Tom grinned. “And from that day forward, he refused to perform with any orchestra that wouldn't fire its bassoonists first. But other than that... singers tend to die the same ways that everyone else does.” He paused and took a long look at Anna. “You're DROWNING, aren't you.”

The dressing room was silent for several moments.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “How'd you know?”

“I've seen it before,” Tom replied. “You never drink from fountains – always from a cup or a bottle, and always through a straw. Like you're afraid of water.”

“It sounds silly when you put it like that,” Anna said with a faint smile. “And what are you?”

“CLOWN CAR MISHAP,” Tom said. Anna couldn't tell whether or not he was serious.

—

“Good evening and welcome to Master Class on NPR. I'm your host, Jefferson Smythe, and with me tonight is soprano Rosalinda Ericson. Ms. Ericson, welcome to the show.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

“As most of our listeners already know, you're currently singing the Queen of the Night in a rather controversial production of The Magic Flute at the Metropolitan Opera – one that has gathered an unprecedented amount of attention in the opera community and mainstream media alike.”

“That's correct.”

“And this is due in large part to your death prediction?”

“Much of the publicity has been focused on my card, yes. This is the role that, in all likelihood, will kill me some day.”

“Now, if I remember correctly, you have quite a long history with this opera.”

“Oh, most definitely. I've been singing The Magic Flute for almost forty years now. My first big break was singing the Queen at the Chicago Lyric Opera, and it's been one of my signature roles ever since.”

“Was there anything in particular that drew you to her?”

“Absolutely – the Queen is a figure of power and mystery; she knows exactly how to get what she wants, and she'll stop at nothing to achieve her goals. She's fearless. Ruthless. And beyond that, the music requires an unparalleled degree of technical excellence. Any half-decent lyric soprano can sing Pamina, but it takes someone extraordinary to sing the Queen.”

“As you said a minute ago, this role may well be the death of you. Most people go out of their way to avoid or delay their own predictions, but you actually requested to be hired for this production. Why is that?”

“I couldn't think of a better way to mark my return to the world of opera. I'm incredibly blessed to be singing Flute again.”

“And you even went so far as to replace the singer who had already been hired for the part?”

“That was an unfortunate mix-up, and no one regrets it more than I do. Anna Banks is a lovely young woman, and I'm very happy that she agreed to stay attached to the production as my understudy.”

“I see. Now, a number of people have suggested that your insistence on singing this role is evidence of a death wish—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Their words, not mine. But there have been some allegations that every performance of this role constitutes an attempted suicide on your part. Would you care to comment?”

“Nothing could be farther from the truth, Jefferson. Every time I get up on that stage, it is an affirmation of life. An act of defiance against the inevitability of fate.”

“An affirmation of life?”

“Yes.”

“And what's your opinion of the ad campaign for this production?”

“It's been very effective so far. Why do you ask?”

“Your death card is featured prominently in all of the opera's promotional material. It hardly seems in keeping with your positive outlook.”

“I'm afraid I had nothing to do with that. You'd have to take that up with the people in charge of publicity.”

“Of course. So do you think you'll survive this run?”

“Well, I have no way of knowing for sure. No one does. But every time I go onstage, I plan on leaving it alive.”

“In that case, why even sing Flute?”

“I'm sorry?”

“If you don't mind me saying, you would be much more sure of leaving the stage alive if you were singing an opera that didn't come with your own personal sword of Damocles attached.”

“And what would you suggest instead?”

“If I remember correctly, Olympia in Les Contes d'Hoffmann was another one of your signature roles...”

“Yes, well. I'm a little old for that now.”

“To be fair, singing the Queen at seventy is no easy task either.”

“I'm sixty-nine. And I manage.”

“Indeed you do. Nine performances down, with the final encore this Saturday. What's next for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“After this run finishes. Will you be singing anywhere else, or will you go back into retirement?”

“Retirement is... no longer an option. This business can be cut-throat and heartbreaking at times, but I would never have gotten as far as I did if I didn't completely and utterly love it. I spent almost thirteen years on the sidelines, and they were the longest years of my life. I don't plan on doing it again.”

“An admirable sentiment. Do you have any performances lined up after Flute finishes?”

“...no.”

“I see.”

“I doubt anyone will hire me until they see that I've survived the Queen.”

“I suppose that's understandable. In any case, that's all the time we have for now. Ms. Ericson, I wish you all the best for your final performance and your future endeavors, and thank you very much for coming on the show.”

“My pleasure.”

—

Tom was waiting in the wings when Anna left the stage, a huge grin on his face.

“Brava,” he said, though he was barely audible over the roar of the crowd. “That was amazing.”

Anna's face was flushed and her heart was racing. Rosalinda had collapsed in the middle of “Der Hölle Rache,” leaving Anna to finish the famous coloratura runs in front of an electrified audience. “I did it,” she murmured. “I finally did it.”

“Don't relax yet; you still have to get into costume and makeup for the finale.” Tom took her by the arm and led her backstage. “How do you feel?”

“Incredible. Like I could take on the world.” Anna paused to catch her breath. “And Rosalinda?”

“Still breathing,” Tom replied, “but just barely. The paramedics were already here when the stagehands carried her into the wings, so they were able to get her to a hospital right away.” He paused. “You were the one who called them, weren't you.”

Anna smiled demurely, but said nothing.

“That's what I thought,” Tom chuckled. “How'd you know?”

“Just a hunch,” Anna said, taking a sip from her water bottle. “That, and the stash of Vicodin and vodka in her dressing room.”

“Jesus.”

“I don't think she ever planned to make it to the final performance. Tonight was her last chance to go out in the blaze of glory that she was looking for.” Anna shrugged. “She would have been a legend, and I couldn't allow that. Not after everything that she put me through. Now she's just a washed-up old psycho – and even if she isn't institutionalized, no one will ever hire her again.”

Tom looked uncomfortable. “Damn, Anna. She's a bitch and all, but that's pretty cold.”

“She brought it on herself,” Anna said stonily. “And I did save her life.”

“Yeah, out of spite. Don't expect her to thank you any time soon.”

“I'd be disappointed if she did.” Anna smiled. “But she can't complain; she got everything she wanted, except for that one little detail at the end.”

“Death isn't exactly a little detail,” Tom said.

“I guess not,” Anna replied calmly. “But I hope she lives a long life anyway.”

Anna began humming to herself on the way back to her dressing room. It was funny how things could change, really: she had spent most of the production telling herself that a half-fulfilled dream was better than nothing at all – but somehow, she doubted that Rosalinda would agree.