Kinney took painstaking care in introducing each member of the table to Sarah. He told their names, where their families came from, the husband’s line of work, and a lengthy reading of their commitment to the arts that read more like a curriculum vitae than a brunch introduction. When he was finished, Kinney turned to Max and added, “This is Maxwell Klein, Madame’s manager and confidant.” Then he turned from Max as quickly.
The waiters never broke a sweat. Sarah noticed that. They performed in their perfectly executed tandem, never betraying the anxiety or stress of transporting food that was prepared with a chef’s vision. Careful not to disrupt the presentation and not to lose the proper serving temperature of the meals, while keeping a shadowed presence inside the room, on the unenviable cusp of having to be readily engaged and as impassive as the walls. She was struck by their professionalism. Their drive for perfection. And she wondered what instilled this ethic. Surely there was not enough money to engender this level of commitment, nor (and even more baffling) was there an audience to applaud their efforts. At best they might be palmed a nice gratuity at the end of the evening, followed by a concessionary elitist comment such as, The service was quite nice tonight. But maybe that was enough. Maybe recognition, even in its barest most questionable form, was the motivation for excellence. She was thinking about that when Kinney asked if there was a problem with the food. She just wasn’t very hungry, she told him, half-expecting him to order the waiters to find some other accommodations. Mostly though, she was not hungry from boredom.
To Sarah’s right sat a woman with a slight frame. She wore her blond hair twisted and pinned to the back of her head with the sides shaped like cones. Her cheeks puffed out uncomfortably, as though she was the victim of a cultural melancholia only cured by food (and clearly not her husband’s money). She wore a wedding ring with a slim silver band, almost invisible, but on top sat a fat diamond that vied for balance each time she moved a finger. She was the wife of Dr. Cornelius Michaels (none of the women seemed to have their own names), descendants of Scots, and the major funders behind the growth of the county art museum. (Or was she Mrs. Michael Connors of Prussian descent, primary funder of the ballet expansion?) She turned to Sarah and said that timeless expression: “I can’t tell you what an honor this is.”
Sarah nodded and smiled, whispering, “Merci.”
“I am so delighted to see Camille tomorrow night. It has been a dream of mine to see you in that role.”
“I have always wondered why it is called that in America?”
“I am sorry?”
“Why do you think they call it Camille? That is not the name of the play.”
A few of the men coughed.
“It is called La Dame aux Camélias.”
“Perhaps,” one of the men offered (Dr. Simon, England, Sculpture?), “it has been translated because of our clumsy American tongues.”
“But it translates to Lady of the Camellias. A reference to Marguerite always buying the flowers.”
“Well, you know we Americans like things compact and succinct,” said Dr. Simon, laughing.
“I find it strange,” Sarah said. She took a small bite and then chased it with a sip of champagne. “Does Camille even mean anything?”
“A name,” Mrs. Michaels said. “In fact, my sister is named Camille.”
“How very interesting.”
Mrs. Michaels continued. “Again, I cannot express how much I am looking forward to watching your performance in La Dame—The Lady of the Camellias.”
Sarah finished her glass. “It pleases me to hear your anticipation. However, I am regretful to tell you that I will not be performing La Dame aux Camélias tomorrow evening. I have decided to change the show to La Tosca.”
Max’s elbow nearly slipped off the table. She saw him look to Kinney, who was strangely unaffected by the news. Then Max glared at her with a look that commanded silence. She shrugged. Normally he would break in with a what Madame meant to say and recast her words to his neutral agenda. But this time there was nothing that Molly could possibly do with that phrase. It was clear and precise, leaving no variance for interpretation. All he could do was sit back and nod his head. He would probably look best if he just appeared agreeable, instead of stunned and unaware.
“Well.” Mrs. Michaels spoke for the table. “That is a little unorthodox, isn’t it? Changing shows the day before.”
“Sometimes you must go with intuition,” Sarah said. “It is unfair to both the company and the audience to proceed with a performance when both have lost the emotional connection. That is when decisions need to be made.”
Kinney straightened at the end of the table. The words and implications finally processing through his mind. “Indeed, it does sound a bit unorthodox.”
“We are a company of professionals. And a large part of our success is based on trusting our instincts. Plus, we have been playing La Tosca on this tour already. We have the sets. Rehearsals have been run.”
Kinney nodded, looking both surprisingly content and enthralled.
“I will be frank with all of you,” Sarah stated. “You are scholars of art. If you saw me perform Marguerite Gautier tomorrow night you would be very disappointed. You would leave the theater saying to one another that while it was a pleasure to see Madame Bernhardt apply her craft, still there was something lacking. You would not be able to put your finger on it, but still you would know. So I will save the discussion in two manners. First, by changing the show, and secondly by explaining that what you recognize as lacking is the admission that I am not sure that I understand Marguerite Gautier anymore.”
“What Madame means to say,” (there he goes) Max said, “is that she is reenvisioning Marguerite’s motivations.”
Sarah smiled at him. “Sitting here with you today makes me realize that I cannot possibly continue that charade. So instead we turn to La Tosca. A simple woman in a complex situation. One whose tragic death is by her own hand. Her own punctuation mark to end the circumstances. Where death is honor, and her freedom is in being able to choose.”
“And,” Dr. Simon added, “where Tosca translates to Tosca.”
Abbot Kinney was no doubt bolstered by the confidence he was seeing in the patrons. “I suppose I have little choice but to trust your vision,” he said. “You must have some extra work ahead of you though, Mr. Klein.”
“Indeed,” Max said, trying to portray support and ease. He nearly knocked over the champagne glass while pushing it away.
“Max is very used to me by now. Isn’t that right, Max?”
With all eyes on him, he forced a smile at her as though every muscle in his face had gone dead.
“Cheers.” Kinney lifted his glass. “To Madame Bernhardt…And to instincts.”