Take the Eighth Avenue elevated back, dead happy tired with the whole city around my head like a halo. There are no Dutch people in Haarlem. I have noticed on walks that coloured people and foreigners in general are totally different here. In New York it’s not like they’re in someone else’s city, at least not in their own neighbourhoods. The neighbourhoods are whole cities themselves. At home when I passed by the Pier or Fourteen Yard I always felt sorry and thought how lucky I was not to be born into that, but here when I went into Haarlem I felt weird for being white. It’s full of churches, and families just out strolling in the evening. I felt conspicuous. But I never fit in down home either so what’s the difference?
Everything in New York is a photograph. All the things that are supposed to be dirty or rough or unrefined are the most beautiful things. Garbage cans at the ends of alleyways look like they’ve been up all night talking with each other. Doorways with peeling paint look like the wise lines around an old feller’s eyes. I stop and stare but can’t stay because men always think I’m selling something. Or worse, giving something away. I wish I could be invisible. Or at least I wish I didn’t look like someone they want to look at. They stop being part of the picture, they get up from their chess game and come out of the frame at me, blocking my view. What do they see when they look at me?
Fri April 19 — Jesus, Mary and Joseph, last night I snuck out at midnight when Giles was asleep. Why didn’t I do this weeks ago? I thought there was music during the day, but the night consists of nothing but. The problem is I can’t get into any of the interesting-looking places unescorted. But so far it’s enough to drink up the night, the streetlights, the life on front stoops off Broadway, behind curtained windows, private clubs with shuttered doors, the faint sound of trumpets and drums, and the longest automobiles I have ever seen. I thought Haarlem would be asleep by the time I got up there, considering the number of churches, but maybe the churches turn into clubs at night like toys coming alive ’cause it was a different city — on the main streets anyhow. Daddy always says that in Ireland the number of churches is exceeded only by the number of pubs. Lenox Avenue was gorged with people dressed to the nines, lines of limousines, a fair number of white people, even mixed couples pouring in and out of places. It whitens somewhat at night. I’m on the verge of answering the next man who says, “Hey sweetheart, where’s your boyfriend?” just so’s I can step inside somewhere, anywhere, so long as there’s music, music, music. I did go to one place though. Jerry Chan’s Chop Suey House at Canal and Bowery. Delicious. Here’s my fortune: “You will meet a tall dark and handsome stranger.” Très romantique, n’est-ce pas?
tues — Today the Kaiser made me stand barefoot in a basin of ice-water while vocalizing.
Friday — This morning he brought out the Vaccai Practical Method of Italian Singing! I could have wept to see my childhood friend. I never thought I would be so happy to start at the beginning all over again. How the mighty have fallen. Kaiser opened to page one, “The Scale” — at least it’s set to words — and said, “Vowels only, if you please.” I told him I can read Italian, but he ignored me. So. It is still not yet given to me to chew solid food. NO CONSONANTS. I plot his death.
Have an accompanist now. She is a machine he imported to plod through the Vaccai while I gum the vowels. Why bother? And he has the nerve to tell me to pay attention to the “music” she is plunking out.
sat — I can tell when a piano is out of tune and, yes, it does matter.
mon — Why am I wasting my time and anyone else’s? I can’t sing, forget how, forget why I ever wanted to. Giles says I look pale — good. I’m staying in bed tomorrow.
wed, May 1 — The Kaiser went nuts when I came in today, “Vere in Gott’s name haff you been?!” “I was sick.” “I don’t care if you come here shpitting blood, you vill come! Next time you are indisposed I had better learn off it wia your obituary in ze papahs, do you understant me?” “Ja, mein Kaiser.” He said he’d fling me out if I missed another class.
I didn’t say, “Ja, mein Kaiser” I said, “I’m sorry sir.” Then I thought, what the heck, he’s already wild at me, so I added, “Sir, I didn’t think one day more or less of scales would be any grievous loss to the music world.” And he slapped me. I looked over at the accompanist — that girl is made of stone. She didn’t look at me. She just waited for him to give the command, “E minor, Miss Lacroix.” And she started in like a player-piano you couldn’t give away. I sang but I don’t know where it came from.
If I told my father, he would come and kill this man. Why didn’t I hit him back? The strange thing is, today I felt like I was singing those ruddy scales for the first time. I can’t explain it, it wasn’t in words, it was this knowledge all of a sudden as though I knew it all along but didn’t know I knew it, and it was: all the music is in this scale. The scale is just a safe place where all the music can fold itself down and get stored. Like seeds.
And the scale sounded so pure to me. Like in the end, if you had to be stranded on a desert island, you wouldn’t take Traviata or Bohème, you’d take one scale. Because it has everything in it. I hope I don’t have to be whacked every time just to learn one crummy, measly, huge lesson.
Thursday, May 2 — Singing words!
Saturday — He asked me today if I knew the difference between sentiment and emotion.
Monday — Today he said, “Your voice is a beautiful face. Which you manipulate with the coarseness of a circus clown.” My first compliment from the Kaiser.
Thursday, May 9 — The Kaiser has set up an audition for me with Mr Gatti-Casazza, il numero uno of the Metropolitan Opera! November 12. He is going to let me sing an aria! Aria? What’s that? The Kaiser said if I’m lucky Mr G-C will put me in the Met chorus next season. And I finally got up the guts to say I’d rather go back to New Waterford and have ten babies than tote notes in the Met chorus behind some Franklin stove of a superannuated diva. No, Diary — I must be honest. I said, “Sir, I am not chorus material.” And he said, “That is the correct answer, Miss Piper.”
Saturday — “Listen to the piano, you’re not listening, Miss Pipah.” I’m sick of the piano. It’s time the piano started listening to the voice.
Monday — I asked the accompanist, perfectly politely, how long she had been playing piano and she raised one eyebrow and said, “I’ve always played.” Oh, allow me to prostrate myself before thee, oh sphinx of the keyboard!
Tuesday — Miss Lacroix is in league with the Kaiser. She can do no wrong. She plays like an automaton and I’m supposed to follow her. I told the Kaiser I might as well go down to the Henry Ford plant and sing to the rhythm of the assembly line. I said exactly that and he just shrugged a bit. Maybe he’s mellowing. Maybe I’m wearing him down a little, or maybe — oh horrors — he likes me. She still never looks at me much less says good morning, who does she think she is? Where did he dig her up? I thought coloured people were supposed to have rhythm.