Off he went on another roller-coaster ride of la-la-la’s. This time, knowing that he’d brought it off once and could therefore bring it off again, he began, diffidently, to camp it up in proper honeybunny style. The people in the audience — that’s what the faces had become: an audience; his audience — were grinning now, were eating out of his hand, were loving him.
Suddenly a switch flipped inside him, and a light came on, one bright flash of everlasting glory, and there was no way to explain it but he knew that if he’d been wired into a flight apparatus at just that moment (and the moment was gone already) he would have taken off. He knew it, and it made no difference, because he was flying already — up to the ceiling, around the chandelier, over the housetops, and across the wide blue sea.
He sang the last verse at full tilt, with wierd, bemused exuberance.
For the third chorus he did, impromptu, what’d he’d never dreamed of doing during the weeks of rehearsaclass="underline" he danced. It was unabashedly naive, the merest hop and shuffle, but just right (he guessed) for a honeybunny. Anyhow it felt right, if also risky. Once, concentrating on his footwork, he almost lost hold of the vocal line, but if he’d fallen on his face it wouldn’t have made any difference.
He had become a singer. Which nobody could deny.
“And will there be more honeybunny songs?” Cardinal Rockefeller inquired, after Daniel had returned from the green room in his own human character.
“I hope so, your Grace. We’re working on it.”
“When there are, I shall try to persuade you to exert your fascination over us again. Such charm and, if I may call it so, innocence are all too rare. You, and your distinguished teacher, are both to be commended.”
Daniel murmured thanks, and Rey, by way of advertising this accolade to the company at large, knelt to kiss the Cardinal’s ring. The Cardinal then led Rey off to an adjoining room, and Daniel was left to receive various metaphorical posies of praise and a single matter-of-fact posie, from Monsignor Dubery, of six rather washed-up lilies. The nun from Cleveland apologized for her snub and gave him the address of her convent so he might send her the sheet music of this and all future honeybunny songs. Old acquaintances from the Metastasio offered prophecies of greatness.
When the circle of well-wishers had dwindled to a few garrulous shoulder-rubbers, Shelly Gaines, asserting the privilege of prior acquaintance, came forward with a drink in each hand — beer for himself, a screwdriver for Daniel — and commandeered the new-born star for, as he said, “some man-talk.”
“Your own song is, of course, beyond all praise, and entirely anomalous, if that isn’t the same thing. It isn’t pop, though it is in a way, and it isn’t bel canto, though it requires a voice of bel canto elasticity, and it’s nothing at all like operetta, though I suppose that’s what it must be nearest to. Really quite amazing — and in that I speak only of the song, nothing of the singer, who was—” Shelly rolled his eyes in imitation of Daniel’s own neo-darktown-strutters style. “—the prophet of an entire new form of madness.”
“Thank you.”
“But beyond compliments, Ben… May I call you Ben?”
Daniel nodded.
“Beyond mere rapturous applause, Ben, I would like to make you an offer.” He raised a finger as though to forestall Daniel’s objections. “A professional offer. I gather, from the second song on the program, that your goals aren’t entirely limited to the, how shall I say, commercial side of show biz.”
“Really, I don’t have any goals.”
“Now, now, no false modesty.”
“I mean, I’m still a student. A student’s goal is just to learn.”
“Well then, my offer should interest you precisely as a student. How would you like to sing at Marble Collegiate? As one of our soloists.”
“No fooling?” Daniel said, lighting up. And then, “No, that wouldn’t be possible.”
“Ah, the Cardinal has already taken you to his bosom, has he? One just can’t be quick enough.”
“No, not at all. And I’m sure he has no intention of doing so. He’s got the whole Metastasio to take his pick from. I’m simply not up to that level.”
“You’d certainly be up to ours, Ben. And then some. We’re not especially notable for our music program. A Bach cantata is about our farthest stretch, and that only once or twice a year. On the other hand, we try for more than a sing-along. From your point of view it would represent experience, which is a commodity you won’t be lacking for long, but do you, at the moment, have any other plans? Rehearsals are on Wednesday evenings. And I think I could get a hundred a week out of the budget. What do you say?”
“What can I say? I’m flattered, but—”
“Mr. Rey would object — is that it?”
“He might. More likely, he’d haggle over the fee.”
“What else then?”
“Where would I be? In a loft at the back, or up front where people would be watching me?”
“Surely, Ben, after what I saw tonight, you’re not going to tell me that you’re the shy type! I’ve never seen such sang-froid. And in front of this audience!”
Daniel bit his lip. There was no way to explain. He’d known he’d come up against this problem as soon as he became, in any degree, successful, but despite the steady progress he’d made studying under Rey, success hadn’t seemed an immediate danger. Hope had sprung eternal, of course, in his all-too-human breast, but the rational half of him, which was in charge of major decisions, had considered such hopes to be pipe-dreams, and so he’d let himself drift with the current from week to week till he arrived at the inevitable moment of decision, here at last.
How long, once he became, even in the smallest way, a public figure, could he hope to preserve his incognito? And more to the point: was that what he wanted, forever and always?
“Shelly,” he temporized, “I’m grateful for your offer, believe me. And I’d like to say yes right now, but there’s someone I have to talk it over with first. Okay?”
“You know where you can find me. Meantime, yours sincerely, and all that.” Shelly, a little sad and rebuffed, departed, bumping into the music room’s disordered chairs. No one else came forward.
Daniel looked for Claude through all the other rooms, but he must have left at the end of the concert. A small desolation settled over Daniel’s spirit. He wanted to deposit his six lilies in a waste basket (he was certain they’d done duty at a week of funerals) and go home and crash.
But that would never do. It was important now to circulate, and so he circulated. But as far as he personally was concerned the party was over.
Claude had not forgotten him, however. The next morning a delivery truck appeared on West 65th with a peculiar and very precious cargo, consisting of (1) a Sony Flight apparatus, (2) a tombstone with a limerick on it, and (3) a tie representing raindrops. There was also a telegraphically short letter from Claude saying good-bye, explaining that Franciscans weren’t allowed to fly, and wishing him good luck as a honeybunny.