Humming a snatch of the love duet from Butterfly under his breath, he changed in leisurely manner: first the electric razor until the smoothness of his cheek satisfied him, then a hot bath followed by a tepid shower, a good rub down, and a dust of plain talcum. The hotel valet had already put out his evening clothes, with the onyx and diamond links and studs in the fresh frilled starched shirt, the black silk socks half folded over, the patent shoes, trees removed and tongues turned back, set nearly by the armchair. Arturo could not have done better, he must remember to tip the man. At last he was ready. A touch of Eau de Muget and a brisk drill with his monogrammed ivory-backed, military brushes—thank God he had kept his hair—completed the picture. He studied himself in the glass. He had always looked well in white tie and tails—no one could touch Caraceni, in the Boncompagni, for perfection of cut—and tonight, in all modesty, he knew unquestionably that he made a handsome, distinguished, and amazingly youthful figure. In a spirit of some anticipation he switched off the light—the habit persisted from his youth—and went into the sitting-room.
She did not keep him waiting. Presently the door opened and slowly she came out wearing the green dress he had chosen for her and, to his delight, the thin necklet of emeralds that so exactly matched it. Literally, he held his breath as, still slowly, with lowered eyes and cheeks faintly flushed, she advanced and stood before him. If he had thought her ravishing in the lovat suit, now there was no word to fit the case.
“Kathy,” he said in a low voice, “you will not like me to say this, but I must. You look enchantingly and unutterably lovely.”
He had never in his life spoken such absolute truth. So young, so fresh, and with that warm complexion and reddish gold hair, green undoubtedly was her colour. What he would make of her when he took her to Dior or Balenciaga! But was she trembling? She moistened her lips.
“It is the most beautiful dress,” she said haltingly. “And, after all, you bought me the necklace.”
“Just to go with your frock,” he said gaily, determined to lighten her mood. “A few green beads.”
“No. Anna was admiring them. She says they are cabochon emeralds.”
“Ah, well! I only hope your escort looks good enough to go with them.”
She looked at him, then looked away.
“I never knew there could be anyone like you.” He saw that she was seeking a phrase; it came with unusual awkwardness, “You’re . . . you’re just out of this world.”
“I hope I won’t be for some time.” He laughed. “And now let’s be off. It will delight your democratic spirit—since Arturo is away, we must take a taxi.”
“Am I to wear these gloves?” she asked nervously, on the way down. “They seem so long.”
“Wear them or carry them, as you please, dearest Kathy, it makes no difference. You can’t improve upon perfection.”
The concierge, though shocked that in such splendour they should be denied their usual conveyance, bowed them into a respectable cab. In a few minutes they arrived at the Opera House, passed through the crowded foyer and were shown to the loge he had secured in the second circle. Here, in the privacy of the snug, red-carpeted little box, which was all their own, he felt her relax. Free of her nervousness, she gazed out upon the brilliant scene with increasing interest and excitement while he, seated close behind, looking over her shoulder through his opera glasses, had the delightful consciousness of reproducing that incomparable Renoir on the same theme, not, alas, his own, but one he had always admired.
“This is new, of course, rebuilt since the war,” he explained. “A little too white and glittering perhaps—the Viennese tend to overdo their crystal—but still quite charming.”
“Oh, it is,” she agreed unreservedly.
“And as you see, everyone in their best bib and tucker for Tebaldi. Incidentally, as she’ll be singing in Italian I ought to give you an idea of what it’s all about. It opens at Nagasaki in Japan where Pinkerton, an officer in the United States navy, has arranged through a broker to marry a sweet little Japanese girl, Cho-Cho-San . . .”. Concisely he ran through the main points of the story, concluding: “It’s very sentimental, as you see, one of Puccini’s lighter offerings, far from being grand opera, but nevertheless delightfully moving and poignant.”
He had no sooner concluded than a burst of applause announced the appearance of the conductor, Karajan. The lights dimmed, the overture began, then slowly the curtain went up, revealing a Japanese interior of exquisite delicacy.
Moray had already seen this opera twice at the Metropolitan in New York, where he had been for years a season-ticket holder, and where, in fact, he had several times heard Tebaldi sing. Once he had assured himself that the great diva was in voice, he was able to devote himself to the reactions of his companion, and unobserved, with a strange and secret expectation, he watched the changing expressions that lit then shadowed her intent young face.
At first she seemed confused by the novelty of the experience and the oriental strangeness of the scene. But gradually she became absorbed. The handsome Pinkerton, whom he had always found insufferable, obviously repelled her. He could sense her rising sympathy for Cho-Cho-San and a worried precognition of impending disaster. When the curtain fell at the end of the first act she was quite carried away.
“Oh, what a despicable man,” she exclaimed, turning to him with flushed cheeks. “One knows from the beginning that he is worthless.”
“Vain and self-indulgent, perhaps,” he agreed. “But why do you dislike him so much?”
She lowered her eyes as though reflecting, then said:
“To me, it’s the worst thing—never to think of others, but only of oneself.”
The second act, opening on a note of tender sadness, sustained by an undertone of hope deferred, would, he knew, affect her more acutely than the first. As it proceeded, he did not look at her, feeling it an intrusion to observe such unaffected swelling of the heart. But towards the end of the scene, as the lights dimmed upon the stage and Cho-Cho-San lit her lantern by the doorway to begin her nightly vigil, while the haunting melody of the aria “Un bel di” swelled then faded from the darkening room, he took one swift glance at his companion. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“Dearest Kathy.” He bent towards her. “If it is upsetting you, we will leave.”
“No, no,” she protested chokingly. “It’s sad but it’s wonderful. And I must see what happens. Just lend me your handkerchief, mine is useless now. Thank you, dear, dear David—you are so kind. Oh, that poor, sweet girl. That any man could be so inhuman, so—so beastly.” Her voice failed, yet she willed herself to be composed.
Indeed, during the third act, rising through unbearable pathos to the final shattering tragedy, she retained control. When the curtain fell and he dared look towards her she was not weeping, but her head had fallen forward on her breast, as though she could endure no more.
They left the theatre. Still overcome, she did not speak until they were in their taxi; then, secure from observation, she said, in a muffled voice:
“I shall never forget this evening . . . never . . .”
He chose his words carefully.
“I knew you had feeling, a great capacity for emotion. I hoped you would be moved.”
“Oh, I was, I was. . . . And the best thing of all, dear David, was seeing it with you.”
No more than that, but enough for him to sense through her still quivering nerves a melting softness towards him. Silently, gently questing in the closed intimacy of the cab, he took her small hand in his.