Who: Abigail Hobbs and Musichetta What: Bonding over opera! When: Afternoon of 5/24. Where: A record store near the UCLA campus. Rating: PG for canon-puncture trauma. Status: Complete
For once, things seemed to be calmer in Musichetta’s life, so she figured it was safe to go out and do a bit of shopping. Carmen was premiering Friday night, and the next offering from the department was going to be Yevgeny Onegin. She needed a good recording, or she’d never have a prayer at getting the role of Tatyana. And she bloody well wanted the role of Tatyana.
She was in the back of her favourite record store, pawing through the CDs with somewhat increasing impatience. Surely it wasn’t all that hard to find, was it?
Abigail was flipping around, trying to find a performance of Un ballo in maschera. It wasn’t on iTunes, and she hated stealing music. So she flipped through the racks, trying to find the production from 1990 with Josephine Barstow, puffing out her cheeks as she thought. She smiled when she saw a truly pretty girl her age looking frustrated as she flipped through as well.
There was another girl in the opera section as well, and Musichetta couldn’t think of a reason not to ask. “Excuse me, mam’selle; you have not seen any copies of Yevgeny Onegin, have you? I can’t even find the 2007 recording, let alone the 1948.” Maybe she’d just missed something.
“Oh, you know, I think I did. I think someone misshelved it.” Abigail thought she’d seen it when she had found her own CD. Flipping through, Abigail smiled and handed over three CDs. “There we go. Serendipity.”
Musichetta made a happy sound. “You have saved my potential chance of getting a role next semester, mam’selle.” She took the CDs, picking through them to find the best one.
“You sing?” Abigail smiled, holding her own CD to her chest. “I wish I could sing. I play a little piano - my father teaches me - but I don’t think I’m good at making music, just listening.”
“I major in opera at UCLA.” Musichetta smiled. “I will sing Micaela tomorrow at the Performing Arts complex in Carmen, and I have had small roles in a few other operas before that.”
“May I come see you? I’m still in high school and I’m going to go to UCI eventually, but ... I’d love to see you perform.” Abigail grinned. She loved live music.
“Of course!” Musichetta laughed. “I am astonished to find someone else near my age loves opera. I am Musichetta, by the way.” She held out a hand to the girl. “I would be delighted to leave a ticket or two, if you wish.”
“My father is the one who turned me on to opera and classical music. My name is Abigail.” She shook the pretty girl’s hand, smiling brightly. “My father would be thrilled to come as well. I’d really be pleased.”
“I should be able to leave two tickets, I don’t think it will be an issue.” Musichetta smiled. “I have a gaggle of friends coming to a performance soon, but not tomorrow. Tomorrow is the opening performance, though, so you may have to suffer mistakes!” Hopefully not; she’d have to contemplate hara-kiri, but still.
“Oh, I doubt I’ll notice them. And I’d rather have a passionate performance than a perfect one.” Abigail smiled at the prettier girl, feeling a bit intimidated. She was stunning and talented.
“I hope they are all like you.” Musichetta winked. “I do not think that we’ll have any critics in the audience, but still, you want to do your best, obviously.” She got her phone out. “Could you tell me your surname? I will leave two for tomorrow at the will-call. It’s kind of you to show an interest at all, Mam’selle Abigail.”
Abigail was taken with the pretty French girl. “Well, I think anyone who likes music would pick passion over technique, should they have to pick between the two.” She hugged her CD to her chest. “Lecter. My father is Dr. Hannibal Lecter, he’d be the one coming with me.” Abigail had been forcing herself to pretend while she was in public that her father was nothing but. The strategy was working; she hadn’t blushed once while talking to Musichetta.
Musichetta made a note of it on her phone, sticking it in her handbag as she smiled up at Abigail. “I think you are right, but I’m French; they want both.” She laughed. “Though at least my boys should give me a rave review. They know better!” Her tone was fond.
“You have ... sons?” Abigail tried to be an open minded sort; this girl looked too young, but maybe she’d had twins.
Musichetta laughed loudly, tossing her head back. “Oh, there are times it feels it! But no, what I have is two boys who are very dear to me.” She was never sure how Americans would react, and yet she didn’t care enough to hide it. “Dear Joly found me, and then he introduced me to my Eagle, my Bossuet, who had been his lover. So now we are one big happy family.”
“Oh, that seems like it’d be nice, actually.” Abigail wondered how this girl would react to her own secret, how at night she curled up into bed with her father. But she didn’t tell. Nobody would know until the day she turned eighteen. Abigail was nothing if not careful.
“It’s lovely.” Musichetta smiled, looking down. “They’re both such kind and gentle boys. And they take good care of me. Papa hopes that one day I marry Bossuet, if only because Joly has French citizenship and doesn’t need any paperwork to come home with me. Papa does paperwork for a living.” She chuckled.
That made Abigail chuckle. “I think Papa wants me to not worry about marriage for a long while.” She fingered the scarf around her neck. “Bad things have been happening, so he wants me close for a bit, just to keep an eye on me.” Abigail didn’t disclose that she’d been the one to want to stay home for her first semester of college.
“Bad things?” ‘Chetta looked concerned. In Orange County, there was only one thing that tended to pass for “bad things”. “Do you have bad dreams, by any chance?” She looked around; no one seemed to be near, so she could speak freely.
Abigail nodded. “You too? I had one, and a few hours later, so did my father.” Abigail tapped the scarf. “It’s why I have to wear this.”
Musichetta nodded, looking down. “I dream that we - me, my boys, our friends, tout le monde - that is, everyone. We are in France, in 1830 or so, and agitating for a better life. I think that is the phrase? A lot of talk of liberty and freedom. All the nobility and none of the practicality, I fear.” Her smile was tight, but not because of Abigail. “On the whole, I feel as though we are all in an opera, instead of the real life I know it is.”
“Oh, like in Les Mis!” Abigail’s eyes went brightly. “God, that makes me cry. Every performance, every production, I end up a ball of tears.” Abigail had liked musicals even before she’d met her father; he’d just turned her onto opera.
“Les Mis?” ‘Chetta echoed, cocking her head to one side. “Is that a show?”
Abigail nodded. “Les Miserables. It’s about exactly what you said.” The younger girl shrugged. “Everyone dies but the two young lovers, so it’s ... not really a feel good romp.”
It felt as though a goose was walking on her grave. ‘Chetta laughed softly. “Everyone dies ... ” That was what Enjolras had said. From his dreams. Except whom? Who were the young lovers? She’d said two young lovers, not three.
Her heart was suddenly in her throat. “I had no idea of this show.”
“It’s lovely, but ... I don’t recommend it if you’re sad. Are you all right? Would you like to sit down?” Abigail put a hand on ‘Chetta’s shoulder, worried.
“I’ll be all right.” Musichetta smiled, trying not to get upset. This Abigail had no idea what she’d said, after all. “It’s just ... so odd to think, a show about my friends and my dreams!”
Abigail’s eyes went wide. “Wait, wait, so you know - oh, wow.” Her hand went up to her throat, and she shook her head. “That’s like - my father’s in my dreams too. The weird ones.”
“My friends and my ... my Joly and Bossuet are in my dreams.” ‘Chetta looked at her, curious about where her hand was. “Enjolras - that is. Another friend. He’s dreamt to the conclusion of this story. I think. But not I.”
The mention of Enjolras was enough to make Abigail tear up. “Oh, god, does Enjolras know that Grantaire is stupidly in love with him? Or did I make that up in my head? Oh, are they like they are in the pl - I should stop talking, I’m not helping at all.”
“Grantaire?” ‘Chetta echoed, both confused and wanting to laugh. “Enjolras ... oh, I don’t know, p’tite. Enjolras is a bit too focused on his Ideals. Though I did see that he wrote a post on the valarnet that spoke of love.” Grantaire, truly? The idea was amusing, in a painful way.
Abigail blinked, feeling like she’d said something just terrible. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, it’s fine. It’s just ... quite a lot to take in!” Musichetta smiled a little, shaking her head. “Is there anything about you? Or your papa?”
“Oh, no, we’re not interesting,” she smiled. “He’s a psychologist, I’m just in high school.” She knew in her dreams she was interesting, but god, Abigail didn’t want there to be anything about her.
“I mean no offense, but I think you should probably be grateful for that.” ‘Chetta took a deep breath. “I appreciate your telling me of this show, though. I will look into it. And I will leave your tickets to my show, never fear!”
“I’m very excited to come, and I know Daddy will be too.” The pet name slipped out without her thinking about it, and she blushed a little.
‘Chetta thought it was rather sweet, honestly. “You and your papa are close. I and mine are very close as well.” She smiled, picking up her CD. “I hope you enjoy Carmen, Mam’selle Lecter.”
“I’m sure I will, Miss ‘Chetta.” Abigail beamed, excited to have something to do. She couldn’t wait to tell her father.