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For A Song — Page 2
The next day, Schnitzer’s plane touches down around
midnight at John F. Kennedy Airport and he takes the
A-Train into Manhattan. Itinerant preachers call out
to him, and a physics professor gives a miniature lesson
on the gargoyles of the city’s subway system.
Within 10 minutes, he’s in love with New York.
He speaks with more strangers than he has in seven years
of living in Vancouver.
He follows directions to a cousin’s downtown apartment
and promptly falls asleep. Over the next week, he sees
a Verdi opera and a Gluck. He also has a private coaching
session with Carol Isaac, from the Met’s music
staff. She has a pixie haircut, chews gum at the piano,
and gives her opinion with none of the Canadian demureness
Schnitzer is used to: “It was wonderful—like
being taught by Carol Burnett.” But she gives
him honest, hard, and useful advice about repertoire
and the work his voice still needs.
After his lesson, Schnitzer holds on to his guest pass.
A performance is about to begin, so he makes his way
through backstage corridors until he can creep behind
the hallowed curtains. From there, he watches Plácido
Domingo sing.
A week later, back in Vancouver, Schnitzer looks disconcertingly
like Aladdin. Inside a drab building dominated by Intercon
Security, the Vancouver Opera company rents space to
lodge its costume department. Massive buckets marked
“Codpieces,” “Bodices,” “Spats
and Gaiters” line the change-room walls. A fleet
of pirate hats swoops through the air on a string. And
Schnitzer stands naked amidst it all before pulling
on a pair of iridescent-violet harem pants and a blue
vest that covers not much more than his armpits. “No,
no, no, this is not happening.” Parvin Mirhady,
head of costumes, pulls back the curtain and tugs a
velvet turban onto his head. “I’m not a
harlot, am I?”
Mirhady, sporting a puff of maroon hair, cocks her head
to one side. “No. Wait.” She holds out a
finger to call for patience. “There’s a
sash, too.” For Rossini’s The Italian Girl
in Algiers, she has coordinated 70 costumes with a budget
of $16,000. Along a metal rack, Schnitzer’s various
outfits are labelled “Rough,” “Spiffy,”
and “Spa.”
“I’ve been going to the gym because of this
costume,” says Schnitzer, trying to cover an exposed
stomach with the lime-coloured sash.
He regards himself in the antique full-length mirror,
adjusts his turban, and puts on a little frown of consternation.
“Am I doing this right?”
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