Curious Ralph in France: Past Lives
Despite the fact that he had been brought up on
music (he had heard Toscanini numerous times at Carnegie Hall as a
child and his best friend in high school was the son of conductor Erich
Leinsdorf) Ralph had never heard the Fauré Requiem until he was
fifty-five. At the age of fourteen, he had traveled to Rome with the
Leinsdorfs and sat in daily while Mr. Leinsdorf recorded Puccini’s
Turandot with Reneata Tebaldi and Jussi Bjoerling; by the end of the
ten-day session he knew the opera by heart and found himself in love
with Rosalind Elias’s body (her physique had not yet matured into an
opera singer’s) and Tebaldi’s voice.
In
college, he won the weekly lottery—a ticket to the Metropolitan Opera
Saturday matinee—at least once month to feed his gluttonous love of the
opera. He had heard numerous performances of the Verdi Requiem, which
gave him chills, and had seen Porgy and Bess with the original New York
cast at least twice. He cried copiously each time Porgy struggled on to
his goat cart in the hope of finding Bess. There was no doubt that
Ralph was a sensitive sort, especially when it came to any kind of
music. It touched his soul.
At
forty, he had an astrological reading from a woman whom he knew told
the truth. She said she knew she would die in a plane crash in the
Middle East and did several years later. When she asked him if he
believed in past lives, even though he had never really thought about
it, he quickly said yes and knew he would believe whatever she told
him. Ralph apparently had been an opera composer during the Italian
Renaissance and his mother (how perverse) had been his patron. He knew
for some reason that his name had been Giorgio and that he had jilted
his mother-patron. The previous life explained a lot, including his
deep attachment to Italian opera.
When
he and his wife Jo found themselves in Montmartre some four hundred and
fifty years later, enjoying the annual wine festival, it was not
surprising that they discovered a poster tacked to a stand offering
Pomerol and advertising a performance of the Fauré Requiem for that day
at 5:00 p.m.
It
was one of Jo’s favorite pieces of music and she was surprised that her
musically sophisticated husband had never heard it. "We have to hear
it," she insisted.
Ralph did
not argue. He ordered another glass of Pomerol. Jo started munching on
some sausage and cheese on the counter. She did not notice the two
types standing behind her who seemed a little more agitated than
necessary.
"Pardonez-moi,"
said one of them as he reached insistently for a piece of cheese. Then
Jo knew what had happened: this was their snack, not a public offering.
Ralph intervened explaining in
French that they had assumed the food was for public consumption and
that they were sorry. "Je m’excuse," he repeated about six times as Jo
blushed deeply.
"Honey, it is time for the concert," she said although it was only 3:30 p.m.
By
the time they heard the Fauré Requiem, Ralph was totally relaxed. Four
glasses of vintage Pomerol and his natural tendency to fall sleep the
minute he sat down permitted him to doze briefly during the Offertory.
Jo nudged him because he was beginning to snore. He awoke and heard
most of the concert. Fauré quickly became one of his favorites.
On
reflection, though, Ralph realized that there was something else at
work here, not just the music. It was the serendipity of finding a
concert of a beautiful piece of music he had never heard in the oldest
church in Montmartre . The possibility for unexpected moments of beauty
was an everyday reality in Paris
For
the next year, Ralph kept a poster of the concert they never heard on
his desk: Hommage au Castrati airs pour Farinelli performed by
Guy-Thong Nguyen, counter tenor.
Ralph
had known Farinelli in his past life and recalled sharing cioppino with
him at Il Arpeggio while his patron (his mother) dined alone. Things
were coming full circle for him. He knew that none compared to
Farinelli, even though a concert of his music in a romantic and
historical Paris church in 1998 was at once nostalgic and esoterically
unique. Farinelli had told Ralph (Giorgio) over dinner that he thought
imitators would try to sing his music after he was gone but none would
be able to capture his musical essence. His secret? His mother’s
cioppino; he ate it once a week.
--
Louis Borgenicht is a pediatrician/writer living in SLC, Utah. He's the co-author, with his son Joe, of The Baby Owner's Manual: Operating Instructions, Trouble-Shooting Tips, and Advice on First-Year Maintenance.
Louis Borgenicht is a pediatrician/writer living in SLC, Utah. He's the co-author, with his son Joe, of The Baby Owner's Manual: Operating Instructions, Trouble-Shooting Tips, and Advice on First-Year Maintenance.
