my cat, Frank. “The only patronizing that goes on in my family is when Frank deigns to allow me to pet him,” I joke.
“How charming,” she replies, clearly not charmed in the least.
I exhale as I shoot Sebastian a look.
He takes my hand in his and gives it a squeeze. “I know she’s not easy,” he says quietly so only I can hear him. “Just relax and enjoy tonight, okay? I’ll have a chat with her tomorrow.”
“No!” I exclaim too loudly, and several people around us turn to stare. I throw them a sheepish smile and say, “Sorry. I’m just excited about this opera, I guess.”
They smile at me as if I’m some kind of looney-tunes and turn back around.
“It’s gone on long enough,” Sebastian says. “I think it’s only right I do something about this. I don’t want you to feel unwelcome in my home. In our home.”
“I don’t, honestly.”
“She’s a stubborn old goat, and she needs a little coaxing to see what the rest of us already do,” Sebastian whispers into my ear.
I beam at him, my heart contracting. “You’re the best, did you know that?”
He gives my knee a squeeze. “I’ve been told.”
I look down at my program and begin to read the synopsis. After seeing the translation of the opera’s name, I turn to Sebastian in alarm. “Did you know mamalles is French for breasts?” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“But this is terrible!”
“Why?”
Through gritted teeth I reply, “Because I’ve taken your granny to an opera about boobs!”
He chuckles lightly. “If you think that’s terrible, you’re in for a treat with this one.”
“What? Why?”
“Brady, this opera is a farcical take on the French post-World War II stance on repopulation. It’s fairly avant garde.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Can you say that in English, please.”
“People die in wars, right? And then you need babies. Read the synopsis.”
Dang it! I was too concerned with learning what to wear to the opera and how to behave. I didn’t even find out what this one was all about.
As I return my attention to the synopsis, the music begins, and a hush descends. I look up, nervous about what we’re about to see. But it can’t be that bad, can it? Sebastian or Jilly would definitely have told me if this opera was a mistake.
The overture plays for a while, and then, as the first performers enter the stage, I heave a sigh of relief when they begin to sing. It’s just an opera, sung in a foreign language. I’m sure women’s appendages won’t feature all that much.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
A woman in a full-body leotard that is doing nothing for her curves sings a long song with a couple of balloons stuck to her chest. And then, just when I thought that was about as weird as this thing was going to get, she detaches the balloons and waves as they float away.
“What was that about?” I ask Sebastian.
“The balloons represent her breasts.”
“You’re kidding me.”
He shakes his head. “She’s now going to pretend to be a man.”
“Do you mean the guy she’s tied up and is putting in a dress right now?”
“That’s the one.”
I glance at Geraldine. She’s watching the stage avidly, a pair of elegant opera binoculars in her hand. At least one of us is getting into this, I think as I settle back against my seat. I’ve just got to hope there aren’t any more balloon breasts floating around the stage.
The rest of the first act steams ahead with nothing stranger than a guy in drag who everyone fully believes is a woman (observant much?), and a couple of guys apparently killing each other.
Nothing to see here.
At the end of the first act we have a short recess in which Geraldine springs out of her seat—well, as much as an eighty-year-old can spring, which is more like a creaking rise on arthritic knees—and leaves us to chat with friends.
I stand up to stretch my legs, and Jilly asks, “How are you enjoying the opera?”
“It’s very thought provoking,” I reply, by which of course I mean it’s totally out there and I wish I was at home, snuggled up to Sebastian and Frank on the couch, watching a normal movie in which women’s breasts stay on their chests.
“Thought provoking is one way to put it,” Sebastian says with a laugh. “I’ve not seen this opera before, although I know the story, of course.”
“Of course,” Jilly confirms as though an opera about floating boobs and men in drag is part of every high school curriculum.
“Do