21. Opera

As she would never do on any stage whatsoever, where she always had to act severe and haughty regardless of the heroine she was singing that night and whether the tatters of the Fiordiligi wardrobe scattered on the floor frightened her, Madame Simeoni, sunk deep in her cushions, covered, hidden, and stentorian, moved her grand buttocks on the seat of her armchair. She had recently discovered how to change her position without too much effort and most of all without Nehala realizing she could do it: she pressed her hands and forearms against the armrests softly at first, then with increasing strength beneath the shawls and blankets, leaned just the littlest bit forward from the waist, dropped her neck and head between her shoulders, and who would have known how marvelously the muscles and tendons went up and down on the large pillow she sat on and relaxed, almost lost contact or as she liked to think all contact disappeared, and from that moment the only thing that remained for her to do was move the lower part of her body, the left half first, then the right, toward one side, toward the other, also forward or backward if she had spent too much time seated against the chair back. She sighed, which managed to make Nehala look at her, but now it did not matter, she could even think that this was what she had been seeking, to make Nehala look at her without needing to call her attention. Would they go down to the dining room tonight? No, they would not, there was not enough time now for Nehala to dress her and arrange her hair; she also remembered that they had gone down the previous night, and she knew it was best not to be too generous with herself, to be there all the time like the Chinese woman or the old idiot. It was preferable to be absent from time to time; she smiled thinking about what they would ask, what they would say, what they would suppose, while she was wrapped in a world of tulle, gauze, ribbons, and crowns: the sacrificial tunic, whatever was required for her to stand out, count the beats and raise her head, magnificent, as if she could make out their faces and hats, sip again the sweetness of the golden liquor, far from the applause. Floria Tosca was an idiot, obviously, although no more than Norma, and she had never wanted to sing Leonora because Azucena was too powerful. Aïda, that was her favorite. There had been so many things on stage, marbleized columns, capes thrown over a chair, stained-glass windows, screens, staircases, and more humble objects, writing pens, a lute, a mortar, dried flowers, a hammer, where had there been a hammer? a kerchief, Desdemona’s, and when injured Nedda tried to escape, Silvio and Otello appeared and stabbed her, it was Otello, wasn’t it? and Alfio killed Turiddu: the comedy had ended, which was a pity because Nehala was coming on stage. Madame Simeoni, head held as high as at the end of the second act, looked at Nehala as she drew close, Aïda, she thought, Amneris was very much a princess, but Aïda, that was her favorite, she could sing her again with just a few rehearsals, sing Aïda again as she had that time in Buenos Aires. She did not want Nehala to dress her, she did not want to go down to the dining room. The people there talked too much and it bothered her; when she sang conversations and even insignificant noises bothered and distracted her: they should be quiet. Nehala assured her that the voices did not come from the lower floor but from the street, where children ran around shouting, and Nehala seemed satisfied with that. She did not insist on dressing her and doing her hair to go down to the dining room, she walked right past her armchair to look out the window at the children playing in the street.