Siber A Song for Ghosts

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-3-347-12407-3
Verlag: tredition
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 584 Seiten

Reihe: An opera for two

Garvanos Scimia has not wanted to go to Dresden and join the Royal court theatre. But he has been sent away from his home in Milan and now here he is, a new singer at the Royal Court Theatre. It won't be easy, he knows. His nerves and his tendency to break downs take care of that. Also he is a born Gypsy, which is just one more problem on the heap. But then Ivan takes him under his wing. Ivan who lives in secret underneath the theatre and who has the most lovely smile and the most wonderful voice. With his help Garvanos finds confidence in himself, in his voice, in his feelings and - and maybe he can make it? Maybe it will be alright?

Born in 1987 Manja Siber grew up in North-Eastern Saxony in an atmosphere some would describe as "slightly rural and idyllic", others as "pretty to look at in many places and way too small and quiet". After escaping the countryside Manja studied Literature, History and Comparative Religious Studies in Erfurt and later in Augsburg before finally moving to Berlin. Today she lives in the nice, quiet and green district Berlin-Köpenick in eternal servitude to the whims of her cat.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Siber, Manja

Leseproben

Chapter 01 Dresden, May 1848 It would be all right, Garvanos told himself, looking at the building in front of him. It would be alright. In the bright, clear afternoon air the Royal Court Theatre, looking over a grand plaza and facing a high-towering sand stone church, appeared a lot smaller than at night when it had been alight with the soft glow of chandeliers, glistening against the darkness like a jewel. Garvanos drew a deep breath and tried his best to let the sweet spring air calm his nerves. It would be all right. He would do fine here. He could sing – sing well enough for the Scala at the very least. He was used to getting by on meagre means. He would try – and likely fail – to find someone to share a place with, but Dresden was big and probably crawling with poor artists, looking for the same prospect. Maybe with some luck he could find some of his kind and have some reprieve there. It would be all right. His hand searched for the recommendation letter Maestro Mauro had written for him and with another deep breath, letter in hand, he wandered around the building towards a side entrance, leaving the grand staircase aside. There was bustle and business there, people entering and leaving all the time, and he waited a bit for a someone to slow down – and finally, finally a group of girls – ballet, probably, judging by their lithe physique and thin arms – bustled out, giggling. Garvanos pushed his glasses up his nose and took yet another deep breath. “Excuse me!” The girls stopped right in their tracks, turning to him, pale, thin faces questioning, noses upturned into a fashion that could have been almost coquettish if they hadn’t been so young and cute if it hadn’t been for the sneer that came with it. Garvanos was keenly aware that he was seized up and down and he knew exactly what she saw, dark, ruddy skin, black hair and dark eyes. The girl scrunched her nose and Garvanos felt almost like a goose on the meat marked. If that was the case he was probably deemed insufficiently fattened up, despite his generally rather stocky built. Not that ballet dancers on this level could afford a good goose anyways. “I am looking for the director, if you could-” “Music or dance?” one asked, cutting him off, while the rest of them took a step away from him. “Singing.” “Stage,” she said. “Don’t steal anything,” another one said. “Of course not,” Garvanos said. “I mean it!” she hissed before the first girl grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away. Garvanos looked after them, at least until one of them turned around, shooting him a dark stare. He quickly turned around and scuttled inside. From inside the Royal Court Theatre wasn’t much warmer, at least not at the side corridor where he entered; the warmth would have to wait until he reached the main area, be it the great reception hall with its grand stairways and chandeliers or the corridors, rooms and closets of the backstage. Theatre houses by their very nature were a maze and it took three times of running past the same bloody beam before Garvanos finally found a small door that opened and – miracle of miracles – he found himself looking at the auditorium, dark and only illuminated from the stage side. Garvanos took a glimpse inside. The stage emitted a soft, yellow candlelight that illuminated the gilded carvings and stucco of the ceiling, the walls, the boxes for the noblest audience of this place. Here and there, red velvet gleamed like embers in a fireplace. On the stage, some more ballet girls were dancing an elegant choreography to a simple piano arrangement of a part of Mozart’s Magic Flute that Garvanos recognized as the introducing song of Papageno. The song ended and the girls rushed off the stage amidst a man yelling, “You done finally, good, go, go, don’t have all day!” Their place on the stage was taken by a man and a woman who started with their work without delay. Garvanos patiently waited for the song to end, enjoying the duet and dialogue in which the two went through the lines of the three ladies as well as the arias of Tamino and the Night Queen. From down, there came an impatient “Again!” and so, they started again. The woman was perfection. Her soprano was clear and sweet like spring water, but there was a certain edge to it; she herself was a striking appearance with dark hair and a skin that didn’t need the candle light for its dark golden shimmer, that was still a lot lighter than Garvanos’ own complexion. She was perfect for the Night Queen, able to evoke both gentle, kind starlight and threatening, all-encompassing darkness. The Tamino was her polar opposite, flaxen hair tied back to reveal a very slender, long neck and a fair face that was both very sharp and determined yet at the same time amazingly youthful. His singing was just as sharp and punctuated, pointedly and not at all befitting for someone stricken with love. They sang through their dialogue before there was a rumble from the chairs. “Stop! Stop! Alexej, stop, stop, stop! Now! Stop!” The singers looked down. Garvanos followed their gaze to a grizzly looking old man in a suit and jacket that clearly had seen better days, grey as whatever hair he still had on his head. “Tamino is in love! At once! In! Love!”, he continued, in a thick, rolling accent that reminded Garvanos of hot porridge, dripping from a spoon, “Sing with love, love, not like you try to- to- Deborah, how feel you if someone talk about you to mother like that?” The woman laughed very melodically. “Like he’s not in love and never has been in love before, but for some reason has to act like he is. Alexej is lucky that he’s so pretty and so young. With someone less good-looking I’d be insulted. And with someone older, I would be too busy laughing to hit even one note.” She cleared her throat. “On the other hand, if I showed someone a picture of my daughter and they sang like that I’d both feel insulted on her behalf and worried he might try to grab power from my hands instead of saving her as he was instructed.” “Yes. Yes, exactly. Alexej, sing more like in love! Sing as if happy to see her.” “Well, sorry if hitting the notes don’t make it sound love-sick and happy, me singing it wrong certainly won’t!” The man was a boy, Garvanos suddenly realized. Probably not older than seventeen, perhaps even younger. And he was singing Tamino. Also, he had noticed Garvanos. “Oi, Ossip, we got a visitor.” Garvanos felt a collection of eyes falling upon him and they didn’t feel friendly. Briefly he wondered whether it was too late to run and get back to Milan. Maestro Scimia would probably take him back in, right? The man stared at him with dark, hard eyes and waved, impatiently, for him to come closer. “You, what you want?” Garvanos tightened his grip around Maestro Mauro’s letter and forced himself to breathe. “I am one of your new singers.” The cool dark eyes took him in and Garvanos desperately wished he had at least taken the time to straighten up his suit or comb his hair, do anything to appear at least somewhat civilized. “Where you from? What is name?” “G- Garvanos Scimia. I- I’m coming from Milan. Got schooled at the Scala.” “Garvanos.” “Yes.” “Not sound Italian to me. You not look Italian.” If the ground beneath his feet decided to open up and swallow him, Garvanos would have been decidedly very, very grateful. “I am aware.” He knew how to use a mirror, after all. “From Milan, yes?” the woman on the stage chirped, looking down on him with a merry twinkle in her eyes and then, ignoring the old man, continued in a gentle, Veronese lilt, “Sono le strade piene di gatti ancora qui?” Garvanos still felt a wave of relief. “Solo se da gatti si intende chi non ha una casa e del lavoro e troppe bocche da sfamare – oh, aspetta, ho pensato che si stava chiedendo su Napoli!” She laughed. “Oh, finally, finally someone who gets the joke.” Mr. Kirsch once again took a close look at him. Good. “Milan. Scala? Why you here then?” Garvanos swallowed hard. “Uh- Maestro Scimia thought I might need a change of air.” A smaller stage had been his exact words, with an expression of sorrow and regret that still made Garvanos sick in his stomach. “He wrote ahead on my behalf and- uh, I also got this.” He handed the letter over. Mr. Kirsch opened it and read it, brow carefully furrowed, while he gestured for Garvanos to come closer. “How old you are?” “Twenty and three.” “Voice range?” “Tenor.” “Countertenor?" Garvanos shook his head. “Maestro Scimia tried, but I am on the lower end of the spectrum. I have some training as a baritone, though.” Mr. Kirsch took a glance at him. “What were we practising just now?” “Mozart’s Magic Flute. The Night Queen is just convincing Tamino to go...