than the rest of us.”
Equally muffled, Anastasia pressed close to Katherina to be heard, taking hold of her arm. “A good thing, too. Hans needed work on his fencing. I’ve been worried all week that he might put a hole in me.” She laughed.
Katherina felt like a schoolgirl, walking arm in arm with Anastasia, and though thick layers of wool separated them, the pressure of Anastasia’s shoulder seemed to add warmth. “You want to stop for some coffee?” she said suddenly. “The Café Tomaselli is just around the corner in the Alter Markt.”
Anastasia shook her head. “It’s apt to be full of tourists. Let’s make it supper and go to the Triangel. The headwaiter is a sweetheart. He’ll give us a quiet table if the place is not too full.”
The Triangel was full, but the headwaiter lived up to his reputation. A round ruddy face with wide nose and gray handlebar mustache radiated grandfatherly charm. Katherina thought of a somewhat aristocratic St. Nicolaus. He kept a pristine dishtowel folded over his arm as if part of a waiter’s costume. His step was buoyant, and his eyes shone with pleasure when he recognized Anastasia.
“Ah, Madame Ivanova, what a pleasure to see you. And you brought another lovely lady.”
“Looks busy tonight, Willi. I don’t suppose you have a quiet table anyplace.”
“Tja. It will be difficult I’m afraid. Friday evening, you know. But let me see what I can do.”
Katherina scanned the café. The unpretentious room had only basic wooden tables and a few sets of goat antlers on the walls. The clientele was obviously from the Festspielhaus. Katherina recognized several of the administrative staff. Detlev from the wig department caught her eye and waved, and in the far corner, with her back turned, Sybil was having dinner with Hans.
Willi the waiter had returned. “Glück g’habt,” he said. “Gerda was folding napkins at the table in the back and I convinced her to move. If you don’t mind being next to the kitchen.”
They both shook their heads and he led them down the narrow space that branched off from the main restaurant. As the level of noise dropped off, the kitchen smells increased. A pleasant mixture of warm potatoes, sausage, and coffee.
Unwrapping meters of woolen neck scarves, Anastasia hung her coat on a wall hook and sat down. “I recommend the schnitzel. Best in Salzburg.”
Katherina exhaled luxuriously in the warm air. “Sounds wonderful. Order for us both.” She was still exuberant from the rehearsal. “Seeing you only as Marguerite, I wouldn’t have guessed you were so good in a trouser role. And you fence like an expert!”
Anastasia laughed. “I only know those three steps, but that’s all you need for Octavian. It’s not much of a duel, after all. If I ever have to sing a pirate or musketeer, I’m cooked.”
“Are there operas with pirates or musketeers? Outside of Gilbert and Sullivan, I mean.”
“I can’t think of one, but in any case, I’ll stick with Octavian and Cherubino. In fact, strike that. I’d prefer Mozart’s Cherubino any time. So much easier to sing.”
“He’s fun to watch too. I saw my first Nozze di Figaro when I was ten, in German, of course. A birthday present from my parents. I was already studying voice.”
“Really? I’ve always wondered what children think of him. Cherubino, I mean.”
“I was bored at first. You know, the opera starts with Figaro measuring a room for a bed, and I couldn’t get interested in that. But then Cherubino, this fantastic boy-girl creature in blue satin knee pants, burst into the room. It was like I myself was suddenly on stage.”
The schnitzel arrived and Katherina bit into something exquisitely spiced. She chewed for a moment, reminiscing. “I didn’t know what a trouser role was, and it was confusing to see a woman singing as a boy. It also was exciting, a kind of lawlessness.”
Anastasia nodded, raising her fork for emphasis. “That scene is real comic theater.
Equally muffled, Anastasia pressed close to Katherina to be heard, taking hold of her arm. “A good thing, too. Hans needed work on his fencing. I’ve been worried all week that he might put a hole in me.” She laughed.
Katherina felt like a schoolgirl, walking arm in arm with Anastasia, and though thick layers of wool separated them, the pressure of Anastasia’s shoulder seemed to add warmth. “You want to stop for some coffee?” she said suddenly. “The Café Tomaselli is just around the corner in the Alter Markt.”
Anastasia shook her head. “It’s apt to be full of tourists. Let’s make it supper and go to the Triangel. The headwaiter is a sweetheart. He’ll give us a quiet table if the place is not too full.”
The Triangel was full, but the headwaiter lived up to his reputation. A round ruddy face with wide nose and gray handlebar mustache radiated grandfatherly charm. Katherina thought of a somewhat aristocratic St. Nicolaus. He kept a pristine dishtowel folded over his arm as if part of a waiter’s costume. His step was buoyant, and his eyes shone with pleasure when he recognized Anastasia.
“Ah, Madame Ivanova, what a pleasure to see you. And you brought another lovely lady.”
“Looks busy tonight, Willi. I don’t suppose you have a quiet table anyplace.”
“Tja. It will be difficult I’m afraid. Friday evening, you know. But let me see what I can do.”
Katherina scanned the café. The unpretentious room had only basic wooden tables and a few sets of goat antlers on the walls. The clientele was obviously from the Festspielhaus. Katherina recognized several of the administrative staff. Detlev from the wig department caught her eye and waved, and in the far corner, with her back turned, Sybil was having dinner with Hans.
Willi the waiter had returned. “Glück g’habt,” he said. “Gerda was folding napkins at the table in the back and I convinced her to move. If you don’t mind being next to the kitchen.”
They both shook their heads and he led them down the narrow space that branched off from the main restaurant. As the level of noise dropped off, the kitchen smells increased. A pleasant mixture of warm potatoes, sausage, and coffee.
Unwrapping meters of woolen neck scarves, Anastasia hung her coat on a wall hook and sat down. “I recommend the schnitzel. Best in Salzburg.”
Katherina exhaled luxuriously in the warm air. “Sounds wonderful. Order for us both.” She was still exuberant from the rehearsal. “Seeing you only as Marguerite, I wouldn’t have guessed you were so good in a trouser role. And you fence like an expert!”
Anastasia laughed. “I only know those three steps, but that’s all you need for Octavian. It’s not much of a duel, after all. If I ever have to sing a pirate or musketeer, I’m cooked.”
“Are there operas with pirates or musketeers? Outside of Gilbert and Sullivan, I mean.”
“I can’t think of one, but in any case, I’ll stick with Octavian and Cherubino. In fact, strike that. I’d prefer Mozart’s Cherubino any time. So much easier to sing.”
“He’s fun to watch too. I saw my first Nozze di Figaro when I was ten, in German, of course. A birthday present from my parents. I was already studying voice.”
“Really? I’ve always wondered what children think of him. Cherubino, I mean.”
“I was bored at first. You know, the opera starts with Figaro measuring a room for a bed, and I couldn’t get interested in that. But then Cherubino, this fantastic boy-girl creature in blue satin knee pants, burst into the room. It was like I myself was suddenly on stage.”
The schnitzel arrived and Katherina bit into something exquisitely spiced. She chewed for a moment, reminiscing. “I didn’t know what a trouser role was, and it was confusing to see a woman singing as a boy. It also was exciting, a kind of lawlessness.”
Anastasia nodded, raising her fork for emphasis. “That scene is real comic theater.
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