Robert's Probing Fingers
One way and another, Saturday was a busy day.
In the front garden, the snowdrops are though at last with the crocusses not far behind. The dillydaffs have put their first shoots out also, promising yellow trumpets by mid-March. The streetlamps switch off at about 7.10am these days and even at 6.00pm there's a glimmering of light in the darkening sky. Life is bursting through again. Not quite 12 hours of light and dark yet but we're getting there.
The highlight of the morning was being massaged by Robert. Robert has been pampering my body with theraputic massage for over three years now. So, if you thought, from the title, that this journal entry was going to be about sex, I'm afraid to tell you that it was a bit of a tease. Still, two hours of giving myself up to luxury is a bliss devoutly to be wished.
His fingers told him what I sort of already knew - that I'm OK, that I'm pretty much inhabiting my body rather than floating outside of it somewhere. And it's true. I've felt more connected in the past six weeks than I've felt for quite some time. And a part of this transition into a more peaceable frame of mind is that I'm not smoking at present and am hardly drinking caffeen or alcohol at all - and these must be having an effect on my physical well-being.
The evening was spent at Covent Garden watching a revival of
Saint-Saëns's Samson et Dalila. Originally, this was announced
as Massenet's Hérodiade with Carreras and Dolora Zajick.
Then Carreras cancelled and the production was changed to Samson
with Zajick (hurray) and José Cura (also hurray). Finally, Zajick
cancelled and we had Marlella Hatziano making her house debut instead.
So, the evening's entertainment was completely different from the original
announcement.
But it was fabulous. The production is traditional but suits the music and services the composer's intentions. The orchestra and chorus performed well and the principals were fab.
Hatziano will get better but is already good. She has a large frame and was ill-served by the stock costumes of the production (surely someone with a bit of sense could have given her something different but appropriate to wear that would have made her look less like an intruder from a production of The Bartered Bride). But her mezzo is already rich and has lustre. Her cheek bones resemble Marilyn Horne's, which is a decent enough pedigree.
During the second interval, one matron commented to me about her size. I think she thought I would rail against the fat. Instead, I gave my honest opinion that without the proportions of the body, you wouldn't get the voluptuousness of tone. "What we want," I said, "is big women in big frocks singing big tunes." From the look on my inquisitor's face, you would have thought that I had just suggested dangling jewelry from her clitoris. Luckily, at this point, the third act bells began to chime.
Cura I have heard already in the original 1857 version of Simon Boccanegra, Stiffelio and Fedora and I like his voice and persona very much. So, apparently, do the claque in the gallery. He got big cheers at the end of the performance.
He is a good looking man with a decent pair of legs which he is not afraid to show off. His tenor voice has a ringing quality and, though he seems to be always slow and hesitant at the start of a performance, he grows in confidence as the evening progresses.
At present, his is not a large voice but I wonder if he is not the next Mario del Monaco. And what joys there are ahead if he is. Otello, Manrico, Caravadossi (which he'll be singing at the Garden in May) and, the one I am looking forwards to most, Dick Johnson in Puccini's La fancuilla del West.
The big scene in Samson is the love scene with the famous Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix. This was pure sex. The sensuousness of the music, the timbre of Hatziano's voice, the chemistry between her and Cura, all of these made this poor little opera queen's hormones go off in a quivver. Frankly, I haven't had such an operatic stiffie since Josephine Barstow dabbed the inside of her thigh with a sponge in Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk - and that was in 1987!
The surtitles said
My love
Fills me with desire
Frankly, we didn't need to be told.
And after such excitement, on the Tube journey home, I thought of John and thought that it's not working. Or at least, that the first promise does not seem to be following through.
In our first conversations, there were three elements that seemed to chime with me. He talked of seeking someone who was tactile, was romantic and was unafraid of taking risks. And I am all of those things. And our first meeting and unseemly display at The Yard was all of those things. And I want it to continue.
But, when we had a meal this last Wednesday, he was talking of feeling very jaded by all of the meetings he had been having with other men from his advert and of feeling very ill at ease given the changes in his life at present. And I can sympathise. But it's not what I want.
He described himself as blowing hot and cold. Which was true. Because he oscillated from saying "I'm not thinking beyond each time we meet" to saying "Would you like to go and see Trainspotting?" and "I have this mild phantasy about us having a touring holiday in North-East Scotland in July".
And what I want is someone who says "You. I want you." Whether it's for a quick affair, or for a friendship, or for life-long partnering, I don't care. I just want the appropriate commitment without too much hesitation so that I know where I am. I remain to be convinced at the moment that John is about to offer any of those things. We'll have to see what Wednesday brings.