Chapter Text
When I walked into the Torivontaram Iäna was already seated at a table for two in the back corner.
‘Thara!’ He waved me over.
As I approached he poured me a cup of tea and handed it to me when I sat. I noticed a parcel on the table beside his own cup; about the thickness of a notebook but twice as wide, wrapped in paper and secured with a calico ribbon.
‘How are rehearsals going?’ I asked.
Iäna was in the thick of rehearsals for Grief of stones, his newest opera.
‘I despair.’ He began.
Iäna told me of the difficulties he had had with blocking and set changes that day. Our meal came and I ate while he detailed the stumbles and the arguments with cast that seemed to be an inevitable part of this process.
‘At least I have a distraction.’ Iäna told me, gesturing to the parcel.
‘I had wondered about that.’ I told him.
Iäna’s eyes sparkled with delight as he unwrapped it. ‘I just go this today, and thou will be the first to see it. It’s just a mockup from the printers but I’m very happy with it.’
He took out of the wrapping what looked like the pages of a large book, but loose and unbound, and handed them to me. On the top most page was the simplified image of a lighthouse, white on a background of dark blue with detail suggested in tones of gray. The lighthouse was unlit and the boundary between sea and sky was only defined by where the pinprick stars in the sky ended. Above a crescent moon watched like a winking eye and below it all the words the Grief of Stones.
‘What is it?’ I asked ‘Is it the Opera score?’
‘No,’ said Iäna delighted. ‘This is called a ‘Programme’. And It’s something quite new, look inside.’
Iäna helped me make room, moving dishes and cups till I had a clear space before me to set the pages down. I lifted the cover to find a page with a list of names and roles, and a synopsis of the story.
‘Keep going, keep going.’ Iäna encouraged.
I lifted more.
‘Oh’ I said in surprise.
On the page before me a large likeness of Nanavo Rasabin had been printed. She gazed serenely and elegant out of the paper, the lithograph capturing her presence and force of character. It was accompanied by her name and a description of her role in the opera, as the Lighthouse Keeper’s expensive younger wife who drove him to ruin. It gave some details about her career with the Vermillion and her favorite roles she had had.
‘It is a very good likeness.’
‘It is, isn't it?’ Said Iäna. ‘It was done from this original.’
He showed me a photograph from a stack still sitting in the paper parcel. I compared them and admired the accuracy of the reproduction.
‘Yes, they are all there.’ Said Iäna delighted, as I lifted more pages. 'Cebris, Davaro, Othoro, yes the chorus.’
For the Chorus there were different images of the members, grouped by the different roles and concepts they gave voice to; the Sea, The Wreck and the members of the public in the trail.
‘Oh look, and me.’ Said Iäna.
I had come to a page with his face and name. It stated he was the composer and director and had details of his other works.
‘Well, what does thou think?’
‘I think it’s very nice,’ I told him ‘But what is it for?’
‘What is it for? It’s for the Audience.’ Said Iäna.
‘Shall give it to them?’ I asked
‘No, they are going to buy it.’ Said Iäna delighted.
I looked at him in confusion and looked back down at his smiling face in black and while on the page before me.
‘It’s a little piece of Opera for everyone to take home.’ Iäna explained. ‘I imagine people will want to collect them for their favorite operas, and of course their favorite singers. And then they will have pictures of their favorite singers that they can get autographed. Oh thou knowest get their signatures on.'
‘People get performers' signatures?’ I asked surprised.
‘They will.’ said Iäna. ‘Some of the principles already give away photographs to patrons with signatures and sweet little messages. This way it will be like all of the audience have a chance to feel like patron. But for much less money.’
I met Iäna’s enthusiastic smile with one of my own, but I was still unconvinced.
‘Here’ Said Iäna with mock exasperation. ’like this.’
He shuffled through the collection of photographs to find the one of himself. Then he produced his pen from an inner pocket of his coat and wrote something on the back before handing it across to me. 'this is an autograph.'
I looked at the smiling image of Iäna and turned it over to read.
To Thara,
For all his patient listening and clever advice. Grief wouldn’t be half as good as it is without it.
His affectionate friend,
Iäna Pel-Thenhior
‘Thank you.’ I said, surprisingly touched.
‘Thou art welcome. ‘Canst keep it, if thou wishes.’ he said with a casual air.
‘I will.’ I said. ‘I will have to pin it on my wall.’
‘Thou Will?’
‘Of course. Isn’t that what one does with photographs of friends?’ I asked.
‘Aren’t worried someone will thinkest thou run a brothel?’ he asked with a smile.
‘No’ I laughed ‘Thou hast not seen where I live; there is no resemblance to a brothel. Notwithstanding the occasional Iönraio.’
A look of utter horror overtook Iäna’s face.
‘ Cats, ’ I gasped. ‘I mean queen cats, no women. I have, that is, there are cats that I sometimes feed. They are not mine. I have not ever - ’
I shut my mouth and felt my face flame. I put the photo of Iäna down and thought of picking up my tea to try and hide some of my face, but my hands were shaking and I didn’t want to drip tea all over Iäna’s Programme . I clutched them on my lap and the humiliation washed over me.
I heard Iäna draw in a deep breath before he spoke. ‘Merciful Goddesses, Thara. Thou makest me think for a moment,’ Iäna lowered his voice to a low whisper, ‘Thou makes me think that I have spent months pining after a man who is a - lover of women.’
‘Pining?!’ I gasped.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Iäna, gently. ‘I know thou art griefing, and I respect that. I value our friendship, I wouldn’t risk it for anything, however - ’
I looked up from the table and met his eyes. He looked hopeful and sad.
‘Thara, I thought maybe I had reason to hope, one day, for more than friendship.’
There was a churning current of emotion within me as something that echoed the hope in Iäna’s face bubbled to the surface. I had, I wasn’t sure if it was more longed or dreaded to hear this from Iäna. But he was more gentle and undemanding with me than I had expected.
He was waiting for me to say something, face full of tenderness. And I didn’t have the will to respond in a way that was wise. To speak words that would crush that, words that would deny the way his own words and sentiments resonated in my chest.
‘Yes,’ I said finally, ‘Thou hast reason to hope.’