Audrey Hepburn's Pearls: Part I

Chapter 53.1: 1968, Georgina

Chapter 53.1: 1968, Georgina

"The way she sang. Ah, come un angelo. I've never heard a 'Poveri Fiori' like her's, and I've heard it a thousand- no, a million times. I heard it in my heart. Nel mio caro cuore. You know, Adriana Lecouvreur is my father's favorite so to see it with him...ah, beauty. Bella la perfezione."

My eyes were closed as he rubbed shampoo into my hair, listening to him talk on and on about the opera he had seen, going on about Renata Tebaldi, his very favorite. Going to the opera with his father was a tradition between them, a bond they shared more and more since his mother died. Going to the opera was something that lifted his father's spirits far more than anything else, so they started taking these in very often. 

But my thoughts couldn't help but wander to unwelcome things. Impossibilities.

"Do you ever get the feeling where something is so beautiful that you can't take it? Well, when she sang the word 'fiori' I got overwhelmed with the beauty. I became in another place. Come se il mondo è diventato estraneo."

I settled against his body, not opening my eyes. Imagining the forbidden. 

"I remember when I first saw her? In Madama Butterfly. Puccini. My first opera. Ah, the beautiful perfection. My father leaned over to me and said, 'this is the best one. Once you see this, nothing will ever be good enough for you again. Cherish it.' And I have been ever since. I can not wait to see her again."

Images of us in his father's special box at the Met, holding hands, my glove against his glove. Watching Renata Tebaldi singing anything at all. His words in my ear, talking about "listen, listen. Oh, ascolta. Questo è quello. This is the best one." My eager ears, hearing my first opera performed before my very eyes with my husband beside me, excited as children.

But, to think this... My eyes opened and downcast, into the water. Seeing my legs in the water. They traveled up my body and my breath drew sharply inward and I looked up at the ceiling. 

His hands stopped on my scalp. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you? Are my nails too long?" he asked, in the same tone as his gushing love for the opera. 

"No. It feels good." I hoped my tone would not betray my feelings. Such a happy moment this should have been, but instead, my selfishness...

"Are you sure? You sound kind of down. Is something going on? You know you can tell me about it. I'll listen."

Oh, my stupid voice. My stupid thoughts. Ruining this moment.

"I was just thinking..."

"Sì, sto ascoltando." Yes, I am listening. I sighed, hearing his lovely Italian voice filling my ears, so close by. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me to his body, the water escaping from the lessening gap between us and then completely disappeared, his wet skin against my skin. His soapy hands made streaks on my ribs. I watched their little progressions, and sighed.

"I was just thinking I've never seen an opera before."

He gasped, expected. A little inward breath. I felt it on my back, himself expanding in his disbelief. 

I went on, the words like a waterfall falling. "I want to see one with you. In fact, I want to see all of them with you. I was thinking about going there, with you, watching her perform and you talking to me about it. Pointing out things. I want..."

He nuzzled his face into my wet, soapy hair. Something inside of me fell down further. 

"I want to go there with you...when we're married." These last three words...I could barely say them or even think them.