My voice is recognized internationally. It is insured by a company in London: should I ever fail to complete a performance for reasons outside my control, I am to be paid twenty-three million pounds Sterling. I am told this is a great deal of money. And of course. It would have to be. I am, after all, Il Divino.
How does a simple Tuscan peasant boy become Il Divino, you ask? Sit. I shall tell you.
From my earliest days, I loved to sing. I would sing in the forest, in the meadows, to the birds, to the cattle, to the gently babbling stream. They were the perfect audience: quiet, attentive, appreciative.
One day, a man in a long black autocar stopped. "Young man," he called out, "I am entranced by the loveliness of your voice. You are without a doubt Il Divino." And so of course I was. "You will come with me to La Scala, where I will make you a star." He was wrong, of course: Il Divino is not a star. Il Divino is the star.
I sang only once during my audition. "More," they asked, but I would not. If you want more, I said, you must sign Il Divino. And of course they did.
I made my La Scala debut as Tamino. I was astounding. "Il Divino!" the women would cry out beneath my hotel room at night. 'Come to the window!" But of course I would not. Then they would shoot themselves in unrequited anguish. In the morning, I would find the steps littered with the bodies of women who had shot themselves for Il Divino.
The Paris Opera called. "Il Divino, you must sing for us!" And of course I did. I was Pinkerton. I was brilliant. No one could weep on command as touchingly as Il Divino. I was Calaf. I was flawless. The audience cried with joy for Il Divino as he swept Turandot into his arms for an impassioned kiss.
Others came and threw themselves at Il Divino’s feet: the London, the Metropolitan, the Arena de Verona. At every turn, I was incredible.
Then one day a man appeared at my dressing room door. "You are Il Divino?" Of course I was, I said. "I would ask you to sing for my company, but I don't know that you can."
"My schedule is quite full," I replied.
"I know that," he said. "It's more a question of whether or not you can sing. Can you?"
I was taken aback. I am, after all, Il Divino. Of course I can sing. Who does this little man think he is? So I sang. Tamino’s opening aria, when he is given the locket of Pamina. Unaccompanied. Beautifully. My maid wept when I was finished.
But the little man, he shook his head. "No, it's not quite right. The melodic lines are uneven, and you missed the high D by a quarter step. I'm sorry. You won't do." And then he left.
I spent the entire night and the entire day following singing the aria. Suddenly it was not as beautiful. To my horror, I discovered I had missed the high D by a quarter step. Even more shocking, the melodic lines were uneven. I was devastated. But now I am determined. Now, no matter what role I play, at some point in the performance, I always sing Tamino’s opening aria. It is expressly written in my contracts. My agent thinks me mad, the directors and conductors loathe me, but I am Il Divino. My name alone brings in attentive audiences. But they no longer matter. After all, the little man may be in the audience, and I want him to know that Il Divino can indeed sing.....
