Vienna outside my window, the now-familiar blend of chilly and gemütlich. I have an unexpected few minutes to myself thanks to Captain Vere's hoarseness; he'll bring a soothing Starbucks up to the Indomitable and her crew on the sixth floor and mark his way through Britten's exhortations. From down the hall float the bell-tones of the choirboys readying for a different world two floors below and two centuries earlier. No other singers populate the coaching rooms this morning, but most of them are here in the house; between Finisterre, Aguasfrescas, and the Weisheitstempel, nearly everyone in the company is rehearsing.
Next week and next month spread out before me, each translated into its own Excel document. Flute, Boheme, Romeo; Billy Budd on stage, Figaro not yet, Dutchman pretty soon, the false lull before the opera ball, the onslaught of March and April (American readers, brace yourselves: all of the Ring plus Elektra, Parsifal, Ariadne, and Arabella in fewer than eight weeks. Side dishes include, but are not limited to, Anna Bolena and Aida). Pianists' hours to count, vacation requests to track, next week's coachings to plan. The newest Excel sheets, labelled 2011-2012 and brightly color-coded, lie patiently ignored near my right elbow.
I'm staring out my window down the Mahlerstrasse, at the statuary lining the top floor of the Hotel Bristol. The ship is heading into battle. The adversaries are plotting. Smart people are coming up with plans, some of which might be good. The children are counseling us to be steadfast, patient and wise.
bedenke dies: kurz, sei ein Mann.
As if on cue, it starts to snow. This city surely knows its theater.