From schoolboy trips to booze-ups with New York garbage men, the novelist recalls how he fell for the fabulous world of opera – and managed to break in, with a staging of his book about Henry James
When I went to live in Barcelona at the age of 20 in 1975, I thought I would get to see loads of opera. The first ticket I bought was for Puccini’s La Bohème at the Liceu, starring Montserrat Caballé as Mimi. When I found my seat, however, I discovered that I had no view at all of the stage. Standing up would not help, because there was not even enough headroom to stand.
I grew sad when the music began, in the sure knowledge that the stage must be bathed in beautiful light and the costumes must be gorgeous and the set superbly crafted. But the real problem arose in act four. As Mimi sang her farewell, I could not bear it any longer. I felt a rat-like determination to see Caballé just once. I realised that leaning out from where I was would not work. So I waited until a culminating moment, Caballé’s voice at its most splendid, and I not only leaned out, but rested my two hands on the shoulders of each of the two men in front of me – and propelled myself forward like a duck. That allowed me to catch a glimpse of the stage, just one glimpse, for one second.
