The scratching of the needle on an old, dusty record slightly pierced Lily’s ears; it was one of the many things that led her to therapy twice a week, for the past eight years, always with the same outcome: silence.
This therapist was different.
Lily could see her face every time, for every session, unlike the others, whose faces were blank and whose voices glitched.
She could tell her therapist was eager to get in, to analyze, to understand. Trust, however, is something Lily can’t afford to give. Besides this new therapist, Lily can’t remember the last time she saw someone more than once.
Until now.
For the past three weeks, Lily has tested this new therapist with stubborn silence, because what else would you do if your entire life was mainly faceless and voiceless?
“I hope you like them; arias are my favorites.”
Lily closed her eyes.
She loved arias, but she hadn’t listened to music since she lost it in the space between innocence and adulthood, when everything made sense, and now nothing does.
Lily took a deep breath, held slightly longer than one should.
The first one she recognized instantly: Puccini, and she sank deeper into the chair. She had 45 minutes left now, long enough to imagine a world where she existed, participating in the daily pleasures allotted to others, just not to her.
“Nessun Dorma” swells the room.
With it, Lily made every effort to remain composed. She thinks she has a grasp of them, her emotions, but the music catches in her throat, threatening to escape either through voice or tears, and as of right now, the lump translates to tears.
At first glance, her eyes are fixed shut.
But, behind her eyelids, an entire world is relived—the one shaped by notes, by clefs, and tempo changes, by pitch and practice, by solos and duets, with instruments, strings, and woodwinds – A world that slipped from her, date unknown, but around a long time ago.
“Nessun Dorma” stops briefly, handing over the baton to Lakmé’s “Flower Duet”, and she asks her therapist for a favor:
“Could you possibly turn the music up, just a bit more?”
“Of course.”
She let the duet linger inside her, feeling every vibrato, remembering every forgotten note.
Lily swung her head to every key change in anticipation of the big finale. Moving her head to every change in the song, the lump in the back of her throat was desperate to be unleashed. But she held it together as long as she could, truly believing music was past tense, until the moment the baton was passed to Puccini once more, when she knew this was the moment —the one imprinted in her heart yet inaccessible to her mind.
“O Mio Babbino Caro,” her signature song, her masterpiece, seeped from the speakers, straight into the crevices of her memory.
“Could you turn this one up? I’m so sorry.”
“Not a bother, you like these, don’t you?”
Given the cues in the music, Lily shuts her eyes again and sees herself in her black opera attire, with its long-sleeved lace that extends over her chest and down to her wrists; the silk that melts into the bottom of the dress, flowy, classy, and chic, is her signature attire for solo performances.
She replays countless hours of voice warm-ups, soothing honey milk tea to coat her throat after a night’s performance and hundreds in the audience screaming “Bravo,” although they all remained blank faces, obscured by the colorful stage lights beaming across them as she stood there, vivid in the white spotlight on that stage, curtsying and thanking the orchestra for their support.
Tears of recognition, of a love affair with music, smeared her face as she remained in the nook of remembrance.
It hurt Lily to contain the spark, the one she humbly labeled God’s Touch when once asked by a journalist, “How do you do it?”
“It was God’s Touch”, she recalled, saying it out loud, because saying it any other way meant she was in control of her voice; too powerful for a young woman of her frame, and too beautiful to feel like it was part of who she was.
***
Lily finally opens her eyes, rubs the smeared memories from her hollow cheeks, and lowly sneaks her voice effortlessly into the rhythm of the orchestra. Before she realizes it, she is engrossed in the middle of the aria, voice intense, honey effortlessly coating each note in sweetness and pungency.
She is not in a therapy office; she is in Paris, on the stage of a sold-out performance, and she is the finale.
The needle on the old disc player then flickers, skating across the surface of the worn record, no longer shiny but dull from years of love and use.
Lily, now fully aware of her actions, feels the heat of embarrassment on her face and turns to look at the clock.
Two minutes left.
“Wow! That was incredible, Lily. How in the, what the, who are you?”
“I… I don’t know.”
With trembling hands, Lily finds the pen and paper, rushing to write down the two words that sum up her current life. The urgency to escape is making her claustrophobic, creating a fumbling version of Lily that she hopes her therapist will not analyze. Instead, she hands her the note, a two-word summary capsule of her life in the present tense.
“Lily, stay. I have a few more minutes if you want.”
“That’s okay, I’ll see you next time, I hope.”
“Yes, next time, right?”
Lily sat on the stoop of the Manhattan townhouse, flustered, desperate to erase the happenings in the room and the two words she wrote down for her therapist.
My life is faceless and voiceless. . .
Lily
Chapter 1: Overture
Lily takes a deep breath, ready to be reabsorbed into the city, one new face at a time, only for them to turn into blobs of blank smears and voicelessness after their first meeting, haunting her for the rest of her life.
It was all so uncanny to her, as if she were living inside a nightmare, where people’s faces were twisted like clay, their features blended, making it impossible to tell who they were, leaving a question never answered. Their voices, too, resembled nails on a chalkboard. Instead of smooth cadence, screeches flowed from them brutally, tearing at her ears, frightened they would bleed from the dissonance.
Yet, it wasn’t always like this.
There was a time when she lived a life worthy of early termination.
She was loved dearly by the masses.
She had God’s Touch, an unexplainable gift she never felt worthy of, a gift she vowed to share with as many people as possible because Lily was convinced from a young age, since the visit from a messenger in her dreams, who explained the selfishness of confining her talents to only small bathrooms and lonely staircases.
These arias were performed hundreds of times by others, but through her rendition, she transformed the experience, unhindered by language or time, bringing everyone who heard her to tears.
She held the world in her palms, and she braced for imminent disappointment upon waking. Early death at the height of success and love meant she would leave this world as a tragedy; like the operas she loved to read and sing, she stood every day in subtle anticipation of her ending, silently praying and thanking heaven for the life she had been gifted.
The final curtain dropped, and Lily was left in the remnants of despair.
Yet, as deeply as people admired her, she loved just as intensely only two people in her life: one of them her beautifully flawed-to-perfection husband, one who not only worshiped her voice but also understood the fragility of her heart. The one brave enough to leave her behind while he fought on the front lines in the notorious war between worlds, for something paramount and urgent.
The day he left, with one final, tender kiss on her lips that lingered past this lifetime, she bargained with a higher power.
Please bring him back.
I let him go; now, return my lover with care.
***
Strangers would pity her tautly with words of advice, and so would familial pillars in her life.
If you love something, set it free.
If it returns, then it was meant to be.
She was certain of only two things: her undeserved talents and her love for her husband.
After his grand exit, the weeks, months, and years were filled with chatter and propaganda as Lily awaited any news of battles fought, won, and lost, and everything in between.
Letters, love ones, were written to him daily at first, on parched paper, soggy with devotion. Followed by weekly letters of encouragement to forge ahead, ones written on Sundays, when her schedule brimmed with opportunities to display her talent for audiences all over the world, her duty to the people who needed an escape from the inescapable scariness encompassing the globe.
Still, she met silence on the other side, for not a single word returned to give her comfort or hope.
Refusing to let go of her forever and living in complete darkness as to his existence, she was devout, writing, now, monthly letters of desperation after years of nothingness, not a written note from the sidelines. Yet, she would recall his voice, steady, patient, and near her. When would he be home?
Yet, although her faith dwindled and dimmed, she kept the crystal-laced chandelier on in the grand foyer of their home, just for him.
Years after her lover joined the fight, cheers rang out across her village, flags waved, and strangers hugged and celebrated. Through the crackling on the radio, Lily made out that the war was over, and she let out a deep sigh from within her, finally aware she hadn’t breathed freely since the moment he drifted away.
And, as predicted by everyone, he came back to her shortly after the triumphant news, in a small wooden box full of ashes, a neatly folded flag, and a single red rose.
Along with all the letters written, first daily, then weekly, then monthly.
Shock erased all the deadly details, and then numbness seeped across her body.
A tragic death.
Touché.
But she had little time to process the news, for her biggest performance by her favorite composer, Puccini, was yet to be executed with precision that very same night.
And as the show carried on, no one else knew how Madama Butterfly had become a reality for Lily. The last song she performed on stage again, ‘Un bel dì vedremo’, was a farewell to her lover, her husband, her forever, who never heard her haunting voice again. But in that moment, the voices and the applause, the “Bravos” and the standing ovations were muffled.
She thought it was just the excitement that made her ears weak, but in reality, it was the start of something else, something far more profound.
Her life was never really the same after that performance, as she wanted more than ever for the curtain to drop, and make sense of the crowd she could no longer hear. But it was slow to fall, and she hesitated, frozen in an anxious state. She thought she wanted to escape the performance, because the final drop of the curtain meant she was living life as a widow, something she expected, yet was never ready for.
***
Death came for her in a form she could never have predicted.
It was not her husband’s death, nor the void left in her heart from it; it was years after, when a grand opportunity in her life slipped through her fingers, and she was left stuck in a world where she relived life among the faceless and voiceless.
Echoes of applause, as if from a previous life, haunted her, flooding her with memories she wanted to forget.
Why, though, why did she want to forget so badly?
The truth lay deeply in a coffin she refused to acknowledge. The one that, when pried open, would either liberate or break her. Right now, though, she was left with memories of another box, a different memory just as hurtful, just as sad. This was one of many boxes buried in the graveyard garden of her mind, tucked away for no one to see.
While weeping on the wooden box with his ashes, she was ready to be a tragedy too, a young, dead singer so gifted she was named the ‘voice of god’ by spectators and critics. And she tried to live up to her expectations of what a tragic death embodied, many times before the big opportunity, but it never worked; she always got up the next day, as if it were a gift, life. But this rebounding from extinction every time she dared to try again was hell.
And she knew there would come a heavy price for trying to blow out her light before fate deemed her ready for death.
That heavy price came in the form of blank and voiceless faces following her for eternity.
Session # 7
“Well, thank you for coming back, Lily. From our last meeting, I imagined you wouldn’t show, and I’d be left wondering my whole life who I had the pleasure of hearing in my office.”
“Yeah, about that, can we not talk about it? It’s pretty embarrassing.”
“Oh? Come on, Lily. You need to let me understand you. Can you give me an inch? I’m begging. It’s taken six meetings—this being the seventh—to say anything of substance. Either you’re a difficult one, or I’m a terrible therapist. I’ll settle for being a terrible therapist if we don’t get you talking today.”
“I’m sorry I made you feel that way. You’re not awful. I just haven’t talked to anyone in a long time.”
Lily immediately raised her walls, the ones she had built over generations, to protect herself from the slightest feelings of vulnerability, unwilling to lift the heavy stones, one by one, to rebuild her fortress again. There was a solution to this problem, she analyzed, unable to escape her desire to reveal her past or at least to speak freely with a possible promise of a next meeting.
She didn’t have to break walls and rebuild them; she could create a door instead, an invitation to step into her life, the one she’s been trying to escape all along.
Lily sighed and looked at her timepiece as if it could provide her with the courage necessary to reflect upon a life lived in the vividness of color, while stuck in a life void of it.
“Okay, I’ll speak a little, but I think I need Puccini on again. If you have Turandot, I would like to hear it in the background.”
“Only if you promise to sing again.”
“Not a chance.”
“Fair enough.”
The therapist walked over to her collection, pulling out her copy of Turandot, and gently placed it on the record player. With dim lights and a small candle for ambiance, the therapist was unaware of what she managed to unleash within Lily.
After a few settling minutes, the therapist sat at her desk and asked the leading question.
“Who are you, Lily?”
A pause, just long enough to entice the flooding of her past, pooled at her throat, “Where should I start?
“Let’s start here. What do you make of ‘God’s Touch’? You said it was a curse, but sometimes you discuss it as a blessing. Which is it?”
“I believe something can be both. This would fall in that category.”
“Had you ever heard of it before?”
“Whispers of it ran within my family; my grandmother’s brother, a distant great uncle… a violinist… something about how he, too, had God’s touch.”
“Oh, tell me more.”
“I wish I had more. He was a taboo subject within our family. I heard them speak about him behind closed doors, and I listened with my ear pressed against the walls when I was younger. As I came to be aware of it, I understood it as a curse. Something within the family that no one dares to bring up, unless they recognize it in another.”
“Sounds as if you felt like an outlier in your family. Is that correct?”
“I guess you could say that. Yes, an outlier, that’s a great way to describe it.”
“Were you close with your family?”
“My grand mère took a strong liking to me. My parents would send me to her for the summers, just me. They were trying to steer me away from the house, like an illness; they felt my condition could be contagious somehow.”
“Was that your punishment for being different?”
“It wasn’t a punishment. At first, I thought it was. But then, I understood why they sent me there every summer.”
“Why is that?”
“My Mamie became my best friend and my biggest fan. She was the reason I aspired to be more than just a voice. She coached me, and she had a deep understanding of my musical gifts; somehow, she seemed unbothered by my eccentric ways. She said I reminded her of someone dear to her, but she never revealed who.”
“Would you say she accepted you for who you truly were?”
“Yes. I stopped visiting when I was nineteen, and my career started to blossom. Then, she passed away after my 21st birthday, leaving me empty inside, until I found my husband, the other person who understood me and accepted me. In my life, there were only a few of those.”
“And were there others you were close to in your family?”
“I have two sisters. We were close growing up.”
“Did they have God’s touch as well?”
“No, they were lucky. Untouched. Very normal. I was the odd one. I envied them later into adulthood. Their lives without the drama. The proper husbands, their proper children, my niece and nephews, and their ordinary lives.”
“Do you miss them?”
“More than you know.”
“Thank you, Lily. That’s helpful. You also mentioned in your last session that you were visited by what you perceived to be an angel when you were younger, who told you to share your gifts with the world. Can you elaborate on that?”
“What about it?”
“I want to know how this angel came to you. Do you remember it?”
“Vividly.”
“Tell me about it. When did it happen? Where were you? What was happening in your life when the angel came to you?”
“I was eighteen years old when he came. I sang and wrote music ferociously, stuck in my quarters for weeks, unable to think or do anything else besides write new arias. That’s how it started. I wrote small arias and then sang them until I felt satisfied they were perfect.”
“How did the angel present itself?”
“It started as a voice. A strong one. And it wasn’t mine. You know how we all have an internal dialogue; this wasn’t that. This was outside of myself, but not. It wasn’t me, but it was within me. Do you understand?”
“I do. Continue.”
“At first, I thought myself ill. But I felt more like myself than ever before and ruled out that possibility. He told me he was there to help me understand my gift. He spoke to me for weeks, and we worked in tandem on the arias, coaching me on chords, asking me to sing them for him. We worked together endlessly. I felt like I was on top of the world, totally engrossed in my work, taking full advantage of the insight I had from my angel. He told me God instructed him to send me messages of encouragement, explaining that my gift needed to be shared with the world, doing anything less would disgrace them.”
“Is that why you started performing for audiences?”
“I had no other choice—it was my calling.”
“When did the angel go away? Did he ever?”
“He would disappear for a while, even years at a time, then he was my only friend in my ignited moods, the times where I shut myself out of the world, fueled by an insurmountable desire to write new music.”
“Sounds somewhat lovely and romantic, the way you explain his presence.”
“That’s because it was lovely.”
“I see. You liked him.”
“Very much so. He rooted for me every step of the way, helping me write, praising my singing, and telling me tales of my future, the one where I was a world-renowned soprano, applauded by hundreds, traveling all of Europe, and inspiring others with my songs.”
“Did you ever think it was strange that you had an angel as a friend?”
“No, I was elated. I had discussions with an angel. He was always kind to me, especially when no one else was, or they felt as though my life was too perfect for a new friend.”
“I understand. Thank you for sharing. Now, tell me more about living a life with the faceless and voiceless people you spoke about.”
“I’m not sure how to explain it. I’m not sure exactly when it started or how I got there.”
“Would you like to explore that world? I think it would be crucial to your treatment.”
“I don’t need to explore it, I live it.”
“Well, help me understand it, maybe I can help you define it, possibly guide you towards a different path?”
“If you think it would help, I’ll try anything.”
“I need you then to relax again, the same routine, counting back from 20.”
“11, 10, 9, 8”
“That’s it, listen to my voice and the clock.”
“4, 3, 2…”
Chapter 2: The Last Meeting
She had been in this loop of uncertainty for a while now, sometime after circa 1926, she recalled, when a new idea struck her while reading the weekly newspaper: she would travel to a new city in a different country, one that promised freedom and new beginnings; perfect for a recluse.
The entire trip to the ship, she saw nothing but the same ogled faces whose voices sounded like glitches. The moment she stepped onto the boat, her life changed ever so slightly.
She saw and heard people again, and to her surprise, she realized she missed humanity and gained clarity. As the fog lifted, the curtain ascended, and an eagerness to live among the living instantly grew; strangers with faces intact flooded her with a yearning for conversation. And she spoke with as many of them as she could, high on life, ready to make a new start in the city of promises and escape the hollowness of her existence.
That night, she didn’t try to be a tragedy; she felt called toward a new beginning, a reinvention, a resurrection. She slept happily than ever since her untimely exit. A soft glow slithered through her veins; an electric force she named hope.
From the bottom of her bags, she pulled out her worn – out journal, scribbling with excitement all the names, occupations and small details of every stranger, of every new face and encounter she had that day, longing to remember as much as possible for their following conversation, secretly wishing she could make a friend to share her new adventures with in the new city.
In the morning, Lily searched for her brightest dress and her best hat to match. It was now time for her to shed her mourning dress and embrace a new lease of life. She took great care in combing her massive curls, then pinned them neatly under her hat. The moisturizer and makeup she used years ago were surprisingly still functional, smearing her face with elite products from a former life, and a bold lipstick, checking twice in her compact for smudges on her teeth.
As she slipped through the door, filled with a renewed sense of purpose, Lily walked down the long, empty hallway, her heels clicking on the shiny, freshly waxed wooden floors, toward the sunlit balcony where breakfast was served that morning.
She found the perfect spot, a small table for two, directly and daringly in the middle of the room, ready to see and speak more than before. She looked at her antique watch, one given to her by her husband as a gift for their third anniversary, a gift she refused to retire like she did her family jewels and other shiny trophies she gathered from around the world, those she wore like ornaments, dangling from her neck, ears, and wrists.
It was early, she observed, and a new server greeted her while she ordered her tea.
Lily stared at him longer than the others, memorizing his face and distinct features: a strong jaw, full lips, captivating, large eyes, shiny, wavy hair, and a freshly cut appearance. His voice was confident, friendly, and welcoming. As he walked away to get her tea, she jotted down notes, outlining topics for a delightful conversation. After a few minutes, the young server returned with her order, taking an extra second to ensure it was perfect by making an entire spectacle of it, setting down a napkin in front of her, and providing a large box of English teas for her choosing, with milk, honey, and fruit to accompany it.
Lily stared at the beautiful arrangement set with precision and care for her enjoyment. He went further than he needed to, ensuring her approval, taking his job very seriously. For that small gesture of humanity, she stared at her notebook, choosing carefully the best segue towards a meaningful discussion with the server, looking forward to escaping her cage and flying freely into the clouds by slithering into his life, imagining it being full of adventures, heartbreaks, and broken dreams.
“Can I get you anything else, ma’am?”
Lily stared at the notebook once more, chose a talking point, the one where she asks him, Where are you from? Ready to embark on a lovely discussion about his story.
She reached for her cup of fresh tea and slowly looked up at the kind man with lovely eyes, ready to ask her rehearsed question. And for an hour, he sat beside her, engrossed in deep conversations about the curveballs of life, the uncertain and the certain hard truths, his story just as broken as hers. She felt the invisible string of connection empowering her to speak about her past, of days filled with music and nights accompanied by dancing with her husband.
He kindly excused himself as others interrupted him with their orders of biscuits and tea, and he dutifully and kindly left her to proceed in his profession, the temporary one, the one that he would use to fund his permanent one, a job in finance in the new city of hope.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised.
“Take your time,” she replied, her heart beating slightly faster.
Lily looked up at the crowds now gathering, composing herself from the last conversation with the man to begin a new one with the memorable people she noted in her journal. And it took just one glance up to realize she would never stop living her cursed life, for most of the faces in the crowd were blurred, just like before, and their voices glitched as they greeted her, knowingly, from the night before.
One cup of tea shattered on the floor, and one single tear slid from her eye.
The memorables disappeared.
But others, strangers she hadn’t seen the night before, were completely different. Faces bright, voices melodic, they gravitated toward her, and she made good use of her talking points, engaging in conversations, laughing along as if everything was normal again, but it wasn’t.
She caught a glimpse of the server in the corner of her eye.
She could still make out his face, and that warmed her.
The riddle had something to do with first meetings, that much she understood.
The first meetings were always the last.
This was her fate.
***
Lily called over the young man and slipped him a note with her room number on it. She was going to make the best of her situation, unable to let go of that thrilling feeling allotted only to the new, unspoiled spark in the heart after a fresh meeting with a beautiful stranger.
She had tonight, and trying something new seemed a simple solution.
Through laughter and quirky comments here and there, Lily kept her eye on the young server, discreetly watching him as he made his rounds, making sure her water and mint julep stayed fresh while he engaged in his own quirky conversations with all the other guests.
Yet, amid the brief moments of silence, the pause between guests, her mind wandered with thoughts of the young server slipping into her room that night. She felt an uncomfortable warmth in her body, which she had only experienced twice before — for her only lover, her deceased husband, who had been gone for far too long, and an old friend whom she adored endlessly.
In the main foyer, the faint sound of music could be heard: ‘Ángela Mía’, and she couldn’t resist the urge to stand and leave her safe, tiny table and float towards the orchestra. It was also convenient that the young server was there, tucked behind the curtains, watching the performance with appreciation, and she was thrilled.
Lily found her way through the maze of the backstage curtains, hoping for a chance to be near him. They saw each other, and without hesitation, the young man quietly gave his hand to her in a gesture signaling permission for a dance. She tilted her head in agreement and provided her hand, only to be welcomed by his arms instantly wrapping around her waist, holding her close, and mouthing the words to the lovely song.
At first, she stiffened. When was the last time she danced? Then, just as quickly, she forced herself out of the memory, too hurtful to be helpful for this occasion. Slowly, her limbs loosened as his grip got tighter, and before she knew it, she was dangerously close. So close she could smell the lingering scent of cologne on his damp neck.
The orchestra and singer finished their set, tearing Lily and the young man apart briefly for applause.
“Thank you for the dance,” she said softly.
“No, thank you, Ángela Mía.”
Lily chuckled and blushed, replying, “You’re good at dancing.”
“Just wait until tonight,” he winked, and took her hand once more to kiss it. “Goodbye, for now.”
***
The sun’s last dimming light gave her a tinge of excitement as she retired from the group, ready to relinquish herself to the beautiful stranger. She imagined her longest night ever: the speaking of truths, the occasional laughter not from jokes, but from the particular ironies of life that one never foresees, and the anticipation of familiarity, yet knowing nothing of the intimate details of the first touch, the first kiss, and the first act of passion.
Yet, the doubt lifted the moment her heart leaped at the sound of a knock at her door, and she hurriedly looked at herself in the mirror for flaws and put a sweet mint on her tongue.
“Hello, stranger.”
“Hello, beautiful.”
“Come on in, I’ll pour us a drink.”
And the meeting was picturesque.
Liquid courage ran through her veins, numbing her doubtful mind, even silencing it for a while. Conversation flowed effortlessly, and gestures of flirting were loud. They spoke as if they had lived many lives together, once upon a time in an obscurity in the universe. Remanences of laughter remained contained in the small room, lingering between small gestures of romance like the first electric touch of her hand, then the first explosive kiss, and she longed for his taste to stain perpetually.
She paused the scene just long enough for her to imprint this moment in memory, and proceeded to undress without self-judgment, equipped with the armor of confidence stemming from her glass of brandy and the undeniable fire of lust seeping from his heart that hovered between them, as thick fog does on dewy, cool mornings.
One would never know she was a novice in such situations, surprising herself repeatedly at her courage and vulnerability in the presence of a stranger. And arm in arm, head on chest, they continued talking, but now as lovers instead of friendly strangers.
Lily recalled pausing once to glance at her watch at precisely 4:55 am, then slipping into a lasting slumber, hoping her transgressions would go somewhat unnoticed by whatever power held her hostage to first and last meetings.
Stirring awake, she imagined a life free from the curse, where this one stayed longer, releasing her from a dull existence. But this was not the day, nor was he the one who’d prevail, for the moment he awoke lazily next to her, she was met with another faceless and voiceless who would haunt her again for her aberrations.
The man, now a stranger again, hurried out of the room, confused, and Lily returned to the messy bed, her soul begrimed by her actions, her tears a solution to cleanse away her sins.
She remained in her bunker the rest of the journey, sullen, in mourning, reliving the nightmare of losing someone too quickly.
In these low moods of hers, she retreated from the world by writing and reading sheet music in a disheveled state, hair matted, teeth unbrushed, and occasionally taking a shower when she can’t stand her smell.
And when the sun shone through her window, three months after her departure, on the last day on the ship before her new adventure, Lily took great care of herself.
The fog lifted, the birds chirped, and Lily was ready to meet new faces for the last time.
Session #8
“Interesting, Lily. That world of the voiceless and faceless seems like a punishment, you may have even called it that.”
Had she said it was a punishment? If she did, she couldn’t remember. But it was precisely that: a punishment she didn’t understand why or how, but she had lived with it for so long that it didn’t bother her as much anymore, especially since she could see and talk to Dr. Alvarez every time she attended her sessions, something she now looked forward to, someone who finally listened.
“What happened circa 1926?”
Lily instantly got the chills, running from her arms to her spine.
“What do you mean?”
“You mentioned you spent some time as a recluse in this world where people have no faces or voices.
“I’m assuming this was in 1926.”
“That year was…I have some recollection of it, but I don’t have enough to explain it to you now.”
“We need to get to that place, the place where you can remember what happened to you. The inner workings of getting into the loop so that we can work our way out of it, and in the process, set you free.”
The words hit Lily deep.
Get out of the loop? How was that possible? She was convinced the loop was never-ending, a spot for people like her —those who had sinned and been misunderstood by society and the universe.
She couldn’t accept the idea of finally leaving, but that was the most desired ending, wasn’t it? To be free from the chains and boundaries imposed on her to live this life, she longed to forget.
“Free? You mean free from the loop? Is that even possible, doctor? I’m not a pessimist, but I assure you, I’m stuck.”
“I don’t think that, Lily.”
“What makes you think you can get me unstuck? Do you think I’m imagining this? Because if I am, I can’t figure out why I would do such a terrible thing to myself.”
“I don’t think you’re making anything up. We need to discover more of your life, more of what we call triggers, instances in your life you may have blocked because they were too traumatic for you to process.”
Lily reflected on her life, the beautiful and the ugly, the celebrated and the forgotten. Maybe Dr. Alvarez was right. She had a way of blocking out all the bad parts, and in doing so, she had even forgotten the good, because the bad always overshadowed the good.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“I can help you process your memories.”
“I know that, but I’m not sure I can go back through those times; they’re too painful to relive.”
And Lily knew that taking a trip back would bring her moments of subtle bliss, only to push her toward darker, more chaotic times. Still, something inside her trusted Dr. Alvarez now, who once told her that navigating through the muck is sometimes necessary to gain perspective. The muddy, dark muck was where Lily had spent most of her life. Opening the portal to herself wouldn’t be easy, but she was willing to try, not just for herself but also for the young, compassionate doctor.
“You want me to go through the muck, huh?”
“The muck? Oh, so you are listening to me?”
Lily chuckled. She’s funny too, I guess.
“Believe it or not, young doctor, I can process your advice. I’ve just never talked to anyone about myself. No one has ever found me this interesting; no one ever tried.”
“I find you very interesting.”
“I know.”
“So… trust me. Let me work my magic. Let’s go back to a happier time. Where are we headed, Lily?
“I know where I’m going. Back to Viareggio.”
Lily lay on the couch, following Dr. Alvarez’s voice and the ticking clock that would take her back to a place she could never forget.
Chapter 3: Viareggio
Reeling from her husband’s death, Lily took a two-year hiatus from everyone and everything that once held meaning. To her, the low mood was nothing more than mourning, but to others, the extremisms of her reclusiveness verged on madness, or inescapable melancholy.
Lily preferred it that way, to be left alone by everyone. Yet, there was one person whom she lit up for at the sight of the stamped envelopes dribbling in once a month: her favorite conductor, mentor, and friend, Giacomo Puccini.
Through his letters, she was reminded of her talents, her love, and her passions for music, as his adventures and grand tales brought about a chuckle every time she read them. “Classic Puccini.” She would say as she brought his letters to life in her imaginative mind. In other letters, he pleaded with her to join him in his new venture, Turandot, his newest opera, the one that will make her “legendary,” he stressed.
“I need my muse. Without you, this opera will cease to be given life.”
Flattered by the compliments, his letters ignited her soul. She kept all of them, rereading them and writing back occasionally to her dear friend. She performed his arias many times, and he was her biggest fan, often composing his arias inspired by her voice, for her, in his famous operas.
The letters started to become urgent soon enough.
“Darling, step out. Come with me to Viareggio. You are a difficult one to move, but your voice and input always move me. Join me.”
Then, a final plea. “Get to Viareggio. I’ll be waiting.” That was all it said, and a train ticket slipped from the envelope once opened.
“Stubborn.” She whispered under her breath.
Lily rose from her soiled bed and linens and walked over to the silky curtains blocking the sun’s rays from ever reaching her. Pulling them apart, the sun scorched her eyes, blinding her for a few minutes until they adjusted to the assault, but her body absorbed the rays, and to her surprise, she had life left.
She opened the windows to let the French country air into her room, and with that, she dared to do life again.
After years of coaxing and pleading, she fixed herself up, draped her fancy furniture in cloth, and shuttered the doors and windows, heading towards the train station destined for Viareggio.
***
April 14, 1921, Lily arrives at Viareggio with her suitcases in hand. After a 16-hour train ride, she is exhausted in the traditional sense, from unwanted conversations and lack of sleep, but she welcomed it as a sign that life has continued for her once again.
Lily could hear it before she even reached the entrance. Giacomo was sitting upstairs, humming and playing the piano while writing and correcting his opera furiously with his pencil, worn and bitten with anxiety and frustration. Walking up to his heavy wooden doors, she knocked softly, her knuckles barely scraping the wood, fearing she was interrupting her mentor in a pivotal moment in the opera.
“Who in the hell is it?” He shouted before reluctantly getting up from his stool and opening the room window to investigate.
“Is this a mirage, or is my dear muse Lily here, finally!”
“Stop with your dramatics, Giacomo, and for the love of God, invite me in.”
“I’ve left the door open, ready for your entrance for years.”
“As it should be.”
And Lily let herself in, set down her suitcases, and headed straight upstairs to his studio room, where the comforting sight of torn paper strewn about, missing the ‘tin can of mistakes’, and the sound of piano cords met her, quickly putting her at ease, as if the past two years were just a semicolon in her music career.
“You are a sad cliché, sir. The mad composer, cooped up in his studio, overlooking the blue skies with nothing to write but genius cords fluttering around the page, awaiting to be strung together into your best opera yet?”
“You had me at hello.” He replied with a welcoming hug and a sigh of relief that his most trusted friend, Lily, had shown up to relieve him of his doubts and replace them with inspiration.
“What are we working on currently?”
“You are just in time for the Act 1 aria, soprano, in your line of expertise, one of many.”
“Ah, then, may I sit with you to create it?”
“I couldn’t ask for anything more delightful.”
They sat together as he dramatically explained the opera to her, jotting down notes as he created improvisational ideas that seemed worthy of something special. She listened while sipping a hot cappuccino, as the Italians do, with the anticipation of its power to keep her up a bit longer while digesting and making sense of the puzzle in Puccini’s mind.
“I’ve got it. Give me your notes, let’s work this out.”
Unknown to anyone else except Giacomo Puccini, Lily had gifts that transcended just a beautiful voice. She was an alchemist of notes and ideas forged together into orchestral magical realism. Her talents were ahead of her time, as the female composers of operas were rarely in existence, besides the trailblazers she looked up to, Caccini and Smyth, who dared to tread in a male-dominated world.
Lily felt unworthy, or mostly, it was not her time, yet.
She utilized those around her, feigning the role of muse instead of lead composer. She was well-liked in the inner circles of opera creators, each of them reaching out, like Puccini, for assistance in not only borrowing her voice for mock trials of their arias but for her invaluable, peculiar additions that transformed the ordinary to the extraordinary with her genius touches.
And so, the most beautiful operas of her time should have given her the credit she longed for. Yet, composers, like inventors, were arrogant, unable to acknowledge anyone else for their brilliance, motivation, and inspiration. That would not suffice. Lily was content with this arrangement, as she lived vicariously through all of them. But in her performances of these self-written arias she gifted to all of them, her songs exuded power, the type of power only allotted to those who created the vision, securing her place as one of the great soprano voices of her time.
This would suffice.
***
She found her stride again after years of meandering in the dark, musty room, her prison for the last two years after her husband’s death. This time, she was running, living on the cusp of brilliance, animated by the entire writing process she secretly loved more than her performances. She stayed up past Giacomo’s retirement to his quarters, writing, singing, and adding her signature touches within all the parts of the opera. In the early mornings, she beat her friend to the studio, already ignited by espresso running through her veins and into the pages.
“What have we got here?”
“Magic.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
Then they would review her last night’s and first light’s adjustments and additions. It would be a pleasant exchange between equals. Puccini played and changed certain chords, and Lily added her input, sometimes frustrated at the changes, but mostly happy with her renditions, working carefully to debate her vision, which he understood as perfect, just like her.
His admiration for Lily was fluid, encompassing all of her, from her voice, of course, to her mind, to her beauty, to her soul. Puccini could not help but fall for her every time, over and over throughout their friendship. This time was different. Lily was widowed; no longer did her husband exist to stop him from forging something more significant than a friendship.
It started innocently.
He flooded her with compliments of grandeur, boosting her ego just a bit. She returned them with the same caliber of respect, dignified in her delivery, being professional instead of personal. Slowly, she began looking forward to their time of seclusion in their own little world, the world of Turandot, living out the plot in real life, as the reluctant princess fell ultimately in love, even when she convinced herself she didn’t need or want it.
Together, they created their most beautiful work yet.
In between small kisses on the forehead and late-night rendezvous in her quarters, they forged an unbreakable bond between the muse and the composer, marvelous in its intensity as in its secrecy. At any moment, she could brush her fingers on his while he took notes, and she would steal his pencil, misplacing hers for the millionth time, then write in her own corrections, instantly lifting the opera to another worldly plane, something only Lily was capable of.
***
Euphoria and elation, two words to sum up her life. Lily and Giacomo worked fearlessly on Turandot, and Lily’s influence and involvement began morphing into a type of energy she couldn’t explain. She felt ignited. She felt tireless, as if nothing could deter her from the ultimate goal: making Turandot hers.
And, although her singing gave her voice freedom, it was still caged.
As she sang, her voice carried with it an absolute knowingness that she wrote it, but she could not escape her timeline.
It was not ready for her.
The repercussions of that, of course, appeared in many ways throughout her life.
Still, she continued with the fiery affair she knew was temporary and dangerously scandalous. This was unlike her in all ways, but for this season, she cared less who would judge her for the affair, and more about how the opera translated. In her mind, the closer Puccini and she got, the better it showed on sheet paper. So, she lived a life worth living, a composer who allowed her the creative freedom she had always longed for, and another chance to shine in front of hundreds who would flock to hear her soprano voice, and watch history unfold through her rendition of Turandot.
***
Years passed as Lily and Giacomo engrossed themselves in the little studio, overlooking the Italian landscape, full of dreams and determination to make the opera successful.
Something changed, though, in late August of 1923. Giacomo’s illness created uncertainty about the completion of the masterpiece as he struggled to regain his voice and his strength. All along, he depended on Lily to fill in the areas he could not. She carried a torch for him, vowing to help finish Act 2 with him as he lay in bed, chasing a cure for his illness, almost sure this was it, his demise.
The year passed with uncertainty as her lover deteriorated before her.
“We must write the best tenor aria in the world. Something they will remember, something worthy of living independently, mutually inclusive and exclusive, to stand the test of time.”
The final act, Act 3, birthed early 1924, was Giacomo and Lily’s masterful collaboration as they worked to create the very same tenor aria that would transpire over time, and leave Puccini as a legacy for generations to come.
Nessun Dorma, their gift to the world, with Lily as the undercover love interest who has no name.
For 3 minutes and 16 seconds, the world would relive the love affair hidden from everyone, the one that started in the small studio, on the second story of Giacomo’s home, years before his untimely death on November 29th, 1924, as he clenched the unfinished copy of Turandot in his hands.
Session #9
“Lily, I am so sorry for your loss. Puccini seems like a monumental presence in your life.”
“That, he was.”
Puccini lit her fire.
Her husband calmed it.
Together, they were the perfect type of love she needed, as if in separate parts of a timeline, encompassing Lily with the love and passion necessary to give her life spark. And although her husband’s passing was far enough away before falling in love with an alternative, the guilt still consumed her, as if she was being disrespectful to him somehow, in her heart and her mind.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Oh, just how lucky I am to have experienced two big loves in my life, besides music, of course.”
“Yes, I agree. You are fortunate to have experienced the two so deeply.”
“Do you judge me? You know, for gaining a lover who had a wife?”
“Does it bother you?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
She recalled Puccini’s wife watching them closely, noticing the exact moment they turned from colleagues, then to friends, then to lovers.
“I was so caught up in the moment and decided to be selfish for the first time in my life. Like I deserved it, like I was warranted some happiness after my husband.”
Lily gulped, feeling the lump in her throat grow bigger with shame for even thinking that way. She took away those last moments that a wife and husband should have before death. The rekindling of a life lived together. The memories of children and falling in love, of domestic bliss, and the rise and fall algorithm that marriages go through.
She took that moment away from Puccini’s wife, and instead, replaced her in those precious moments he teetered between life and death, and she never forgave herself for it.
“You are warranted love after the passing of your spouse. You were very young when he went away and never came back from the war.”
“Then why do I feel so guilty?”
“Because if your husband were living, you would have never thought about having an affair with Puccini.”
“Yes, of course not. I could never hurt my husband like that, but I can’t shake the feeling that I hurt him anyway. It was a love affair that left many innocent bystanders with lasting scars. I’m not necessarily proud of that, but I am thankful anyway for having the time of my life. It’s a conundrum.”
“How do you know then you truly loved Puccini?”
“Phew, where should I start? When I was with my husband, Puccini still felt like my soulmate somehow, as did my husband. It isn’t very clear, I know. My husband had my heart; Puccini always had my admiration.”
Lily then recalls how she would be singing one of Puccini’s famous arias on stage, her husband beaming with honor and pride for his wife. Yet, she was so in love with the music she helped create with her idol that she didn’t pay attention to the one person cheering her on in the sidelines.
He became invisible.
And the only person she sought approval from was the one man who was her equal in talent.
“Let’s explore that further, your love for Puccini.”
“Of course.”
Lily knew speaking out loud about her love affair would leave her enervated.
She felt silly and sad for thinking she had a friend in Dr. Alvarez. She seized the opportunity to let it all go, air out her thoughts, analyze them, and reach insights that were previously impossible for her. She felt safe within the warm walls of the office; she felt called to it every time, looking forward to letting it all out with no judgment, just explanations.
“What did you love about him?”
“I felt at home. I felt understood artistically and intellectually. He read my music and fell in love with me through it, as I did with his.”
“I see. You spoke about your many collaborations with Puccini, but you never mentioned getting any credit for your parts in the writing, which were everywhere in his operas.”
“I don’t think you understand the limitations of women composers. There existed only two by the time I decided to write my own. They were recluses, misunderstood, and barely recognized.”
“Is that how you feel, too? A recluse, misunderstood and barely recognized?”
“Actually, yes. But I found one way to bypass all of that, by being the muse for other male composers who were respected for their talents and their visions.”
“What do you mean by muse? Like you inspired them?”
“I inspired them with my voice and with my writing.”
“Lily, did anyone ever give you credit for your part in writing their operas?”
“No, why would they?”
“Because your contributions made them famous. Because without you, they might not have been as successful or memorable.”
“I can’t stand the sound of myself talking for an hour, doctor.”
“I think it makes you highly uncomfortable talking about it, because you were silenced all your life. Ironically, you sang to be heard, but you never truly were seen or heard for who you were.”
Lily took this in. She tried her best to rationalize the analysis, to defend herself, but the revelation left her stunned.
“Let’s talk about Turandot a little more.”
“I don’t think I want to.”
“Because it also makes you feel uncomfortable?”
“In a way.”
“How so, Lily? What makes you uncomfortable talking about Turandot? You love to hear it; it makes you elated, reminding you of something magical about yourself and your time in Viareggio with Puccini.”
“Doctor, you mistake my love for Turandot for good memories. They were incredible, but with it, I carry a darkness that overshadows all of it, like a solar eclipse, it blocks out the most brilliant feelings and memories with the moon’s shadow.”
“Keep going.”
Lily dreaded the next part of her story, the one beyond the death of Puccini. She decided long ago never to revisit it, the last time deemed ‘normal’ by society. The previous parts before she lost herself in the world of the faceless and voiceless. She dared herself to go back but couldn’t find the power to review her past, dissect it, and make sense of it.
Because none of it did.
Not the beatings she would get from her parents for being difficult.
Not the times when she was locked up in her room, key thrown away, until she was again ready to go back into polite society to be a display for her parents.
A gift they gave the world but refused to acknowledge or nourish her behind closed doors.
She couldn’t think about the times she was hit on the hand with the baton when she didn’t hit the right notes or went off on her improvisations as a child.
Or the times she was ostracized for thinking too much about music, about life, about what it should be like for women if they were liberated to be who they truly were, not a puppet of their family or society.
They instilled fear in her, never giving her the chance to find the courage to be herself, to be unapologetically gifted, talented, and her own woman. For every time she tried, it was called out of line, not “womanly like”; dangerous.
She lived her life like she was exactly that, dangerous.
“You know, doctor, the story with Turandot is not just about me writing it with Puccini. It’s about a dream and a girl so broken; she made angels and the dead her best friends for almost a year.”
“Tell me more.”
“Do you have Turandot ready?”
“Always, just for you.”
“Then let’s get this part over with.”
“Let’s start, 20…19…18…”
For the first time, Lily was about to disclose her searing memories of a place so dark that she never escaped it. At the same time, she was relieved to tell her side; to have someone understand her darkest pieces of her soul, and to be set free of them finally.
Chapter 4: The Nefelibata
When Giacomo Piccinni’s light went dark, so did Lily’s.
The unfinished business of the opera, the death of her lover and best friend, and her departure from the studio made for a perfect storm of sorrow.
Who could fault her? She had lost twice in love and, in the process, lost her title as muse.
The trip back towards her home, another 16-hour train ride filled with reflection, managed to send her spiraling into despair. The height of the opera and the love affair came tumbling down around her. The flight of song came down with it, as did her inability to accept Giacomo’s death. She was the saddest person on the train, refusing to join the land of the living, and instead, going back towards a life of a recluse.
In her solemnity and sorrow, she adorned the traditional black dress of those in mourning, as she alone knew the reason for getting back into them, the death of her forbidden lover, and the end of a relationship formed on mutual passion, respect, and love for music.
The rooms went dark again, the curtains drawn.
***
To everyone who knew her, walking past her manoir with the curtains closed meant only one thing: Lily was back at it. Tragedy has struck her once again, and she is in despair. Yet, no one could help Lily when she was here, in the low. Not a single word of hope, not a casual, sympathetic line could get her out of it.
They assumed this time would be longer than two years, and they braced for her tragic ending, for her life was full of them, and they could sense she would also join those who had left her in solace, wishing she could be with them instead of with the living.
But one day in June of 1925, her curtains were wide open, the air flowing through her home as if flushing out the darkness, bringing her back into the light. Her voice and piano filled the village once again, and they were elated she had made it back out this time, secretly hoping she was out for good, and the curse of having God’s Touch was just a fable told throughout her family’s history.
That was not the case.
Lily went out, into the sunlight, with her bright colors and matching hats, taking strolls along the village, speaking delightfully to old friends and fans, all dying to have the chance to talk to the famous opera singer, the best in all of France. Lily was again the life of the party, engaging in clever discussions, elated at the company of her people, the ones she has known her entire life, the ones familiar with her history and her family.
“She’s different, this one.”
“What a delight.”
“She’s done it, come to life again, back from the dead.”
And they all agreed she was cured of her melancholy for good. Family and friends took turns visiting her during her high moods.
“She was such a drag, now she’s pulled it together.”
“I know, ugh, I could suffocate in her house, but she’s well now.”
And Lily was having the time of her life with her company, but mainly with the company of Puccini, and others like him, dead and in another realm.
***
People took notice soon enough.
Lily spoke to the living and to something or someone else beyond it.
The family was called upon to assist poor Lily, to take notice of something odd, and to take extraordinary precautions to ensure her wellness. It took some time to gain access to her quarters, because for Lily, this was her safe place, the only place she could keep her secret hidden. The one where she spoke to dead people, and her obsession with Turandot morphed into something unstoppable, like a train without brakes, the crash forthcoming was too much for people to watch.
“She’s crazy.”
“Lost.”
“Broken.”
The curtains and windows were open; that was certain.
Yet, Lily was in her world full of notes and discussion with the dead Puccini, the one coaching her to finish what was started; Act 3.
“You don’t quite understand. I am the muse of Puccini, and we are writing his new opera, Turandot, together. Well, I’m writing the opera while he watches me and tells me what I should add. It is a mutual relationship, don’t you see, and we are going to finish it, together, he and I, and it will be adored by many. So, you see, this is where he envisioned it going from C- to B sharp, in staccato…”
And she would speak like this, rapidly, circularly, about the dead composer and her unfinished business with him.
“Someone should get her help.”
“She’s hysterical, she can’t be alone.”
They quickly called the town doctor, who then promptly admitted her to the Salpêtrière Hospital, where she carried out her life’s calling and lively discussions with the dead Giacomo Puccini, amongst many other dead figures, all in her head.
Chapter 5: Salpêtrière
At first, it was hysteria, the signature diagnosis for women in her condition. Then, as she was admitted into Salpêtrière, she was evaluated closely by the doctors of the time. It was discovered, through interviews with others who knew her well, and through careful observation, that she experienced what they named la foile circulaire, which differed from the latter diagnosis of hysteria and posed different questions and concerns.
At Salpêtrière, they made a unique name for her, the nefelibata, the one who lives in dreams. Lily was a spectacle to be studied. Rounds of doctors and students would wait for their chance to be invited into her world.
“I don’t think you understand, Doctor Janet. I must have my tool to create and finish Act 3.”
Lily begged for them to allow her something of use to utilize in her creation. It took many sessions and observations before the doctors deemed her safe enough to hold chalk instead of a pencil. The gift was all Lily cared for, which allowed her to escape the trenches of the asylum’s filthy conditions and transported her back to a time she loved, refusing to let go of the trauma of the unfinished business of Turandot.
Upon entering her small, dense room, which smelled strongly of mold and rat droppings, the doctors were immediately transported to the studio room in Puccini’s home in Viareggio. Notes, melodies, and lyrics in Italian were written and scattered on the walls. Each with a heading, each with its own story to conclude the opera.
Lily would tell the doctors about Puccini’s vision and share stories of her life as his muse and partner, both sexually and intellectually, and artistically, a soul mate. The doctors probed further into her history and confirmed the scandal in Italy, where she was undoubtedly the muse and love interest of the famous composer.
“I need paper and a pencil to finish it.”
She would bargain with the observers repeatedly, now with a sense about her and a poise of determination that could not be deterred. The hallway on the third floor was always filled with glorious music echoing off the walls. The music for the other patients was deemed therapeutic, capable of decreasing unusual activity and lowering irritation levels on her floor.
Pretty soon, anyone who heard or met Lily in the asylum championed her. From patients to nurses, to students, they all believed in her gift, eventually demanding she be allowed to complete her last work.
“Let her have her paper!”
“She must finish it, can’t you see?”
“Give her what she wants.”
The doctors took note of everyone’s grievances, for how could they be at fault for leaving Puccini’s work unfinished?
As part of her treatment, the doctors finally gave Lily what she had earned: a stack of paper, an ink pen, and a guard sitting in the front seat by the hallway on the third floor, who listened to the opera unfold before him while keeping an eye on Lily’s moods and her ink pen.
***
The days and nights bled into each other at first. Lily could not stop writing, even for a hot cup of water, for three weeks after she received her pen. She was catching up, from her brain to her soul, to her paper; she ferociously wrote down all her chalk drawings into carefully crafted overtures of the grand finale.
Her soul needed to complete this task, as she was convinced it came from heaven and the angels. They spoke to her, the angels, just as Puccini did, and she told her doctors so. Her head was filled with excellent discussions with the heavenly, coaching her to complete the task.
“It’s your time to shine, Lily.”
“Finish the opera and go down in history.”
“You must complete the task to move forward.”
“You’ll be famous not just for your voice, but for your vision as a composer.”
She carried on with her voices, without any need for friendship or connection with others. And once she had her vision on paper, the voices ceased to exist, floating away like a coveted red balloon, unwillingly but necessarily so.
***
Now, months into her treatment, Lily was making progress. She had finished the unfinished Act 3, up to hers and Puccini’s standards, and it was her best work yet. Her mood became stable, returning to reality, finally noticing where she was and how she’d gotten there. Doctors were impressed.
Lily came back from the ethereal space, the one between heaven and earth, allotted only to a select few. Her mood stabilized, her mind calmed, and she had her wits about her. She had full recollection of the events leading her to the asylum, vowing never to lose touch with reality again, though secretly elated she had escaped her hellish, lonely existence, even if it was for eight months.
She proved herself to be well, and the doctors agreed she would be better off out there, where she belonged in the world, which held her in the highest regard, still, awaiting her release from the asylum and back onto the stage.
“Do you think she will be back?” a student asked Dr. Janet curiously.
“Absolutely.”
“Then why are we letting her go?”
“Because you cannot keep the bird caged up for too long. One day, it will know its limitations, and it will thrash about until its death, or until it is released.”
With that, the final board review was finished. Lily was in her best mood, clear and sharp in her thinking. She impressed the board with her wit and charm, leaving little doubt that she had recovered and was back from wherever she had been in her mind months ago, holding in her hands the completed third act of Turandot; triumphant and ready to show the world she was more than just a pretty voice; she was a female composer capable of creating operas worthy of celebration and praise.
And she held tightly to the finished opera until her release date sometime in early April of 1926.
Session #10
“You have been through so much, Lily. Losing two loves, losing your voice, losing your independence.”
“I don’t think of it that way.”
“How do you think of it?”
“I think my life is the equivalent of the acts in an opera, or a good Shakespearean tragedy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it is mine. Because if I read it, I’d be sad for the protagonist in the story.”
“Are you still sad?”
“I didn’t know anything else existed.”
“You were once, twice, or many times happy in your life. Could you name a few?”
Lily trembled at the question.
Recalling them would be retracing her steps through a dense forest of memories, where the good, the bad, and the ugly meshed together into a muddy mess. Were there some breadcrumbs left for her to follow back into her chaotic life? Was it worth recalling her fondest memories, when they all ended with loved ones in the ground?
“I need you with me, Lily. Can you name a few times when you were happy?”
“Without mentioning the obvious, Doctor Alvarez, I think I can recall a few.”
“Well, let’s try to.”
Lily shifted in her seat uncomfortably.
She hasn’t thought about happiness in a while. She was banned from it, excluded from feelings like happiness, satisfaction, or contentment. The breadcrumbs needed to be followed back, and it would lead only towards little piles of dirt, where her happy memories lay buried. She needed to unearth them, treading carefully so as not to disturb the piles containing the happiest times with her husband and her lover.
“Listen to my voice, Lily. Let’s imagine you are happy. What does that look like? Now, count backward with me from 20. Focus, even if you give me a list of a few, listen to my voice to guide you to them.”
Lily wrestled with the request; she always did. She was utterly incapable of relaxing, teetering between anxiety and suspicion. She knew this worked when she let it, but her recollection of what she said while in her hypnotic state was a mystery.
“13…12…”
Lily finally relaxed to the soothing sound of Dr. Alvarez’s voice and the ticking of the clock, letting herself float away into her past, searching for buried treasures she’d forgotten about.
“5…4…3…”
And Lily drifted again into her story, allowing Dr. Alvarez to analyze the little bits she could capture.
“Lily, where are you now?”
“I’m searching for dirt piles.”
“Continued following my voice.”
“I’m ready.”
“Now inhale and exhale deeply, letting the air flow from outside of you, grasping it tightly to it, while letting it first in, then through your entire body, down to your toes. Then back out again.”
And Lily did as instructed.
A few minutes passed in silence; only the metronome tick-tock of the clock could be heard in the cozy office on Madison Avenue, East 42nd Street, in midtown Manhattan, where Dr. Alvarez took great care of her patients, famous for treating the wealthy and the extraordinary in talent.
“Now, the question was, what makes you happy?”
“Singing. Dancing. Writing music.”
“Fantastic, Lily, keep going.”
Lily is in her graveyard of buried feelings. First, she went through the little piles, dusting off their tombstone and bringing them back to life.
“Italian gelatos dripping onto my fingers on a hot summer’s day in Sicily.”
One little pile unearthed.
“And children playing outside my window, unbothered by the realities of life.”
Another little pile sifted through.
“Watching people’s faces smeared with tears after a performance.”
“Good, Lily. Now, tell me about the other stuff, the memories you grip to when life bites you.”
Lily sifted through her graveyard, looking for one of the larger graves, the deep ones, buried far beyond the six feet necessary to conceal them. The one closer to her on the left was a small tombstone labeled Little One.
“What do you see, Lily?”
“A memory I’d like to forget.”
“Is it a happy one?”
“It would have been. It could have changed everything.”
“Can you get into it?”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
Lily forced herself to say the grotesque out loud, finally. This memory had shamed her, and now, after a few sessions with Dr. Alvarez, she had the intuition that she should speak of it; possibly it all made sense to the clever doctor, who could assure her that this was an understandable situation given her history.
“The Little One. Now an angel, a never was.”
“This makes you happy?”
“Strangely so.”
And Lily caved, shoveling the dirt behind her as she dug for the memory, struggling to open the Pandora’s Box that was awaiting to be unleashed through honest, unfiltered truth.
Chapter 6: Pandora’s Box
Two years into their blissful marriage, Lily’s husband wanted nothing more than to extend their family, vowing to give Lily what he wanted, an offspring, even though Lily didn’t ask for it. It was the natural progression for a couple, especially for one as in love as they were. Lily kept the option open-ended, with a straight face, when her husband openly dreamed of a little petite fille while sipping their drinks at Café de Flore with other artists and aristocrats after a matinee performance at The Palais Garnier.
“Do we need to discuss this right now?” Lily whispered to her husband, who had visions of a perfect copy of Lily in his arms, rocking her to sleep nightly after a soothing bath in lavender, to calm her for her night’s journey into the dream world.
Coddled, loved, protected.
“I can picture her now, Lily. Perfect, smart, delicate, like you.”
“You flatter me, but please do not think I am perfect, darling. For you, definitely, but I am far from what you envision, and I wouldn’t want to bestow any of my traits upon another.”
“So, that is a, yes?”
“That is a, let’s see and wait.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I know.”
“But I won’t stop trying.”
“I know.”
After her evening performance as the lead in Madama Butterfly, Un bel di vedremo hit differently. The irony, of course, is that she, within two years of this performance, like Cio- Cio – San, would also be pleading for her lover, a naval officer, to return to her. Still, in that performance, she had made up her mind about the possibility of duplicating.
She gave her best performance yet.
As the curtains closed, she understood how enormous this role was for her career, another inch closer to legendary. Having a baby would halt her momentum, setting her back ages, where a woman’s identity was tied to how many children she had birthed.
She couldn’t fathom breaking her husband’s heart by saying no, especially when she had dreams of conducting one day, and a possible future promise of a child would be kept unfulfilled.
***
For months, Lily kept busy, now in high demand to sing and to assist composers with their operas, all yearning for a chance to work with one of the greats, known not only for her beautiful voice but also for her collaborative efforts in writing and magnifying anything given to her to explore.
In between trips and performances, when he did get Lily to stay home, he took every opportunity to love her deeply. The daily little things, like making her cup of tea, rubbing her feet after a long performance, and drawing her bath, were surmounted by big declarations of love at night, when they would retire to their quarters, her husband with one goal in mind, to create a creature as lovely as their love could personify.
Yet there were only so many nights Lily could escape his advances with tales of woes about her voice, her back, and her levels of exhaustion. She wanted desperately to make love to him, but without the pressures of conceiving a child, which was always in the back of her mind, leaving her incapable of enjoying the tender moments in each other’s embraces.
***
Some would say she was selfish, but to Lily, especially when she overheard the men speak about conflicts, political alliances, and the mandatory extension of military services to three years, the world’s unrest made for a difficult choice to raise a child.
Would he leave soon?
Will Germans succeed in their conquests?
What would be left after a possible war between worlds?
Her husband, the most optimistic man she had ever met, stayed convinced that it would all blow over soon. But the chatter of a new conservative, nationalist presidential candidate overflowed the news, the radio, and every conversation at the café.
Maybe Lily was being overly cautious, said her husband. Possibly, but Lily sensed her country’s unrest would continue, and even if she had wanted to bear a child, she knew she’d be at it alone, and her career and her possible child would be left to face the Germans alone.
Then, Poincaré won it, and his harsh criticism of the German monarch created shivers down everyone’s spines.
***
Monthly, her husband would wait for news of his wife, possibly with child, and monthly, she would disappoint him. This routine of hopefulness, then woefulness, lasted longer than it should, and Lily began to relax a little, assuming she was unfit to bear a child.
This soothed her mind, knowing there would be no disruption to her career. She was whisked off again for a few weeks to Bologna, where she would help a friend, Respighi, who was working on the fourth act of Marie Victorie in French.
She was elated to go.
Italy was in Lily’s blood.
Any chance she could escape Paris and go to Italy was a welcome change. She expected the trip to be casual and professional, lending her voice and vision to Ottorino, who would house her, providing her with modest quarters to reside in while she visited. She arrived with no mishaps, excited to escape her home and her husband’s advances for a few weeks.
The partnership was pleasant. Not as intense as with Puccini, but she had her reason why she felt more alive with him than with any other person, less her spouse. A week passed in Bologna with nothing out of the ordinary to report; just notes, musical and prose, late nights, and cappuccinos upon waking.
She was in her element.
The notes came to her like downloads, lightning strikes from nowhere and everywhere at once. She would see them floating above her head, then directly into her hands as she played the mysterious melodies granted to her from above. She was electrified when she was focused.
Little sleep, long hours, and all she could hear and see were piano concertos and strings intensifying with illuminating crescendos, harmonizing like a fated puzzle, flutes and trumpets fluttering, cellos and violas crying, and in the thick of it, the most beautiful instrument of all, the voices of grand opera singers, standing ovations, and “Bravos”, stage lights and red balconies, honey milk tea and mad composers with their wooden wands, applause and sweat dripping from her forehead, clammy hands and stage fright, and curtains drawn.
This mood was her most productive. She was born with it, a blessing, a gift, and she never let it go to waste. When she wasn’t with others, she would be happy in her studio, prolifically writing opera after opera, totaling at least ten since she felt the need to be more than a singer. And they were then locked away, under her bed, for the time when it would be acceptable for a woman to become a composer.
***
In the middle of a collaboration, Lily made an emergency pause and excused herself from the piano.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I just don’t feel well.”
“Shall I fetch the doctor?”
“I think that would be wise.”
As she lay in bed, the feeling of uneasiness settled into her bones.
Something is wrong. I’ve never felt like this, unless it was something I ate. But even that, my stomach is made of steel, and I rarely get sick. Is it serious? Is this the end? I can’t leave my husband; it’s too early. This can’t be it, or can it?
She went through all the stages of grief before the doctor finally arrived the next morning to check on her.
Denial: This can’t be, it’s too early. Surely, there is nothing more than a small, mighty bug clinging to my stomach, making me dizzy and queasy; that is all, nothing more than that.
Anger: Why me, God, why now? What have I done to deserve this? I may be selfish at times, imperfect for the rest of it, but you don’t have to take me now. This isn’t fair. I was just getting started, and I have still not made my debut as a composer. Please don’t do this to me now.
Bargaining: Oh no, is this my tragic ending? I know I always wished for one, but I take it back, if one can do such a thing. I’m so sorry for ever thinking that. Give me another chance, and I’ll show you a life worth living. I’ll do better, I’ll be better, I promise.
Depression: My poor husband. How will he get along without me? He’s probably better off. I didn’t deserve him. I wish I had shown him more how much he was loved. Will I make it back home to him? Should I send word or lie here until death comes to find me?
Acceptance: I must face my death with dignity and honor. It’s time to join the angels and become helpful to something bigger than myself. I could sing in their choir and maybe even compose new songs for them. Yes. I could. I could compose angelic operas for singing at the gates, wouldn’t that be wonderful?
After prodding around her stomach and checking her temperature, the kind doctor said five words that made her drop to her knees, “Congratulations. You are with child.”
“What? No. That’s impossible. Doctor, it’s something else, I feel it. I can’t have children. We’ve tried for almost a year.”
“Are you questioning my diagnosis? Or are you in shock?”
“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to excuse your conclusion, but I can’t have children.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
“Please, doctor, don’t let anyone know of this.”
“Of course, this is between us. No need to worry about that.”
And the door closed gently behind him, leaving him wondering, for a second, distraught, about what the beautiful woman with the voice would do with the news of a new baby, and an end to her glorious career.
Chapter 7: Le Petite Bébé
Lily, now with heavy news, looped into the five stages of grief again. This time, only making it to four stages, stuck for the rest of the week, in bed, at the depression stage.
She should write to her husband or return home to Paris as quickly as possible. That would be the responsible thing to do. Instead, she pleaded it wasn’t true, as she cradled her stomach, unable to accept the news given to her by the kind doctor.
“Are you well, Lily. What did the doctor say?”
“I’m fine. Nothing more than la grippe. I must have caught it on the train ride over.”
“Poor girl. Should I fetch you something?”
“Do you happen to have a copy of De Simplicis Medicinae in your library?”
“I don’t, but I know a medical student down the road who does. Would you like me to get it?”
“That would be wonderful.”
And Lily went back to her bed to contemplate her next move, keeping a straight face and voice when speaking to her friend.
The copy arrived the next day, and Lily went to work, reading and rereading for something, anything that would change the trajectory of her future. She was mad at herself. Why wasn’t she ebullient with the news of a growing baby inside her womb? The creation of pure love between her and her husband. The chance to give him exactly what he wanted, another duplicate, hopefully one more brilliant and beautiful than her mother.
And for a fleeting second, she thought twice about her devilish quest to find a potion to make it all go away, giving her the freedom to ride her wave of fame, hopeful that the natural progression from singer to composer would finally be a dream come true.
I can’t do it. It’s scandalous, disastrous, murderous.
Then, I need to do it to continue living my life, not as a singer, but as a mother who will ensure her daughter has the chances she never had.
And the final stage of grief finally seeped in: Acceptance.
Lily then, in the few days before leaving, began to warm to the idea of being the vessel in which her young child would be transported into society and onto their loving arms. She lived her entire life in less than a second.
The one where she and her husband raised their child. Watching her grow, each year, from infant to child, to adolescent, to young adult, to full-grown woman. Each step of the way, Lily dispelled obstacles for her daughter, vowing to have her live a life free of the restraints that held women hostage, and she would encourage her to write, sing, act, study, anything her heart desired. And she would be there, always, to cheer her up, to raise her, and to let her voice be heard, metaphorically and literally.
With that, she said goodbye to her old life and hello to a new beginning.
***
Her train was scheduled to leave on Monday, the 13th of July, which was expected to be the hottest day of summer in Italy. Lily was thrilled, ready to give her husband the news he’s been patiently waiting for since their vows were made.
Sunday before her departure, Lily finished her additions and corrections of Marie Victorie with the seal of approval and a great many thanks from Respighi. She returned to her quarters early to pack up for her trip, sad to say goodbye to her old life, ready to embark on a new adventure as a mother.
Suddenly, crowds of people gathered at the front of their villas, speaking with worry to their neighbors, like a linked chain, the news spread throughout, from one person to the other, until finally, Lily decided to step out and find out what all the fuss was about as everyone around her was gripping their copy of La Domenica del Corriere, their faces grim.
“Ottorino, what is happening?” Lily asked her friend, who was also confused, and headed towards the crowds, gaining his own copy of the newspaper along the way.
“Come here, Lily. Quickly.”
“What is it?”
Lily read the front-page headlines on Sunday, July 12, 1914. Her eyes blurred with tears and worry. Her ride home would be long; her anxiety, she understood, would be heightened by the assassination shots heard around the world. The crux of a war of the worlds. The one scenario she had already envisioned, the one that left her alone, raising a child amidst a possible hostile German takeover.
***
Shellshocked, Lily put down her copy of the paper, gifting it to another fellow neighbor who had yet to hear the news, excusing herself from her friend.
“I need to walk. I’ll be headed to the spezieria for some ingredients to soothe my nerves before the long ride home.”
“Are you well enough? I could ask someone to gather them for you.”
“I need the air. Thank you. I’ll be back before dark.”
Lily floated towards the bosky apothecary, the secret one, tucked away for no one to see. She had gained enough knowledge from De Simplicis Medicinae and memorized the herb that would cure her current condition or kill them both.
She was fine with either one.
“May I have a few of the tanaceto please. They look lovely this season.”
“Oh? Yes, they are lovely, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are.”
“Are you having digestive issues? This works very well as a tea for that.”
“My entire family has the illness, and I am trying everything to get rid of it for good.”
“Then you will need a lot more than just a few.”
The apothecary carefully picked out the best tanicetos he had. A bushel of them, carefully wrapped for her walk back.
“That should do it.”
“Seep it in hot water for a few minutes, then give your entire family a few cups, every day, until the illness decreases. Not too many cups, though; it could have terrible side effects if consumed in large quantities. You could add honey to it to cut the bitterness.”
“Thank you. I hope this works. I’m exhausted.”
“I can tell so in your face.”
“Thank you again.”
“My pleasure, Madam.”
Lily walked the rest of the way home, still dazed from a life lived, then shattered the exact moment she made up her mind about becoming a mother.
That night, Lily asked for hot water to make her tea, shredding a larger-than-necessary portion of the beautiful plant to create her potion, dousing it with honey to mask the taste and the sin she was about to commit.
Then she drank the entire pot of tea without thinking about it because it hurt too much—all of it.
***
She fully expected not to wake up the next morning and to meet the fate she had foretold for her daughter, joining her in heaven to watch over her husband as he bravely fought in the war. However, unexpectedly, she did wake early, before sunrise, and shared a large breakfast with her friend before her trip, revealing nothing of the night before.
This confused her.
Had she succeeded in any of it? Was she still with child?
The question taunted her all the way to Paris, where her husband sat on the wooden bench, face elated to see her but worried by the news that rattled and shook the world.
He kissed and hugged her. She missed him and his masculine scent. She loved him more than ever, and that night, after she settled back into normalcy, while he massaged her shoulders and drew her warm bath, she hoped she was unsuccessful in her attempts to hurt the child within her.
In the tub, away from her lover’s eyes, she cradled her stomach once more, relinquishing herself to motherhood, and smiled, feeling relieved that the potion was unsuccessful, regretting her decision to drink the tea and end it.
That night, she made love to her husband, bonding secretly with him as the father of her child, ready to tell him in a few days about their success.
Instead, the next morning, she woke up with blood in her undergarments and whisked off to the bath to make herself clean.
She was stuck, frozen to the bottom of the porcelain tub, the water tinted pink from her deed.
“What’s the matter, Lily?”
“Oh, nothing to worry about,” she managed in between sobs. “I’m… I’m just not a mother yet. I’m sorry.”
“I understand. But don’t upset yourself, we can keep trying as much as possible. I’ll keep you locked in the bed for eternity if that’s what it takes. I’m kidding, of course.”
Lily let the water drain slowly from the tub, composed herself, disposed of her sin, taking part of her soul along with it.
Session #11
“That was a lot to unpack. What makes you feel so guilty about this act? The one you labeled Pandora’s Box?”
“Everything. Everything about it makes me want to destroy myself.”
“It was an act of desperation, Lily. By this, I mean, giving yourself the chance to become more than a voice, a brilliant composer, the one meant to be heard by the world.”
“I wanted both, a family and a career, but that is impossible to live in both, especially since it turned out my husband perished in the war. It was like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I sensed that war was near, I understood my husband, with his honor and duty for his country, would leave, and I innately knew, although hopeful it wouldn’t, that his return would be like it was, in a box.”
“So, you have two memories tucked in what you call boxes. One with your husband’s remains, and the other with your unborn child’s, the could have been, the one that wasn’t.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right.”
“And you buried them. Those memories you chose to forget but never could.”
“I’m ashamed of my actions. Of choosing an easier world, of giving myself the chance to come out with my sheet music in hand, ready for the world to see me for who I truly was.”
“But do you believe your life was easier?”
“No.”
“Do you think you would have felt accomplished, seen for who you are with a child?”
“I’ll never know. But within me beat a little heart, a life I could have nourished to be who she wanted to be, a guide, a bridge for her. I would have understood her, encouraged her, applauded her independence, her brilliance, her gifts.”
“Someone you never had growing up.”
Lily paused with realization.
She wanted a chance to give her child the life of understanding she never received from her loved ones. The ones who should have protected her, not fractured her. It would have been her chance to be patient and kind to her child, letting her explore her talents without doubt or punishment.
“I chose my career, and I feared for our safety. The uncertainty of a world war can bring about a lot of anxiety and unwanted thoughts. But I will have to live with my choices for eternity.”
“The guilt lives in you forever. It’s time to let it go. It’s time to forgive yourself. Please repeat after me: I am unforgettable. I am valued. I am a composer who writes beautiful music, not just a voice that masks her truth.”
“But I am none of those.”
“You are, Lily.”
“I don’t deserve to live a good life. I deserve to be trapped with my memories. I need to marinate in them, to relive them, and then shut it out, for I have sinned and made mistakes no one can dissolve or pretend they don’t exist. It tints everything grey.”
“You have sinned, but to sin is to be human. You feel deeply for your mistakes, creating a penance out of the memories, and you feel undeserving of a good life. But I am here to tell you, Lily, no one should be erased for their mistakes, no one should have to punish themselves as long as you have. This shows sympathy, empathy, and a deep understanding of your human flaws. That doesn’t sound like a demon, as you see yourself. It reads like poetry, bitter and sweet. Sinners who don’t feel are evil people, you are nothing like them.”
Lily cried, letting it all out for Dr. Alvarez, who understood the revelation she had just provided her was significant for her growth, a perspective she had never had.
“I see what you want me to see, doctor. But it’s going to take some time to process and accept it.”
“Is there something else missing? Another grave buried deeply, you have yet to share?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to shovel and blow away the dust of this one.”
“Why, Lily?”
“Because it is my own grave I would have to dig through, and I’m afraid of opening that box, of regretting letting you understand my sins, and my flaws.”
Lily was desperate for an out.
She fidgeted with her handkerchief, now soaked with tears of remembrance of confessions she should have saved for a priest. Her body swayed back and forth, her arms crossed in defense. Her hands were running through her loose curls. She wanted to shrink as small as she possibly could so as not to be judged.
She would not do it; she kept telling herself she would not disclose her final grave and dig through it so Dr. Alvarez could change her mind about her. She didn’t want to stain her image. Still, she realized at that moment that she had lived her life on eggshells, always conscious of how others perceived her, never being her true self for fear of rejection, of ostracization, of being anything more than proper, acceptable, easy.
“Lily, let me in. This is our last session. I think I can help you uncover the reason you’re stuck living life in an endless loop. We are on the cusp, and we can’t stop now. This is not the time to be reluctant; it’s your time to be truthful to yourself.”
“I’m not sure I want to do this, doctor.”
“What is the hesitation?”
“The truth.”
“Why do you hesitate to tell me the truth this time?”
“It’s just a lot. I see myself now, through your eyes. Hearing my story and finally telling it has been liberating in a sense. I understand what you see, it is me, and I refused to see myself in that way because I am undeserving of your kindness. But, hearing it out loud, all of it, the story, leaves me feeling for that woman, the one in the office, closing her eyes and confessing the acceptable and the unacceptable.”
“I see you, Lily, I see all of you.”
“Not this part”
“You’d be surprised how much I can decipher between the stories you explain of your life’s happenings. I see you, Lily. Nothing can change the way I perceive you. You are, like I said, unforgettable.”
“Thank you, Alvarez, I needed to hear that.”
“I think letting yourself hear your narrative, your story, as ugly as it may be, can give you the closure you desperately need to get out of the cycle.”
“The cycle?”
“Yes, the loop. I need to get to the point in your life right before you were thrust into this repetitive life filled with first and last meetings that seem to break your heart repeatedly.”
“I see.”
“What do I need to get you there. To the place you locked away.”
Lily uttered the words that took more courage than she felt she was capable of.
“I have it with me.”
“Have what?”
“My copy, my finished version of Turandot.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I keep it with me always.”
“What if I told you that I could give your score life?”
“How could you possibly do that?”
“This is the age of technology, Lily. We can do the impossible with it. All I have to do is copy it, if you will let me, then plug it into a program that can then play it back, as you envisioned, finished, complete.”
“Really.”
Lily felt a heavy weight lifted from her shoulders. How could this be possible? She would hear her finished version of Turandot, right here, in the office. And in that moment, Lily felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time, if ever.
Lily felt seen.
“Do you want me to try?”
“I think so.”
“Let’s do this. Let’s hear it together.”
“I don’t think I’m ready to hear it.”
“Lily, when will you ever be?”
Lily had no answer for that question. She imagined a different timeline where her opera was heard by her fans in Europe, and she would get a standing ovation for her courage and her willingness to be a trailblazer in her field, helping other women along the way.
But in this office, made special just for her, the cocoon that Dr. Alvarez had created for her to be comfortable was more than anyone had ever done for her. Every detail, from the records to the candles to the shutting out of society by closing the blinds. The reassurances, her kindness, and her effort to get to know Lily all let her know this was the right time to release and disclose that last night before her eternal loop began.
She needed to open the coffin to see what lay inside.
Lily opened her portfolio, pulled out her worn copy of her version of Turandot, and handed it to Dr. Alvarez. She felt nervous, wondering what the doctor would think of it. But she knew it was magical, eager to hear it herself, finally.
Secretly, she knew this was her perfect exit.
“Shall I put on the final act, the part you finished yourself that was never heard?”
“Yes, that would be lovely.”
“Just a few more seconds. There, it’s been downloaded into the program.”
“What? Now?”
“We listen and you tell me what you last remember, deal?”
“Deal.”
Act 3 of Lily’s Turandot began to play, and with it, Lily fell back into her trance, hearing the clock like a metronome, coming to reconcile with her true self, facing her biggest challenge yet: to be heard. She was ready to be released from the sins of her broken life and fly away from her hellish cage that constricted her.
Lily fell into her trance, equipped with a shovel, uncovering the last memories of her life, exposing herself to the one person who understood.
She smiled a little.
She had made progress, she had released herself, and she was proud.
“Thank you, Doctor Alvarez.”
“You were wonderful.”
And no more words needed to be said between the client and the therapist, for as Lily unloaded the dirt from the grave, she was surprised, but free to accept that it was hers.
Chapter 8: The Finale Ultimo
The fresh, crisp air stung deep in Lily’s lungs, just as the sun blasted its light into her walnut eyes, instantly warming her face. It was approximately one year and four months since Puccini’s death, and one year and one month of that she was housed in the asylum. The release from Salpêtrière felt like a new chance.
She felt at peace, finally, clutching her finished copy of Turandot in her hands, ready to showcase to the world a different side of her, the composer side, even if she was a woman, and even if she was a newly released resident of Salpêtrière.
Rebuilding would not be an easy task, for the stay created permanent ridges in her brain that she could never forget. They were etched not just in her mind but also in her spirit, leaving her unable to find complete happiness again, now equipped with the knowledge that her mind was fragile, just like her heart, and that at any point in time, she could find herself back in the cell at the asylum, with no possibility of returning.
Yet, here she was, out in the open, free world, ready to go home for a much-needed break.
She missed her room in her manoir, the one decorated just to her liking after the passing of her husband, an abode she created, a sanctuary for both the good and bad days, and everything in between. Wanting nothing more than a warm cup of tea and a bath, Lily rushed home, urgently needing rest and comfort only a good friend and an inviting bed could provide.
Finally reaching her destination, Lily’s heart beat with the comfort of being safe in her home, and only then did she have the courage to let go of her final version of Turandot, laying it on the music stand near the piano, looking at it again with a sense of accomplishment and excitement she had never felt before. She can say for sure the score is part of her, a meraki, and she gave it her all, even to the point of insanity.
And the tears fell like rain, staining her cheeks and slithering through her fingers as she brushed them away. The reality of the situation pressed down on her chest. The death of Giacomo was never fully processed, nor was her stay at the asylum, until now. If she were a soldier, she had just been through an internecine war, and the scars of such an ordeal would be everlasting, even if she were now back home safe in her quarters.
Enough of that. Get up and live it again, this time, it’s going to be different. Lily coached herself out of her bed and into the bath, where she lay in the hot water long enough for her fingers to prune and for the year’s soil to be washed away with it. Once out, she dared to comb her massive curls, but they tore as she tried to run her favorite comb through them, leaving her with only one option: to cut it all off.
Last year, she would have scoffed at the idea, but this time, it was the perfect solution for a brand-new start. Instead of dreading the cut, she took out the sharp scissors and began chopping her matted locks, careful not to go too short, but vowing for a chic rendition of her former self, possibly one befitting of a new composer.
***
In her sluggish and slumber-filled days after her release, Lily was working out her plan to showcase her finished work, securing a ticket to Milan in the next few weeks, ready to chase down Puccini’s confidant, friend, and publisher, Tito. He would know what to do. He would give her the chance, and, after reading her score, surely, he would love it.
For three weeks, she worked out the small details with a clear mind, careful not to change too much, since it was not only written by her, but by Puccini and the heavens. Her angels, those voices, were all collaborators of this masterpiece, and she wanted to respect them by honoring their version of the finished opera. Lily considered herself a vessel; her chalk and ink pen defied intuition and metaphysics, and she combined these with her vision to write out Act 3. It was a team effort, the dreamiest team one could imagine.
Once satisfied with the entirety of the project, Lily put on her best dress, a purple one befitting of royalty, with her white shoes to match, a daring option for the long trek that followed. In her leather portfolio, her version of Turandot lay secured within it, and she guarded it with all her strength, holding it tight to her chest, and resting it only within eyes’ reach on the unoccupied train seat next to her.
While staring out the window, Lily would catch glimpses of her reflection, a person unknown to her, a person who had seen things no person ever should. She was a survivor, shellshocked, but still finding a way to carry on. At this, she was proud, but also, there was a loss of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was as if she had lost a part of her innocence while at Salpêtrière.
Will I ever be whole again? Lily pondered this for a while, unable to escape the fragmented reflections of her face on the windows.
With determination, Lily convinced herself this was the right path. For what else should a singer aspire to, other than to be a composer? It seemed like a natural progression for her musical talents and her ambitious nature. So, she decided to stop worrying and start celebrating her success and the completion of her work.
“I’ll take a French 75, please.”
From the sweet gin to the acidity in the lemon juice, to the bubbles in the champagne, the explosion of flavors filled her with a sense of freedom. It gave her the courage to step off the train and head straight towards Tito, who would then welcome her with open arms and tell her how brilliant she was, how he would publish it promptly, or so she thought naively when getting off the train at the next stop.
***
Milan was buzzing with activity.
The city was alive, pulsating with excitement at something Lily could not yet identify. She appreciated the city and its liveliness, its rustic elements, and its deep historical ties to her. This was the city where she got her breakout role as a singer, earning the title of a soprano force to be heard and captivating many with her talent. It was also where she had her first standing ovation, and where she met both loves of her life.
She didn’t have time to dwell on the memories. Instead, she was headed straight towards Tito’s villa to present and argue for the chance to present Turandot, the finished version, written by her, a woman, a famous singer, and a degenerate of the asylum. For the first time, after running through several scenarios in her head, she understood just how absurd this entire ordeal would seem to Tito, but she held on to the little faith she still had left.
At the front door, Lily took a deep breath and knocked on the door with force.
“Hello?”
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Tito. It’s Lily.”
“Lily? Lily with the voice?”
“The same one.”
“Oh my, you made it. I didn’t think you would. Come, come on in, make yourself comfortable. Would you like an espresso? The journey must have been long.”
Lily was slightly confused, but she entered the villa anyway, ready to put the puzzle pieces together without sounding foolish or like she had just spent a year in the asylum. Once settled, and with the small espresso cup warming her hands, Lily was ready to gain a complete understanding of what Tito was talking about and how he could have known she would be arriving today.
“Were you expecting me?”
“Of course, you of all people would never miss the performance.”
“Not for the world,” Lily replied, just going with it, winging it, until she undoubtedly understood the situation.
“So, how have you been? I heard about your hospitalization. Honestly, it was hard, Puccini’s death, and then hearing about you, that just was too much for me.”
“I’m fine. I’m back and ready to start something new.”
“So, you’ll take it? The lead in Turandot in Paris?”
“The lead in Turandot? But what do you mean? It’s not even finished yet. That reminds me, I’m here to show you something.” And she reached for her leather portfolio, now lying on the table next to her.
“But it is! Isn’t it wonderful? Tonight is going to be solemn, but the best send-off we could give to our dear friend Giacomo. I am sure he would approve.”
“How? I’m sorry, did you say Turandot is finished?”
“Of course it is. The public could not wait to hear Puccini’s last opera, and a new writer was commissioned straightaway. How did you not know?”
“I’ve been occupied.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Well, here, I sent you the invitation a while back.” And Tito unassumingly shared the paper flyer with her, the announcement of the new Turandot, finished posthumously by Alfano, being performed today in La Scala, with Rosa Raisa as the lead soprano.
“You’ve met him. He was…”
“One of Puccini’s students.”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Lily gripped the flyer, reading it repetitively for what seemed like eons, unable to truly grasp the meaning as the words floated around on the paper, taunting her like a nightmare she could not wake from. Her hands were now trembling faster than usual, a trait she inherited while in the hospital and one she wished would never be noticeable to anyone but her.
“But I was working on one myself. You know, Giacomo and I…”
“Yes, I know.”
“What would he think? Leaving his work in the hands of his student instead of his muse?”
“I thought about that, Lily. But believe it or not, Giacomo wanted me to leave it to Riccardo; he insisted before his death. But the son, always the son, gave me so much grief about it, and we finally settled upon Alfano.”
“This can’t be.” Lily quickly disassociated from herself, floating above the scene between them like an omniscient presence.
“Look,” she said, opening the leather portfolio case and taking out the pristine finished copy of Turandot.
“What is this?”
“What I’ve been working on while I was away.”
“Oh, oh, I see.” And Tito carefully held the finished copy in his hands, turning to the last bit of Act 3 and reading it as one would read a good piece of poetry, deliberately and thoughtfully, breaking out into hums to the melody, gawking over it with appreciation, the way only a fellow musician and friend of Puccini’s would.
“This is miraculous, Lily. Bravo! Excellent job.” Tito exclaimed, delighted to have a version closer to the original vision, but tied to a contractual agreement between Alfano and society. The world was not ready for her brilliance, nor a new female composer who just stepped out of Salpêtrière after having a scandalous affair with the world’s most famous and married composer of their time.
“That’s it?”
“Lily, it is beautiful. A masterpiece Giacomo would have been proud of, but the deal is sealed, and the curtains go up at 8:00 pm sharp tonight. One day, you could be the most sought-after composer, just not with Turandot.”
Lily, still suspended outside of herself, casually continued with their conversation, giving extra care not to unravel right in front of Tito, so far away from home and the safety of her quarters. Yet, as much as she tried, she could not hide the disappointment of the news, written all over her sad face like an open book for all to see.
Chapter 9: San Michele Bridge
As soon as she turned away from Tito, the crushing blow of the news crippled her, and she had a hard time making it to the room where a total breakdown was imminent.
Surprisingly, she kept it together, and by 7:00 pm sharp, she was in her beautiful dress as if nothing had happened, ready to enjoy the opera like all the other spectators, prepared to be blown away, at least by the parts that she and Puccini wrote together.
She sat alone in the box above the orchestra, premium seats fit for royalty, sipping on many glasses of Italian wine while her heart desperately wanted to sing out loud.
Suddenly, Tito entered her balcony suite, startling her for a moment.
“Come with me. I need you to step in for Rosa for one song; she’s experiencing globus hystericus, and I need you in costume now.”
“I, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
She was rushed away to costume, then makeup, then, in a swift few minutes, she was pushed on stage unprepared, lacking confidence and time. Yet, as the spotlight focused on her, her professional demeanor took over, and by memory, she performed ‘In Questa Reggia’ masterfully. An automatic standing ovation followed her performance, and then she was whisked away from the stage, Rosa now ready to finish what she started.
Perfect. Lily thought to herself. The best performance anyone could ever have. Backstage, she applied warm oil to her face, removed her makeup, and then carefully returned her costume to the backstage crew. She was just in time for the last part of Act 3, Alfonso’s posthumous creation, and it fell flat, like she had envisioned, of her carefully crafted version.
After many claps and “Bravos”, Lily escorted her way out, passing by her many fans, unable to face them one last time.
She had one destination, the San Michele Bridge, this time ensuring she would never wake up from another attempt like her past failed ones. In silence, she walked the many steps towards her final destination, happy to end the torturous life meant only for the brave; and she wasn’t one of them.
This was fine with her.
In the dark, followed only by the blue, full moon above her, Lily stood on top of the San Michele, staring down at her reflection and the moon’s, unable to think of anything but jumping. And she did so without any hesitation, without any thought, and without any feeling. Taking only seconds to go from the top, directly to the bottom, where she floated away without any pain, without any regrets, and without shame.
But this was not the end of Lily, not by chance.
Because even from this height, Lily survived, or so she thought as she dried off from the ordeal and shook it off, living the rest of her life in the world of the faceless and voiceless, where first meetings turned last would become her hellish existence for generations to come.
This is all Lily remembers of April 29th, 1926.
***
But in that office, hearing parts of her version of Turandot, Lily realized that this night was her final moment amongst the living. Singing the aria she wrote in secret was her last performance, the one no one would ever forget. When the silky curtains dropped after her final song, it was the last time anyone ever heard her beautiful voice again.
Lily kept digging out the grave.
Then, she hit the wooden coffin that lay inside it.
She dared to open it, and she did so slowly, finally allowing herself to see what lay inside. When she grew the courage to do so, she was met with a vision that made her heart drop.
She saw herself, adorned in her velvet black opera attire and her family’s pearls strewn about her neck.
It didn’t shock her; it gave her peace.
For in the coffin, she lay inside, which looked like it was created for someone special, grand, her face was at total peace, at rest.
And she thought to herself, what a beautiful story, what a wonderful world. Roses, now withered away, were still preserved in their beauty, as was she. Through Dr. Alvarez, she was granted a wish she never knew she wanted: to accept herself as she truly was, finally.
And when she saw her corpse, adorned with letters of love and respect for her talents, of newspaper headlines claiming her death as a tragedy, she understood that she had completed a cycle, her cycle of life.
It was as beautiful as it was tragic; everything she had hoped for, everything she needed to look at herself with kindness, with understanding, with humility.
At the end of Turandot, her version, Lily closed her casket, kissed her fingers, and touched it in remembrance. She had completed it, her final opera, her final show.
It was a life worthy of living, after all.
The tainted tea, the love affairs, the misunderstandings, the unaccredited work, her unexplainable musical gifts, and the torture she endured within herself all had meaning; all of it belonged to her, no one else. They can’t take that away from her; they can’t take it as their own.
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