Joanna es realmente terrible. Mejor dicho, es totalmente terrible lo que escribe: no tienes absolutamente ninguna escapatoria para no reirte a carcajada limpia. Ahora bien, si Joanna quiere seguir enviando sus comentarios (que luego pasan a post) y que además sean publicados, le ruego que diversifique sus protagonistas: Rolando lo es por derecho propio, y es imprescindible su presencia en cualquier relato, pero esa tal Teresa puede ser sustituida tambien por alguna amiga de "la delegation française", por Super-Sandro, por la dulce Ingrid, por cualquier otro villazonista o incluso por la misma corresponsal en NY. Aunque, por cierto, ese hotel cercano a la ROH donde se oyen esos acentos extranjeros (galés, ruso y yanqui)...¿por donde queda? ...es que reservaré para mi próximo viaje.
The rave reviews about Rolando’s Werther have been overwhelming. Critics
have extolled Rolando’s voice, his acting, his artistry, his great
talent. They have called his performance remarkable, uncompromising,
astonishing, unflinching, magnificent. While this is all very true, the
real reason for Rolando’s stunning triumph is finally revealed.
Thursday, May 5, 2011, 6 pm
Upscale hotel in London near Covent Garden, the room of Rolando Villazon
The hotel phone rings; Rolando picks up: “My driver is here? Thanks, I’ll be down in a minute.”
Picks up a large duffle bag: “I better make sure I have everything. Yes, here’s my trusty list of things I need to take to the ROH.”
Reading from the list: “The score. Check. Twelve bananas. Check. Honey. Check. My Swiss army knife. Check. My frisbee. Check. My lucky red robot boxers. Ch… Hmm,” he says, digging deeply into the bag. “Where the devil are they?” Empties the bag on the bed. “My lucky red boxers aren’t here, and it’s opening night for Werther at Covent Garden in two hours! The eyes of the opera world are on me! This is SO not good.”
Starts looking around the room frantically. In the drawers. In his suitcase. Under the bed. In the refrigerator. Turns the room upside down. No red boxers. “Maybe they’re in the bathroom?” No boxers in the bathroom.
“OK, Rolando, just stay calm. Gah! This is an emergency! I have to call Super Teresa for help. Thank God she’s in a nearby hotel.” The cell phone slips out of his hand and into the toilet. String of colorful expletives in five languages. Rolls up his sleeve and retrieves the phone. “God, I hope this thing still works!” Speed dials Super Teresa, who quickly answers, “Rolando, how are you? Tonight’s the big night! How exciting!”
R: “Teresa, I can’t find my lucky boxers! I’m on at the ROH in two hours! I can’t do this without my lucky boxers! Help me!” As he’s talking, he begins making out the sound of voices in the background…male voices, baritonal voices with very distinctive accents: Welsh, Russian, and English, specifically, American English.
Rolando overhears what the men are saying. The Welshman: “Teresita, Queen of my Affections, say you’ll be mine!” The Russian: “Teresita, Goddess of Love, come away with me on the midnight train to Moscow!” The American: “Teresita, Cruel Seductress, have mercy on me! Let’s have some hot barbecue and a cold beer.”
R: “Teresa, what on earth is going on there?” Teresa, evasively: “Um, it’s just room service bringing me some coffee.”
R: “That’s one friendly hotel. Just come and help me.”
ST: “Right now? Uh, I’m a little busy.”
R: “Teresaaaaa!!!!”
ST: “OK, OK, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Then whispering to “room service”: “Settle down, boys! One at a time. You baritones are so demanding. I promise I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes later, a knock at Rolando’s door. Rolando opens the door and massively hugs Super Teresa.
R: “Thank God you’re here! What took you so long? I’m ready to panic—I need those boxers now!”
ST: “Calm down, Rolando!”
R: “I’m a fiery Mexican tenor! This IS calm for me.”
ST: “Look, Rolando, if you don’t calm down, I’m going to tie you to that chair before you hurt yourself. Let’s just start looking.”
Both methodically search the room. Correction: Teresa methodically searches the room, while Rolando bounces off the walls. No boxers.
ST: “Have you looked under the bed?”
ST: “Humor me and look again.”
Rolando starts to crawl under the bed, his arms extended, desperately feeling around in the dark. Super Teresa notices a little bit of red fabric peeking out above his jeans.
ST: “Ahem, Rolando, you’re WEARING your lucky red boxers.”
R: “A miracle! Teresa, you’ve saved me once again! Mwah! See you tonight!”
ST: “Of course, Rolando!” Then looking down the hallway at three shadowy male figures beckoning her, whispers to herself: “Hmmm…or maybe not….”
Thursday, May 5, 2011, 6 pm
Upscale hotel in London near Covent Garden, the room of Rolando Villazon
The hotel phone rings; Rolando picks up: “My driver is here? Thanks, I’ll be down in a minute.”
Picks up a large duffle bag: “I better make sure I have everything. Yes, here’s my trusty list of things I need to take to the ROH.”
Reading from the list: “The score. Check. Twelve bananas. Check. Honey. Check. My Swiss army knife. Check. My frisbee. Check. My lucky red robot boxers. Ch… Hmm,” he says, digging deeply into the bag. “Where the devil are they?” Empties the bag on the bed. “My lucky red boxers aren’t here, and it’s opening night for Werther at Covent Garden in two hours! The eyes of the opera world are on me! This is SO not good.”
Starts looking around the room frantically. In the drawers. In his suitcase. Under the bed. In the refrigerator. Turns the room upside down. No red boxers. “Maybe they’re in the bathroom?” No boxers in the bathroom.
“OK, Rolando, just stay calm. Gah! This is an emergency! I have to call Super Teresa for help. Thank God she’s in a nearby hotel.” The cell phone slips out of his hand and into the toilet. String of colorful expletives in five languages. Rolls up his sleeve and retrieves the phone. “God, I hope this thing still works!” Speed dials Super Teresa, who quickly answers, “Rolando, how are you? Tonight’s the big night! How exciting!”
R: “Teresa, I can’t find my lucky boxers! I’m on at the ROH in two hours! I can’t do this without my lucky boxers! Help me!” As he’s talking, he begins making out the sound of voices in the background…male voices, baritonal voices with very distinctive accents: Welsh, Russian, and English, specifically, American English.
Rolando overhears what the men are saying. The Welshman: “Teresita, Queen of my Affections, say you’ll be mine!” The Russian: “Teresita, Goddess of Love, come away with me on the midnight train to Moscow!” The American: “Teresita, Cruel Seductress, have mercy on me! Let’s have some hot barbecue and a cold beer.”
R: “Teresa, what on earth is going on there?” Teresa, evasively: “Um, it’s just room service bringing me some coffee.”
R: “That’s one friendly hotel. Just come and help me.”
ST: “Right now? Uh, I’m a little busy.”
R: “Teresaaaaa!!!!”
ST: “OK, OK, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Then whispering to “room service”: “Settle down, boys! One at a time. You baritones are so demanding. I promise I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes later, a knock at Rolando’s door. Rolando opens the door and massively hugs Super Teresa.
R: “Thank God you’re here! What took you so long? I’m ready to panic—I need those boxers now!”
ST: “Calm down, Rolando!”
R: “I’m a fiery Mexican tenor! This IS calm for me.”
ST: “Look, Rolando, if you don’t calm down, I’m going to tie you to that chair before you hurt yourself. Let’s just start looking.”
Both methodically search the room. Correction: Teresa methodically searches the room, while Rolando bounces off the walls. No boxers.
ST: “Have you looked under the bed?”
R: “Yes, and they’re NOT there! My life is passing before my eyes.” On his knees, beseeching the Almighty: “Take me now, Lord.”
ST: “Humor me and look again.”
Rolando starts to crawl under the bed, his arms extended, desperately feeling around in the dark. Super Teresa notices a little bit of red fabric peeking out above his jeans.
ST: “Ahem, Rolando, you’re WEARING your lucky red boxers.”
R: “A miracle! Teresa, you’ve saved me once again! Mwah! See you tonight!”
ST: “Of course, Rolando!” Then looking down the hallway at three shadowy male figures beckoning her, whispers to herself: “Hmmm…or maybe not….”
JOANNA FROM NEW YORK