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"He didn't go on, but even so I picked up a vague sense of ... unease? Maybe even a little stronger, like a kind of concern that he might not be fully welcomed back when they came to get him. Or that maybe they wouldn't even want to come? It wasn't clear, but there was something there that didn't feel right.But he let it lie there and so did I. I let him back out for another bathroom trip; he was negotiating the steps all right now, and I simply left the door ajar. When he came back in I was cleaning up, and he pushed it closed himself and then went back to his quilt, and we didn't talk again.I did some more Tosca for a while, getting close to the end of Act II when Scarpia dies. I'd have to go back over parts of it the next day, but it was settling nicely into my mind. About 10:30 I decided to call it a night; I looked over at Asmedogh but he seemed fast asleep, and I left him there to head upstairs to bed.The next morning I didn't rush downstairs as I had the previous day; I knew. " It sounded great, though," she relented. "But— Go back to the kitchen and do it again, will you? Half-voice this time."I obliged. She played the intro and I walked in and started my reprimand."No," she said, cutting me off in mid-phrase.I arched my eyebrows at her. "No?" No. Look, Nick, this is your first entrance, the first time the audience lays eyes on you. You need to set a tone. You're just walking in like ... like Marullo. Scarpia doesn't 'just walk' anywhere, he swaggers. Well, not exactly swaggers, he ... Look, try it like this: Walk in, but as you do think swagger. You need to own that stage the moment you appear, draw every eye to you just by your manner."I got her point. I was used to coming on as a comprimario, a second banana. But Scarpia wasn't a comprimario, he was a star—both in the opera itself and in his fictitious life. I nodded to her, went back out, and we did the whole thing again. This time I didn't just walk in, I strode in as she hammered out my signature.
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