(Assignment.. endings)

by
Reiss

I remember the rapture, experienced only by the most ardent opera buff, that softened Mr. Bedou's face as he drove on one of our early morning outings to Lake Pontchartrain. The only sounds that dared interrupt his wonderfully operatic whistling of Giuseppe Verdi's lovely melody, were the wind and the roar of the engine. His bushy eyebrows arched like praying hands reaching to the heavens to thank Verdi, God and the muses, in that order, for this gift of song. His eyes, ordinarily dulled by years of confinement to his photographic dark room and lacking expression because of a long lifetime exposed to the world and its woes, glistened. His entire being seemed to respond to the exhilarating flow of notes that joined together in glorious pattern to create, he was sure, with divine guidance, the luscious Drinking Song from La Traviata. The odd assortment of black moles that dotted his face and neck became the dancing quarter, eighth and sixteenth notes of the written melody. His body which was, by athletic standards, shapeless, seemed revitalized and made strong by the infusion of air that, when released just so, became song.

Strangely, this was the only melody I ever heard Mr. Bedou whistle or hum. He, when not aware of others in a room, might even slip into singing quite clearly, “Libiamo, Libiamo...” He discussed other operas, had attended performances at the world's great opera houses and enjoyed a considerable knowledge of the art and its artists but this was his favorite melody. A meeting with the great Puccini in 1907 was a treasured moment in his life, but not impressive enough to inspire whistling Musetta's Waltz. He love was Violetta.

It was his fate, however, that his wife was more Musetta than Violetta. Lilia, pronounced, Lil yah, was one of Mama’s dear friends and was one of the fabulous people of our little community. She was not traditional like Mama and the other ladies as she wore more make-up than most, had diamonds on every finger, wore clothes the colors of which defied the rainbow and was famous for her little ringlets of silver hair that framed her face. Her earrings were massive as were her eyes when she spoke of anything that had her full attention. Her voice was not modulated and soft like the other ladies who placed a premium on ladylike speech patterns, but was high pitched, shrill and anything but musical. Still, she was a lady.

She and Bedou had been married since the beginning of recorded history but had no children. This was the great tragedy of their lives. They would have traded their considerable financial comfort and position in the community for a child of their own.

When I was old enough, I was a beneficiary of their desire to enjoy children. I was encouraged, to my great delight, to practice on their wonderful grand piano between my weekly lessons and was taken by Mr. Bedou to Lake Pontchartrain to share the fine art of catching those wonderful blue crabs that are part of New Orleans’ famous bounty of seafood. I, to Mr. Bedou’s delight, enjoyed and sang along with his Libiamo and became an accepted opera buff.

Everyone addressed him as, Mr. Bedou or, if old enough, Bedou. The only person to ever call him Arthur, was Lilia. They enjoyed a fiery marriage peppered by strong language, fiery comebacks, name calling and barbs. It was rumored that they delighted in screaming battles and were known to throw things around that wonderful house. She was not impressed with his love of the arts, the fine collection of art pieces he gathered from years of world travel or his knowledge of the opera. Walking through their wonderful Victorian house, one was impressed with the beautiful antiques, chandeliers, carpets, paintings and tapestries. It did not take long, however, to learn that these were his prized possessions and were nothing more to her than dust catchers. She was much more impressed by the diamonds that decorated her well manicured fingers.

Anyone visiting the house could not help but notice the vase that was an authenticated piece from the Ming Dynasty. It was perfectly placed and displayed as the centerpiece of the lovely Victorian Parlor. It was the unquestionable jewel in the crown of Mr. Bedou’s collection. It was magnificent.

Another thing most found particularly fascinating in the house was the crystal chandelier that had been imported from Europe and dominated the dining room. It was massive, had what seemed to be thousands of hanging crystals that glittered and gleamed when lit. It was a wonderful example of the art of chandelier making and was another manifestation of Mr. Bedou’s old world taste. How lucky they were to live in that house. How lucky I was to be allowed to sit at that piano and soak in the wonders of Victoriana. I was even allowed to see the studio and darkroom that was on the second floor. There, Mr. Bedou made portrait photography a fine art. Some insisted he did, with light and that large box camera with the black cloth under which he disappeared when he was satisfied that the pose, light and mood were right to take the picture, what Rembrandt did with brushes. Everyone, in our small corner of the world, had a portrait by Bedou on or hanging above the mantelpiece. Bedou was recognized the world over as a consummate portrait photographer, but he was our personal recorder of the major events of our lives .... first communions, confirmations, graduations and marriages. To this day, people from our little community, when they spot a photograph, can immediately tell a Bedou when they see one.

One evening the rumors of the notorious Bedou throwing battles were no longer rumor. Lilia willingly and colorfully told the ladies over a sip of anisette, how, one night, the argument escalated to the need for her to throw something at him that would win, for her, the ultimate victory. While screeching obscenities in a sound to make Mozart’s Queen of the Night seem tame, she reached for and hurled the Ming vase at his head with all the operatic drama and strength she could muster. “No! No!” he yelled. Not the vase. Please, Lilia! Not my vase!”

This was it! This would teach him the perfect lesson. He’ll never top this. He’ll never cross me again. He’ll suffer this one the rest of his life. I’ve finally got him! She could not control her glee as she described the horror on his face as the priceless piece flew across the room toward his “his foolish old head.” The victory, however, was short lived, she laughed, “because, would you believe, the silly old son of bitch caught it?”