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might have wondered, did they need to guard against? Doctor Ravell was a reputable man; he had never done such a thing before, and surely never would. Part of the drape had slid from Erika’s thigh, exposing her there, but she did not bother to cover herself.
    With his shoulders, Ravell blocked the nurse’s view. No one could see inside his mind, but he worried that they might hear how loudly he inhaled and exhaled, the harsh beat of his pulse inside his ears.
    “Don’t mix mine with another man’s,” Peter had said. Peter who had read so many articles and obstetrical books.
    Ravell had done no mixing. He used only his own.

6

    “C ome early,” her voice teacher had encouraged her. “We can have sherry and a few good laughs before the famous lady arrives.”
    So Erika went early. Attired in her blue-gray suit with its velvet lapels, she walked several blocks through the Back Bay. The suit was new—she’d worn it only twice before, once to Doctor Ravell’s office—and its style and trim fit pleased her and invigorated her step. On her head she wore the matching blue-gray toque adorned with a flat satin bow. The bluster of the wind forced her to keep one hand pressed to her hat to prevent it from being snatched, pins and all, right off her pompadour.
    When she reached her voice teacher’s town house on Marlborough Street, the glass in the bay window assumed the purple cast of dusk, as though the panes had been glazed. The front door swung open. Sixty years old and handsome still, Magdalena Hasselbach beckoned Erika into the solarium, where a grand silver tea set and a walnut cream cake had been placed. Anticipation lit her teacher’s movements. Magdalena touched her queenly white coiffure, fluffing and smoothing it in excitement. Inside Magdalena’s broad chest, laughter welled up. She laughed easily, and beneath her breathlessness, Erika heard familiar wheezes. Asthma had ended Magdalena’s singing career.
    “So, mein Schatz, my treasure,” Magdalena said, “are you ready to meet America’s most famous diva?”
    “The most famous?”
    “On an international scale, she’s the most well-known singer New England has ever produced.”
    The voice teacher had met the legendary Lillian Nordica long ago in St. Petersburg, where they had performed together for the czar. “We’ll have to think of an excuse for you to sing for her,” Magdalena said.
    “You promised her that she wouldn’t be coming here to audition anybody.”
    “In any case,” Magdalena said, regretting her ruses, “it’s essential for you to meet her. And if I still had a voice—a voice like yours—I would not be bashful.”
    “I’m not going to risk annoying her,” Erika said.
    “If the opportunity presents itself, you might try ‘Caro mio ben’ or one of your lovely Handel arias.”
    “Not unless she asks me,” Erika said.
    “Don’t fool yourself into thinking that she’ll hear you perform at Isabella Stewart Gardner’s palace. Believe me, she won’t be listening to the singers that precede her. She’ll be hiding somewhere, preparing for her own grand act.”
    Magdalena strode over to the dark purple velvet drapes to scan the street for signs of Lillian Nordica. When a brougham approached and a stately lady with a great ostrich feather in her hat stepped down from the carriage, Erika and her teacher hurried downstairs.

    “Surely the life of a great soprano has its difficulties,” Magdalena said. “Don’t you sometimes feel that people romanticize—? Don’t they overlook the hardships of a singer’s life?”
    “Indeed.” Madame Nordica gave a nod. “Few have any inkling of what a lonesome life it can be. One finds oneself in a sterile hotel room . . . or one ends up spending the night in a Pullman car traveling between Kansas City and Minneapolis.”
    “Or enjoying Paris?” Magdalena said.
    “Or fighting seasickness on a boat between Dublin and Liverpool,” Madame Nordica finished, dismissing any nuance of