The opera ain’t over until the jealous lady sings. In a
nutshell, that’s pretty much all you need to know to get the plot
premise of
”
Tosca.
”
I saw this Italian opera performed opening night when Opera San
Jos
é brought the famous tragic love story to musical life at the
new California Theatre.
The opera ain’t over until the jealous lady sings. In a nutshell, that’s pretty much all you need to know to get the plot premise of “Tosca.”
I saw this Italian opera performed opening night when Opera San José brought the famous tragic love story to musical life at the new California Theatre.
The sometimes over-the-top plot highlights the insecurities of a tempestuous woman named Floria Tosca. Her passionate jealousy sets in motion events resulting in fatal consequences.
As I sat in Row EE, Seat 17 watching the outstanding performances of Puccini’s classic opera of love and betrayal, a painful memory crept into my mind.
I recalled an incident with a former girlfriend who, like the emotionally unstable Tosca, also struggled with jealous suspicions.
In Puccini’s story, opera singer Tosca suspects her artist lover Mario Cavaradossi of hiding another woman.
He’s painting a religious portrait, and the painting’s face portrays the lovely Marchesa Attavanti.
Cavaradossi is indeed hiding someone – just not Attavanti as Tosca imagines. He’s concealing an escaped political prisoner named Cesare Angelotti – Attavanti’s brother.
The opera’s villain, the sinister Baron Scarpia, diabolically manipulates jealous Tosca to ferret out the location of Angelotti’s hiding spot at Cavaradossi’s estate.
It all ends wonderfully miserably, of course. Angelotti commits suicide rather than return to prison. Scarpia gets murdered (Tosca’s knife slices and dices quite nicely).
Cavaradossi gets hit by a hail of real bullets at what – he thought – was gonna be a mock execution. (Oops.)
And Tosca, poor, dear, stupid Tosca, catapults herself off the fortress parapet – all the while singing valiantly as she plunges to death.
Luckily, my own dealing with a certain jealous girlfriend (who shall remain anonymous) didn’t end with such lamentable extinctions.
The only death involved in my case was the demise of a relationship – and I felt tremendously relieved when that moment arrived.
Now I’ll tell you the incident when it finally got through my thick skull this girlfriend and I were coming to the end of our own soap opera. The revelation occurred at Joe’s Italian Restaurant on 10th Street in Gilroy.
Italian opera music played that night on the eatery’s stereo – maybe even an aria from “Tosca.”
Anyway, throughout much of the meal, I tried to keep conversation going – my usual light and charming banter. But my then-girlfriend remained stone-cold silent, a scowl on her beautiful face. Call it a gut feeling, but I had the hunch she wasn’t happy.
As we left the restaurant – she carrying leftover pasta in a styrofoam container – I cautiously asked, “Is something wrong?”
Well, that simple question broke the dam. Yes, dammit, there was something wrong, she let me know. Turns out I’d committed a most scandalous felony while Joe took our menu order. I’d dared gaze at another woman at a nearby table.
“Really?” I asked. “Which one?”
My girlfriend angrily glared at me. She gave a detailed description.
Frankly, I couldn’t exactly recall this female rival for my attention. A lot of people ate at Joe’s that night. And – no excuse – it’s an occupational hazard for journalists to people watch. We tend to be highly interested in observing the folks around us.
“I’m sorry,” I said, gently trying to calm her down. “I shouldn’t have looked at anyone but you.”
She continued her endless tirade about my insensitivity and untrustworthiness. My mind automatically turned off the harsh scolding. (An instinctive reaction nature programmed into every guy.)
As you’ve probably guessed, it wasn’t the first time this kind of event had happened. We’d suffered through other arguments at other times I’d looked at another woman in public.
As the hurricane of harsh words stormed around me, I politely opened the passenger door for her. And then I noticed it. The tilt in how she held the styrofoam container caused some pasta sauce to start oozing out of a crack. Frantically, I called my girlfriend’s name several times to get her attention.
“I’m talking!” she snapped, eyes spitting anger. “Don’t you dare interrupt when I’m talking!”
“OK,” I said. I watched as dark red liquid dripped onto her brand-new white skirt. She didn’t notice it at that point.
She got in the car. I closed the door. Wincing, I headed around the vehicle for the driver’s seat. It was gonna be a long and bumpy ride back to Morgan Hill.
As I got in, I noticed she’d now discovered the sauce stain. Tears flooded her eyes. She started bawling at “the disaster.”
Sympathetically, I said, “I’m sure a dry cleaner can get it out. It’ll turn out fine.”
But the impish side of me felt a mischievous glee. I’d tried to warn her – but she’d abruptly shut me up.
I doubt Puccini will set this disastrous dinner date down in an operatic score any time soon. It’s more comic than tragic. Besides, Puccini’s dead. He’s no longer composing. He’s decomposing.
But my point in telling you all this is, just like in “Tosca,” my ex-girlfriend’s jealous and unjustified suspicions pretty much pulled the trigger ending our relationship. It’s no fun being around someone who’s uncontrollably insecure. Walking on eggshells gets tiring. And it’s not just women. Men suffer from extreme fits of jealous rages as much as the ladies. History and the news are filled with tragic tales about dudes who destroyed their lives because of groundless and murderous jealous suspicions.
And Shakespeare penned a powerful tragedy about the noble Othello who allows Iago to manipulate him into imagining his faithful wife Desdemonia is having a fling. “O! beware, my lord, of jealousy, It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on,” the suspicious Moorish general is warned.
In the end, envious emotions bring guaranteed misery for the one who bears them. Jealous folks are a trouble to others, and a torment to themselves.
Just ask a certain lady named Floria Tosca.
Tosca
Puccini’s dramatic masterpiece Tosca has eight performances through Dec. 5. at the California Theatre, 345 South First Street in downtown San José. Tickets are from $60 to $88. Info: (408) 437-4450 or www.operasj.org
