(2 of 9)
As for La Gioconda, it unfolded a Mediterranean saga of a mysterious letter, bitter rivalries and ominous threats. And that was only backstage. Pavarotti, who is conscientious and meticulously punctual when he finally gets down to business, clashed at rehearsal with his costar, Soprano Renata Scotto, over her lateness and somebody's fluffs (whether hers or his was part of the dispute). They even stopped in mid-aria to exchange words not found in the libretto. On the day of the gala opening, Scotto received a letter warning that a claque was planning to boo her. It was signed "Enzo Grimaldo," the character played by Pavarotti. Scotto's husband accused Pavarotti of sponsoring the claque and alerted Adler and the San Francisco police. At the first sign of trouble, he vowed, hiss wife would walk off the stage.
That night the claque never materialized. Neither, in a sense, did Scotto's performance. Possibly unnerved by all the squabbling, she was not at her best vocally or dramatically. Pavarotti came through splendidly. Playing a 17th century nobleman who is enmeshed in a conflict with the Venetian Inquisition, he made bold entrances in full cry. His spacious second-act aria, Cielo e mar, which used to serve Caruso well, was traced in long, limpid lines that glowed with emotion. ins voice soared out of the big ensembles, seeming to carry the chorus into the air with him. At the curtain, Scotto took a single bow, then retired to her dressing room. Pavarotti came out with the other principals time after time, spreading his stevedore arms in an ardent embracing motion to the audience as they cheered and pelted him with roses.
His dressing room afterward was besieged by well-wishers, including visitors from as far away as his home town of Modena in north-central Italy. Sometimes Pavarotti will make the supreme sacrifice, receiving fans for hours even when he knows the last restaurant in town is closing. In San Francisco, he knew that a giant steak awaited him at the postperformance ball, so he volubly welcomed everyone in sight. Especially the women. A true Italian male, he makes it a point of honor to kiss every female in the same room with him. Cheerful propositions are the staple of ins small talk ("Just kidding," he reassures husbands and boyfriends, then adds quickly to the women: "See you later").
After holding court in his dressing room, Pavarotti pressed into the crowded corridor followed by the members of a documentary-film crew, one of whom held a white umbrella aloft to diffuse a floodlight. As the tenor made ins progress toward the exit under the effulgent parasol, bestowing more blessings and kisses, breaking into nimble dance steps and mugging for the camera, he looked like a cross between an Oriental potentate and the late Zero Mostel. Before heading off in his Rolls-Royce, he rated his performance that night: "8.5 on a scale of ten, and, remember, I never give myself ten."