Dear Leonardo

Irene Walken, a promising lyric mezzo-soprano with a distinctly metallic timbre graduated with great fanfare from the Royal Academy of Music. Her performance in the annual graduate showcase, as Dorabella in Mozart’s Cosí Fan Tutte, garnered five-star reviews. A few particularly enthusiastic journalists going as far as to label her the next Conchita Supervía.

On the heels of this shining debut Irene perfected her audition reel, she uploaded her performance videos, she attended open auditions and entered competitions, and she waited and waited and waited.

Dear Leonardo,

As I lie here, on the damp floor of the staff head cooling my feverish forehead on the porcelain bowl and as the wind howls and the waves swell with no signs of abating and the next port is at least 177 nautical miles away, I find my thoughts dominated by two questions: Will I make it off this turgid tugboat alive and how much can I sue you for when all the vomiting and sea air damage my vocal chords so badly that I can no longer hit the higher octaves?

If A5 is lost to me forever I swear that my final act will be to kidnap you and stow you away in the deepest recesses of the cargo hold of the next ship bound for distant seas and subject you to a looped recording of a parrot practising scales!

CATCH-22

Get an agent, everyone said. No one will take you seriously without one, they insisted. The only way to secure work is to secure representation was the refrain. No legitimate bookers, casting agents or musical directors will deign to even speak with you without an agent making the necessary introductions. Those in the know corroborated this as gospel.

I had my doubts about you, Leonardo but what was I to do? I was an impressionable ingenue hungry for flattery and with an ego as inflated as my dreams. Damn you, you fawned and praised and cajoled so convincingly that I fell for your promises.

You claimed that you had connections at the Metropolitan Opera. You said that in last season alone you placed four emerging sopranos and one baritone at La Fenice and two altos at the Wiener Staatsoper. You swore on your mother's grave that for a seismic, once-in-a-generation talent like mine, it was La Scala and only La Scala. All other opportunities were beneath me. All other agents mere chancers. You though were different! You were the most seasoned impresario, the most-connected of all agents and the only man to deliver the dream.

PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL

Let's recap my illustrious career to date, shall we? Since you have been my agent, the professional engagements you have secured for me have yielded about £2,500 in wages, less the staggering 20% you insist on shaving off the top of each booking despite their plebeian nature. The highlights? An 80-year old’s birthday party, a marriage renewal ceremony for the very same 80-year old, followed rather tragically by a spate of funerals for some of the wedding guests. A gig is a gig, I'm not greedy but these are hardly Stagebill fodder for a diva, wouldn't you say?

And now this... I find myself performing in the chorus on an all-inclusive, floating tower block croaking out abridged versions of La Boheme in the beauforts, Madame Butterfly in the Med, and Tosca in the tempest while the hoi polloi tuck into their microwaved Quiche Lorraines. Worse still, I am reduced to singing these masterpieces in English......oh, the horror!

PAYING YOUR DUES IS ONE THING

I am no stranger to hard work, Leonardo. When called upon I roll up my sleeves and demonstrate that even as a rising star in the operatic firmament I will put in the donkey work to earn my stripes. But belting out Carmen on the Lido Deck for paella night is a humiliation no performer should endure.

At this juncture, you may find yourself wondering how I have time to compose this lengthy missive when I'm so busy meeting the demands of this high profile engagement you moved heaven and earth to secure for me. Well, it so happens that the other night as I was singing a pastiche of arias from La Traviata, a table of hillbillies began to boo and claimed they had had all they could take of opera. They then demanded a melange of Smash Hits from the Eighties.

When the orchestra refused to yield and I soldiered on they took matters into their own hands and attacked me with their bread rolls.

I had the sympathy of the whole dining room until I retaliated with a passing tray of pudding. How could I have known they were serving lemon posset in wooden lemon shells! For my troubles, I was suspended, docked a week's pay and ordered to stay below deck. I'm told the police want to interview me as soon as we dock at Port Genoa which is fine with me. Anything to get off this floating abomination!

STARS BELONG IN THE FIRMAMENT NOT IN DAVY JONES'S LOCKER

When I arrive on dry land, I will take the bus from Genoa to Milan and busk in the street outside of La Scala. I will haunt the stage door. I will sing until someone pays attention and I will be LA DIVA Leonardo, and it will be no thanks to you!

Irene

P.S. Rage is an excellent antidote for seasickness.

P.S.P.S. I know where you lunch, I know where you dine, I know where you work, I know where you have your post work sherry. I even know which box you sit in at every theatre, in every city. I will find you.

P.S.P.S.P.S. You're fired.