Hallelujah*

Things have gotten pretty tight since OBL got deep-sixed. Here in Hungary I have received email warnings from the State Department about the need to maintain extra vigilance in the wake of Bin Laden's wake.

True to their own warning, I sensed extra security when I arrived at the U.S. Ambassador's residence last night to honor Renée Flemming, Fulbright student to Germany in 1984 and 2011 recipient of the Fulbright Lifetime Achievement Award. I flashed the guards my invitation; Moses parting the Red Sea.

Inside, I was greeted by a crisp embassy assistant who smiled and asked me to sign the guest register. I have to admit that I didn't know why my invitation bore the number 4895351, and I was concerned that 4,895350 people received invitations ahead of me. So I asked. 


The assistant said, "Oh no, no, Dr. Blitefield, it's quite the opposite. The ambassador and her husband use a scale to rank their most desirable guests: 1, being right next to zero, is least desirable, absolutely undesirable. Mohammar Qaddafi undesirable. Such a person might receive an invitation, but only so that the guards can turn them away."

I looked at my invitation again and was suddenly feeling pretty darn good. "How high do the numbers go?" I asked, perhaps pushing it a bit.  

"I'm sorry Dr. Blitefield. I can't tell you. That information is classified. Need to know. For your eyes only. That sort of thing." Then she cupped her hand in front of her mouth and whispered, "But I can tell you this, you are right up there. Can't get much more desirable than 4895351." She winked and then resumed her officious demeanor. 

"How about that," I thought as I swaggered up the staircase to the second floor, regretting only that I wasn't given a name tag, one with my number on it. But then I corrected myself: there are others less fortunate than you; don't rub their noses in it. Being 4895351, I was quickly learning, comes with responsibility.

Speaking of numbers, while I don't know what her desirability number -- let's call it an index, desirability index -- is, though likely not close to my own, age-wise Renée Flemming and I are about the same. I'm plus four, and so maybe when she reaches my age she will also have peaked higher on the desirability index. As for everything else, she and I are kind of on a par. That's why I wouldn't be at all surprised if I get the Fulbright Lifetime Achievement Award within the next year or two. 

And so, as a Fulbrighter who has not yet been awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award but who is certainly in the running, and with such an outstanding desirability rating to boot, the Ambassador, Eleni Tsakopoulos Kounalakis, and her husband, Markos, obviously thought I should be there to celebrate Renee, perhaps, too, to get a taste of what awaits me. Of what I so richly deserve.

Eleni and Mark -- I like to call them that -- it's so much less stuffy than Madame Ambassador and Mr. Kounalakis -- Eleni and Mark had had me to a previous reception just a few months ago for another Fulbright thing, and I guess I made enough of an impression then that they just had to have me back again (I wonder where I was on the index that night, before and after). I don't mean to boast, but I'm thinking I'm part of the inner circle at casa Tsakopoulos Kounalakis, a sure A-lister. A+. A+ squared. And I am absolutely, definitely certain that if Eleni and Mark knew me, we'd all be on a first name basis.

Anyway, I hadn't had two sips of my scotch before Renée and a whole gaggle of quacking photographers came over. Amidst the rasping of shutters and the soft pop of flashes, Renée and I tried to hold a normal conversation.

"Photographers," she said. "I feel like I'm chained to them, dragging them with me wherever I go."

 clickclickpopop

"Tell me about it," I chimed in.

clickclickpopop

"I heard you were here."

clickclickpopop

"And I heard you were here."

clickclickpopop

"Well, I am the one being honored after all."

clickclickpopop

This time, I said to myself. "Yes, you should be quite pleased. Winning the Lifetime Achievement Award is something special. And only very special people can earn it."

clickclickpopop

She blushed. "Thank you. But you -- you're, an academic, isn't that right?"

"Hang on, Ms. Flemming. Excuse me just a second."

I stepped into all the clicking and popping and held up my hands. "Look, fellas, I know you guys are just doing your job. But me and Ms. Flemming are trying to have a normal conversation, and that's really hard to do with you firing away like that. Don't you have enough shots for now? Can you give us ten minutes to talk like two regular people?"

The photographers looked at each other, nodded with chagrin, and skulked away. Not far away. Just away. To their credit, they did lay off the cameras for the time being.

"Thank you!" she said, "You don't know how many times I've wanted to do that. I never knew it could be so easy. But forgive me. You were saying?" 

"I was saying... uh, oh yes, that's right. I am an academic, a rhetorician. I teach at UMass Dartmouth."

"A rhetorician! So many syllables! I'm sure you can imagine that as an opera singer, I love syllables. And especially with such a mix of vowels."

"Yeah, we rhetoricians, we're a pretty cool bunch."

"And at UMass Dartmouth!"

Now it was my turn to blush. "Please, Ms. Flemming..."

"Do call me Renée..."

"Alright, Renée, you're embarrassing me."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Jerry. May I call you Jerry. Really. It's just that, well, I've never met a rhetorician before. I've met lots of opera stars -- you know, your Pavarottis, your Domingos, your Carrerases yadda yadda yadda, and of course kings and queens and heads of state from all over the world, but you are my first rhetorician."

"Well, if it's any consolation, you're my first diva. So, I guess that makes us even."

"I guess so," she said with a smile. We shook on it. "Won't you tell me what you do? As a rhetorician, I mean? It sounds so exciting."

"I will. But not tonight. There isn't enough time to do it justice. And besides, you've got others to see as well. The rest of the crowd here would be pretty upset if you spent the whole
night chatting with me."

She looked around and much as she may have wished to be just a regular person at that moment she accepted the reality of her stardom. "I suppose you're right. But listen, it is my night, so if I want to spend just another minute or two with you, I can. And so I shall. Tell me Jerry, are you a musical rhetorician?"

"Renée, you sounded a tad breathless with that question."

"Did I?" she asked, looking away.

"Well, just a tad. But anyway, to answer your question, yes, I play a little guitar."

"Really! You mean the ukelele?"

"No, I mean, I play guitar. Only a little."

"Ah, got it. So what do you play?"

"I play a lot of Leonard Cohen."

"Leonard Cohen! I love Leonard Cohen. What a voice. So earthy. So husky. Do you have a favorite Leonard Cohen song?"

"Yes. "Hallelujah"."

"Mine, too! "And even though it went all wrong, I'll stand before the lord of song, with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah" -- that's some kind of writing, don't you think?"

'I do."

Renée seemed very pleased with the conversation. "What other Leonard Cohen songs do you know?"

"Well, uh, that's the only one."

"I suppose if you're going to know one Leonard Cohen song, that's a good one to know, right? I mean, I've always wanted to sing "Hallelujah," but, as you can imagine, it doesn't quite fit the operatic repertoire. So, what other songs do you play?"

"I don't. That's it."

"No, I don't just mean Leonard Cohen songs. I mean songs in general."

"So do I. I don't know any other songs. "Hallelujah"'s it."

"You know one song."

"Yes. But it's a good one. You said so yourself."

She reared back, some. "Oh... I see... When you say you only play a little, you're not kidding."

"I'm a rhetorician, Renée. Rhetoricians don't mince words."

No longer able to restrain itself, the crowd was closing in on us. Not to be outdone, the photographers started jockeying for position again. "Your fans are getting restless. You better get to them before there's bloodshed... mine."

"Oh, I suppose you're right. Though I so enjoy talking music with you, even if it is only about one song. But listen, Jerry -- in a short while I've got to perform a little. They want me to sing some dorky Handel aria or something, but I'd much rather sing "Hallelujah" -- with you. You and me. A duet. We can sing way down low, Leonard Cohen style." Here she started to sing way down low, Leonard Cohen style. I didn't have the heart to tell her; it sounded like croaking. Leonard Cohen is just not made for sopranos. Or vice versa. 

"Please, Jerry," she said, laying her hand on my arm. "It would mean a lot to me. Singing "Hallelujah" with you, a rhetorician."   

Her eyes were so pleading I couldn't say no. "Why sure, Renée. I'd love to sing a duet with you."

"Fan-tastic!" she said, doing all she could to keep from hugging me. "Let me go do some glad-handing and so forth and I will come fetch you when it's time. This is going to be great!" she said over her shoulder as the human amoeba instantly englulfed her.

Renée and Me, away from fans and photogs

***

And so there we were, just the two of us, standing in front of the piano in the salon, facing her adoring audience. "Ladies and gentlemen. First, I'd like to thank you all for the kindness with which you have greeted me tonight. I have long believed that going on that Fulbright in1984 was the turning point in my life, and I am deeply honored to have received this award. Second, there will be a slight change in the musical offering tonight."

Puzzled, the crowd looked at each other. 

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen. Instead of same-old-same-old Handel, I will be joined by my new friend, Dr. Jerrold Blitefield, master rhetorician at UMass Dartmouth, for a bit of our own Hallelujah chorus."

My introduction was met with as much gasping as faint applause. "What? No Handel?" "What's his name? Biddlefiddle?"

"Yes," Renée continued above the rustling, "Jerry and I will sing for you that great American "Hallelujah", that of Leonard Cohen."

"Leonard who?"

"Sam," she said, swinging with brio toward the piano player, 
"Play it one time!"

Sam slumped, dumbfounded. "Um, uh, Miss Flemming, I uh, don't know it."

"Oh, of course you do. Jerry, can you tell him the chords?"

I cleared my throat but Sam cut me off. "It's not that, Miss Flemming. Knowing the chords, I mean. See, I'm not really a piano player. I'm working security, undercover, in case some terrorism should break out here." He opened his jacket a little to reveal the butt of what might have been an Ouzi or something.

Renée was as shocked as I. "But who's been playing piano? I did hear piano, did I not?" 

Sam raised his hands from the keyboard. "It's a machine? See? No hands!" he laughed, kind of desperately. 

"Does the machine know "Hallelujah?" "

"Is "Hallelujah" a show tune?"

"No. It most certainly is not a show tune."

"Then the machine doesn't know it. We brought the machine that knows show tunes. Keep things peppy. Besides, terrorists don't like show tunes."

Renée looked at me, panicked. "Jerry: What are we going to do? I have told the audience that we would be singing "Hallelujah" and they're expecting "Hallelujah" and now I find out that we have no piano player to play it."

"Renée, look. I'm just a simple rhetorician. But it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that." If only my Sam was here...


Renée lowered her head and began to cry. "What are we going to do, Jerry."


I looked around at the increasingly restless crowd, and at my pals Eleni and Mark, for whom the night was coming undone. 


I lifted Renée's chin. "I'll tell you what we're going to do, Renée. We're going to give them "Hallelujah." "


"Oh Jerry!"


"Excuse me!" I shouted to the crowd, "Excuse me! Does anyone out there have a guitar?"


"I do," a voice shouted back.


"Jerry! You're not going to play "Hallelujah" on the guitar!"


"It's our only hope Renée. I've got to, or die trying."

There was a commotion deep in the crowd that finally emerged as a tuxedoed man holding a guitar, a little guitar. More like a ukele.


"Does anyone have a real guitar?" I shouted.


"Yes! Here! Take mine!" said a woman in a floor-length green chiffon gown pushing through. "Hallelujah!, Dr. Blitefield," she exulted, handing it to me.


"Oh but Jerry -- that's a nylon-stringed guitar!" Renée observed with distress, "You don't play a nylon-stringed guitar!"


"I do now, Renée. I do now."


Because I'm kind of tone death and better at untuning guitars than at tuning them, I took this one on faith. "Renée, I'm as ready as I'm going to be. Are you ready?"


She looked at me with renewed light shining from her eyes. "Yes, Jerry. I am ready!"


She turned to the mumbling, grumbling crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen! If you will just settle down some, we'd like to begin. Please. Settle down."


And they did, anxiously.


"Here we go," I whispered to Renée. 


She nodded.


I strummed a C, and we began:

I heard there was a secret chord, 

that David played and it pleased the lord, 

but you don't even care for music, do you...

***

Renée and I got through all of "Hallelujah", though just barely. I was a little slow in the chord changes -- finding the right spots for your fingers takes time -- and our singing was, frankly, atrocious. I would have been pleased if we sang simply as poorly as Leonard Cohen. Unfortunately, I think we sounded more like Tom Waits at his most guttural.

As we worked our way through the verses the audience jeered and booed, and had there been tomatoes among them I'm sure we would have gotten pelted. I caught Eleni and Mark out of the corner of my eye -- that didn't help my playing, either -- and they looked at me quite severely. I gulped as I saw my desirability index plummeting, falling like a stone. It was pretty clear that the three of us would no longer be on a first-name basis. More, I wondered if this performance would affect my chances for receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award.

Renée, though, was absolutely radiant, exuberant, apparently having the time of her life. She was snapping her fingers out of time, and singing so low it sounded like she was gargling.

By the time we had finished, the crowd was mostly gone, having left in a snit. The woman who had loaned me her guitar came and snatched it back, but not before barking, "You suck!" 

And we were alone. 


I turned to Renée. "Well, that was pretty much of a disaster. I"m sorry."

"Sorry?! I loved it! I thought it was perfect!"

She didn't look crazy. "Huh?"


"Don't you see," she said beaming. "For as long as I can remember, it's been applause on top of applause. Encore after encore. Standing ovation after standing ovation. I am not going to deny that sometimes I'm deserving of such a response -- I really do work hard. But everyone has an off day here and there, and yet the audience response is always the same. It sometimes causes me to wonder whether they're really listening. But tonight! They were sure listening tonight, and what they heard was awful, and they sure gave us what we had coming. I loved it! It was so real! The first time in my life that I'd ever been booed, and it felt great!"

I wished I could say the same.


"Look, Jerry, I want you to think about this before you give me your answer, okay?"


I nodded.


"I have to give a concert Wednesday night at the Opera House, and I would love if you would join me for a reprise of "Hallelujah", just as we did it tonight. I think we'd knock the socks right off of them."

I hated to stick a pin in her elation, but I had to. I had to put a stop to this now, before it got out of hand. "Look, Renée, I don't want you to take it personally, but what happened tonight was a one-time thing. You're a sweet kid, but I'm a rhetorician. Just as you've got your work to do, so do I. For me, it's in front of a classroom, or at academic conferences, not on the stage of the Hungarian Opera House."


A cloud began to pass over her face.


"Besides," I said, "You were born to sing beautifully, not horribly. You have a rare talent that brings joy to many people around the world and you just can't let that talent go to waste, not even for a minute. You have had your boos; now it's time to get back to the cheers. If not for you, then for your audience, your fans, those who love you and want to love you."


The cloud passed, and she took my hands in hers. "You rhetoricians are a pretty wise bunch, aren't you."


"Yes. Yes we are."


"Ms. Flemming, your chauffeur is here," someone said.


She looked to the door. "I must go."


"I know."


"Will I see you again?"


"No. We live in different worlds, Renée. Tonight was just a freak of nature."


She nodded. "But we'll always have Fulbright, won't we, Jerry?"


"Yes, Renée. We'll always have Fulbright."


Renée Flemming kissed me on the cheek and walked out of my life. 


And with that, I looked for Eleni and Mark to say goodnight, but they were nowhere to be found.


*With apologies to Renée Flemming, Eleni Tsakopoulos Kounalakis and Markos Kounalakis, Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Rick and Ilsa, and Garrison Keillor.