Solemn music ringed in my ears as we lamented the loss of Amore Opera founder and director Nathan Hull, who passed away on August 10, 2020. Due to COVID-19, the church, which would otherwise have been full, had just a dozen or so people, wearing masks and standing six feet apart. Through the portal of ZOOM, I saw many more of Nathan’s friends on my computer screen, sharing the same sorrow that I did. The priest was standing next to the spirit of Nathan, uttering hopeful prayers and wishing him a peaceful rest. Then suddenly, the slow, melancholy music transformed into a fast, spirited beat, which reminded me of Nathan’s enthusiasm and passion towards opera. Soft at first, it grew louder and louder, like an accelerating race car, and at its height, I could almost see Nathan coming back to life, his bright, clear voice encouraging us onwards. Although in his sixties, he had the energy and passion of a young man, bringing composer Puccini’s verismo style of opera to life. 

It all started four years ago one fine afternoon when I walked down the winding passageway into the audition room at Nola Studio in midtown Manhattan. When Nathan asked me if I knew any opera songs, I was nervous because I didn’t know any! With a friendly gaze through his glasses, he told me that it was fine and that I could sing something else. I decided to sing the national anthem because it was my favorite song. I also sang it in front of a crowd of hundreds of people at the opening ceremony of the annual Central Park chess tournament. Its diverse range of high and low notes reflected the vast possibilities that lay ahead. As I stretched out ‘homes of the brave’ in the concluding phrase of The Star-Spangled Banner, I saw the joyful gaze of Nathan, which marked the start of a season full of fun. 

Performing children’s chorus at the Italian opera La Boheme on Christmas and New Year’s Eve was one of the most memorable times of my life. The normally dome-shaped stage at Sheen Center in downtown Manhattan was transformed into a 19th century street of Paris, France. Two tables were laid down, with customers, shop owners, and street urchins crowded everywhere. I remembered how laborious it was to set the stage; carrying towers of boxes down the elevator, and balancing the ‘Cafe Momus’ banner so that it wouldn’t topple. Nathan would be running back and forth, not wasting a single minute, with stacked chairs mounted on his shoulders. Meanwhile, we were picking out the most fitting outfit for each character.

For me, as a street urchin, that was a pair of wrinkled brown pants, a dirty looking sweater, and a long purple scarf that dangled below my chest. We even got to ‘claim’ our costumes by stashing it in a resting room reserved for us. Nowadays, many of us would probably hesitate to leave our wearable clothing in a public space, with endless ways of outside contact, and then change into and out of it every other day. But four years ago, all that was in my mind was how much fun I was having and how much I looked forward to the future rehearsals. After changing, we would line up behind the glorious curtains of the stage, ready to dart on at any moment. We were allowed to whisper softly — not too loud lest we be heard, and when we felt more daring, to peak through the curtain to catch a glimpse of the events unfolding during our absence. Although our giggling and messing around would occasionally aggravate one of the supervising adults, it is precisely what I looked back at right now as a symbol of our genuine, ever-lasting cheerfulness. A burst of excitement rushed through my body as Nathan himself welcomed us on stage, wearing his wide smile and calling to us with his loud, clear voice. I was full of anticipation as we huddled behind the tables of Cafe Momus, waiting for the downbeat that would cue us into the midst of action.  

The cake-stealing scene designed by Nathan was one of my favorites. While the waitress was bringing the customers’ dessert, I would gradually creep in from the side and inch in on the prize. The music was building up a rapid pace as the waitress gradually laid down the cake on the dark brown wooden table. It had scarcely made contact before I would rush in and swipe it away, running away so fast that by the time the waitress looked back and realized what had happened, I had already disappeared behind the curtain offstage. It was satisfying to hear the loud bang of the piano along with the deafening ‘OH!’ the instant I snatched the cake — it meant that I had timed it perfectly! 

Nathan had tried this scene with us many times and I had the honor of mastering it and performing it onstage. The unique part about it compared to the other scenes was that there was no definitive signal for me to begin my act. Nathan, having been a math professor at NYU,   developed an algorithm and counted to me on his fingers during rehearsal. As a New York City math champion, numbers were second nature to me, so I picked up the rhythm rather quickly. Even onstage, I still envisioned his brisk and rhythmic voice: ‘One, Two, Two, Two, Three, Two…’, just like the constant ticking of the clock. 

As the clock struck 8:00 later that night, we would come back on stage as eager, playful children in anticipation of the toy man Parpignol. Before our entrance, customers Rodolpho, Mimi, Colline, and Marcello were ordering supper at Cafe Momus and their conversations about the meal were suddenly interrupted by…

Ecco i giocattoli di Parpignol! (Here come the toys of Parpignol!)

The music would freeze for a split second, before Parpignol and us would come out chanting as we would scramble for the toys which he was tossing out in big handfuls. Seeing him spin around and around like a revolving door, I was reminded of the rehearsal where Nathan portrayed himself as Parpignol. His loud voice and stout body made him a very good actor as well as director. Even as he opened the door and trudged on stage, carrying a large bag full of toys, he was still dishing out suggestions for us; the most common one being ‘project louder!’ That almost guaranteed that we would follow his example and deliver our lines with more power. 

 Today, listening to the opera-like funeral music, I could still picture my 9-year old self spinning around in circles with the melody. Then suddenly, the fast paced funeral song, booming at its full extent, turned silent, as if there had been a power shortage. As he walked back onstage, I saw through the zoom window on my computer, the dark silhouette of the priest, preceded by his full body, ready to continue his encouraging speeches. The sudden disappearance of the music immediately teleported my memory back to the short but energetic one line solo in La Boheme, after our entrance with Parpignol. The first time this happened, we turned with a puzzled look to Nathan as if to say “What’s going on?” He then instructed us to sing the next line: 

“Vola Tromba il Cavallin!” (“I want a trumpet and a toy horse!”)

 as loud as we possibly could. 

It was one of the rare times where we were encouraged to shout at the top of our lungs to fill in a moment which otherwise would have been total silence. No matter how loud we raised our voice at first, Nathan would motivate us to sing even louder, until we had no reservation whatsoever. Projecting our voices became even more necessary when the whole opera of sixty people rehearsed together. Before the solo, we blended harmoniously into the sharp soprano section of the ladies and the deep baritone section of the gentlemen. A brief moment of silence would split the chorus and the solo, so the volume of our solo almost had to match the might of the entire chorus plus the piano accompaniment. It felt amazing to deliver that power with dozens of pairs of eyes turning in anticipation. Even with all the practice and stage run-throughs though, it was still much different to perform on stage, in front of an audience of hundreds. 

As I turned to face the audience, readying myself for the moment of truth, I noticed the spotlight gradually turn and shine straight onto my face, and while asking for the toys from Parpignol, I sang out with all the heart and vigour you could expect from a 9-year old, which was a lot! The whole audience would hear only my voice for those fifteen seconds, so I had to pronounce every syllable perfectly; just like a native Italian kid would. 

It was not the first instance of us speaking Italian, though. In fact, our whole part of the performance was contained in a thick twenty page packet full of music and all-Italian lyrics that we were to memorize and sing together. Initially, we tightly clutched that packet with both hands, glancing down whenever we weren’t sure of a line, until one day the conductor told us that we had to be off script by the next rehearsal. Seeing the towering phalanx of words looming before me, I imagined that there was no way we would ever memorize so much. I had recited and sang in many songs and shows in school, but this was the first time I sang in only Italian. During the transition phase, it would still be tempting to pick up the script and take a peek, but it felt proud to finally be able to put aside the paper and articulate the lines fluidly and confidently. Soon, the lyrics, which initially had only been typed on paper, were engraved deep into our minds. 

The priest, who had finished his speeches at the funeral mass, gave the floor to some of Nathan’s friends who shared their various experiences with him, smiling and crying at the same time; smiling because of the fun times that were shared, and crying for the fun times in the future that were lost. It was a culmination of all the different types of people that Nathan worked with, just like the diverse group of characters in an opera that all play different yet substantial roles. 

I thought about how absurd it would have been to see dozens of people packed in the same room today, without wearing any masks and standing barely six inches apart, not to mention six feet; but during the last two weeks before performance, we had a daily routine of  one or two complete run-throughs which involved all sixty or so actors in close proximity. For the finale of act two of La Boheme, there began a faint chorus of drums and trumpets, distant at first, but growing louder and louder, as if it was gradually being magnified by a megaphone. Soon we could see the shadow of soldiers, marching in line and wearing the uniform outfit of all black. They marched row by row in single file, destined for the opposite end of the stage; their legs stomping with the rhythm of the music, serving as their own percussion. Eager to be at the center of the commotion, we rushed towards the march and disappeared offstage, as energetically as we had arrived. The bright red curtain then rained down from above, bringing with it wild applause from the audience, and concluding the short but exciting and eventful Latin Quarters act of La Boheme. 

La Boheme was not an end but a beginning. We continued our journey with Amore Opera and sang in The Elixir of Love, another Italian opera, composed by Gaetano Donizetti. Our practice began at the house of Alicia (a chorus teacher, pianist, and event manager with Amore Opera). Just as Nemorino, a simple peasant, won the love of a beautiful landowner, Adina, by a magical potion, the Elixir of Love, I drank the elixir of opera and gained a love towards opera, one that will captivate me my whole life. 

Opera greeted us with cheerfulness and adventure every night at rehearsal and brought together people of many different ages and professions. Even now, at Nathan’s funeral, his sister asked us to refrain from wearing black and to instead dress in red, or something colorful. Just as how Nathan always lived his life with so much color and happiness, we will continue his legacy by spreading joy even in difficult times. Seeing many of Nathan’s friends in vibrant shades of bright red all around my computer screen assured me that there were many more just like him, ready to continue his tradition of spreading fun and laughter. Nathan has passed away, but the impact he has made and the interests we developed because of him are irreversible. He has planted the seeds of opera deep into the fertile ground of our hearts, and it is only our job to nurture its growth. Though his physical form has left us, Nathan and all the plays he brought to life will always remain as a symbol of passion and cheerfulness. 

As the slow melancholy funeral music gradually faded away into the tall arched walls of the church, I could almost picture Nathan and his encouraging voice, the same as it was four years ago: “You got this! Just remember: Project! Project! Project!” Would he have said the same if he had been onstage today? Probably so. And we will act as if we had heard him bright and cheerful.