A night at the opera

Dear readers, join me on a journey through memory and melody, as I share a night at the opera with my daughter. This tale intertwines family history with the timeless themes of Donizetti's "Don Pasquale," revealing the complex dance of life's choices and their reverberations.

Earlier this month, at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre in Vancouver, a place I hadn't stepped into for 20 years, I introduced my daughter to the opera. “Don Pasquale” by Donizetti was on the bill - her first opera, a tradition I clung to since my university days. Back then, strapped for cash but hungry for culture, I never missed a season. The first year, I had a friend by my side. After that, I went alone, soaking up every note from the cheap seats, far from the stage but close to the magic.

Bringing my daughter into this world felt like passing on a piece of myself. The Vancouver cultural scene had changed, but walking into the theatre with her, memories flooded back. The excitement, the anticipation, and then, the performance began, transporting us.

Yet, as the opera unfolded, my thoughts drifted to my Uncle Gerry. “Don Pasquale’s” tale of an old man's foolish attempt at love reminded me so much of him. Gerry's story, unlike the opera's comedic turns, ended in tragedy. He had been a character in my family's history, marked by late-life mistakes and misguided love.

On the trip to Greece with my mother, the summer after my father died, we were introduced to the complexities of the relationship Gerry had with the upstairs tenant’s daughter, Sophia. Gerry’s infatuation with Sophia was a well-known secret.

Middle-aged and unsophisticated, she wasn't a conventional beauty. Sophia’s skin was toughened by the sun, her hair dyed an unnatural black. She had been unlucky in love, abandoned at the altar, living with her parents in Gerry’s upstairs apartment. To him, she was everything. He doted on her.

This trip to Greece was already fraught with tension and grief, as my mother and I were in Athens dismantling my father’s life. My mother, newly widowed, grieved with each bedsheet or tchotchke we donated – a physical reminder that their dream of retiring in the house on Perikleous Street would never happen.

On one such blistering, sunny day, my mother, Gerry, and I went to see the family lawyer about the house. Gerry wanted to leave his share to Sophia. The lawyer, an old family friend, warned against it. He foresaw disaster if Gerry went through with his plan. It would eventually become clear that Gerry didn't listen.

Many many years later, now back in Canada, my mother and I received the news. Gerry had, unexpectedly, drowned on a trip with Sophia and her mother to Kamena Vourla, a small, picturesque seaside known for its thermal springs. A police investigation ruled it an accident, but doubts lingered.

Then the will surfaced, leaving the apartment to Sophia.

Gerry’s unhappy marriage was an open secret within our family. Two people, brought together more by circumstance than affection, lived parallel lives under the same roof. His wife, remaining in Greece during his final trip, was estranged in all but name, their union a shell of unspoken words and unfulfilled dreams. This backdrop made his fixation on Sophia all the more poignant—a misguided search for companionship and understanding in the twilight of his life.

Sitting in the audience, watching Don Pasquale's foolishness unfold, I couldn't help but see Gerry in him. But unlike the opera, where misunderstandings are cleared and harmony restored, Gerry's story left a scar; the divided family home on Perikleous Street.

Taking my daughter to the opera was a sharing of my past and a gift for her future. For me, it  became a reflection on the complexities of family, love, and the choices that define us.

As we walked out of the theatre, into the night, the story of Don Pasquale lingered, a reminder of life's intricate dances, sometimes comedic, often tragic, always human.