"The original please. I speak Italian, French and German."
He turned around and his white eyebrows went up. "Very impressive. I only speak English myself."
I shrugged. "My grandmother brought me up multilingual."
He took the CD out of its case with the same delicacy one shows a fragile object. "Grandmother?"
"Oh, my parents both died when I was a boy so my grandmother brought me up, and opera was one of her favourite forms of music. So it was only natural that I should learn to love different languages and opera at the same time."
As the CD draw slid out it occurred to me that I might as well have pressed a button that had activated something inside Kevin as effectively as the remote he was holding. With a swish of his robe he returned to the opposite couch.
"And it's so nice to meet someone that has something in common with me for a change."
Having something in common with Kevin was the last thing I was thinking about. Instead, I was thinking that I was in the company of one of the most frightening things in the gay world: an opera queen. Now there is a big difference between an opera queen and an opera lover. Where an aficionado has an interest in opera, the opera queen is obsessed with it. Admittedly, I could mistakenly be described as an opera queen myself. But while I loved opera, and always had some opera playing at home, the big difference between myself and an opera queen was that I was neither obsessed nor as dramatic as a true opera queen
I was in the company of one of the most frightening things in the gay world: an opera queen.
The typical opera queen would, a) throw his hands in the air, b) name drop famous divas or tenors, c) act out the roles of the divas in their own lives with an over-the- top flourish. And I didn't fit any of the above categories of the typical opera queen. At least, I didn't like to think that I did.
"Thank God you're not into Andrew Lloyd Weber", he said, putting his hand melodramatically to his brow. "I met one of those, a month ago."
He used the word 'those' as if he was describing some off fish.
"It was dreadful. He thought Phantom of the Opera was real opera! Poor dear."
Again, Kevin made a melodramatic wave.
"He said Andrew Lloyd Webber must be good because it's played everywhere. Can you believe that?" Kevin's eyes were wide with horror. " I told him that AIDS is everywhere too but I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
He leaned forward from the couch and extended his arm in my direction. "Now you simply must tell me who your favourite diva is?"
It was an easy question. "I guess it would have to be Maria Callas."
He rolled his eyes and a smirk crossed his face. "Oh, a Callas queen!"
I frowned at his unintentional joke. "I wouldn't describe myself as obsessed with Callas or a queen," I said indignantly. But he didn't seem to notice my disapproving glance as he continued to rabbit on.
"Everyone loves Callas." His voice went up in pitch just like a diva suddenly changing key and he threw his hands up disparagingly. "I'm a closet Joan Sutherland fan, actually. Can you tell what version this Turandot is?"
He was referring to the music currently playing on his stereo. I hardly needed to think. "Covent Garden, 1956."
He was in raptures. "Oh, I love a man that loves opera." He looked at me with the gaze of a true opera lover.
