Moribund

By this stage it looked like my marriage was dead in the water, moribund, beyond help and hope. On top of that, one of my darling colleagues who will remain nameless as he is worth, even to this day, less than used lavatory paper, provoked me into resigning from my job as top musical dog at The Phantom of the Opera. The decision to quit was mine alone, but it was the spineless reasoning he used to explain himself when we subsequently worked together again four years later in Mexico City, which really sealed it.

Before leaving for the Antarctic and the gentle embrace of Maria I'd sorted out with the theatre that I would return on January 12th then fly on to Prague on the 15th to start auditioning singers for Phantom. I was to meet said colleague at the theatre just as soon as I arrived in Hamburg. Everything was sorted out, I was missing nothing in Germany, yet a provocative satellite phone call arrived while we were in Argentina to ask when I was thinking of coming back, followed by a protestation of innocence when I returned the call. I flew out of Punta Arenas, Chile, landed in Frankfurt fifteen hours later, caught my connecting flight to Hamburg and went straight into work, not having slept for 24 hours and, having flown east, subjected to appalling jet-lag. Colleague suggested I wait in the canteen as he something to sort out in the office. Eventually he turned up, not wanting to talk about the upcoming cast change i.e. the reason I'd come in to work in the first place and not gone home to sleep. I flew off to Prague a couple of days later, said colleague following on soon after. To cut a long story short, he'd kept me at arm's length concerning the cast change, choosing to discuss any possible changes with the Company Manager (who had no jurisdiction in the selection of artists), all the while lying to me about how long he'd spent in Hamburg preparing this little coup. The shit hit the fan in the Hotel Raphaël in Munich when I put two and two and two and two together and made eight. The extent of this guy's deceit was incredible. I threw the book at him, disturbing the other genteel guests over breakfast that morning, who had to listen to a few tabloid clichés about Germans, I'm ashamed to say...

We got back to Hamburg, I took an appointment with the MD and resigned. She didn't want to hear it. I stood my ground. The company eventually plumped for the default option of my assistant, not having found, in six months of auditions or interviews, anyone who they felt could take the show to another level. It was flattering, but I was not for turning; there was no way in hell I could continue to work with this particular manipulative, subversive arsehole.

It was only in 1999 in Mexico City that I found out why this bloke had behaved the way he had. He said he'd received information from the top floor in New York that I was to be replaced, so he decided to provoke me into resigning rather than see me suffer the ignominy of not having my contract renewed. He managed that quite successfully. He also had the good grace, I must admit, to add that he'd checked back with New York after I'd left if they really would have kissed me goodbye. The answer was interesting: "No way; he was the best music director we'd ever had for the show". Go figure, eh? This bloke, let's call him RF, as those are his initials, disgusted me ultimately only for his own lack of backbone and obsession to be an apparatchik. He ended up getting fired but still puts up Phantom productions, mostly in 'emerging economies'. He tried getting in touch a few times after Mexico, but I never replied to his mails, the main reason being they were always of the same ilk: looking for information but never revealing anything about himself. My days of playing with an open hand were long gone, as was any contact with this louse. Live and learn.

No shagging in this post, sorry about that. That'll change soon enough; we're working up to Switzerland, a fertile pasture after the self-destructive Endzeitstimmung of the last months in Hamburg.