Photo Finish

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One of the many marvels of Isabella Sommita’s techniques was her breathing: it was totally unobservable. Even in the most exacting passages, even in the most staggering flights of coloratura, there was never the slightest disturbance of the corsage.

“You could drop an ice cube down her cleavage,” boasted her manager, Ben Ruby, “and not a heave would you get for your trouble.”

He had made this observation when sitting in a box immediately above the diva at the Royal Festival Hall and had spoken no more than the truth. Offstage when moved by one of her not infrequent rages, La Sommita’s bosom would heave with the best of them.

It did so now, in her private suite at the Chateau Australasia in Sydney. She was en négligé and it was sumptuously evident that she was displeased and that the cause of her displeasure lay on the table at her elbow: a newspaper folded to expose a half-page photograph with a banner headline, “Cross-Patch?” and underneath, “La Sommita is not amused!”

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