Aquí la cita del pasaje del libro de Chapin:

Before joining the Metropolitan I was one of those unabashed Tebaldi fans; shortly after joining the company, however, I realized I was going to have to be the one to suggest that it might be a wise idea for her to consider a different repertoire.

The day after a particularly harrowing Desdemona, I telephoned her hotel to ask if I might come to see her. She replied that it would be better if she came to my office, and we agreed a date.

At the appointed hour she arrived, dressed in an elegant, subdued suit covered by a full-length dark mink coat. It was a cold, bright sunny winter day, and I remember thinking how strikingly attractive she was as she came through the door and I walked over to greet her.

We settled into comfortable seats and I began by telling her what pleasure she’d given to so many people over the exciting years of her career. She looked at me, acknowledging my comments with a slight nod, obviously waiting to discuss future plans. I then asked if she’d ever given thought to appropriate mezzo-soprano roles that might be compatible alternatives to her present repertoire.

At the mention of "mezzo-soprano" her back stiffened and her face froze. She did not say a word, just looked at me with thorough contempt and without further ado arose out of her chair, wrapped her fur coat around her with firm authority, and left the room.

Shortly after this unfortunate rendezvous, we saw each other once more. We were sitting in adjoining boxes at Carnagie Hall during a memorial concert celebrating the life of the impresario Sol Hurok. I nodded politely to her; she looked away. No words were spoken. I was saddened by such a rupture but understood.

Five years later, however, Renata Tebaldi reappeared in my life, not in person, but through what I can only describe as a crazed fan.

In April 1977 I was rushed to Roosevelt Hospital in New York with severe intestinal bleeding. Tests showed that a long-standing ulcer had bled for a second time; the doctors recommended a partial gastrectomy. Before this operation could be performed, however, around-the-clock blood tests were required, and in the middle of my first night I awoke to find a sinister-looking technician sitting alongside the right side of my bed, his tray of sharp instruments balanced on his lap, staring at me with what can only be described as loathing. Truth to say I was only vaguely awake after a drug-induced sleep, and thought perhaps my imagination was playing tricks. I extended my arm, which he examined roughly, finally finding a vein that would serve his purposes. He wrapped my arm painfully with a rubber tourniquet and, picking up a syringe with an enormous needle, said:

"Why didn’t you bring back Tebaldi?"

"What? What did you say?" I asked, looking down at the needle and up at his face.

"I said, why didn’t you bring back Tebaldi? You were cruel, you know. Very cruel." His face was a map of anger.

I instantly thought I was in the middle of a bad novel; but this was no novel. The man with the needle was deadly serious.

"Why don’t you finish what you’re doing?" I suggested quietly, suppressing my panic. "Then we can talk about that splendid artist."

He looked at me with no expression on his face but his eyes flashed anger. Slowly he put the needle into my vein and slowly he withdrew blood – very, very slowly. I hate needles; by instinct he must have known this. It seemed hours before he was finished.

When he undid the tourniquet, I told him about Tebaldi’s vocal difficulties and that I’d suggested to her that she look at some mezzo-soprano roles. He made no comment, just squirted my blood into test tubes. I went on about how much I admired her and how sorry I was that we never had a second conversation.

By this time he’d finished his tasks, still with no further remarks to me, and begun to move toward the door of my room. When he reached it he turned to me one more time.

"You were mean to her, very mean. Cruel, too. You should have brought her back." With that he put his right thumb under his front teeth and gave me the ultimate Italian gesture of disdain.

The next morning I told my doctors about this adventure and asked if they might find the guy and remove him from my case. I presume they must have done something; fortunately, I never saw him again. However, for understandable reasons, I’m still cautious about Tebaldi’s New York fans, even to this day.

But I’m never cautious about my feelings for this extraordinary artist, whose legacy is gloriously captured by her recordings. Having heard her in person during her brilliant years and knowing the unchanging magnificence of her recorded work, Renata Tebaldi, like Birgit Nilsson, will always be symbolic to me of the best in opera’s modern golden age.

DIOS

Y dígame, señor Maldé, ¿cómo decidió registrarse en Foroclásico este señor de la jeringuilla?