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We caught a cab and headed towards our destination, the Bucuti Resort. Our travel agent had recommended this particular resort. She had told us that it was Dutch–owned, relatively small with only sixty-eight rooms, did not have a lot of activities for children -- and therefore the clientele was restricted to mostly returning couples and young newlyweds -- and best of all, sat on the widest, most picturesque and private stretch of white sand in the Caribbean.When we checked in we discovered that our agent had informed the staff that we were on our honeymoon. Our host poured us a glass of champagne and brought out a small platter of cheese and fruit. The check-in process was a totally enjoyable affair. We were handed our key, informed that our bags had already been brought up to our room, and were given directions to the elevator and the staircase. Our room, she said, was on the third floor and noting that we were both young and physically fit told us that it would be a lot faster if. "Couple of weeks," I told her. "I found him in the woods one day and brought him home with me." A couple of weeks," she repeated thoughtfully. "That's just about how much time you told me since your voice ... Oh, Nick," she said in a tone of deep disappointment. "It's him, isn't it, not you at all."I shook my head vigorously. "It's all me, Camilla," I said. She really needed to believe me. "What happened was that he showed me where I was going wrong. He said something about he could tell I wasn't singing the way I'd been taught, and he kind of gave me a tweak in the head and I suddenly found myself singing like I'd only been able to before in my dreams. Then I figured out for myself what I'd been doing."She was still looking doubtful."Look, Asmedogh wasn't at Turandot. He wasn't in the opera house Sunday. I'm the baritone in this house, not him. I don't think he can even sing."She laughed, as I'd intended. But the doubt was gone, or mostly.When she asked me how long I'd known about.
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