Any sports fan will tell you that “the opera ain’t over ’til the fat lady sings.” This aphorism has been so widely repeated with such casual negligence that it has found its way into the consciousness of unsuspecting Americans everywhere. Indeed, the saying has passed into modern-day folklore as a sort of “rule of thumb” for divining the closing moments of an operatic production, leading to crushing disappointment, I suspect, for more than one poor sap who may have found himself at the point of thinking, “This wasn’t so bad; perhaps it’ll be an early evening after all.”

The wisdom of old sports commentators notwithstanding, those of us who have spent the best years of our married lives being dragged from Carmen to Die Walküre can assure the novice detainee that there is no reason for hope to dawn at the first sighting of the large-breasted warbler; her appearance is all too frequent in the average production and no reliable harbinger of the final curtain, particularly if you have served less than a three-hour sentence. It is true, though, that the rotund glass breaker will almost certainly inflict herself upon you during the play’s passionate climax–an event I normally snore through, having opted for operatus interruptus. But tonight I am awake and intrigued.

Tonight it appears to me that the prima donna’s ample costume is filled not with the usual overblown feminine form, but with the hairy girth of none other than the celebrated tenor Luciano Pavarotti (sans beard)–an attempt, I assume, to broaden his opportunities for employment and mask his flagging abilities. I confided my suspicion early on to my wife, who replied that I was not only an idiot, but gauche, as well, since, as she claimed, Mr. P. has been dead for some time now. With all humility I will admit that I do not hold myself out as being any sort of authority on the opera game–though I have snoozed through some of the great ones–but I am not the weak-kneed sort of man who can be swayed from his convictions every time his mate questions his mental proficiency. I think I can spot a worn-out old tenor masquerading as a worn-out old soprano playing a nubile young woman, no matter how good the makeup job may be. Which brings me to the nagging quandary that has haunted me throughout this interminable Italian cacophony: If the fat lady is really a man in drag, does the old adage still apply? And, if not, how will I know when the opera is over?

This is a new and perplexing problem for me. In times past, the final curtain has been signaled by a sharp blow to the ear from the point of my consort’s elbow; a gentle cue to wipe slumber’s drool from my jowls and begin to applaud wildly and gratefully, though with totally different motivation than that of the surrounding aficionados. Now, deprived of sleep’s sweet ignorance, I labor to disentangle the mysterious Neapolitan knot before me, searching vainly for a clue that signals the denouement.

A strained perusal of the program in my lap and a quick mental review of set changes leads me to conclude we are in the vicinity of the final act. Aware that no good opera can end without the tragic and untimely death (obviously subjective adjectives) of the hero and/or heroine, I have focused my attention toward that end. So far they have managed to dispatch three of what appeared to be leading characters and Signora Pavarotti is disappointingly unscathed. But hark! Hope has appeared in the shadows upstage in the form of an ominous-looking fellow with a bloody dagger. To my delight, Pavarotti has not yet noticed him, because he/she is too busy sobbing out high C’s near the center-stage footlights. You understand my excitement: she, whining on like a stuck toilet, and he, just the gent to jiggle her handle.

I realize that I have risen from my customary slumped position and am gripping the armrest of my seat in nervous anticipation. I hold my breath, but continue to smile up at the singing mountain. She must suspect nothing. One nervous glance from me, one suspicious raise of the eyebrow, and the jig is up. Sing on, sweet nightingale! Sing loud and strong! Your audience is enraptured with your artistry!

The murderer moves closer. His dagger is poised. Yes! Three more stealthy steps, a well-placed blow between the shoulder blades, the obligatory five-minute death scene, and we are free! Steady, old boy.

Suddenly, the woman directly behind me lets out an audible gasp. At that precise moment, Pavarotti turns, spies the assassin, and, with a shriek, flees the stage.

“My God, woman!” someone exclaims. “Are you crazy? He almost had her!”

I am now aware that everyone in the audience, with the exception of my wife, is looking at me. My wife has sunk into her seat, her head retracted turtle-fashion into the padded shoulders of her dress. Thinking fast, I turn a withering glare on the man beside me, who, being asleep, offers me little in the form of an alibi.

Some minutes later from my resumed position deep in my seat, I chew the cud of my situation. With a growing sense of satisfaction I come to two conclusions, to wit: a) lapses in spousal social decorum are not, as yet, considered sufficient grounds for divorce, and b) it is a safe bet that my wife will look elsewhere for future dates to the opera. Not such a tragic evening after all.

For this, I am forever in Pavarotti’s debt.