Tenor Jose Carreras Five Years Later

Seattle is the scene of Jose Carreras' deepest hell: The weeks of unremitting pain and weakness following his bone-marrow transplant five years ago, when he was too enervated to do anything but lie in bed and wonder whether he would ever live to sing again.

And Seattle is also the scene of his salvation. Following Carreras' successful recovery, Seattle became the first American stop on the tenor's comeback trail, where he redeemed his promise to the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Institute to return in triumph for a benefit concert in its honor.

Now Carreras is set to return tonight for another benefit in the Seattle Opera House, fulfilling his vow to raise money for leukemia research (he has raised more than $10 million around the world, with the proceeds from each concert going to leukemia research in that city). The Barcelona-born tenor no longer has to wonder whether the bouts of chemotherapy and radiation would damage his vocal chords; he no longer has to ration every step and every gesture in a chronic war against fatigue.

"I am free," Carreras now says, "to enjoy what I do. And when I come to Seattle, that always is a special time for me. I am not thinking about the pain and the fear. I am thinking about my wonderful doctors and my many friends, and how glad I am to see them.

"And how grateful I am to be alive - and singing."

Not just alive and singing: Carreras inhabits the rarefied world of the superstar tenor, anointed by the unprecedented success of the 1990 "Three Tenors" concert in Rome. That concert spawned the most successful classical video of all time, and one of the best-selling classical CDs ever (two years later, the CD still is considered a hot item).

The finale of that concert, Puccini's "Nessun dorma" from the opera "Turandot," has a special resonance for Carreras. The aria ends with the word "Vincero!" ("I will win!") repeated three times, and it has come to symbolize Carreras' victory over leukemia. He sang it as the final encore of his comeback concert in Barcelona in 1988, too, and has sung it regularly since.

In his autobiography, "Singing From the Soul" (YCP Publications), Carreras writes of his identification with that aria: "I never gave up the hope of coming through my ordeal alive, and I now face the future with confidence."

More recently, after last week's successful Carnegie Hall recital, Carreras mused over the quick passage ofthe past four years.

"I hoped to sing again, and sing successfully. But even in my hopes, I was not prepared for the success especially of the Three Tenors concert, which overcame all of my expectations. It shows me that there is a real audience out there for great music, for the voice. This is good news for the opera world.

"When I began to sing again after my illness, I told myself I would be very careful, not doing too much. And now, little by little, I am doing more and more, and I'm afraid I almost have gone back to what my career was before.

"Almost, but not 100 percent. There always is that little thought inside, telling me to take it easy, and not work so hard. I try now to be wise, and to plan things with my brain as well as my heart. But it isn't easy when I feel so good."

If Carreras is determined to take some time to smell the flowers along the way, it's with good reason. The fact that nobody knows what lies ahead was made graphically clear to him in 1987, when he was in Paris, working on a movie of Puccini's "La Boheme." He went into the American Hospital for a checkup and emerged with a diagnosis of acute lymphoblastic leukemia, news that sent shock waves around the world's musical community.

The harrowing story of his treatment is recounted in the autobiography. Chemotheraphy, pneumonia, bone-marrow extraction, more chemotherapy, radiation. Pain, nausea, more pain, transfusions, infections, an immune-system crisis, agonizing polyps in the esophagus, fear of damage to the vocal chords, dramatic weight loss and hair loss.

But even more telling than these chapters are the ones describing the heart-warming outpouring of letters (more than 150,000 of them), flowers, telegrams and visits. Carreras' supposed arch-rivals, tenors Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti, both sent encouraging messages; Domingo even sneaked into Seattle to visit him unannounced.

Some of the visitors were less welcome. Representatives of the European tabloids tried to infiltrate the hospital, dressed as orderlies, to get interviews and photos.

Carreras is still dealing with that kind of curiosity. He'll never be just another tenor; the dramatic story of his fight for life continues to cling to his public image.

"But it does not upset me," he says.

"People naturally want to know about what happened, about my leukemia. They ask the same questions again and again. And there have been so many positive conclusions, even through the bad times, that I don't mind at all to be reminded of my struggles.

"I don't mind this as a human being. But as a singer, as an artist, I do mind, a little. When I sing, I want people to think only about the tenor, and only about the music."

At this point, Carreras the tenor sings about 50 performances a year in varied venues, and this summer he is the music director of the opening and closing ceremonies for the Barcelona Olympics. He likes to sing recitals, as well as opera performances.

"In recitals," the tenor says earnestly, "you are naked before the audience - well, naked with your jacket and tails. The audience sees and hears the real person, not some role you are interpreting.

"I'm glad to be in much better shape for Seattle than I was last time. Do you remember last time? I had just gotten the chicken pox!"

Carreras' treatment had completely wiped out his immune system, leaving him vulnerable to childhood diseases all over again.

"Now, there is no more chicken pox. There is just me.

"And finally, now, I feel everything really is over. It is a very great freedom."