Diana Damrau does not own a dog. Neither do I. So it’s a real surprise to both of us when the black bag on the floor begins barking. ‘Is that yours?’ the German soprano asks me, and I tell her it’s not. Bemused and amused, we cross the room to investigate. As interview icebreakers go, this is fairly unorthodox. Backstage at Wigmore Hall, where Damrau gave a recital the evening before, we’re for the moment canine detectives rather than preparing to talk about her new Christmas album. It turns out that inside the bag – which is, on closer inspection, a discreet carrier with mesh panels at either end – is a tiny dog. We laugh and debate what to do. Pieces of the puzzle start to fit into place.
We’re sharing a room with the belongings of violinist Hilary Hahn and pianist Lera Auerbach, who are busy rehearsing in the hall, and the staff think the pet must belong to one of them. The dog seems perfectly happy – in fact he or she has gone back to sleep already – so we sit down at the table and start to chat.
Within minutes, I’ve forgotten that I’m in drizzly London. Instead, I’m whisked away to Bavaria, where a young Damrau is sitting on the marble windowsill at home, looking out at the crows in the snow, listening to her favourite LPs of children singing Christmas songs. Then she paints another picture. It’s Christmas Eve. She is looking through the living room keyhole, spying on her mother’s preparations – ‘and the food smells
