The Concert Hall (2 of 2)

Reverie (n.) : (12c., Modern French rêverie), from resver "to dream, wander," a word of uncertain origin (also the source of rave).

And this made me begin to wonder if it was my fate to be forced by necessity to always go in the wrong direction and to always go to the bitter end of the wrong direction, but after proceeding a mile or more during which time some of the forwardmost dissatisfied passengers had begun to grab at the stray hairs on the nape of my neck and even thrust their hands into the collar of my shirt, I was able to back the double bus into a narrow alley filthy with tents, shopping carts and other detritus (a nifty move) and we sped back in the opposite direction from which we’d come, back to the concert hall where I pulled into a legal bus stop designated with thick white lines just beyond the theater entrance and pushed the toggle switch to open the doors and jumped to the ground before the unruly passengers had time to disentangle themselves.

Just then an extremely fashionable and dashing sort of lady was advancing along the sidewalk in the direction of the theater and she struck me as very cosmopolitan, only slightly older than myself, someone who projected a debonair devil may care style with her large hat, shaped somewhat like a fruit bowl, covered in red green yellow and violet silk flowers, and when she smiled at me I took her arm quite gaily and she briefly put her cheek against my shoulder as we skipped down the sidewalk and together rushed through the doors of the old theater and into the lobby, but unfortunately a pair of drunk young men in shiny Dacron suits were blocking the escalator that went up to the auditorium and they kept obstructing each other as they unsuccessfully tried to step onto the machine and briefly slapped one another on the shoulders and bumped chests before they finally succeeded in climbing aboard and we stood waiting for them to go up but as they started to ascend one of them suddenly lay down in order to drink water that had puddled on the escalator’s very lowest step, and I admit it was interesting, it was interesting to observe, and I found myself somewhat fascinated at the sight of a man lapping water in such an abnormal position even as his body was being transported upwards, and it reminded me of a painting by Marc Chagall, who was an artist from around a hundred years ago whose work I’d seen once in a glossy book, and the young man on the escalator’s body, contorted very oddly, with his legs and feet at a higher level on the moving stairs, his torso skimming against the serrated steps while bouncing up and down in a way that left his much less elevated head and shoulders stationary and thus allowed his tongue to lap up the puddled water that remained continuously at the lowest level of the ever-advancing contraption like a dog and, well, I found the whole thing to be quite original and charming, but it was also clear that the lady with the hat and I would not be able to proceed for some time, so we began to search for an elevator and very soon we found one but, impatient as I was, I rushed in first with the lady with the hat following after, but when the machine began to ascend it split in two leaving my companion behind. Follow me when you can! I cried as I watched her become smaller and smaller, which is a normal optical effect I was experiencing as I watched her wave her feeble heartfelt little wave. It was a devastating setback, but there was no time to lose.

The elevator doors opened onto a vestibule made of glass that was adjacent to the orchestra-level seating, and the walls of this vestibule (a lovely word I sometimes enjoy saying over and over even when it has no relevance to the subject at hand) had walls made of soundproof glass and through them I could see the legions of music lovers writhing, standing at their seats dancing, singing, laughing, and I could even see tears of happiness streaming down several cheeks as they danced and waved their phones, and everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely.

But just as I pushed open the glass door the final song came to an end and the boisterous crowd, which only seconds before had been so flushed with excitement and energy, sullenly began to make its way to the exits while I tried to get to the front of the auditorium to collect my mother and had to fight against this human tide, and if I treated anyone rudely, if I shoved anyone aside or if I hurled insults at any person, it was purely from the frustration associated with the vexatious situation of being faced with a serious task when surrounded by people in a dizzy carefree mood who simply would not step out of my way, and so I was busy learning how hard it is to negotiate with very abstracted people while my poor mother, who was both unwell and profoundly deaf and had absolutely no idea where I’d gotten to, was certainly in a panic and must be frightened and unhappy, and it probably took me a full hour to reach the first row but, alas, my mother was gone.

The attractive empathetic woman who’d been sitting beside her was still in her seat however, and it was as if she was waiting for me, the way she immediately stood and in a sweet and caressing voice asked me if I’d found my shoes. No, I said, speaking loudly to be certain she could hear me over the many dawdling, loitering music lovers who all seemed to be chatting chatting chatting at once and I pointed back over my shoulders with both my thumbs and, I’m missing my backpack too, I said.

You never had a backpack, the attractive woman said as she laughed. Why do you always make such a fuss? It annoyed me to be corrected by a perfect stranger. When I left my home I had a backpack, I said, But no matter, the important thing is to find my mother. Where could she have disappeared to?

She left just before the finale, she said, But she told me she’d be fine, and this of course meant she must have been going down the escalator at the same time I was coming up in the elevator that had so cruelly stranded the woman with the hat.

Look, the kindly woman said, and she pulled out her phone to show me something. Side by side we stood as the chandeliers above us blinked on and off as a signal for the crowd to disperse.

The empathetic woman didn’t seem to care, it was as if she had all the time in the world, and she held up her phone in such a way that I had to bring my face almost next to hers in order to see her video, a video she’d made of my mother gyrating, writhing, waving her frail arms in a state of ecstasy, something I found very difficult to watch.

Isn’t she wonderful!? she enthused as she put her arm around my waist and pulled me closer and closer. Yes, I had to admit it was indisputable. My sweet old mother, the deaf, blind, demented woman who bore me, the one who read me stories, picked out my little outfits, disapproved of my every new friend, and begged me never to leave. It could be no other. She who smothered me with love while undermining my every passion and dream. Mother, front and center in the faded old majestic theater. And she was dancing.