We arrive the bus terminal in New York and take an Uber to Wellington Hotel, located near the concert hall on 56th street. We check in and take a quick shower. The concert will start in less than two hours. Carnegie Hall is a five minute walk from our hotel, so we walk through the streets, hand in hand, taking in the boisterousness of New York City. We arrive at the entrance and I quickly pose for a photo. Brenda takes several shots as I change my pose. I check through the photos, smiling my approval for what would be my next post on Instagram. I offer to take her photos. She shakes her head, her vacant eyes scanning concert arrivals wearing their enthusiasm on their faces, each person holding a printed ticket, and eagerly waiting in line for the doors to open. If there is any expression at all in Brenda’s eyes, it is pity. We are to be pitied—all of us waiting to see instrumentalists playing the music of men who died many years ago. Boring music. A few weeks ago, we had had a hot argument after she asked again that I give up playing the music of dead men. I argued that the men may be dead, but their music has refused to die. Brenda dismissed my point with a kiss and proceeded to fuck me to ‘Drunk in Love’.
One of the ushers, a petite woman whose lips are as red as her blazer jacket, checks our ticket and points us to the middle row of the topmost floor. The stage looks small and distant from where we sit, but I don’t mind. Soon, Lang Lang walks onto the stage to loud applause. He bows, and sits at the grand piano. There is utter silence in the hall. And, with a touch on the keys, music fills the hall. A few minutes into the performance, I feel Brenda’s head on my shoulder. I hold her. Lang Lang strikes the last note and applause wakes Brenda. The pianist stands facing the applauding audience, smiling and bowing. In his usual manner, he spreads out his hands to the audience in a gesture of appreciation. It is as though he is willing the whole crowd to embrace him at once. He bows again and exits the stage. Soon, there is an intermission and people are filing out to use the restroom before returning for the orchestral performance. Brenda excuses herself and joins the queue of ladies.
The second segment begins and Brenda is yet to return. As I switch on my phone to call her, I receive a text message: ‘I’m off to Lexicon Night Club on 54th Street. Join me when you’re done.’
I switch my phone off.
1 Comment
Four pages of interesting story.