La Boheme

Ed looked at his plate and the salmon was pink and lovely, a few strands of dill lay on the surface. He cut a piece and the fish was moist and small slivers of white squeezed through adding to the overall aesthetic of the entire evening. Everything was a work of art that night. The candle light, the slices of thick Tuscan bread in a basket next to two small white plates filled with sweet virgin olive oil, the bottle of Spanish Verdejo that was more than half gone, and the lovely lady seated across from him.

Corrine was delicately cutting a small piece of filet mignon. She raised it to her mouth and closed her lips over the fork. She saw Ed staring at her, and grinned. A tight lipped, full mouth smile. Ed picked a potato from the plate with his fingers and bit it in half dramatically. She raised her serviette to her mouth.
“How is it, Corrine?” Ed said.

She held the red cloth over her mouth, chewed and swallowed.

“Delicious,” she said, “How is that potato?”

Ed put the other half in his mouth.

”Bleedin’ extraordinary.”

She giggled. Ed poured some wine into his glass and filled hers. She shook her head but he poured it until the bottle was empty.

“You’re going to get me drunk,” she said.

“Not at all. It complements the meal.”

Ed took a sip from her glass to equal their levels and placed it down on the table.

“See, we are in the same boat.” Ed said, feeling good and buzzed. The room was a collection of dancing flames and tables with dark red cloths. There were many people there spread out in the high ceilinged room. Ed leaned across the table and whispered,

“What time is the show?”

“7-30.”

“Do you have a watch?”

She turned her thin wrist and leaned towards him.

“It is almost 7.” she said softly. “Why are you whispering?”
Ed leaned back in his chair. “For no reason,” he said, and cut a big piece of fish and put it in his mouth.

The waiter walked past and Ed motioned him over.
“Yes, sir?” he said.
“I think we could use another bottle.”

Corrine put her napkin on the table.

“Ed, I don’t know.”

“Of course, sir” he said.

Corrine shook her head slowly, smiling.

“We have all the time in the world.” Ed said, draining his glass.

The group of white and red jacketed ushers waved their arms, their fingers to their lips, as Ed and Corrine bounded up the scarlet carpeted steps of The Royal Opera House.

“Hurry, hurry!” an old white haired gentleman whispered, leading them quickly through the curtains and down the aisle to their seats. He disappeared back up the aisle. Excusing themselves past three or four people, they sat down just as the lights dimmed and the music began. Corrine grabbed his arm.

“You see,” she whispered, “we almost missed the first act.” Ed kissed her on the cheek as the curtain rose and he settled in his chair ready to experience his first opera.

It was La Boheme. It could have been anything.

Earlier in the day they took the Oxford Tube, a bus that runs every 20 minutes, 24 hours a day, betwixt Oxon and Londinium. They arrived in London around five pm.  They went to Her Majesty’s Royal Opera House in Covent garden 3 hours before the performance and purchased two tickets in the stalls, which is the area right down near the pit, for a quarter of the price with their student ID’s. They walked around the market for a while, looking at people and windows and people looking out at them through windows. Then they went for dinner.

Ed was absorbed in the show. He had never seen or heard anything like it. The music  opened up new senses deep down inside of him. The theatre itself was amazing. Plush red bleeding from the seats, up across the vaulted ceiling that spread in a wide acoustic half shell. Gold embroidery on the walls and ceilings, the private boxes on either side. They were seated just 15 rows from the stage.

After the first act they ambled through the crowds in the foyer. Ed sipped a cognac leaning against the wall watching men in tuxedos and women in fancy dresses perambulate and conversate. Corrine stood next to him looking fantastic and staring up at him. Her dark hair was smooth and spread over her white shoulders. She wore a magical forest green dress that was both elegant and earthen.

The second act was a blur of raised voices and astounding music. Ed looked around the theatre at 1000 enraptured faces splashed with music and emotion. He glanced at Corrine and she was weeping. He leaned into her and inhaled her scent, felt the heat from her body, the glistening tears on her cheeks like diamonds on snow, and the tumultuous music raising and crashing, as powerful as the Ocean, with the clear voices resonating through the huge theatre and echoing deep in soul tissue.

The third act was supernatural. Ed felt like screaming numerous times. He saw an image of himself walking along the thin partition that separated the lower boxes from the stalls. He felt his soul leave his body and hover over the pit writhing in the crescendos, staring down at the audience, weightless, thoughtless, drained in an exhilarating manner that was foreign and wild and ecstatic.

When the music stopped and the curtain fell, Ed woke from the spell. Everyone was clapping and standing and calling out “Bravo! Bravo!” Ed stood up and clapped until his hands hurt; he was the last one in the theater to stop. He looked down at Corrine wildly and muttered “Thank you, thank you…” She curled her arms around his waist and leaned her head against his shoulder. They lingered at their seats as people exited slowly up the aisles, shimmering rivulets of humanity. Ed and Corrine meandered around and made their way to the orchestra pit. Ed was fascinated by the many instruments, appearing strange and beautiful and so silent without their human partners. He stared long at the conductor’s stand, imagining the thrill and challenge of the position. The house lights were on and very bright as the remaining people continued to file through the rows and up the long aisles and out through side doors. They stood close together leaning on the low wall that separates the pit from the first row. Ed bent down and kissed her gently. They were both in a daze, and loving it. They walked up a staircase to the second floor and looked out from one of the boxes. A young Indian man in a white jacket with a black bow tie appeared suddenly from behind a thick red curtain.
“Did you enjoy the opera?” he said, a wide, sincere smile beneath his thick black mustache.
“Yes, very much.” Corrine said.

“I would show you the Queens Box, but there is a group in there tonight, I am sorry. It is quite lovely.”

“Thank you,” Ed said. “thank you, for the offer.”

The courteous young man nodded to Ed and bowed to Corrine and vanished back behind the curtain. They walked slowly down a different set of stairs and out through the empty foyer and metal double doors into the cool night.

They walked the streets of London both equally stunned and moved by the performance. At the bus stop they sat and waited. A man in dirty clothes shuffled past them muttering to himself. Ed wondered if he had ever seen an opera. He held Corrine’s hand and noticed again how beautiful she was, how loving and cultured and elegant she was.

“I love this color,” he said, taking a piece of her dress just above her breast in her fingers.

“Thank you,” she said. “I was hoping you’d like it.”  

She was drowsy and smiled only for a second. On the dark bumpy ride back to Oxford she fell asleep, her head resting on Ed’s lap. He ran his hand through her smooth dark hair and stared out the window at the dark shadows of houses, flashing lights in houses, trees and wires and the blurry smearing luminescence of the street lamps that seemed to sing.