The most arrogant person I've ever known was an audiophile from New Orleans. Angry with people who recognized no culture below Mason-Dixon, his conversations constantly alluded to the baroque styling and quiet nostalgia of his southern world: a kind of dream world saturated by a genius for regret, haunted by sundry fragments of old-style society. His rage was reflected in his obsession with perfect sound, in his despair over the flawed surround that can never produce it. A typical outing to a concert finds him guffawing into pointy fingers at every slip of tonal harmony, jeering at every missed note, scratching his eyes at each mistake so that it must have been a kind of incredible torture for him. And yet he attended them all that season when I first met him through a fat lady friend. During intermission, she told me she was in love with him.
It was a chamber show featuring some of those dimly lit renditions of old Italian operas, voiceless arias that had a gallant air.
Something that the old people like, I noted. My fat companion rolled her arm into my face and blustered that she loved this part. She had grown up in some secluded clump of houses on long island where church music was the only consolation for the tedium of black, Atlantic waves. Then, following her eyes, I saw that New Orleans man gesturing wildly to himself, fingering his tie during periods of silence. I wanted to strangle him when he gave his little golf clap at the end.
“So you did your college thing in New Haven,” he bantered with me a little later. “You probably don’t know about their fine arts department. They use real glass, you realize? That can get really expensive!”
I confessed I knew nothing about glass.
“But glass is everything!” he cried out. “It’s the material closest to sound.” Then, nudging my pudgy friend, “Don’t you agree?”
Exploding in giggles that sent wavelets over her entire body, she explained how all matter is a kind of broken symphony. Did I mention she was a physicist? She suddenly manhandled his thin arms and playfully tugged at his red tie. Next thing I knew, she was all over him, hands exploring every inch of his shabby coat, pretending to demonstrate some kind of metaphor for interactions between elementary particles.
Completely unruffled, he went on talking about the spotty musical interpretation of the violinist, who apparently had no appreciation for well articulated arpeggios. “I wonder if his mother loved him too much,” he obscenely chuckled. “That kind of
playing was just neurotic.” No reaction registered on his face when her hand slipped into his shirt.
“It’s so cold,” she said as she nestled into him. It was in the middle of June. Disgusted, I trailed behind until I lost them in the London people traffic.
This is unsettling, I thought.
Fingering the pound pieces in my pocket, I let my mind wander and soon had no idea where I was. The bright storefronts of Soho had turned to gaping holes of broken brick and rubbish. Far behind me, lit cranes framed the doubly leaden dome of St Paul's. Had I gone so far off? Thinking I'd hit Brick lane, I roved into the narrow alleys only to find a dead end.
