Love loses its way, sometimes (Short Story)

by Di Li

I was sitting in the audience of the theatre’s second floor, very close to the wing. An meagre-looking girl with a runny nose sat next to me. A plump old man next to her was snoring, in spite of the girl’s constant sniffling, breaking up the overture of Romanian Rhapsody No 1 on stage. The snoring gradually increased until it got so loud that woke up the man himself. He jumped up, looked around dumbfounded, and returned to his refrain of snoring. The row I was in had four seats, but one seat was not occupied. It was the cheapest area, as most couples avoided it, preferring more luxurious seating. We were like three abandoned people who could do anything we wanted.

I could have had front row seats. She had told me in the morning that the performance was reserved for distinguished guests, so she had been given two tickets and she wanted to give me the best place in the theatre. Before she got into costume, she wondered why I had refused to take the best seats in the house. She even threatened to delete my phone number from her mobile if I was lying.

It’s a long story to tell, but my intentions were to marry her. It seemed at times that the whole world was interested in who I chose to marry. They told me to marry a simple looking girl, that it would be good for me because she would look upon me as a king. Then came a gift from God. Right when I turned 39, I was introduced to a girl nine years younger than me. She had a beautiful face and a decent manner. It was more than I had expected. A roommate of mine uttered:

"She has nothing to find fault with, but...."

"But what?"

"She looks like.... the ‘wart’ in poet Xuan Dieu’s poem entitled Toa Nhi Kieu. Yes, she’s like a wart!"

Whatever she was talking about, I decided to take my "wart" home to introduce her to my whole family, even though I knew that she had had three lovers already. My "wart" was a harpist in the theatre’s philharmonic. Whenever she appeared on stage, she wore a black velvet dress with a necklace of pink pearls. She of course reserved the best seats for her friends and admirers.

Her first love, in my mind, was quite a reasonable break-up. That night, she had a performance in celebration of the Bulgarian National Day. Her lover sat in the front seat with the ambassadors. While the extract Ruchenista was being played harmoniously, and the whole theatre seemed to hold its breath, her lover was snoring in the front row. As he continued snoring, the guard had to lead him out and my "wart" was white with rage, she told me.

Two years after that, with her heart-break almost forgotten, her second lover came. She also gave him the VIP tickets. This time her date didn’t disappoint. He earnestly watched her play her instrument with all his focus. When Act Three of Carmen was finished, the audience rushed out onto the veranda to enjoy a tea break and her man had disappeared. When her colleague was performing a piano solo of R Schumann, she took advantage to go and search for him in haste. She caught him drinking beer like it was water. His face flushed and upon seeing her, he laughed and then cried, unable to speak clearly.

"My darling, when my grand-mother died, in my village there was a man who played nhi (a two-string Vietnamese violin) so well it would make even a passing vagabond cry, but he was nothing compared to you. Having heard you play, it makes me miss my grand-mother so much!"

When she told me about her third love, her voice seemed to crack. This man had also refused the front row seats. He wanted to sit in the middle row. Yet, from the stage, she could still watch him. For three months running, so perfect was her man when he attended all of her performances, taking the same seat without any sign of being bored. His diligence moved her so much. He was the man of her dreams. On one occasion, she finished her performance earlier than usual and sneaked away to sit in a row of empty seats behind him. She called to him in a very low voice but he wasn’t paying attention because he his eyes were glued to the stage as he listened to Finale alla Marcia in Friedrich Gulda’s concerto for cello. He was even nodding his head along to the music.

She kept silent so that he could enjoy the last part of the music. When all the artists stood up to respond to the audience’s applause, her man continued to nod his head even as the curtain lowered. Finally she shook him, and he took off his earphones which were connected to the iPOD he kept in his pocket. She seized the earphones and listened to them. She could hear some sounds Pump it up.... from a game show! She flew into a rage and threw him out of the theatre.

After this experience, she was suspicious when I refused to sit in the first row, but impressed that I made it to the theatre on a regular basis for six consecutive months. More than that, after each performance, I gave her my remarks, very educated remarks at that, to her great surprise. She was assured as we continued our relationship, except for one small argument. Once, she let me touch her Lyon and Healy harp. I looked at the instrument, and said,

"If ever your beautiful harp breaks because a rat gnaws at it or it gets broken, you can give it to me and my uncle, an experienced carpenter, and we could fix it for you."

She was angry with me for 13 days, but I could not understand what I had done. Many times I had thought to myself that she was marvellous, having bought the harp for US$40,000, although her monthly salary came to the price of just five tickets. But I never had the guts to say it in words. Her man this time was more intelligent than her first three.

The man sitting nearby was still waking himself up with his own snoring. I thought he may have a case of serious insomnia. In such a cool place with beautiful musical, it could be a good chance for people with chronic sleeping problems to get some rest. After the second piece of the performance, I whispered to the girl with the runny nose next to me, "This singer’s voice is very beautiful!"

"Of course. Bradley Daley has performed on the most famous stages in the UK, even in Festival Castle and Brangwyn," the girl said, looking at the stage.

"But his tenor does not match that girl singer’s voice," I said.

"I have always highly valued Daley’s performance, even more than Luciano Pavarotti’s. Even though this is the first time he sings with Kylie Pointer, you can see the harmony between them. I did enjoy this opera, but Pointer’s soprano in the first act was magnificently performed."

"I also like Daley’s so....pra....no?"

"No, it’s not right. Daley’s voice is called tenor, you know. I’ve got a DVD with Daley when he performs Carmen and Le Boheme."

"Oh, yes, it’s his tenor. I’m mistaken." I glossed it over, "I’ve also got a DVD of this Carmen."

"No, it’s not that," the girl said while turning to me, grimacing. "This is the opera Madame Butterfly of G Puccini, you know."

After that, she didn’t seem to want to speak with me. She probably wanted to concentrate on the opera. Anyway, I had collected some basic information. It was why I sat in this section of the theatre. On the one hand, I could avoid careful observation by my "wart", and on the other hand, I could gather information to show off my knowledge to her after the performance. For the last six months, I was so satisfied with this initiative of mine. I tried to memorise some things the girl had said. Out of the blue, the man next to me started his thundering snores once again and I got up to move back to another empty seat. Unfortunately, a nail had torn the leg of my trousers and scratched my leg. Blood was oozing out, and the girl next to me saw it.

"Let me help you go down to the lounge where we can get something to bandage that cut," she said.

"Thank you, but I’m all right," I answered. "The opera is now at its climax, so I can’t leave until the end of it."

While she continued watching singer Bradley Daley attentively on stage, she finally said in a determined voice, "No, it’s dangerous if we delay. You need some alcohol to clean it off in case it was a rusted nail."

We went down to the lounge. The girl got some alcohol but there was no bandage. She quickly took off the flowered handkerchief on her neck to tie around my leg. Right at that moment, my "wart" appeared, her face inflamed with murderous rage.

"You’ve disappeared for 15 minutes, where have you been?"

"I cut myself with a nail, so I had to come here for some alcohol to clean it," I said, grimacing. "I swear that for the last 45 minutes, I’ll sit up there in the same place and listen attentively to the performance."

My "wart" glanced quickly at my miserable injury and then grumbled peevishly. "So who just performed? Can you tell me?"

"First, it was violinist Yvonne Timoianu, then Bradley Daley and Kylie Pointer," I answered.

"Which opera?"

"An extract of Madame Butterfly of G Puccine," I said in great confidence.

"Is it interesting?"

"Yes, it’s great. Pointer’s voice is so harmoniously tuned with Daley’s tenor. It’s really Greek meets Greek. They match each other perfectly. I did enjoy this opera before, but Pointer’s soprano in the first act was marvellous. I also highly appreciated Daley’s performance; I even like his singing voice more than Luciano Pavarotti’s. Of course, Bradley Daley deserves to perform on the most famous stages in Britain, even in Festival Castle and Brangwyn," I went on, even though my injury was starting to get painful.

My "wart" was really moved. She rushed to embrace me as a mother does with her son who just won first prize in a mathematics examination at school. Unintentionally, she hurt my injured leg. I cried in pain. She was really surprised.

"What’s the matter?"

"I’m pretty badly hurt," I whined.

"Were you? Wait a moment! Let me change and then I’ll take you home."

In the days that followed, I continued to sit in that row of the theatre, in the wing, to enjoy each of her performances. But there was another reason I was coming. I was looking for the owner of the silk handkerchief so that I could return it and tell her thank you. Weeks passed, and there was no sign of her.

Then one day, I heard a certain familiar sniffle.

"I love Mozart’s Magic Flute! What about you?"

"I also love it. Oh, yes.... I did bring your handkerchief just in case you needed it!"

"Is everything better with your leg?" she smiled.

"Fully recovered. Possibly thanks to this handkerchief. Oh, sorry.... thanks to Bradley Daley’s marvellous voice."

On my wedding day, so many months later, the very same girl sniffled by my side. Love goes in strange ways sometimes. My "wart" and I, soon after I met my wife, had a violent fight that led us to break up. To be more exact, she couldn’t forgive me for saying the Moonlight Sonata belonged to Bach, not to Beethoven. I found out later that my "wart" married a double bass player in the orchestra. Like the harp, the double bass is used only to create harmony. If played solo, it is nothing but a grinding sound. Surely, these two instruments belong together. I’ll keep my sniffles. VNS

(From Vietnam News, Translated by MANH CHUONG)

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