Caviar to the general
What I like in performance restaurants is the talent fluids in the air so vibrant they tickle your skin. What I hate being there is to look in the eyes of the musicians. My looks betray me. Through the comfort of Ms. Customer A. Right, I look wondering, doubtful and soft-hearted. I seriously wonder if I can chew and swallow and remind in other materialistic ways of the scenery other than a concert hall. It’s like stressing I am here for a snack and a chat, music being a compliment. It’s like saying that dreams haven’t come true. So I put on a contemplative look and turn to a large window. Incidentally, the 33d floor offers some treat to the eye.
I am glazing over the night, a cigarette would match my mood and fingers. The black city peers back with windows, twinkles with neon, dazzles with headlights; the city pierced with light rays streaming down and skyward. The city. Glamorous, feverish, spoilt, loved. Can I be myself elsewhere? Is there more than one home?
The musician has caught my eye, something fiendishly hard to avoid with me being his only audience now. He started a wordless melody of nostalgie. I recall a warm November night on Ocean Drive, Miami. Spellbound by the saxaphone sounds, we then snaked to the restaurant terrace. Pure, powerful music, no vocal, half-remembered lyrics pouring right out of the pipe. The guy had piercing blue eyes, as sad and pure as the sounds he mastered. His magic, able to clear thoughts and heal souls, was called to stimulate digestion instead. He saw us watching and came up for a small talk.
“Do you speak Russian, by any chance?” my companion asked a minute later.
“Of course, I do.”
A born Ukrainian, he was happy to talk. A few seconds before a goodbye, suddenly embarrassed, we gave him money. Awkwardly, he took it with thanks. We also bought his CD as a souvenir. It won’t be the same, my companion remarked. I only played it half a year later, and no, it wasn’t the same, dripping dull electronic sounds. Now my thoughts are flowing around that story to refute disgrace in the Trading-on-Talent theory. That sax guy turned out to have two houses in Miami, the twist suggesting offstage benefits in the business of serving caviar to the general. So, that makes me a sentimental fool.
Yet a dreamy expression flickered in his eyes when he was asking about Moscow.
I am glazing over the night, a cigarette would match my mood and fingers. The black city peers back with windows, twinkles with neon, dazzles with headlights; the city pierced with light rays streaming down and skyward. The city. Glamorous, feverish, spoilt, loved. Can I be myself elsewhere? Is there more than one home?
The musician has caught my eye, something fiendishly hard to avoid with me being his only audience now. He started a wordless melody of nostalgie. I recall a warm November night on Ocean Drive, Miami. Spellbound by the saxaphone sounds, we then snaked to the restaurant terrace. Pure, powerful music, no vocal, half-remembered lyrics pouring right out of the pipe. The guy had piercing blue eyes, as sad and pure as the sounds he mastered. His magic, able to clear thoughts and heal souls, was called to stimulate digestion instead. He saw us watching and came up for a small talk.
“Do you speak Russian, by any chance?” my companion asked a minute later.
“Of course, I do.”
A born Ukrainian, he was happy to talk. A few seconds before a goodbye, suddenly embarrassed, we gave him money. Awkwardly, he took it with thanks. We also bought his CD as a souvenir. It won’t be the same, my companion remarked. I only played it half a year later, and no, it wasn’t the same, dripping dull electronic sounds. Now my thoughts are flowing around that story to refute disgrace in the Trading-on-Talent theory. That sax guy turned out to have two houses in Miami, the twist suggesting offstage benefits in the business of serving caviar to the general. So, that makes me a sentimental fool.
Yet a dreamy expression flickered in his eyes when he was asking about Moscow.