I don’t know what prompted me to turn my head and look behind me, but it is not unusual for me to peruse a theater before a performance begins.

“Hello.” the woman said. As if she had come out of a Fairy tale, her silk satin cape was the color of a pale Ginko leaf, and it wrapped around her silk threaded matching dress with such a graceful ease. “Isn’t this just wonderful?” she smiled and gazed around the ballet theater with all its simple grandeur. “Look everyone is out again, dressed up. How joyous. Like it should be.”

“It is—and no masks—New Yorkers can breathe again. Well actually the Covid world can sigh relief.” I tapped my foot.

She nodded. “There was so much enforced loneliness, but not tonight. I love ballet; don’t you?” Her eyes scanned the room.

“I do, especially when it is a varied program like tonight—three short pieces. I lucked out. I am only in New York for five days.”

“Something tells me, it is not your first time here. Where are you from?”

“San Francisco.”

“Oh, one of my other favorite places.”

Her hair, a very pale shade of auburn, suited her ivory rose-colored skin. She was a bit older than I, late sixties.

“I have to tell you your clothes are stunning.”

“I made it.”

It twisted my thoughts for a moment. She appeared to be wealthy, but wealthy people can sew, I quickly told myself. She pointed to the man sitting next to me. His dress opposite hers, crisp denim jeans, a pinstripe shirt, covered by a tweed vest and a yellow patterned bow tie. Kicky trendy black tie-up shoes on his feet. “That’s my brother. He can get a little confused.” I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. “Joel.” she tapped his shoulder; “I would like you to meet this lovely gentleman next to you. I’m sorry; never asked your name. I am Vivian and you?”

“Andrew.” I smiled and her brother sat up in his seat. He placed his deep green felt fedora on his head.

“Nice to meet you, Andrew, right. Now look, sometimes I fall asleep during these things. If I snore, tap me. You know how it is!”

“Well kind of.” I looked back at Vivian. She tapped her head with her polished pink nail; sign language to tell me her brother was a little off in the head.

I was perched on a cranberry-colored velvet seat, 8th row orchestra on the aisle just like I love. The perineum was choral-colored, and the lights above were softly lit. Even though I came alone, I was far from it. People in New York are so unlike San Franciscans. From the wealthy to the white collar or the t-shirted, people share the experience, have ease with conversation with the strangers around them. Strangers and yet not, for one hello, one comment, one gesture, changes your world—well for a minute or two, even ruminates in your soul.

As the lights slowly dimmed, Joel removed his fedora. The pianist came out and sat at the shimmering black Grand piano. It was a Chopin delight. She played as the dancers seemed to walk through the sky at sunset in colors that drew you to them with innovative gestures and swaying movement. Inside, I was tingling. Fifteen minutes of resurrection and hope—all in one movement.

As they took a bow, Joel nudged me, “Did I fall asleep?”

“No.”

“Oh, I guess it was good then.”

“Yes, sir, more than good.”

“Worth the price of admission, huh?”

“Inspiring, Joel.”

“Well, we are both happy and awake.”

I cocked my head, “Vivian, what did you think?”

“Amazing; beautiful.”

I just had time to stand and sit again when the next piece began and soon the third. At the end, the ballet ensemble walked across the stage with their hands joined. With one breath they unlinked, placed one hand over their hearts, and bowed their head with a reverence I had not seen before. There was no prima.

As we all collected ourselves, the chandeliers dropped from the ceiling, bringing amber light that flattered the patrons and cast shadows on the walls. I turned to Vivian, “That was so wonderful.”

“You could feel every piece and be delighted at the same time. We’re back to life.”

“Well, you were part of my delight.” I looked directly at her.

She opened her jeweled handbag, “Don’t miss the Alice Neil exhibition at the Met. Here is my card. Call me if you need anything while you are here or whenever you are here.” Her address was on the Upper West side near the park.

I placed her card in my shirt pocket. As I stepped out into the aisle to let Joel pass in front of me, she stepped out behind me then walked forward and took her brother’s hand. I looked at her feet, dressed in unremarkable flats, maybe bought from a second-hand store. For a moment I wondered if how she looked, and how she lived were a contradiction.

The next day around five, sitting on the bed in my room looking out at the tree-lined street, I called her. She did not pick up, so I left a message. Vivian, this is Andrew, you were right. The exhibit was both heartwarming and captivating. Before I left the museum, I just stood, Vivian, for a bit in the foyer—all the interesting people, their look, their manner—a different kind of art.

The next day, I had a message on my phone. You should have told me when you were going, I could have got you in.

That was four years ago. I came home with her card tucked in my jacket pocket. I put it somewhere. I just don’t know where.

 

Andrew Pelfini is a native San Franciscan. He writes in multiple genres and published an anthology of works featuring the Intergenerational Writing Collective, of which he has been a member for over twenty years. By trade Andrew is a psychotherapist and Graduate educator.