The Verdi Theater

About a traveler in Italy

Let the record show that I am not particularly fond of classical piano; I have always preferred jazz. One must understand, I was only in Florence for one night, and desperately needed something to do. I arrived awkwardly a half-hour before I was hungry, and after dinner I discovered with disappointment that my hotel television was broken. Going to a bar seemed obvious, but I remembered how my conversation with the waiter had failed, and the choice to find a concert was easy; I was pushed in the direction of a language I could understand. The night was loud, and it smelled like rain. It was hot, and I felt that same feeling of pressure that accompanies a first date. The theater looked old to me, like everything else in that city. It was small, and I wondered what famous acts, if any, had been here through the years as I approached it from an alleyway. I bought a ticket, looked at the posters from past events, and took a program from the vested teenager staring blankly at a fading mural opposite himself. I was glad to be alone.

Sitting down, I realized that the program would do me no good, but I pretended to read Italian until the lights were lowered and I was left waiting along with a hundred or so other patrons in the silence and the dark. The silhouettes of the theater seats rose up like so many rows of headstones as my eyes adjusted to the atmosphere. I heard the introduction and watched the lights come up sluggishly on the yellow wooden stage. All I had gathered from the program was what I assumed was the pianist's name, Michele. The piano seemed off-center to me, and I wished I could move it just a few feet to the right. As the lights rose to their full power, I could see three lines and a dozen footsteps; the path of the piano leading to where it waited in the thin dust. There was a moment or two of silence before she came slowly out from behind the curtain, accompanied by a slightly younger woman with a newer dress, and falsely blonde hair. She looked as old as death, and I thought to myself that I should never name any children I might have after her. The younger woman impatiently watched the pianist shuffle to the bench and sit down. The piano was large, and seated in its shadow, Michele looked like a child who had wandered onstage after a show. Any moment now, some responsible adult will help her down so the pretty young pianist can begin the show. That night she played a song like I had never heard before. I would surely recognize its every note and rest even today. In the music's presence, the notes sounded new, like no musician had ever been able to make them in the past. I felt calm, and very clear-headed, which was refreshing after many days of traveling. The seat below me, and the foreign country around me dropped away, and I thought back to my program, and how it might read.

Michele was born eighty years ago, in the winter. She had a younger brother, and a younger sister, Caroline. My story's personal soundtrack danced up and down a spiral staircase on the lower octaves of the keyboard, as I thought about life in their childhood home. Michele's father worked in a coal mine, which until his death, allowed her mother to live comfortably at home. Michele's mother was forced into working in Michele's teenage years, when her father died of lung trouble. The transition into work wasn't easy for her mother, and she probably drank more than a woman should. That year, Michele discovered the piano.

'What program would tell all this?' I thought as my attention strayed constantly further from the music. The keys Michele had known for sixty-four years now rang out in a more deliberate tempo, and the same few notes elaborated more and more with each measure.

Michele did not need the piano. She was beautiful, smart, and popular. She had always been the more perfect form of Caroline. Caroline lived her entire life in the two-year-old, high-heeled footsteps of Michele's success. Michele had no money troubles, never smoked, and didn't need to work. She could have found a job anywhere. There always seemed to be a man who could buy her a fur coat, or a new car. Michele was agreeable and charming to everyone she met. Caroline hated her.

Caroline's life had not been charmed. The way she saw it, she had lived out all of Michele's troubles for her. While Caroline was in graduate school, Michele was in Paris. When Caroline got a divorce, Michele celebrated an anniversary. Michele would never have any real problems, and both girls knew it.

Now Caroline stands on stage, taking her hands from behind her back only to turn the music pages for Michele. Michele's playing was flawless, and Caroline stood almost totally still with a look I can't quite describe. This story was becoming incredibly long and personal, but in my mind it was perfectly accurate. Caroline stood looking critically down at Michele with a touch of jealousy in her eyes, like a scavenger who has found a grounded bird.

III

Yet after these many years, here they are. Michele's husband, the economics analyst, has died at seventy (cardiac arrest). He's left behind the mansion, and enough money for his childless widow to live more than comfortably. Everyone commented how nice it was when Caroline moved in. Michele's many friends pictured the two sisters living together contentedly as old age took its toll on the elder girl's mind. Caroline's mind was still razor-sharp. Nobody saw the manor redecorated with all her favorite things, the bank accounts drained for the likes of what she's wearing tonight. The shoes, the dress that was made to look deceptively humble in its luxury. Brand new. Bought in Italy. Everything Caroline couldn't have for all those many years was now hers. Michele stayed in her room, out of sight, out of mind. Caroline took charge of managing her concerts. The checks lately were missing well more than ten percent. The rights to songs were sold away for a pool, despite Michele's fear of drowning. Nobody heard the things Caroline said after a lifetime of growing anger and jealousy, or saw her carefully treading the limits of what Michele's failing mind would give her. As the disease collected its dues, Caroline scheduled over visits to the doctor, and didn't carry out Michele's dosage instructions as closely as she should have. The concerts were booked, the house was remodeled, the bank accounts rose and fell for Caroline and Michele. The last will and testament was “corrected”. Michele didn't get mail anymore, and she didn't talk to anyone Caroline didn't want her to.

'She is in prison.' I thought, 'At least she doesn't know it.'

The injustices Caroline had been through finally were being made right.

I snapped from my waking dream back to reality, where the crowd was rising to their feet in applause. I clapped along with the men and women who knew the story from the program, and were unaware of the life I had created for the two sisters. I walked out past the mural and stood smoking under the marquee lights for some time. It seemed the rain had come and gone, and everything felt refreshed and new. The night eventually quieted to a volume of my liking, and I threw a still burning cigarette into the street where a cyclist unknowingly ran it over. In the alley, I saw the woman I had named Caroline, arguing with a man holding a checkbook. As I drew nearer, she lowered her voice gradually into silence, and glared at me as I passed, with perfect, analyzing vision. I turned away, not knowing how to feel towards her. A car was waiting in the shadow of the theater, and I recognized Michele's older dress in the back seat. I stopped, smiled in a small way and waved to her, just a fan wishing to express his admiration.

I stopped waving, Michele just looked straight ahead. It was the look of someone lost deeply in thought, only different; ruined by the story of her life that she didn't know. She wasn't lost in thought, she was simply lost.

I turned away, leaving the periphery of her blank stare, unnoticed. I felt a sudden fury towards Caroline, but I knew I had no place in the life of this woman who used to be so beautiful. I put my hands in my pockets and was disgusted by the presence of the flask I had brought to the concert, as I walked away.

The next morning I sat down to a breakfast I had no appetite for, and a newspaper full of obituaries I couldn't read.