Basic Black With Pearls by Helen Weinzweig

Author:Helen Weinzweig
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781681372174
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2018-03-07T05:00:00+00:00

Tender kisses and sensual delight were acted out before me less than five feet away.

Ordinarily, opera librettos do not appeal to me: they are for the most part absurd tales of obsessions with love, terror and death; but the poignancy of Bluebeard’s dilemma, together with their beautiful voices, moved me to stand up and shout “Bravo!” Bluebeard and Issa bowed to me in a manner so professional that I realized they took me to be a person of artistic sensibilities, perhaps even a music critic. I continued to write in my notebook. The movement of pen on paper seemed to please them, for Bluebeard smiled down at Issa and she smiled up at him. What I wrote was, I am a person of artistic sensibilities; in order to wear the mantle of the artist one has only to put one’s arms through the sleeves.

As a novice in the art of deception, I was not certain what to do next. If I stayed and explained I was not who they thought I was, they would have felt they had wasted a magnificent effort on me and perhaps would become angry. I said I had to get back in time for my paper’s deadline and needed to know their names and so on, at which point Bluebeard went into the room and came back with some glossy fliers colored pink and green. His picture in costume and beard was on one side, looking menacing against the background, which I recognized to be Casa Loma. In the lower right-hand corner was a small photograph of Issa wringing her hands. Bluebeard then impressed upon me the names, dates and prices printed on the other side. I read that the opera Bluebeard was by Béla Bartók. I put the writing pad back into my purse, said thank you, and descended the stairs with an air of purpose.

•

As soon as I was around the corner and out of sight I sat down on the steps of a bungalow. I assumed the house was empty; its windows had been replaced by plywood. I had to consider my situation which had been brought to a crucial point today, Friday. There were twenty-three streets named Elm yet to be checked out. I began to doubt my interpretation of the message. On the other hand, by four o’clock Coenraad might send another message for next week’s rendezvous. The best way of spending the next few hours, charged as they would be with anxiety, I decided, was to distract myself with a movie.

The splendour that was Loew’s of memory has given way to an efficient system of five small theatres. I chose The French Connection. All about me, scattered one or two to a row, waiting for the film to start, were solitary men and solitary women. Am I one of the loners? I wondered, somewhat surprised at the association, yet having to admit that I was in the same position as they, sitting in a dark movie house in the middle of the afternoon because I had no reason to be elsewhere.

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