I close the door behind me carefully, and not a sound is made, I am glad to say. And in the darkness I find the last row of seats, and with bent knees I slowly and quietly walk to the the corner seat, and feel my way to the cushion of the seat. I have never been here before. I don't know what color the seats are. I can feel the texture of the upholstery and the smoothness of the wooden support. I can even feel the cold metallic strip that must be indicating the seat number. By the sensory organ that is most stimulated now are my ears. I am in this huge music hall whose size is only reviewed by the faint dispersion of light from the spotlight and the distance of the spot light from me. I imagine the ceiling must be a fresco or at least carved in the most beautiful, classical way, judging from the overall architecture of the place seen from the outside.
The music is what drew me in. The music's tale is like the sirens that lure the innocent minds of the seaman from outside. I was just waiting for a friend. And the very moment I received a text message of an apology for standing me up, the violin cry started. I was standing impatiently in this rotunda where engravings and names of fallen heroes from the university are frozen on the marble walls. I was standing in the center of the rotunda, so perhaps the center of this university, and radiating from my feet are black marble strips in an otherwise very white hall. My mind was very boggled and nearly set on fire having waited for at least half an hour. After I shut off the phone in increased anger, my mind suddenly shifted gears. I suddenly realized I was in the center when the music started. The hall was empty. I thought the whole building was empty. It was the Friday after Thanksgiving, and all the students and staff have left for their break, leaving behind perhaps a security guard that I hadn't yet seen.
So as if by magic, in this deafening silence I heard a sorrowful cry of the violin. My feet moved away from the center of the university and stepped quietly up the two steps to the outer ring of the rotunda, where the doors are that I had just opened quietly.
In this darkness there's a glow in the middle. But there's no one there. At least not in the spotlight. There's a sense of absence like that. The violin saddens more when I finally placed my body comfortably in the seat. And when I finally see where the violin might be coming from, a pizzicato playfully dances around me. The playful angels are emanating from the orchestra area, and I think I can make out some movement, but not even a figure, not a silhouette. Suddenly, a crescendo of anger rises from the horizon and a loud boom crashes onto my face. I have to move back a bit as the siren pulls her hand back and expresses regret for the violence. She then extends her soft hand slowly and caresses my face that was so harshly whipped by the brief storm. I can see the tearful and regretful eyes, and when she closes them I can also see the trail of tears and wash away the rest of her body.
Then a dance. The music is dancing now, playful and mourning at the same time. She is telling me a story of the past, a story of her ill-fated love, her lost innocence, and her desire for vengeance. I can see the occasional flames in her eyes, the same for love and vengeance. And her dance gets faster, the movements are almost impossible to follow, until they blend into one like the flapping of insect's wings. The music is extremely loud now, as if the bow is tearing apart the strings and even the bout, and finally she collapses and fades away.
Then silence re-engulfs me. I only hear the impression of the music that had just left my mind in the most inexplicable way. I hear a chair being moved, and then I see the silhouette of someone holding a how and a violin. Then the sound of a notebook closing. I can even hear the slide of the shoes on the dusty floor of the orchestra. And the silhouette fades, leaving me behind with my mind filled with a fantasy that resembles the color you see when you close your eyes after being exposed to all sorts of flashing lights. And I sit, enjoying my thoughts as they coagulate into formless creatures coming out of the scene I had just witnessed.
