CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
The Met
SIMON WAS IN THE PROCESS of picking up three glasses of Chardonnay from the Metropolitan Opera’s express intermission service when he realized he lacked the dexterity to safely transport the awkward trio. Fortunately, a familiar voice accompanied the emergence of a fashionably dressed acquaintance, Susan Frost. “Can I help you with that?” she asked.
Simon turned and was delighted to see the Vanity Fair columnist adorned in a very chic red evening gown. “Susan,” he said. “How nice to see you. I didn’t know you were a fan of The Tenors.”
“Our music critic couldn’t make it, so I agreed to take one for the team, as it were.”
“How good of you,” Simon joked. He couldn’t imagine anyone turning down an opportunity to see his favourite tenor quartet. “You look lovely this evening,” he added.
Susan confidently absorbed her admirer’s sentiment. “Why thank you, Simon. You don’t look so bad yourself.” Her eyes were allowed to be equally appraising in return.
Simon’s tuxedo was simple, yet dignified. A pewter-coloured bowtie and pocket square stood out as if beckoning for its complement to join him at his side.
“Can I take one of those for you?” Susan asked, offering her free hand. The other held her own glass, which was half-filled with a red much deeper than her dress.
“Would you mind?” Simon reached for one of the three glasses of wine, but was stalled by a thought. “I suppose I should ask if you’re …”
“Flying solo?” Susan interjected. “Sadly, yes. My colleague usually attends these things on his own.” Susan accepted a glass of white wine from Simon and used it to gesture in the direction she presumed they would be heading. “After you.”
While making their way through the chatting crowd, Susan could see Rose standing some distance away. The subtleties a woman detects in an expression were not lost on a reporter whose job it was to elaborate on things unspoken. “Why does everything we do have to revert back to some aspect of mating?” Susan muttered to herself.
“Did you say something?” Simon asked as they zigzagged through New York’s best-dressed concertgoers. The Met’s lobby was a stunning piece of architecture. Its cantilevered stairways swept patrons to the upper floors, while the main level’s east facing glass and bronze façade easily lured one’s eyes toward the plaza’s fountain outside.
“Oh, is that your daughter?” Susan asked, changing the subject. “I’d love to meet her.”
In only moments Simon was introducing Susan to Jennifer as well as reacquainting her with the subject of many admiring eyes. “And you must remember, Rose?” he suggested.
“How could I not? Both of you ladies look stunning this evening. And that dress, Rose, it’s absolutely exquisite.”
“Thank you, Susan. Yours is beautiful as well,” Rose offered.
Simon was happy to see the Vanity Fair reporter gush over his daughter. And even more pleased when the pair seemed to hit it off right away. Susan commended Jennifer for a style that surpassed her years. Her black dress was a graceful full-length gown with an elegant silver-sequined torso. Pewter earrings and bracelets added the perfect measure of subdued bling.
Rose was equally radiant. Her ensemble, however, bore the mark of being conceived with only her in mind. Her dress consisted of glistening blacks and golds angling around her in form-fitting fashion, until they swirled outward, covering her shoes. Its upper sheerness descended into sleeves with complimenting designs, which were made all the more obvious when she joined Simon in taking a sip of wine. The fact that all three ladies wore their hair up only added to an already notable evening. Simon was looking forward to the second half of the show that bridged the gap between classical and pop music, all the while spiriting an adoring audience through a journey of harmonizing tenor voices.
Simon and Rose both seemed preoccupied with other thoughts, though, as Susan and Jennifer talked about the career boundaries that young women still experience. Simon had been sensing a distance between himself and Rose all night and wondered to what extent she was aware of the crisis her brother was presently facing. Several unapologetic glances from patrons reflected the media burden descending on the Gill name. Deciding not to discuss matters that might overshadow an otherwise pleasant evening, Simon used the opportunity instead to ensure Rose was enjoying herself. “What do you think so far?”
Rose felt the passion in Simon’s voice and couldn’t help nodding her head in approval. “What a performance,” she stated. “The voices, the orchestra. There’s something very sensual about interweaving the two so wonderfully.”
Simon would have preferred for Rose to elaborate on her impassioned tone, but Susan had obviously overheard the musical references and couldn’t help interjecting: “Yes, when are you Canadians going to stop exploiting your natural resources?”
Simon laughed along with Susan’s lighthearted sentiment, though he would have preferred an opportunity to pursue what was bothering Rose. He was getting the distinct feeling that their conversation was being overshadowed by matters beyond their pleasant surroundings. However, if Simon had any illusions of building on the niceties he and Rose had already exchanged, the desire to talk privately was interrupted by the familiar light-dimming prompt to return to their seats. The concert would soon resume.
Only a portion of the crowd heeded the first of two warnings, preferring instead to finish their drinks and conclude their conversations. Susan was about to make her way back to her own seat in the orchestra section when Jennifer intervened on her behalf. “Why don’t you come and sit with us, Susan?” she suggested. “We have an empty seat in our side box.”
Simon turned to Rose and offered an ambiguous facial gesture, one which masked the wisdom of deferring the decision to her. “Of course you should join us, Ms. Frost,” Rose stated, softly.
“Are you sure?” Susan replied. “I don’t want to impose,”
“We insist,” Simon stated.
Jennifer was the first to finish her wine and place it on a roving waiter’s tray, but as soon as Rose did the same, another cue arrived in the form of a text inviting her attention. Her distant mood seemed to suffer another setback, which caused her to withdraw more than emotionally. “Would you mind if I met you inside?” she asked Simon. She motioned for her chic purse, but seemed reluctant to retrieve her phone right away.
“Are you sure?” Simon responded, pensively. A look of concern was easily detectable. “I’ll wait, if you’d like?”
“You go ahead. I’ll be in shortly.”
Simon reluctantly left Rose to deal with her untimely intrusion and joined Jennifer and Susan in making their way toward their seats. In leaving The Met’s multi-story lobby, Simon couldn’t resist looking upward one more time at the stunning crystal chandeliers, which were designed to remind patrons of the real life constellations beaming down from the night sky above. Its thirty-foot murals also emphasized the grandness of the space in which Rose was being left behind.
Rose turned her back toward the auditorium and checked her most recent text. She had already received several this afternoon and evening, which beckoned her involvement in things more sinister. It was another message from Prav. Only this time, its call to action was more pressing than the last.
‘This will be the last time I ask anything of you. I have a car waiting for you outside. Please help me, Roshnie ˗ before it’s too late.’
Simon and Jennifer resumed their places among the plush burgundy seats of their Parterre side box. Jennifer sat on Simon’s right, while Rose’s empty seat remained on his left. Susan filled the vacancy behind. Their perspective overlooked the stage, a viewpoint from which the orchestra and accompanying choir was easily seen and heard.
Jennifer let her head fall backward and allowed her eyes to take in the auditorium’s petal-shaped ceiling. She had done an internet search earlier and found it boasted a covering of more than four-thousand gold leaf squares. Another twenty-one chandeliers also hung fro
m the shimmering dome, while rosewood panelling, noted for its acoustic qualities, completed the venue’s depth of opulence.
Jennifer also noticed her father pull his phone from an inside jacket pocket. Its diversion was noted as being unwelcomed by all. It made everyone appreciate the value of uninterrupted, quality time.
A text silently prompted Simon to consider the reason for Rose’s demeanour. It was from Derrick.
‘Timeline is unfolding faster than anticipated.
Adjusting models to accommodate. Details to follow.’
Simon put his phone away and offered Jennifer his best smile. He expected his daughter to address its half-heartedness, but their attention was conveniently drawn toward the stage. The lights went out and the orchestra resumed. It was a familiar melody; Broken Halleluiah, by Leonard Cohen.
Jennifer was instantly drawn in by the simplicity of a piano accompaniment. A single voice was soon surrounded by harmonies likewise inspired. Simon let his phone slip from his hand into his right pocket and forgot about everything save for the impressive performance unfolding in front of him. The song exploded with drums and guitar then eventually fell silently, ever appropriately into humankind’s most soulful asset, a series of voices capable of bridging the space between heaven and earth. Its verse and chorus were repeated too few times, Jennifer felt, before the audience erupted with adulation.
Rose heard the applause from the lobby and was torn by what the music evoked in her. It seemed to underscore what her heart was going through that very moment. Passion had a way of unravelling her. In ways beyond her control, she always struggled with the rights and wrongs of her world. She was, once again, becoming mired in the greys.
A second song brought silence both from within and without. She imagined her brother awaiting her response, his yacht drifting in waters of anticipation.
~ ~ ~
Another scotch joined Prav and his blonde companion as they waited. With visible angst, he quietly stated: “Our proverbial tail may be between our legs, Dear Sister, but I can assure you we are not leaving this country empty-handed.”
Prav looked at his phone with evaporating patience.
SOPHIA - Age of Intelligence Page 37