Favourite sit

My favourite sit was taken, but no matter: i managed to find a tolerable alternative. We will not be able to see all the glorious fine details of the performance, but for a first-timer like her the effect should be overwhelming anyway, she will not be able to pay attention to subtle things.

Somebody in my place would probably consider it a pity to be unable to find something new in those details myself, but i wasn’t able to do that for a while already. I was at the show a hundred times, perhaps more. I wasn’t really counting. In the last year i could not find anything new in it. Why do i keep coming then? Oh, nothing fancy: i’m just trying to imprint the great culture to the younger generation.

— Aren’t we a little bit early? — a member of younger generation looks at me questiongly, — Why is it so crowded already?

— Didn’t you know, — i answer mechanically, — that “Parade on the Face of the Earth” always start their performance right on time? And as soon as it starts, nobody is allowed in.

— Oh. I’m so not used to this.

The conversation died away: none of us had anything more to say. I did not want to discuss the performance itself so as not to spoil it (even though using word “spoil” does not even sound right in the context), and she had enough fun watching the crowd moving below us (as much as i try, i can’t find that interesting anymore, but if i strain my imagination, i can see potential appeal). She is a student in social sciences, from what i recall, so that should be natural. I wouldn’t be surprised if she said she likes people.

Oh, but then, what kind of thing can even surprise me these days? I have seen “Parade on the Face of the Earth” more than a hundred times, as i already mentioned, and if you have seen PotFotE at least once, you have probably noticed the distinct lack of any surprising experiences afterwards. It is the ultimate surprise you can have in your life; everything past it is just a walk downhill to your death.

Not that it bothers me, mind you. I got used to the idea of glorifying death and the meaninglessness of our path to it. At my age, i’m fine with having my peak experience in the past and only being allowed to cherish its memories.

But lets cut short all this elderly rant. It is only fifteen minutes till the beginning. It might as well be time to stop my mind from generating all the stray thoughts and concentrate on meditation before the no longer surprising, but still, splendid experience.

***

Few hours later i’m laying on my cozy sofa at home, writing down these lines. I’m exhausted. Not only by the intense performance, but also by social interactions. No, that’s not right. I’m just sugarcoating it. It was specifically my companion who made me frustrated.

Oh, what she said was outrageous. “It was nice, but a little too long for my tastes”. And the tone! Her tone was almost indifferent. And there i thought she was educated enough to see the subtle brilliance of the show! Maybe i’m losing my ability to make good judgments about people? That would be almost catastrophic.

To distract myself from these grim thoughts, i get up from the sofa and make myself a cup of coffee. Espresso machine makes a pleasantly loud noise as it grinds the beans. Unfortunately, you only need so much for one cup. I would usually add some milk and cream to an almost latte-like state, but i can’t do that now: not only am i out of fresh milk, i am not in a mood to enjoy myself. I drink strong black liquid.

I need to somehow live through to the end of this day. Tomorrow — oh, what a brilliant new day can happen tomorrow! — everything will be back to norm. I may do some work, or go for a walk, or — a thought i’m trying not to entertain right now — bring a new acquaintance to the PotFotE. But today is not over just yet and even without coffee i couldn’t make myself sleep this early.

I turn on tv, browse through my favourite channels: none of the new uploads catches my interest, and i decide to watch them all one after another, until i feel sleepy enough. “Oh, what a miserable single life do i have” — probably the last depressive thought that pops up in my mind before i immerse myself into the first video.

***

In the noon we walk through the sunny hot streets, a stark contrast with yesterday rain. She is an artist i’ve met at the local gallery; she was standing at the entrance, lonely and lost in thought, with unlit cigarette in her mouth. That was an easy pretext to start a conversation: i offered her a lighter. She looked startled and a little bit nervous, stared like at me like that for a while, then smiled weakly, accepted the fire and inhaled.

Then it was all by the book: ask to show her works (there turned out to be only one in the gallery and the process of negotiating another one was not going smoothly), find an appropriate compliment (this can easily go wrong, but i’ve got the experience), add some reassuring philosophic words or whatever feels natural at that stage. These young artists have too much free time on their hands, and even if they don’t fall for flattery (many do), they might want to cling to the chance anyway.

So now, half an hour later, i was taking her to the PotFotE. It’s a little bit too early, but we’ll “reserve” the sits and then go eat something nice in local cafe.

I’m a big fan of this cafe by the way. The interior in its modernist style with huge open space and strict, almost cubist forms, sets up the mood for grand experiences, — perfect for this place, — and greatest of them all we’re going to dive into just after our lunch.

She orders a salad and some cheese snacks — i try to convince her to take more and don’t mind the prices, but she says she’s watching her figure. I can’t pass the opportunity to compliment her, but order a solid dinner for myself. I would also go for some wine, but the upcoming experience is more important.

— You seem to be a regular customer here, — she says after finishing her humble plates, — Do you like theater that much?

— Not any sort of theater, but i’m huge fan of “Parade on the Face of the Earth”. You’ll understand after the performance.

— I look forward to it, — she says with a hint of irony or even malice in her smile. Perhaps she thinks i’m too fanatic about it, but i laugh at that thought in my mind.

— For now, why don’t you enjoy your drink? — i push a smoothie that i’ve secretly ordered towards her part of the table.

For a moment her face looked odd, as though she was going to say something, but then she merely accepts and takes a few sips. She visibly enjoys it: my choice was correct.

***

During the performance i have a fit of deja vu. Not surprising after repeating the same scenes one after another, day after day. But it still bothers me for a minute.

***

— It was better than the last time, Mary, — those few words she says after the performance, with her deviously innocent smile on her face.

At this point the realization finally hits me. It was all a game. Surprise on her face, malicious smile, my deja vu, the name which i don’t use anymore — they were all telling me one thing. She wasn’t yet another young artist, she was the young artist i’ve met a few months ago. She repeated her actions almost precisely, until this last moment of revelation.

Now that the cards are open, i almost feel as if i’m going to be met with a loud laughter, ironic hand clapping and previously hidden cameras being revealed in the sunlight. Nothing of the sort. She does not even allow me to indulge in my shame publicly. She played her joke and went on her ways: perhaps, to draw a new picture; perhaps, to continue negotiations with the gallery, if what she told was really true. Perhaps, to play another prank.