read about the Czech Philharmonic, on strike, performing
Má Vlast
in an unsanctioned concert to an audience that stood up, with the orchestra, to totalitarianism, literally rising to their feet. The Czech Philharmonic had helped to topple the Communist regime! And in East Germany, where orchestra conductors led marches and played his Ninth Symphony as protest music, Beethoven had taken to the streets. Truth and beauty to the people!
She thought of Edward with a sudden pang, for he seemed, from the distance of three hours and thirty-five thousand feet, extremely handsome, even more handsome than he seemed up close. "Should you take up with a young, French bisexual airplane attendant, still I shall welcome you with open arms on your return," he had said, and she wondered whether he meant a male bisexual or a female one, and whether he would, in fact, take her back if she were really to stray with one of the slender, smooth-skinned, rather unreal attendants in their blue uniforms. At this thought, the thought of straying, she shuddered, for the flight attendants looked so alien to her, and the touch of a stranger seemed impossible.
And how could Edward, making his little joke about infidelity, have known, how could either of them have guessed, how much she would enjoy her new solitude? She felt she should guard it, it seemed that precious. No one here knew who she was, no one cared. She was free. There was nothing to spoil the rich alienation she was enjoying!
In the morning in Paris, she went straight to her hotel in order to sleep. There, a small brass plaque informed her, Casanova had also slept, although with whom the plaque did not say. There was a suit of armor on the staircase, and red carpeting extended up the steps and into her tiny room, which was far taller than it was long. The wall that held the windows was hung with deep crimson velvet drapes, and Margaret felt like a trinket in a little padded box.
Let me out, she thought, sinking into a deep sleep.
She woke up in time for dinner, for she had plans to meet Juliette and Jean-Claude at the apartment of one of their friends, a composer whom Margaret knew slightly, an aging avant-gard-ist, small, nervous, generous. He had the habit of hopping from foot to foot (hoof to hoof, Margaret thought, for he looked rather like a goat). When Margaret arrived at his apartment in Passy, he was nearly butting his guests in his eagerness to admit and entertain them. From the windows, a whole wall of them, in his living room, Margaret stared out at the Eiffel Tower.
Seeing Juliette and Jean-Claude, Margaret grew almost painfully nostalgic for Edward and their first trip together, and she quickly drank several glasses of the composer's excellent wine in memory of that time.
Oh, Edward, she thought, smiling dreamily at the witty and increasingly blurry French intellectuals the composer had collected around him. The composer himself briefly interrupted his endless shuttle between the door and the table and stood beside Margaret. "You're not eating?" he asked, gesturing toward a table covered with baskets and bowls.
"No, I'm drinking." She refilled her glass and held it to her lips, savoring the wine. She realized her eyes were closed and that she was swaying with pleasure. She opened them and stood still.
"So," said the composer. "Prague. Though nothing is going on in Eastern Europe, isn't that so?"
Margaret stared at him, startled. Had she blacked out briefly, missed some crucial link in this conversation? She searched his face for some clue, but saw only a bony nose, long chin, and a rather long, upper lip, like a goat's.
"Musically," he added.
"I'm going to hear the Czech Philharmonic," she said.
"Czech Philharmonic. Yes, well, limited repertoire," he said over his shoulder as he headed toward some new arrivals.
Yes, well, when's the last time you toppled a government, you hideous silly
chèvre?
she thought.
Margaret noticed she was drinking a glass of wine. Still.
Má Vlast
in an unsanctioned concert to an audience that stood up, with the orchestra, to totalitarianism, literally rising to their feet. The Czech Philharmonic had helped to topple the Communist regime! And in East Germany, where orchestra conductors led marches and played his Ninth Symphony as protest music, Beethoven had taken to the streets. Truth and beauty to the people!
She thought of Edward with a sudden pang, for he seemed, from the distance of three hours and thirty-five thousand feet, extremely handsome, even more handsome than he seemed up close. "Should you take up with a young, French bisexual airplane attendant, still I shall welcome you with open arms on your return," he had said, and she wondered whether he meant a male bisexual or a female one, and whether he would, in fact, take her back if she were really to stray with one of the slender, smooth-skinned, rather unreal attendants in their blue uniforms. At this thought, the thought of straying, she shuddered, for the flight attendants looked so alien to her, and the touch of a stranger seemed impossible.
And how could Edward, making his little joke about infidelity, have known, how could either of them have guessed, how much she would enjoy her new solitude? She felt she should guard it, it seemed that precious. No one here knew who she was, no one cared. She was free. There was nothing to spoil the rich alienation she was enjoying!
In the morning in Paris, she went straight to her hotel in order to sleep. There, a small brass plaque informed her, Casanova had also slept, although with whom the plaque did not say. There was a suit of armor on the staircase, and red carpeting extended up the steps and into her tiny room, which was far taller than it was long. The wall that held the windows was hung with deep crimson velvet drapes, and Margaret felt like a trinket in a little padded box.
Let me out, she thought, sinking into a deep sleep.
She woke up in time for dinner, for she had plans to meet Juliette and Jean-Claude at the apartment of one of their friends, a composer whom Margaret knew slightly, an aging avant-gard-ist, small, nervous, generous. He had the habit of hopping from foot to foot (hoof to hoof, Margaret thought, for he looked rather like a goat). When Margaret arrived at his apartment in Passy, he was nearly butting his guests in his eagerness to admit and entertain them. From the windows, a whole wall of them, in his living room, Margaret stared out at the Eiffel Tower.
Seeing Juliette and Jean-Claude, Margaret grew almost painfully nostalgic for Edward and their first trip together, and she quickly drank several glasses of the composer's excellent wine in memory of that time.
Oh, Edward, she thought, smiling dreamily at the witty and increasingly blurry French intellectuals the composer had collected around him. The composer himself briefly interrupted his endless shuttle between the door and the table and stood beside Margaret. "You're not eating?" he asked, gesturing toward a table covered with baskets and bowls.
"No, I'm drinking." She refilled her glass and held it to her lips, savoring the wine. She realized her eyes were closed and that she was swaying with pleasure. She opened them and stood still.
"So," said the composer. "Prague. Though nothing is going on in Eastern Europe, isn't that so?"
Margaret stared at him, startled. Had she blacked out briefly, missed some crucial link in this conversation? She searched his face for some clue, but saw only a bony nose, long chin, and a rather long, upper lip, like a goat's.
"Musically," he added.
"I'm going to hear the Czech Philharmonic," she said.
"Czech Philharmonic. Yes, well, limited repertoire," he said over his shoulder as he headed toward some new arrivals.
Yes, well, when's the last time you toppled a government, you hideous silly
chèvre?
she thought.
Margaret noticed she was drinking a glass of wine. Still.
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