The program read Beethoven's
Piano Concerto No. 1 and Shostakovich's
Symphony No. 5 for tonight's performance. It was one of those evening in which the air hung heavy like a thick curtain, refusing to be stirred. Sitting at the elevated back section, one commands a panoramic view of the Bowl. I took out a box of tuna sushi bought from a Japanese grocer for $6, opting not to pay $16 for the ones sold at the Bowl. The box consisted of four nigiri sushi and several maki sushi, not exactly a bargain in real term but a tremendous saving compared to the price gouging at any entertainment event. Carefully I tear open the soy sauce package and spill the content into a small plastic jar, and ran my thumb and index finger over the package so as to squeeze out every single drop. (The preciousness of this act is only understandable to those who buy takeout sushi.) I dab the chopstick into the wasabi and smeared what clung to it on top of the nigiri, dipped the tuna, as if glancing, into the soy sauce, and swallowed the little piece of perfection in two bites. At the same time that I chewed over the raw tuna and rice, I cast several envious glances down at the dining section right next to the stage, where pre-concert dining is held, mostly among wealthy senior citizens. The servers bustle about to and fro; the diners dined and wined and laughed a great deal. They seemed happy.
After finishing the sushi, I felt bored and a strange emptiness left me enervated. I had half hour to kill before the start of performance. I took out the
New Yorker but couldn't focus on the reading. Instead I eavesdropped on the conversations of fellow concertgoers. One guy was talking of how his cat liked to scratch the sofa; a girl talked of her meeting with overseas relatives; and a modelesque couple engaged in a ferocious make out session, parrying off curious glances by their complete indifference. I followed the conversations in dribs and drabs and soon lost interest. By habit I took out the mobile phone and went over the contact list, scrolling down and up of names, some of whom I strained to recall. Of those whose memory dated back three or four years ago, I chose to hit the delete button:
what was the use of keeping them, for sentimental reasons? As Graham Greene once wrote in
Orient Express (I believe it was Coral Musker, the chorus girl, who said it), "Perhaps I have a life in people's minds when I am not there to be seen or talked." I have long ago ceased to have a life in their imagination; it is time for I to suspend theirs as well.
