Look Away Silence (17 page)

The concert event began as most of these events —
with a courtyard gathering. Between the parking deck and Boettcher
Auditorium was a broad concourse, which all the GALA members used
as a meet-up. In this case, there was a mini-buffet spread down the
center. Finger foods and drinks (non-alcoholic). I mean, we
wouldn’t want
hoo-hoos
to swan dive from the third tier
balcony, would we? Matt had chilled out by the time we swept passed
the
canapés
and cans of Diet Coke. The Jersey Sparrows were
there in force, although there was a clear demarcation between Todd
and Padgett and their respective contingencies. Still, out of
deference for the event, there was no reenactment of the Montagues
and Capulets across the pizza-puffs.

The crowd was thick, at least seven hundred, and
merriment less so than the day before, I assumed also in deference
to the moment. Although being somber or being sober is a matter of
perception. I still had the option to turn to Matt and say
something like
Well, we’ve eaten, but you really don’t need to
go inside, if you don’t want to attend this thing.
However, I
just looped my arm into his and dragged him through the crowd,
tickets in hand.

It’s just music, after all.

We had good seats — no third tier balcony this time.
I managed to get orchestra — mid row center with the little cash I
had recouped from my down payment. Not all the Jersey Sparrows
perched with us, but enough to spot. Tim waved to me from three
rows ahead. However, Russell just smirked, nodding his head. I
wondered how things would fare when we all shared a ride into the
Rockies next Wednesday. Soon the spotting and waving calmed down.
The program rattling ceased and we listened as the orchestra warmed
up.

“Are you okay?” I whispered to Matt.

“Just fine, Pumpkin. As you say, it’s just
music.”

That smarted, because he was either buying what I
was selling or was just appeasing me, which would have been
disingenuous. Still, when the house lights dimmed and the Seattle
Chorus mounted the risers, it was like Christmas all over again.
Then the man himself entered — John Corigliano, climbing the podium
as humble as I was sure he was. He bowed to the applause, and then
turned to the readied forces in the pit and on the stage. He raised
his arms, baton in hand and then . . .

Crash.

Thunderous and explosive canons fired at us. Arrays
of kettledrums and strings and trumpets assaulted us.

The piece was dissonant and turgid. I could see Matt
squirm. I enjoyed the mesh of sounds that didn’t live well
together. I had sung this composer’s
Fern Hill
after all,
but Matt was more a
Dixie
boy. The shockwave rocketed over
our mid-row, center orchestra seats unnerving him. I gripped his
knee and he seemed to settle. Soon, the music transformed into
gentle snippets of oboes and flutes with here and there a bass
fiddle farting in the bulrushes. It wasn’t lyrical, but it spoke to
me on some level. It prodded a place that wasn’t prepared to
receive it. Now
I
squirmed. I could see many squirmers. The
corkscrews were slowly preparing to decant us.

It was somber stuff. Well, it was a piece dedicated
to a host of fallen souls to a plague that insidiously crept in our
midst. Soon the chorus hummed in Latin and Greek or some language,
I knew not what. I peeked at my program for a translation, but
couldn’t read it. Too dark. Suddenly, the orchestra swelled again,
harmonic and moving and building to an emotional climax.

Then . . .

Silence.

The piece halted suddenly. I knew not to applaud,
even though I saw a few hands raised and then dropped in hasty
recognition. John Corigliano turned to the audience.

“Now comes the tolling of the bells,” he said.

Tolling
, chanted the Chorus.

“There are many among the missing,” a voice came
from within the Chorus.

Three men stepped forward.

“We are the remnants of the Seattle Gay Men’s
Chorus,” said another.

“We have lost one hundred and thirteen members to
AIDS.”

There was a shudder through the audience. A quiet
murmuring was soon replaced with bawling.

“Join us as we call the ghosts to witness our love
and devotion,” said the third chorister. “We miss you.”

My heart hitched. The chimes tolled — slow and
regular while the names of the fallen one hundred and ten were
called out. The names overlapped. Soon audience members stood,
shouting out their lost lovers names — friends, family, faces young
and wizen — gone, only their names remaining and the memory of
their lives — traces of those who may have dreamed of Colorado and
GALA festivals, but arrived here in the hearts of others.

One by one, the names were called between the
tolling of the bells. The wailing and weeping inundated me. I held
onto Matt, cursing myself for having brought him here.

Suddenly, Matt pushed my hand away. He stood,
trembling. I thought he would fall.

“Luis Sanchez,” he shouted. “Luis Sanchez,” he
shouted again. “Luis . . .”

He collapsed into his seat. I reached for him.

“Luis,” he muttered.

He was dashed. I held him tightly.

“Let it all out,” I said. “He’s at rest, baby. You
be at rest too.”

Suddenly, I wanted to leave. I wanted those god
damned chimes to stop and those hundreds of names to be silenced.
They swirled about my head. Strangers as they were to me, I
nonetheless realized that the world was fighting a war beyond my
little sphere and I was the most unbrave of soldiers.

Finally, the names faded and the tolling ceased. The
composer dismounted from his podium, his orchestra packing up in
silence. The chorus filed into the audience, while the audience —
the war wounded, hobbled out through the lobby, clustered on
shoulders — a sea of the mournful with just too many remembrances
to think of survival.

I saw other Jersey Sparrows, all affected by the
trauma, and that’s what it was — trauma. Mass trauma, inflicted on
us with the hope that our departed sisters might return and sing
yet another verse — yet another refrain. False hopes. Dashed
dreams. Young lives gone for nothing.

Matt still wept on my shoulder as we emerged onto
the Promenade. I felt helpless. I didn’t know what to do for him,
for me or for the hundreds of grieving folk who staggered out into
this world that condemned us. I was seized by a momentary anger. I
grabbed Matt and pulled him forward.

“Excuse me,” I said as I pushed through the
resistless crowd. “Please. We need some air. Please, let us
through. Please.”

We reached a safety zone by a railing. I leaned
against it, only to spy Leslie and Ginger aiming for us. I pulled
Matt away, but he bucked like a mule.

“I’ll be okay,” he said.

I swallowed hard, and then turned to hug Leslie and
Ginger in turn. They were a mess also, but had the presence of mind
to engulf Matt.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Thanks. I appreciate it. I’m
just fine now.”

I was glad he was, because I certainly wasn’t. I
gazed out over the recuperating mob. Voices were beginning to stir
again. The silence faded as the trauma passed. I reclaimed my
cowboy from the lesbians.

“I need a drink,” I said.

Matt smiled dimly, and then kissed me.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Luis would like that. Yes,
he would.”

There was something in this endorsement of a drink
to dead lovers that didn’t settle me. However, the girls shuffled
us out of the Promenade, our backs now turned from the tolling,
from the names and the ghosts that still hovered. It wasn’t just
music, after all.

Put it behind you, Martin. Put it away. Don’t give
it a second thought.

That’s what the voices told me that evening while I
get drunk. I didn’t even get Corigliano’s autograph and, now that I
think of it, it would have been a sad reminder. The concert didn’t
spur on a discussion of the trauma or the closure, if there was
closure. However, that was Matt. He wasn’t an analyst when it came
to personal feelings. Things were what they were. When emotions
bubbled close to the surface, he just let them burst, never
discussing the whys or wherefores. I, on the other hand, needed to
account for all my feelings and, as we were partnered, I thought it
important to account for his. Still, as I meandered through the
balance of the week, through meals and rehearsals, I decided to let
it go.

Put it behind you, Martin. Put it away. Don’t give
it a second thought.

However, it lurked. No matter how funny the
Sparrows’ antics were; no matter how wonderful the New York City
Gay Men’s Chorus sang, the shadow of the
Remembrance Concert
drew aside my expectations of a good time. All I wanted now was to
sing my Cree solo and go home. Still, there was the Estes Park
trip. I did anticipate that fondly.

The world beyond Denver’s boundaries was flat and
ungainly to the edge of the hills that creased the borders of the
towering crags. Then the forest line emerged and the road, straight
and endless turned serpentine and finite. It was good to get away
from Denver for the day. To
put it behind us. Put it away.
We let Russell drive, because it seemed best that way. The once
boisterous queen of Tuxedos had become demure — staid and decorous.
I wasn’t sure whether it was because he still disapproved of my
choice of man or whether it was some new found maturity for the
benefit of Tim, the accompanist. I never knew Russ to hold a
grudge, but he displayed all the earmarks of despondency. He had
lost weight, his already bony figure bonier; his eyes deeply set
now as if he rarely slept. And the silence — that deathly silence.
It was so un-Russ.

The journey did not lack conversation, however. We
had Padgett, who flirted with the passengers in passing cars,
waving with a queen’s twist to anything with a head.

“I wouldn’t do that here,” Matt warned.

“And why not?” Padgett said. “They’re probably
Festival
hoo-hoos
anyway.”

“Might catch a bullet,” Russ said.

It was a spacious vehicle — a mid-range Honda.
Padgett sat with us in the back seat. Tim careened about peeking
over the back of the suicide seat.

“Might be they’re here for the rodeo,” he said.
“That’s here too, you know.”

Tim was a brilliant pianist, but was one note short
of a full chord when it came to conversation. He reminded me of a
big old sheep dog with mystical talents, but would run behind car
tires on an interstate just to sniff the piss of a fellow sheep
dog. Russ liked them tall, talented and single-threaded. Tim met
the standard.

“Could be?” I said, and then shrugged.

I clasped Matt’s hand. He had the window rolled
down, the breeze blowing through his hair, his lid having slipped
to the floor.

“We don’t have mountains like these in Texas,” he
said. “In fact, we don’t have mountains at all in Texas. These are
the highest I’ve ever seen.”

We were approaching a sheer, craggy wall — a
fortress rising into a tower above the plains. I whipped out my map
as navigator, although Tim had offered, but unless we were headed
for Wyoming, I thought it best to leave him to Chopin while I
handled Rand-McNally.

“Let me see that thing,” Padgett said.

The map left my hand, the prissy preener bringing
the folds to his nose.

“Where are we heading?”

“Estes Park,” I said.

“Past Boulder,” Russ echoed.

“Oh, here’s Boulder. I found Boulder. There should
be a sign somewhere ahead. In fact, I thought I saw a sign for
Boulder a few miles back.” Padgett lurched toward the window. “We
didn’t miss the turn off, did we?”

“No,” I said. I grabbed the map back. “It’s coming
up on your left, Russ.”

“Maybe we should eat first,” Padgett said. “Does
anyone need to pee?”

Tim glanced back.

“I could, if I tried, but I think I can hold
it.”

I ignored them. I traced my finger across the map
locating Estes Park, deep in the Rockies. I nudged Matt. He nodded
as I tapped my finger on the spot.

“There’s the place,” I said. “It’ll be cool. Glad I
brought a jacket.”

“It must be high,” Matt said. “My ears are clogged
already.”

“Mine popped,” Padgett said.

“Mine too,” Tim announced.

“How about you, Russell?” Padgett fussed.

“How about what?” Russ asked.

“Did your ears pop?”

Silence.

“Is this the turn off?” Russ asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

I gazed forward of the line as the scenery changed
from scrub grass to low pines. The green world closed about us and
I was suddenly aware that I was alone even though I was in a car
full of people. Not even Matt was there. It was one of those out of
body experiences I had read about and Viv claimed she had at
seances. I knew no one had actually left, but they were all lost to
their own world as I was in mine. Then the moment fled when Tim
clucked like a chicken, his version of laughter.

“Well, will ya look at that.”

The Honda rounded a curve and . . . there it was —
nestled beneath a canopy of primordial granite — a breath taking
sight. It didn’t need a sign. Boulder.

Aptly named, Boulder sat under a precipice of Rocky
Mountain National Park. This was the bastion for Western
liberality, or so Desmond had said
because it has the
University
. Sort of a liberal Rock of Gibraltar. Suddenly tree
lined streets and lush parks, buildings white and manicured, came
into view. It was simply American in the fresh mountain breeze of
the Great Divide. However, I wasn’t born yesterday. There was gold
in them
thar
hills and Boulder was well heeled.

My ears had finally popped, but my bladder was about
to burst. So despite my inclination not to be a complainer (we had
Padgett for that), I tapped Russ’ shoulder.