We arrive fifteen minutes before curtain. The box, a curtained affair that affords an excellent view of the stage, is rented for the entire season; I enjoy the flexibility to attend when the mood strikes me.
I pull out a chair for her, and hand her a tasseled program.
"Carmen?"
"Yes. No doubt you are already familiar with at least one melody if not the libretto. The Toreador song is quite famous. Do you know the story?"
"No."
Bizet's opera has recently become a favorite of mine, not so much for the music, but for the themes running through his masterwork. Bizet understood too well about love, I think.
"It's the tale of a Spanish corporal, and his tragic love affair with an elusive gypsy. When he is ordered to imprison her, he finds himself torn between the masters he serves and the undeniable attraction he feels for the dark beauty. Ultimately, he learns that even chains of love can't keep Carmen from her freedom. His affection for her, however deep and sincere, can't change who she is, any more than she can rip the blinders from his eyes and free him from his perceived notions of duty. The only antidote for their ill-fated passion is to let it consume them in death."
She looks across to the stage, rapt. It must be quite a change for her, to look out over a sea of well dressed couples engaged in hushed banter, to be a part of the social elite, for at least a few hours. I doubt she's ever seen a live performance in her life. I chuckle inwardly at her enthusiasm; It is such a rare commodity in this jaded world, and should be prized. The last time I saw such fresh-faced excitement was through several inches of Plexiglas, while a sweet song of nesting terns wafted to my ears.
I follow her gaze out over the crowd, enjoying the subtle cacophony of instruments being tuned. The audience glitters in sequins and lace, men in dark suits and women draped in bright, shiny jewels. And then I feel my heart seize with delicious surprise as my eyes alight on a plain black cocktail dress decorated only by a swath of liquid copper. I can only see her from behind, but that unmistakable amber hue has been burned onto the backs of my eyelids as I've lain in the cool clutches of a half-sleep until dawn. She shifts in her chair, and turns slightly, offering a glimpse of profile. It is an agony to wrench my gaze from her, but I quickly scan the other opera patrons. They all have the demeanor of the rich out for a night on the town. She is not flanked by any other agents. Reflexively, I draw in a deep breath, scenting the air. I cannot smell her, of course. The musk of the crowd obscures any one person, even if she smells like honey and gun powder.
I wonder where I was spotted and if she was officially dispatched to seek me, or if she is here of her own volition, perhaps using up her vacation time in hopes of bringing me back to the bureau as a much sought after souvenir. But something's not right. There's something amiss in her way she absentmindedly flips through her program, in the way she stares down at her shoes instead of scanning the crowd for a glimpse of her quarry. The full force of it hits me like the cool, hard kiss of steel around my wrist. She doesn't expect to see me any more than I expected to see her…but she is here nonetheless. I clamor through the scaffolding of her mind, peering in the dark corners, seeking out an insight that would explain the dejected aura that radiates from her. Perhaps she is weary. Perhaps the fruitless chase has taken its toll on my modern Artemis. I wonder, Clarice, when you hang up your bow at the end of the day, if you ever understand that the stag is just as tired of running from you as you are coming home empty-handed.
The lights dim, and an expectant hush falls over the theater. Clarice bends to tuck her program under her chair. I lick my lips, which have suddenly become quite dry. At my side, Bonnie stairs with awe as the velvet current ascends towards the gilt ceiling. Beneath me, Clarice shines like a vision, resplendent even in the low lights.
If the Mezzo-Soprano who portrays Carmen is impressive, I could not account for it. If Don Jose sings with anguished passion, his notes fall on my deaf ears. The whole world shifts, condenses, inhabited only by three. I clasp my hand over Bonnie's and clutch it against her knee. I'm sure she turned to look at me, but my field of vision is eclipsed by the back of Clarice's head. All I can see is the bright copper of her hair. All I can feel is the cool silver of Bonnie's captured hand. All I can hear is my blood pounding in my ears. Time grinds to a halt, but inexplicably the performers continue to sing and dance. And then the sound of applause brings me back to my own, the current falling to signal the end of the second act, and the beginning of intermission. The spells is broken as Clarice rises from her chair and walks down the Isle. Several men and women quit their seats and seek out the lobby as well. I give Bonnie an firm tug and she's on her feet. I catch a glimpse of her perplexed eyes in my peripheral vision, but I have no words for her as I hurry to the lobby.
Copper flames dance across my eyes as I grasp Bonnie underneath her cape, my arm encircling her shoulders. And then, I'm so close that I CAN smell her, that intoxicating blend of soap and steel. Her back is to me, but she's only three feet away. When I finally find my voice, I'm close enough to touch her.
"Good Evening, Clarice."
The site of her face as she spins to face me will have its own room in my memory palace. Her lips part, and her eyes spark as she reaches back to the gun between her shoulder blades.
A metallic click stops her dead in her tracks. Her eyes are lit with genuine surprise as I tilt the edge of Bonnie's cape to ever so slightly expose the tip of the Harpy poised at her jugular. I hiss into Bonnie's ear.
"Have the decency to look frightened."
And her eyes do widen, but it has nothing to do with the knife at her throat, and everything to do with our present company.
"Dr. Lecter…"
Her voice is a whisper. Patrons stream around us, babbling and sipping cocktails, none privy to our little unfolding drama."
"Let the girl go."
"I have a car outside, Clarice. Do you think you'd see fit to join me for some dessert?"
Her eyes dart nervously from mine, and find Bonnie's.
"Don't worry, Honey. Everything's going to be alright."
Just for show I give the Harpy a little tug, the tip acquiring a crimson gloss.
"I believe I asked you a question, Clarice."
"Let her go, Please."
"Better. But the answer's still no."
Panic is flushing her cheek, as her eyes flit from mine, to Bonnie's, to the tip of the knife. The sound of Bonnie's voice breaks in on our duet.
"Please, just do what he says!"
I suppress a laugh, and grasp Bonnie more fiercely against my chest. My lips caress her earlobe, and I whisper sotto voce to her.
"Very nice."
I think I will forgive her for the broken teacup. I can see the reluctant acquiescence in Clarice's eyes, and I furl the Harpy under my sleeve. I wrap one hand about Bonnie's waist and offer the other to Clarice. It is overwhelming to touch her again.
"Shall we?"
They fall into step on either side of me, as the lobby lights flash. I regret the fact that Bonnie will miss the end of her first and last opera. Her sacrifice will be rewarded.
I spot the Jaguar, but think better of it. Reaching the curb, I hail a cab, and usher my two companions inside. Clarice might try to incapacitate me if I was driving, but she won't risk the life of both Bonnie and an innocent cab driver. Her predictability is comforting as we make the short trip home.
Seated between them, I lean in close to Clarice, and lay my hand across her naked knee. I can feel the gooseflesh spring up under my fingers.
"You look lovely."
"Go to hell."
"Come, come my dear. We mustn't quarrel in front of our guest."
And with that, I place a feather-light kiss at the corner of her lips. Clarice's legs part ever so slightly. Intoxicating. Bonnie goes ever so slightly rigid to my left. Fascinating. And then, I lean back against the seat and grasp both of their hands in mine. Up until this morning, my life had grown unbearably dull. Oh when it rains, it pours. Oh how it pours.
I pull out a chair for her, and hand her a tasseled program.
"Carmen?"
"Yes. No doubt you are already familiar with at least one melody if not the libretto. The Toreador song is quite famous. Do you know the story?"
"No."
Bizet's opera has recently become a favorite of mine, not so much for the music, but for the themes running through his masterwork. Bizet understood too well about love, I think.
"It's the tale of a Spanish corporal, and his tragic love affair with an elusive gypsy. When he is ordered to imprison her, he finds himself torn between the masters he serves and the undeniable attraction he feels for the dark beauty. Ultimately, he learns that even chains of love can't keep Carmen from her freedom. His affection for her, however deep and sincere, can't change who she is, any more than she can rip the blinders from his eyes and free him from his perceived notions of duty. The only antidote for their ill-fated passion is to let it consume them in death."
She looks across to the stage, rapt. It must be quite a change for her, to look out over a sea of well dressed couples engaged in hushed banter, to be a part of the social elite, for at least a few hours. I doubt she's ever seen a live performance in her life. I chuckle inwardly at her enthusiasm; It is such a rare commodity in this jaded world, and should be prized. The last time I saw such fresh-faced excitement was through several inches of Plexiglas, while a sweet song of nesting terns wafted to my ears.
I follow her gaze out over the crowd, enjoying the subtle cacophony of instruments being tuned. The audience glitters in sequins and lace, men in dark suits and women draped in bright, shiny jewels. And then I feel my heart seize with delicious surprise as my eyes alight on a plain black cocktail dress decorated only by a swath of liquid copper. I can only see her from behind, but that unmistakable amber hue has been burned onto the backs of my eyelids as I've lain in the cool clutches of a half-sleep until dawn. She shifts in her chair, and turns slightly, offering a glimpse of profile. It is an agony to wrench my gaze from her, but I quickly scan the other opera patrons. They all have the demeanor of the rich out for a night on the town. She is not flanked by any other agents. Reflexively, I draw in a deep breath, scenting the air. I cannot smell her, of course. The musk of the crowd obscures any one person, even if she smells like honey and gun powder.
I wonder where I was spotted and if she was officially dispatched to seek me, or if she is here of her own volition, perhaps using up her vacation time in hopes of bringing me back to the bureau as a much sought after souvenir. But something's not right. There's something amiss in her way she absentmindedly flips through her program, in the way she stares down at her shoes instead of scanning the crowd for a glimpse of her quarry. The full force of it hits me like the cool, hard kiss of steel around my wrist. She doesn't expect to see me any more than I expected to see her…but she is here nonetheless. I clamor through the scaffolding of her mind, peering in the dark corners, seeking out an insight that would explain the dejected aura that radiates from her. Perhaps she is weary. Perhaps the fruitless chase has taken its toll on my modern Artemis. I wonder, Clarice, when you hang up your bow at the end of the day, if you ever understand that the stag is just as tired of running from you as you are coming home empty-handed.
The lights dim, and an expectant hush falls over the theater. Clarice bends to tuck her program under her chair. I lick my lips, which have suddenly become quite dry. At my side, Bonnie stairs with awe as the velvet current ascends towards the gilt ceiling. Beneath me, Clarice shines like a vision, resplendent even in the low lights.
If the Mezzo-Soprano who portrays Carmen is impressive, I could not account for it. If Don Jose sings with anguished passion, his notes fall on my deaf ears. The whole world shifts, condenses, inhabited only by three. I clasp my hand over Bonnie's and clutch it against her knee. I'm sure she turned to look at me, but my field of vision is eclipsed by the back of Clarice's head. All I can see is the bright copper of her hair. All I can feel is the cool silver of Bonnie's captured hand. All I can hear is my blood pounding in my ears. Time grinds to a halt, but inexplicably the performers continue to sing and dance. And then the sound of applause brings me back to my own, the current falling to signal the end of the second act, and the beginning of intermission. The spells is broken as Clarice rises from her chair and walks down the Isle. Several men and women quit their seats and seek out the lobby as well. I give Bonnie an firm tug and she's on her feet. I catch a glimpse of her perplexed eyes in my peripheral vision, but I have no words for her as I hurry to the lobby.
Copper flames dance across my eyes as I grasp Bonnie underneath her cape, my arm encircling her shoulders. And then, I'm so close that I CAN smell her, that intoxicating blend of soap and steel. Her back is to me, but she's only three feet away. When I finally find my voice, I'm close enough to touch her.
"Good Evening, Clarice."
The site of her face as she spins to face me will have its own room in my memory palace. Her lips part, and her eyes spark as she reaches back to the gun between her shoulder blades.
A metallic click stops her dead in her tracks. Her eyes are lit with genuine surprise as I tilt the edge of Bonnie's cape to ever so slightly expose the tip of the Harpy poised at her jugular. I hiss into Bonnie's ear.
"Have the decency to look frightened."
And her eyes do widen, but it has nothing to do with the knife at her throat, and everything to do with our present company.
"Dr. Lecter…"
Her voice is a whisper. Patrons stream around us, babbling and sipping cocktails, none privy to our little unfolding drama."
"Let the girl go."
"I have a car outside, Clarice. Do you think you'd see fit to join me for some dessert?"
Her eyes dart nervously from mine, and find Bonnie's.
"Don't worry, Honey. Everything's going to be alright."
Just for show I give the Harpy a little tug, the tip acquiring a crimson gloss.
"I believe I asked you a question, Clarice."
"Let her go, Please."
"Better. But the answer's still no."
Panic is flushing her cheek, as her eyes flit from mine, to Bonnie's, to the tip of the knife. The sound of Bonnie's voice breaks in on our duet.
"Please, just do what he says!"
I suppress a laugh, and grasp Bonnie more fiercely against my chest. My lips caress her earlobe, and I whisper sotto voce to her.
"Very nice."
I think I will forgive her for the broken teacup. I can see the reluctant acquiescence in Clarice's eyes, and I furl the Harpy under my sleeve. I wrap one hand about Bonnie's waist and offer the other to Clarice. It is overwhelming to touch her again.
"Shall we?"
They fall into step on either side of me, as the lobby lights flash. I regret the fact that Bonnie will miss the end of her first and last opera. Her sacrifice will be rewarded.
I spot the Jaguar, but think better of it. Reaching the curb, I hail a cab, and usher my two companions inside. Clarice might try to incapacitate me if I was driving, but she won't risk the life of both Bonnie and an innocent cab driver. Her predictability is comforting as we make the short trip home.
Seated between them, I lean in close to Clarice, and lay my hand across her naked knee. I can feel the gooseflesh spring up under my fingers.
"You look lovely."
"Go to hell."
"Come, come my dear. We mustn't quarrel in front of our guest."
And with that, I place a feather-light kiss at the corner of her lips. Clarice's legs part ever so slightly. Intoxicating. Bonnie goes ever so slightly rigid to my left. Fascinating. And then, I lean back against the seat and grasp both of their hands in mine. Up until this morning, my life had grown unbearably dull. Oh when it rains, it pours. Oh how it pours.