A week ago we went to see an opera at the Goethe Opera House in New Leipzig. We were there to see Ribaldo’s Infiernesque, the scorching romantic tragedy set during the political turmoil of the Ancien Regime in eighteenth century France, but all our seven-dollar seats afforded us was a view from the upper level that was blocked by a large swamp cooler set in place to reduce the oppressive heat in the auditorium. An usher informed us that new lighting that was installed during renovation was oversized, improperly wired, and bore a defect in design that led to "a runaway thermal event." I wasn't sure what that meant, but his jacket was soaked. I wondered what it was like before these improvements. Most of the audience was driven from their seats by the end of the third act, and many a mascara-clad face melted away in those temperatures. A line of women formed outside the powder room, from which, I believe, I heard the sound of power tools. We spilled down the stairs out into the foyer for some air. This was a tragedy in itself, for while we sprawled on the cool tile floor, the scene on stage was generating its own heat. To quote one review:
“The lead character, Gormandieu, a pampered French aristocrat with a self-destructive wish, grows increasingly ill-tempered throughout the drama. This rising flame of anger is well portrayed by Hank Muzzlet, the porcine Australian tenor. Gormandieu seethes with ambition, craving human lives in much the same sense he once craved wealth. Through intrigue, subterfuge, and double-dealing, he attains a prominent political position within the opposition. During the Day of the Tiles, he professes his love to Rabbella, a daughter of aristocracy. Though she is momentarily swayed, his words reveal that his first love is himself, and she ultimately spurns his offer. It is then that Gormandieu comes to his senses and sees that his only real ambition in life is to win her hand. Rabbella is played by the bombastic Danish mezzo-soprano, Falsta Hedyz. Her clarity and precision betray her single minded determination to stay loyal to the monarchy rather than ally herself with the traitorous Gormandieu. As her voice rises from octave to octave, his anger reaches a crescendo, and climaxes at his execution for treason.”
I heard that the critic is on the opera house payroll. I see he didn’t mention the air conditioning.
While all of this was going on, we were languid, panting like dogs, trying to catch the spray from the fountain in the foyer. I leaned over to lap up some of the water. I looked up at an usher. His face was pale.
“You look pale,” I offered. Three words were all I could allow; I felt feverish, light-headed.
“I have iron-poor blood,” he said. “I need the heat.”
“Really. Does that affect your ability to tell time?”
He didn’t have a chance to reply. We heard the cry of Rabbella penetrate the walls of the opera house. Ear-splitting cry. I figured this was the part where she watched Gormandieu beheaded, and I imagined the scene, catsup splashing and a mannequin head rolling off stage onto the lap of some matriarch with opera glasses in an evening gown with her face runny like ice cream. That might be worth seeing. I thought about going back in. But it was not possible; a moment later we were told that the screaming was about the swamp coolers - all of them were overheating, and several had burst into flames, and it occurred to me that the show was no longer on the stage, but up in the cheap seats, where I would have been in the front row.
So we stepped outside to avoid the toxic fumes, the heat, the mad rush of patrons, but only a few had remained for the third act, so the rush never occurred. For a moment I was not sure if I had left the auditorium; it was hotter outside than it was inside. This, in December. I looked up at that burnt-red sun, crackling like a hot coal. Everything looked red. The sidewalk was red, even in the shade. The cars looked red. The road shimmered; there was a mirage in every direction. It smelled like buring metal. I could hear sirens in the distance. Somewhere there was a fire. Maybe many fires.
“The lead character, Gormandieu, a pampered French aristocrat with a self-destructive wish, grows increasingly ill-tempered throughout the drama. This rising flame of anger is well portrayed by Hank Muzzlet, the porcine Australian tenor. Gormandieu seethes with ambition, craving human lives in much the same sense he once craved wealth. Through intrigue, subterfuge, and double-dealing, he attains a prominent political position within the opposition. During the Day of the Tiles, he professes his love to Rabbella, a daughter of aristocracy. Though she is momentarily swayed, his words reveal that his first love is himself, and she ultimately spurns his offer. It is then that Gormandieu comes to his senses and sees that his only real ambition in life is to win her hand. Rabbella is played by the bombastic Danish mezzo-soprano, Falsta Hedyz. Her clarity and precision betray her single minded determination to stay loyal to the monarchy rather than ally herself with the traitorous Gormandieu. As her voice rises from octave to octave, his anger reaches a crescendo, and climaxes at his execution for treason.”
I heard that the critic is on the opera house payroll. I see he didn’t mention the air conditioning.
While all of this was going on, we were languid, panting like dogs, trying to catch the spray from the fountain in the foyer. I leaned over to lap up some of the water. I looked up at an usher. His face was pale.
“You look pale,” I offered. Three words were all I could allow; I felt feverish, light-headed.
“I have iron-poor blood,” he said. “I need the heat.”
“Really. Does that affect your ability to tell time?”
He didn’t have a chance to reply. We heard the cry of Rabbella penetrate the walls of the opera house. Ear-splitting cry. I figured this was the part where she watched Gormandieu beheaded, and I imagined the scene, catsup splashing and a mannequin head rolling off stage onto the lap of some matriarch with opera glasses in an evening gown with her face runny like ice cream. That might be worth seeing. I thought about going back in. But it was not possible; a moment later we were told that the screaming was about the swamp coolers - all of them were overheating, and several had burst into flames, and it occurred to me that the show was no longer on the stage, but up in the cheap seats, where I would have been in the front row.
So we stepped outside to avoid the toxic fumes, the heat, the mad rush of patrons, but only a few had remained for the third act, so the rush never occurred. For a moment I was not sure if I had left the auditorium; it was hotter outside than it was inside. This, in December. I looked up at that burnt-red sun, crackling like a hot coal. Everything looked red. The sidewalk was red, even in the shade. The cars looked red. The road shimmered; there was a mirage in every direction. It smelled like buring metal. I could hear sirens in the distance. Somewhere there was a fire. Maybe many fires.
It has been eight years since we had any significant rain. Trees are shedding leaves in August. The water table is dropping, drawing the lakes and creeks down with it, to hide from this angry sky. I want to go lie in some water somewhere, just to get a drop of it, but it burns. I do not need this.
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