Maude, I could see, was curled on the steps beside Chris the saxophone player. His arm was around her. It was like the gesture I had used before, as Charlotte shot out the mirror, protective. There seemed to be something about Maude that demanded care, demanded love. I hoped I would continue knowing her, could become a friend.
Knowing this, I had had enough of the silence in the room.
"What are we going to do about it?" I asked Halley. He said nothing. "We're meant just to be passive and sit at the end of a story like that? How do we help?"
"Altruism," said Halley slowly, as if trying out the word for the first time. "It is not necessarily nice to be nice."
"You mean, just listen to this woman and sent her back to this nightmare of... of... shadows in glass. Not even trying to help, like she was just some second rate actress throwing a temper tantrum? Like some carnival sideshow so dull or distasteful it doesn't even rate a bit of applause? Pat her on the head, give her a candy, and that's that?" I knew I was being horrendously over-dramatic, but I found I had very strong feeling about this woman and her loneliness all of a sudden.
There was a long, stunned silence. In that space which was probably far shorter than I remember, I began to have some doubts about what I'd said. What could I be committing myself to, if anyone took me at my word? What could I really propose as a solution, or even a manner of comforting this woman? In the narrative, I had gotten lost in the story without thinking too much about what she'd told us had happened to her. Was I defending a woman who was obviously crazy, or were we really dealing with forces beyond my normal experiences?
I had done this often – flying off on a long tirade before I knew very much about the situation. I thought again about what Halley had said about staying curious and not censoring myself. If I wanted, I supposed I could blame him for my outburst, for encouraging me.
When he stepped back and spoke, his voice was gentle and soothing, the way you'd read a story to a child. "What," said Halley, "if I told you this – all these Thursdays – that these nights were staged for the benefit of my patrons?"
I deflated.
Now everything made sense, the sense of anticipation all evening leading up to Charlotte (or whatever her name really was) shooting out the mirror, Halley's icy cool facing down the barrel of a gun, the quiet attention paid to the story by everyone in the bar. It was just an entertainment for them.
"Oh," I said, about all I could say, and even that came out as a tiny little sound, not much more than a breath. "Embarrassed" wasn't going to begin to cover how I felt right then.
Of course, everyone else in Night Music was well aware that this was an elaborate set-up, a play, where they were more than willing to suspend their disbelief.
Halley began to pace the aisle between the table and the stand-up bar. He reached out and gave my hand a tiny squeeze as he went by, just enough so that I didn't burst into tears or run from the room. There was still something up.
"Yes, yes," he said, his eyes wandering over the crowd. I could see something now I hadn't noticed before, that people were actually uncomfortable, refusing to meet his gaze. Beside me, Charlotte made a strange little noise, and I saw that her face was still buried in her hands.
Halley switched to French. "You have all met Anya now, our charming translator. My friend has been an exception tonight to lend truth to the rule." He circled a table, then moved to another, those dark eyes continuing to travel over the faces of his patrons. One large man who I had noticed earlier as jovial and loud, looked down as if ashamed.
"You see? No reaction from you, except fear now. You are happy to watch the torment of others and not do a thing.
"How many of you would touch a body in a ditch to see if it is a warm human being in need of help? Would you not just pass by, shaking your heads? How many would go to investigate a scream in the night? We are deaf and blind."
It took a moment for it to sink in; first, all I could think was that Halley was laying on the guilt trip far to heavily – but they took it, and they hung their heads. Then it hit me - it was all real. The mirror. The weeks spent in silence, watching him. It was all real.
For some reason, that was also the moment it occurred to me why my throat was so dry. "Halley," I said quietly. "Have I been talking?"
Around us, the bar was erupting, like chemicals in reaction. Strangers and friends, all together, rose from their tables. They patted each other on the backs, hugged, wandered down the stairs, and surround Charlotte. Her eyes filled with happier tears.
Halley took my arm. "You translated it all," he said, an amused grin spreading his wide lips. "There is always a reason for people to be certain places, especially at Night Music on Thursdays. Your French is more than passable, you know. You just have to relax."
His voice dropped to a low murmur. "You have done this woman a great service, letting her tell this story to these people. Never worry that you haven't done enough."
Numb, and confused, I let him lead me back to Charlotte. I was hugged and patted and kissed many times on both cheeks, my hand grasped, was congratulated over and over again. The French was gibberish to me suddenly. Everyone spoke so quickly and I was exhausted. Maude was beside me suddenly and put her arm around my waist like we'd been friends for years. "You are tired," she said and led me back to our table. Now it was me that needed protecting.
When things settled down, it was still only midnight so the band decided to play a final set. We talked, Charlotte, Maude, and I, at the table on the stairs by the stage. Maude told us about the conversations going on around us. The other patrons, like us, were discussing the mechanics of getting people in and out of mirrors, rather stupidly. The three of us had finally been able to laugh at ourselves for presuming we could understand such mysteries.
There was nothing we could do about the horror she was going to live with, maybe for her whole life. None of us could shoulder that burden for her. But maybe all she needed now was something by her own admission she had seldom had – friends.
When they took a break at last, the musicians joined us at our table. Charlotte began asking technical questions, and soon I realized these weren't coming from her, but from the man who she could see instead of herself, reflected in her wine glass.
"He's singing something now," she said and tried to hum along.
"Do you play anything?" asked Steve.
"No, not now." She had tensed again, looking frightened. "I used to play a little viola. Some piano. It was a long time ago."
"No piano," said Chris, lighting a cigarette. "How about bass? If you remember the viola. After all, strings are all basically the same."
"Bite your tongue!" said the bass player, then smiled at Charlotte. "He's always saying dumb things like that. But I don't mind. It's all yours."
Charlotte cast a nervous look toward the bar, looking maybe for Halley's support. I almost smiled – he was perfectly aware of her attention, and was deliberately polishing glasses with his head turned away from her.
She said, "Shouldn't we at least wait until they close?"
"Nonsense," I said.
"Nonsense," echoed Maude. "You must. It will make him happy."
It was a strange sight, this awkward, inward woman moving onto the stage under the brighter light of the spots, accepting the bow from the bass player, letting him arranged it in her hands. The crowd was respectfully silent as she began.
We didn't hear an entire piece that night, but it began then. The bass was obviously a bad instrument for her, almost too big for her to reach from the fretboard to the bridge with her entire arm span. But the man in her head was helping, guiding her, so at least there would be an understanding between them. And maybe someday, there would be a release for both of them. Some cynical part of me doubted it. The world is many things, and magical now forever one of them – but fair it is not.
But as the hesitant stirrings of a weird complex melody began to emerge from the dark strings of the bass, I felt happier. It had been an extraordinary night.
Maude was looking at me, a smile on her lips. She raised her glass, and I replied in kind, toasting to her, and to Charlotte, and to the dog that had brought me here – for whom I would find a bone or something before I left town – and most of all to Halley.
When I turned toward the bar, he had raised his glass already, his broad smile enfolding the whole room in warmth.
I had done this often – flying off on a long tirade before I knew very much about the situation. I thought again about what Halley had said about staying curious and not censoring myself. If I wanted, I supposed I could blame him for my outburst, for encouraging me.
It took a moment for it to sink in; first, all I could think was that Halley was laying on the guilt trip far to heavily – but they took it, and they hung their heads. Then it hit me - it was all real. The mirror. The weeks spent in silence, watching him. It was all real.
When they took a break at last, the musicians joined us at our table. Charlotte began asking technical questions, and soon I realized these weren't coming from her, but from the man who she could see instead of herself, reflected in her wine glass.
