The Millennium Hotel: The Rider Quintet, vol. 2

Sec Design

SET DESIGN What is it...? The bassopro/undo impersonating Mephistopheles bearded, gray haired, past his yoth year, rolled down the red carpet garbed in his red robe — If the wardrobe room and set designers wanted hell— they have earned eternal passage there for the hubris of their unearthly perfection . . . — The set designers of hell happened — upon a miracle; a set that was more than a perfect semblance ; imitation— but was the Husserlian thing—itself. Hell a thing? The place itself. Because that night, (I think it was a cool Thursday in autumn, the weather wavering in the inbetween, because I, who am (—need I say it?—) morbidly sensitive to barometric pressure, had nothing on over the subdued red-gold-purple sports jacket 1had bought (cut-rate) after hours at the rack at Orbach's . . . and Chantal had nothing on over her 117 deep turquoise cashmere turtleneck . . .?) Or an early spring night?Around Maundy Thursday. . . while smoke billowed up from trap doors and every time the singer stepped onto the stage Kleig lights heated up the infrared carpet, and the antique baritone, tall, gaunt, hollow-cheeked with the fakest beard ever glued to chin of man, thudded to the red carpet and: flopped from step to step, limp as a slinky, as if the edge of each stair was moving towards him . . . the musicians sawing away in the orchestra pit, to pump up the action— and each descent to the next plateau brought bravos from the crowd, who now rose, drowning the drum's thunder with thunderous applause. But was it for the fall or was it because the singer's brittle bones militated against such recklessness,such risks; or for the execution of the^aZ/itself, or—the whole performance? Like all bored people, I cast a critical eye on the debonair audience: custom-tailored suits, cruel glitter of jewelry. 118 I hated Gounod and wanted to go, but could not pass through the rows of standing ovationers, some of whom had snored—until this moment. Dandruff poured like snow from the hair of the exhausted husband in front of me. I had watched his progress, or regress, towards sleep whenever I grew bored with the spectacle. His head lolled against the seat-back, until, given a sharp jab in the ribs he sat bolt upright, dredging, as if from the bicameral mind, the posture his body had often rehearsed in the military, in the Ivy League. But the singer did not rise. He had died. —Andyou attribute this to set design? And the too-red redness. And the trapdoor fumes. And his robe: it should have been coo/red. I wonder if they knew just how fussy Goethe could be about questions of harmonics. Orplants: that a leaf may be converted into any organ. And any organ into a leaf. Metamorphosis over taxonomy. I don't know, but it was only after this night at the opera that she wanted mirrors on the walls, and bathroom ceilings, and lights installed 119 so we could watch ourselves watching ourselves make love; —Had 1ever? Life is a series of crises in which X forces its way to the center and houndsY. Now I've lost track of which woman. Reconstruct? I had gotten back in touch with Monica during the time I was "seeing" Chantal. That's no answer But it's all you need to know. —For now. 120 ...