Chinese Opera

The night Danny McSwene was murdered the Buchovskys were at the Chinese opera. The three of them—Simone, her sister, Juliet, and their father—had been there all day, from nine in the morning, to be precise, and were not released from the performance until ten that night. The coroner’s report said that he had died somewhere between eight and midnight, so his death might not have occurred during the performance but, rather, when they were eating dinner later. The exact time is not crucial. Still, Simone will always think of the actors’ endless wailing and excruciatingly slow movements and their white, painted faces when she thinks of Danny McSwene’s last moments.

Their father had a long tradition of dragging them to such events. When they were small Simone was sure he searched carefully for the most tedious and difficult performances to bring them to. She thought he was trying to teach them something—patience perhaps, or tolerance—but she realized, now that she was older, twelve, that he simply had had no idea what torture these outings were for young children, and she was convinced he thought that she and Juliet enjoyed them as much as he did. He liked to refer to the three of them, their family, as a trio. Simone always imagined them as a trio of flute, violin, and piano, though she could not say who was which instrument, but as she got older she could not think why her imagination had settled on such shrill and plucky instruments. They were really much more like bassoons and violas—unassuming and hardworking.

It was especially cold the day they went to see the Chinese Opera and it was cold in the theater too, so Simone kept her coat and gloves on the whole time. She imagined, however, that the actors were warm enough. They were heavily clad and their movements, as slow as they were, seemed to require a lot of effort—each placement of the foot, each slow swoop of the hand, even the eyes labored, prowling slowly, meeting the gaze of the enemy or a lover. At first she enjoyed the performance. She liked the feel of the gong reverberating in her legs and in her heart and was amused by the costumes and the stories, the details of which were outlined in the program. She fell into a sort of trance, concentrating on color, sound, and movement without thinking about the plot or the cacophony, but after the one intermission, during which the three of them ate black bread with butter and honey, she grew increasingly bored.

Their father had promised to take them to their favorite diner after the performance for a late dinner. When Simone and Juliet were younger their father was able to get them to do just about anything—sit through a lecture about the diary of a foot soldier in Napoleon’s army or the uncut version of a movie about the Russian icon painter Andrei Rublev—if he promised that they would have dinner at a diner afterwards. Though each had their favorite form of eggs, all three of them always ordered eggs. Eggs and milkshakes.

During the second half of the opera, it had grown even colder and all Simone could think about was that she was cold, though she never would have dreamed of excusing herself, of asking permission to take a walk or go to the Coliseum Bookstore, which was just a stone’s throw away from Lincoln Center, where the marathon Chinese opera festival was being held. So she sat through the rest of the performance, rubbing her hands and dreaming of the oily warmth of the diner. Later, after hearing the awful news about Danny McSwene, Simone felt that she should have been using this time more wisely instead of wasting it, thinking about the cold and wondering whether she should order a mushroom or cheese omelet.

Danny McSwene was their favorite of their neighbors’ seven sons. There was quite a difference in age between the oldest, who were twins and lived together in South America...