(no subject)

:
I suppose I should make a habit of carrying my communication machines.  When I heard the tinny peizo-electric tones of Vá Per Le Vene Il Sangue from the high shelf, it was several moments before I realized that no, my stereophonic had not broken, it was a the ring-tones of my long-lost telephone.  (During my salad days, there was a phase where I wore pants and belts; these days, I have no pockets and I generally find things to be a burden.)  When I opened the device, I did not answer a call, but rather I saw a message rendered only in text. I vaguely recalled the devices were capable of such things. The message was from, of all people, З___.

I had not seen З___ in years, nor had I spoken with him.  A lifetime ago, there was the il Teatro da Chiamare Più Successivamente, and like most companies, it was founded more on ambition than on prudence.  It was the first time in my life that I had asserted myself, and it was the first time there would be consequences.  There were egos involved, which led to diviseness, which then led to artfulness and chicanery.  And all over such a trifle as theater!  The Successivamente is long gone, but the points remain.  (Again, I hear the demon: "You keep score?")

Forward, not backward: since the unpleasantness, З___ has been living his life, and I have been living mine.  The last time we were face to face, he was closing down the Successivamente, as he had become the owner years before and had just sold the building.  In the storage closets, I was surprised how much detritus I had left behind: a box of water-damaged books, including a full volume set of Baron Bodissey's Life; the set-pieces from the cave scene for our ill-starred production of I Lombardi alla Prima Crociata; my long-playing records of Regine Crespin; and, most surprisingly, my first set of vanadium-gallium ben wa. 

I collected my items and spoke a few pleasantries with З___. He was always a haunted man, one who had brief glimmers of ambition, yet always checked himself before taking risks. I found his taste in partners baffling: either he was having secret trysts that only those most familiar with his habits would detect, or he was cohabitating with women who might best be described as viragos.  I am not sure if I can say we were close -- I certainly confided to him things I had told no one else.

After the failure of the Successivamente, З___ had divided his social life into very distinct groups, and I was not one of them.  It was not the first time I would be defined as an outsider, but it was certainly one of the most painful.  What could I do? There were folks I was still angry with, who had betrayed my trust, but my attempts to elicit sympathy had fallen on deaf ears. I coughed and called it fate; I resigned myself that my umbrage was singular to me and me alone, and then I worked on sloughing off such unpleasant attachments.  (I have no one to blame but myself, if I let myself get upset.)

Last year, I was sharing tea with an old friend at the monorail station.  He let it slip that he was in the city for З___'s wedding.  I had not been invited to attend. 

It was not the slight that surprised me.  No, what really bothered me was the lack of bother.  Had I become so old, so numb, so inured to heights of passion?  I tell myself it is a sign of maturity, but there are parts of me who long for strong feelings again, even though it can result in so much pain.

A bit of research turned up З___'s address.  I sent him a belated wedding gift: a first-disc pressing of 白い雲.  It was something I had hoped would remind him of the intimacy we had shared, at one time. 

In a roundabout fashion, this brings us back to the telephone.  З___ had called me to ask if I were coming to the klatsch.  There was a bon voyage for the audio-specialist of the Successivamente, who had since enjoyed no small success as a second-unit director.  I repeated my excuse of being too busy. (I knew that there would too many persons in attendance that I did not know; that there were strong odds of persons from the Successivamente who I still had strong disagreements with; and, in all candor, I had laid the foundation for consumating a tryst whose base pleasure would prove far, far more stimulating.) 

З___ could not conceal his disappointment.  He went on to explain that he was having difficulties in his marriage, which would possibly end in divorce.  (Hadn't this only been a year? I held my tongue.)  He asked if I would attend the cinema with him. Usually, I find the experience very wanting -- the two-dimensional images, the artificial sound, the annoying brevity.  

I had only moments to consider my response, and in the end, I said yes.  I do not know what З___ wants from me.  I do not dole out advice in relationships any more, I have too many failures.  Perhaps I am a connection to his past, perhaps he wants to use me as a sounding board.  I have never met this woman with whom he shares his life, I know nothing.

But I will go. I would want someone to do the same for me, one day, and this is karma.  Wish him well.

Postscript: Goodness, I haven't seen З___ since my change. I wonder what he will say, and I wonder again what he will think.