The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [90]
Lucien could not help but laugh at the thought. If at first he had found her irreverence distasteful, and had even worried that it would somehow tarnish the production, by this point—in large part thanks to the strength of her voice—he was finding the opposite to be true; if anything, she made him understand that different avenues could be taken to the same place, with one not necessarily better than another. But like everyone in the company at different times, even Pelagie was not infallible, and there were days when he ended up consoling—or assuaging—her with the idea that they were doing something important and universal, even timeless and sublime, and for this reason owed it to the music—even more than to Wagner, as if he were a messenger and not the creator—to push ahead.
Except as often as Wagner preached that they were collectively engaged in the “music of the future,” and no matter how much Lucien was inclined to believe this, there were moments when he, too, felt crushed by a despondency that went deeper than his problems in rehearsal; it was the difference, he knew, between understanding the power of waves and actually being battered in the ocean. Gradually he came to attribute this lassitude to an almost constant exposure to the opera; it was not just the scale and its technical difficulty that were daunting—and different parts of the piece remained elusive for each musician—but an almost tangible weight that he had never before encountered, even during his many years at the St.-Germain. Like an airborne sickness, the music seemed to infect everyone—the singers, the crew, even the administrative staff—with a form of despair that drained them of any energy even before the day’s work began, as though they were hacking through a malaria-infested jungle. The sad wistfulness that came from constant exposure to a story of love and death was a component but in no way explained the overwhelming sense of futility under which they labored, as if they were required each day to explain the ultimate purpose of life while knowing that the previous day’s answer was no longer viable.
26
What Fun Life Was
NEW YORK CITY, 2001. It was close to three o’clock when Martin made it home. Already anticipating the cool air inside—which he kept at a constant sixty-seven degrees from April through October—he paused at the front door to take the keys out of his pocket when he felt something brush against his shin. “Whoa, Nellie,” he muttered as he looked down to find a very skinny gray cat peering up at him. Over the years, Martin had seen many strays cross through his front yard; at least a few of them, he knew, ended up in the basement of a nearby apartment building, where the super employed them to keep the mice and rats at bay. Because he had never been predisposed to pets, Martin pushed the cat away with his leg and was about to apologize for not being able to help when he examined it a bit more closely; it didn’t seem nearly as mangy as some of the others, and it occurred to him that maybe it had recently escaped from someone’s apartment, perhaps even in connection with the attacks downtown. The cat—clearly not afraid—looked back with a certain expectation and intensity that made Martin feel like he was being tested.
“Okay, wait here,” he said and went to retrieve from his kitchen a small plate, on which he poured some milk. While the cat drank, Martin walked down the block to the apartment building, where he found the super’s wife watching television in the basement. She seemed a little dazed—like everyone, he supposed—as he briefly explained the situation and learned that she not only knew about the cat—and knew it was a “him”—but had been taking care of him for the better part of a week.
“So do you want me to bring him back?” Martin asked.
“No, not particularly.” She dragged on her cigarette and spoke as she exhaled. “Why don’t you keep him?