Read Online Shadow Show: All-New Stories in Celebration of Ray Bradbury by Sam Weller, Mort Castle (Ed) - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sam Weller, Mort Castle (Ed)
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wipers and reduced his speed. Horns blared behind him, vehicles racing past. Straining to see beyond the streaks on his window, he steered toward an exit ramp and headed up a hill toward the opera house.
There, he walked with Debby to a tent behind the theater. A bottle of wine stood on each table.
Half the seats were empty.
“See, not everybody’s crazy like us,” Debby said.
“Like me. ”
After choosing salad and chicken from a buffet, they sat at a table.
Frank glanced toward the entrance. Two men entered, surveyed the empty seats, saw Frank and Debby alone, and came over.
One of the men was short, slight, and elderly, with white hair and a matching goatee that made him look rabbinical. The other man was tall, well built, and young, with short, dark hair and a clean-shaven, square-jawed face. They both wore dark suits and white shirts. Their eyes were very clear.
“Hello,” the elderly man said. “My name’s Alexander.”
“And I’m Richard,” the other man said.
“Pleased to meet you.” Frank introduced Debby and himself.
“Terrible weather,” Alexander said.
“Sure is,” Debby agreed.
“We drove all the way from Albuquerque,” Richard said.
“I can beat that,” Frank told them. “I came all the way from Los Angeles.”
The two men went to get their food. Frank poured wine for Debby and himself, then offered to pour for Alexander and Richard when they came back.
“No, thanks,” Alexander said.
“It makes me sleepy,” Richard said.
The pair bowed their heads in a silent prayer. Self-conscious, Frank and Debby did the same. Then the four of them ate and discussed opera, how they preferred the Italian ones, could tolerate the German ones, and felt that French operas were sometimes an ordeal.
“The rhythm’s so ponderous in some of them,” Frank said, “it’s like being on a Roman slave ship, rowing to a drumbeat, like that scene in Ben-Hur .”
“But Carmen ’s good. A French opera set in Spain.” Richard found that amusing. “And tonight’s opera is French. I’ve never heard it, so I have no idea whether it’s worth our time.”
Frank was pleased by how easy they were to talk to. They had an inner stillness that soothed him after his frustrating Hollywood meetings and his difficult journey home.
“What do you do in Albuquerque?” Debby asked Richard.
“He doesn’t live there. I do,” Alexander said. “I’m a retired computer programmer.”
“And I’m a monk,” Richard said. “I live at Christ in the Desert.” He referred to a monastery about thirty miles north of Santa Fe.
Frank hid his surprise. “I assumed the two of you were together.”
“We are,” Alexander said. “I often go on weekend retreats to the monastery. That’s where Brother Richard and I became friends.” Alexander referred to the practice of leaving the clamor of everyday life and spending time in the quiet of a monastery, meditating to achieve spiritual focus.
“Alexander doesn’t drive well at night anymore,” Brother Richard said. “So I went down to Albuquerque to get him. This opera has a subject of obvious interest to us.”
What he meant was soon explained as the after-dinner lecture began. An elegant woman stood at a podium and explained that Dialogues of the Carmelites was based on a real event during the French Revolution when a convent of Carmelite nuns was executed during the anti-Catholic frenzy of the Reign of Terror. The composer, the speaker explained, used the incident as a way of exploring the relationship between religion and politics.
As the lecture concluded, Frank wished that he’d followed Alexander and Brother Richard’s example, abstaining from the wine, which had made him sleepy.
The group got up to walk from the tent to the opera house.
“It was good to chat with you,” Frank said.
“Same here,” Brother Richard said.
By then it was half past eight. Santa Fe’s operas usually started at nine. Darkness was gathering. Alexander and
There, he walked with Debby to a tent behind the theater. A bottle of wine stood on each table.
Half the seats were empty.
“See, not everybody’s crazy like us,” Debby said.
“Like me. ”
After choosing salad and chicken from a buffet, they sat at a table.
Frank glanced toward the entrance. Two men entered, surveyed the empty seats, saw Frank and Debby alone, and came over.
One of the men was short, slight, and elderly, with white hair and a matching goatee that made him look rabbinical. The other man was tall, well built, and young, with short, dark hair and a clean-shaven, square-jawed face. They both wore dark suits and white shirts. Their eyes were very clear.
“Hello,” the elderly man said. “My name’s Alexander.”
“And I’m Richard,” the other man said.
“Pleased to meet you.” Frank introduced Debby and himself.
“Terrible weather,” Alexander said.
“Sure is,” Debby agreed.
“We drove all the way from Albuquerque,” Richard said.
“I can beat that,” Frank told them. “I came all the way from Los Angeles.”
The two men went to get their food. Frank poured wine for Debby and himself, then offered to pour for Alexander and Richard when they came back.
“No, thanks,” Alexander said.
“It makes me sleepy,” Richard said.
The pair bowed their heads in a silent prayer. Self-conscious, Frank and Debby did the same. Then the four of them ate and discussed opera, how they preferred the Italian ones, could tolerate the German ones, and felt that French operas were sometimes an ordeal.
“The rhythm’s so ponderous in some of them,” Frank said, “it’s like being on a Roman slave ship, rowing to a drumbeat, like that scene in Ben-Hur .”
“But Carmen ’s good. A French opera set in Spain.” Richard found that amusing. “And tonight’s opera is French. I’ve never heard it, so I have no idea whether it’s worth our time.”
Frank was pleased by how easy they were to talk to. They had an inner stillness that soothed him after his frustrating Hollywood meetings and his difficult journey home.
“What do you do in Albuquerque?” Debby asked Richard.
“He doesn’t live there. I do,” Alexander said. “I’m a retired computer programmer.”
“And I’m a monk,” Richard said. “I live at Christ in the Desert.” He referred to a monastery about thirty miles north of Santa Fe.
Frank hid his surprise. “I assumed the two of you were together.”
“We are,” Alexander said. “I often go on weekend retreats to the monastery. That’s where Brother Richard and I became friends.” Alexander referred to the practice of leaving the clamor of everyday life and spending time in the quiet of a monastery, meditating to achieve spiritual focus.
“Alexander doesn’t drive well at night anymore,” Brother Richard said. “So I went down to Albuquerque to get him. This opera has a subject of obvious interest to us.”
What he meant was soon explained as the after-dinner lecture began. An elegant woman stood at a podium and explained that Dialogues of the Carmelites was based on a real event during the French Revolution when a convent of Carmelite nuns was executed during the anti-Catholic frenzy of the Reign of Terror. The composer, the speaker explained, used the incident as a way of exploring the relationship between religion and politics.
As the lecture concluded, Frank wished that he’d followed Alexander and Brother Richard’s example, abstaining from the wine, which had made him sleepy.
The group got up to walk from the tent to the opera house.
“It was good to chat with you,” Frank said.
“Same here,” Brother Richard said.
By then it was half past eight. Santa Fe’s operas usually started at nine. Darkness was gathering. Alexander and
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