Silentium

It was a strange story, happened to me some months ago. At night when I was sleeping the telephone suddenly rang. I answered the phone, the unknown in a whisper told me to leave my house and get on the car. At that time I heard a klaxon. The unknown put the phone down on me. I was frightened, but at the same time interested. I woke up, dressed up, and got in the car. I didn’t have an opportunity to see the driver; I sat on the back seat. The car scorched along desert dark streets and soon we reached our point of destination. I heard the charming voice of the driver; he opened the door, took my hand and led me to a place called “Silentium”, as a sign told.  I have never been here. I was trying to see the face of the driver, but it was invisible because of strong shadows. He led me into the place. It happened to be a small opera theatre, though it looked very luxurious. The seats were upholstered with red velvet and golden material, from the top the candles were hanging gracefully. The scene was curtained. I looked around. There were a few spectators here. They were all alone and sat in different parts of the stalls. My guide showed me my seat, the lights went off, and the performance began. An elegant man came on the stage and froze. He looked at everyone’s face, looked every spectator in the eyes, and began to speak.

“No, there are no any musicians, there is no orchestra. It is all a tape-recorded. But we hear it. If you want to hear a clarinet, listen. Or a trombone, listen.”

The music began to appear. It was unclear where the music was. I didn’t see any musicians or orchestra, but it seemed that the music was everywhere: in this place, in my head, outside. The man continued:

“That is all tape-recorded.”

Then another man came on the stage. He was in a white suit with a grunt-horn. His appearance was accompanied with a magnificent sound of a grunt-horn. He took away his tool, but the music continued. All the spectators were starring at the stage enchanted by this unusual performance.

“It is all the tape-recorded. It is an illusion. Listen!”

And the thunder broke out. I closed my eyes and saw a summer rain. I almost felt how the drops touched my skin, it was unbelievable. Suddenly it stopped. When I opened my eyes, two men had already left the stage. I heard a voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the club “Silentium” presents weeper from Los Angeles, Rebecca Elrio.”

Middle aged woman came up to the microphone. From my seat I could see that she had an awkward make up, wild red hair, a plain short dress. The silence was in the hall. And she began to sing. I don’t know whether you ever felt like I was at that time. Her strong, beautiful, entrancing voice took me into the parallel world. She sang about her despair as it seemed to me. I couldn’t get the words she was singing they were in the language I didn’t know. But the tune of her voice, the emotions on her face made me cry over and over again. The rivers of grief flooded me. It was the climax, when she suddenly fainted, and fell down on the stage. But the song continued. We were still hearing her suffering in that unknown language. Two men carried her away, the curtain fell down, but the song was still on. I was still crying. A man in the gown and a hood came to me and gave a small casket. I opened it. And everything was over. I was in my bed with the memories of this opera house and they seemed so real.


This story was written after watching a film called “Mulholland Drive”