I watch them on television; they also show
the breaks between the musical pieces, sometimes.
Now and then I can see a latecomer arriving.
A friendly young lady in black and red shows him
to an empty seat. The latecomer is embarrassed,
he is aware of his back being shown in the homes
of the dwindling number of viewers. His back
feels under attack, but such friendly accompaniment
is not something you reckon with even on
the happiest of evenings: Samuel Barber, Adagio –
music that the death of statesmen has made
indispensable at funerals. I used to go to concerts
every week, Albinoni, Mahler, Barber …
in that order. But that was another concert hall,
another world, no uniformed attendants,
no concert programs looking like commercial
catalogues, but a splendid orchestra, nonetheless.
I was late most of the time. I ran across the park,
unbolted the heavy door, struggled up the stairs
past the cloak-room and stood in front of
the part-open door to the balcony. Outside
there was a mild spring evening breathing
on my brow, or a sharp winter night and onto them
were beginning to get caught the sounds of
some deeper evenings (and nights) lived through
by the lake, in the small pavilion by the end
of a pier with no mosquitoes to intrude on
the composer’s sadness—the sadness of some
other composer. I would lean on the door-frame,
absorbed in my own evening, in my own sadness
(third such in succession), properly made up from
waves, from the rustle of the pines, from far off music
from the dance floor; the two musics blended,
becoming a single one, scented with pine, splashing
on the rocks, running out the same into silence,
into applause and coughing… My moment has come,
I push open the door and almost invisible
I let myself in into the concert hall. A nod from
my professor of Philosophy, no longer with us.
A little farther forward sits my professor
of Literature, no longer with us. Now when
I see them I myself am no longer there. I disappear
in a moment, but fading out slowly into darkness
like the scenes in old films. No more concert halls,
no musicians. The evenings have died away,
the nights, too. What constitutes our existence,
what sort of continuity, when things end so finally—
once, twice, three times?
Gledam jih na televiziji, kažejo tudi
odmore med skladbami, včasih.
Tu in tam vidimo, kako kdo zamuja,
prijazna gospodična v črnem
in rdečem ga pospremi do praznega
stola, zamudnik je v zadregi, zaveda
se svojega hrbta v domovih redkih
gledalcev, njegov hrbet se počuti
napaden, ampak na tako ljubko
spremstvo človek ne računa več niti
ob najbolj srečnih večerih. Samuel
Barber, Adagio – glasba, ki jo je smrt
državnikov napravila za pogrebni
rekvizit. Hodil sem na koncerte,
vsak teden. Albinioni, Mahler, Barber,
v tem vrstnem redu. Bila je to druga
dvorana, drug svet, brez uniformiranih
spremljevalk, brez koncertnih listov,
ki bi bili videti kot prodajni katalog –
vendar s sijajnim orkestrom. Seveda
sem zamujal, pritekel sem čez park,
odsunil težka vrata, se mimo garderobe
pognal po stopnicah in obstal pred
priprtimi vrati na balkonu. Zunaj je
bil mil pomladni večer, ki mi je dihal
s čela, ali ostra zimska noč, in nanju
so se začeli loviti zvoki nekega globljega
večera (in noči), preživetega ob jezeru,
v uti na koncu pomola, brez komarjev,
ki bi motili skladateljevo žalost. Žalost
nekega drugega skladatelja. Naslonil
sem se na podboj, se zatopil v svoj
večer, v svojo žalost (že tretjo po vrsti),
ustrezno sestavljeno iz valov, iz šumenja
borov, iz oddaljene glasbe s plesišča.
Glasbi sta se pomešali, postali ena sama,
dišeča po borih, pluskajoča po skalah,
z enakim iztekom v tišino, v ploskanje,
v pokašljevanje. Nastopi moj trenutek.
Odrinem vrata in skoraj neviden vstopim
v dvorano. Pokima mi profesor filozofije,
ki ga ni več, malo naprej sedi moj profesor
književnosti, ki ga ni več. Zdaj, ko se ju
spominjam, tudi mene ni več. Izginem
v hipu, vendar počasi, v temo, kakor so
izginjali prizori v starih filmih. Dvorane
ni več ne glasbenikov, večeri so izumrli,
in noči. Kaj konstituira naše bivanje,
kakšna kontinuiteta, potem ko se stvari
enkrat, dvakrat, trikrat tako zelo končajo?