The Other Language(89)
As the lights went down, a ripple went through the audience and then—there he was, center stage, under one sharp cone of light, in black pants and a crisp white shirt. His face filled the giant screen behind him: the tiny crow’s-feet, the two-day-old beard, the Mick Jagger lips, every intimate detail was so uncannily familiar to Elsa. She had actually touched those cheekbones, she knew the dots floating in those irises and the straight bridge of that nose. When the camera framed his hands picking the strings of the acoustic guitar, she recognized the shape of his fingers, his square nails and the flat shape of his thumb, which for some reason she had always found such an exquisite, manly feature. Those fingers had actually once explored every millimeter of her body, including cavities and hidden parts.
“Grazie di essere qui, Roma! Sono felice di essere con voi!”
His voice boomed in an almost perfect Italian accent as the band began to play the opening track. A roar, like a wave echoing and rippling, responded. They loved him. No, they were crazy about him. You could feel their adoration rise and fill the auditorium like a fog of sweat, love so thick you could cut it like cake. These were not casual fans, this was a crowd of diehards, faithful followers, the majority of whom seemed to be deep into their forties. They must have attended many of his concerts, because there was some kind of script they all knew and performed with uncanny discipline. They were doing funny stuff with their hands, raising them and flapping them loosely above their heads, so that the stadium seemed to flutter and vibrate as if filled by thousands of butterflies. They sang the lyrics of each song as soon as Barker gave them a cue, and stopped as soon as the chorus ended so that he could pick up from where they had left it. It was a dance, a well-rehearsed duet between him and a disciplined crowd of thousands responding as a single monstrous individual.
Soon even their cordoned-off VIP section was standing up, dancing like the rest of the audience, singing along with everyone, their arms up like a bunch of teenagers. Sandro looked at Elsa, in what seemed a hopeful way, as if expecting for her to say or do something that would confirm an expectation. He had taken off his jacket and cap, and was moving his hips to the beat. Two of those paper cups of Champagne had warmed him up and he was glowing. Elsa smiled encouragingly so he came closer and wrapped an arm around her waist, his femur thumping lightly against hers. Elsa accommodated his tentative steps, felt the warm dampness of his sweat through his shirt. By now everybody around them was touching and pressing against one another as Barker emitted an irresistible sexual energy, conducting their dance from the giant screen.
Sandro turned to her, his breath warm on her neck.
“Isn’t he just the best?”
Elsa nodded, feeling the increased pressure of his hand around her waist.
“I am glad you came.” Sandro blew softly in her ear. There was definitely a spark now, the chemistry of the night was beginning to take effect. It was a good feeling, though Elsa wondered whether it would have been wiser to come alone, in order to be free to focus on Barker’s physical manifestation in all his glory, and on the unforeseen effects this manifestation might have on her. Hers was a completely different reading of Barker’s performance from anyone’s crammed in that auditorium. The crowd of VIPs were getting sloppy and slightly out of hand. But her experience was private, and one she couldn’t possibly share with anybody.
The sax played a vibrant solo. Barker ran back and forth across the stage. The notes kept climbing higher and higher, driving the crowd to the limit. Until they became delirious.
Then the lights dimmed, the music seamlessly turned from rock mode to acoustic solo and the audience reacted with a giant intake of breath, a mix of wonder and delighted surprise. Flickering lights dotted the darkness. And then, as if on cue, everyone was holding up their cell phones as Barker began to sing “Roman Romance.” The flashes and the lit displays turned the dome of the auditorium into a starry sky. The audience followed the lyrics in a hushed chorus, waving their bluish screens in a gentle motion.
It was an apotheosis. Most of the audience knew, from gossip, star mags, blogs if not from Wikipedia, that Barker had lived in Rome when he was young. There he had fallen deeply in love with a mysterious girl, so that now “Roman Romance” belonged to the Romans by birthright. It had become their hymn to love, just as Marta the receptionist had said. And tonight tens of thousands of them were singing those lines with increasing pathos, till they became one fervent voice.
Elsa sensed a flutter around her, she could tell the VIP crowd was watching her, pointing, whispering. Sandro Donati studied her face but she pretended not to notice and fixed her gaze on the stage. Although she didn’t remember all the lyrics (after hearing it that first time she had carefully avoided paying attention to them) she felt she should try and sing along with everyone else. It was a gesture of atonement, like an atheist attempting to remember the lines of a prayer. The words reemerged, unstrung.
Girl, girl,
combing your hair
You will need me,
you will want me
more than you think.
Girl, girl,
in a beautiful coat,
you will be cold,
you will be dead
without me
Elsa was suddenly overwhelmed, swept off in a giant wave as if by the rupture of a dam. A burst of longing seized her. All she had been able to see at the time had been Barker’s ruthlessness, all that had mattered to her had been her broken heart and her revenge. Then, because of his vulnerability and his unexpected kindness, she had disregarded him, brushed him off as this Midwestern bumpkin without future or depth. How could she have been so unreasonably unforgiving, to the point of refusing to own a single track of his?