A pot here, a blanket there
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My grandparents’ first official date was a performance of La Bohème. I do not recall where the show they attended was staged, it certainly wasn’t Paris, Olive Mary wasn’t ever much of a traveller. The story goes that my honey-hearted grandmother cried through most of the fourth act, and my grandfather made a big show of offering her his handkerchief. He teased her about it through the many decades of their marriage. He would take her hand and sing Che gelida manina and she would call him a silly old fool.
I think they would have enjoyed this production, The cast looks appropriately young, the set is small and simple; unpretentious. A set likes that requires energy and imagination from performers. It is dressed with furnishings that look at home in my grandmother’s house. That pot is by the kitchen door, the screen is in her laundry room. When shelling beans, she sits on a white wooden stool that looks like it was once a chair. She still rejoices in music, talent and youthful energy, she would feel the excitement building as the troupe creates the scene. She would watch them drifting with purpose over the stage, they are about to put on a magical show.
My grandfather died years ago. Che gelida manina I play it now and remember his face, his bent nose and sloping brow, the lines around his eyes. I remember his warm voice. To my surprise I find I’m crying.
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