Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

J.R. Salamanca is the author of the highly celebrated novels The Lost Country and Lilith (Simon & Schuster) as well as A Sea Change, Embarkation, and Southern Light (Knopf).

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That Summer's Trance

Welcome Rain Publishers

Chapter One

Benedict and Priscilla Oakshaw spent at least one eveninga week at the Kennedy Center. Since the late seventies, when things hadstarted going really well for them, they had bought yearly subscriptions tothe Washington Opera season, the National Symphony, the Washington Ballet,and a series of twelve theatrical productions at the Eisenhower. Theseevenings were the zenith of their social and cultural lives, and, in Ben'scase at least, of some other life which he liked to consider metaphysicaland which gave the appearance of being so, since it included elements ofthe transcendental and the ideal as well as the worldly and the frankly festive.In his nature these elements were combined in a nameless passion forcelebration, one that no New Year's party, or homecoming game, or MardiGras, or mass could satisfy. It was certainly not religious?it involved vanityand display too conspicuously to be mistaken for piety?but it was almostecclesiastical in its gravity and like religion expressed itself in the periodicobservance of a rite in a temple of some kind, in this case one furnishedwith gigantic crystal chandeliers, acres of pile carpeting, haute cuisine, finewines, and an atmosphere of exhilaration, gallantry, and grace. Like mostmen who have been poor in their youth, he liked elegance, and for himan evening at the Kennedy Center was an occasion of unrivalled elegance,one justified by a concern for culture and solemnized by ritual, its handmaiden.He did not admit this passion, even to himself?his urbanitywas too hard-won to admit anything that might resemble bathos?buthe felt it and rejoiced in it, mindlessly, like a man steeping himself inthe vapors of a steam bath. Nothing gave him such a secret exaltation asto stroll, and be seen strolling, through the vast, high-ceilinged, deeply carpetedGrand Foyer under the glittering chandeliers, past the enormous,oddly leprous looking bust of John F. Kennedy, the champagne booths,the wonderfully civil program vendors whose decorum was almost thatof acolytes, feeling himself one of the chosen, one of this fraternity of animated,softly laughing, expensively dressed men and women who, gatheredin this convention of light and luxury, gave confirmation of his ownand of America's success. In them and in the occasion, not only was thisexquisitely confirmed, but all things took on for him a glowing, quietlyecstatic conformation. This was where it all came together, Ben thought.This was the meaning, almost certainly, of life, and certainly of civilization?thishour of tranquil, titillating anticipation, of recognition and reward,this sweet, sacramental thrall of The Performance.

    He and Priscilla always reserved a table for dinner at six thirty at theGrande Scene on the third floor, and when they had been escorted to itwith priestly gravity, and were seated, and he glanced discreetly aboutthe murmurous, magnificent room, twinkling with crystal, silver, and galaxiesof diamonds sprinkled through the dusk, tinkling with sounds of decantedwine and of equally delicious and effervescent gayety, he felt hisheart swell with a sense of the divine congruity of things. All this was ordained.It was inherent in the first appearance of shaggy man on the smoulderingearth. It was the coming to fruition of years?of centuries,millennial!?of industry, sacrifice, and faith, of unyielding adherence to thecreed of aspiration that bound them all together in their hour of consummationand communion. And not only his private life was thus beatified,nor those of his fellow communicants in the Grande Scene, nowdevoutly dispatching their Tournedos Rossini, but those of the performers,somewhere beneath them in the vast honeycomb of dressing roomsand rehearsal halls, tuning their violins or applying grease paint to theirfaces. For them, too, this was the apotheosis of their lives. Their years ofanonymity, indigence and struggle, of the harrowed preparation of auditionscenes or the endless rehearsal of arpeggios in cold water flats in theVillage or the Left Bank or Notting Hill Gate, had been brought, likethat of Ben and his fellow diners, to epiphany. There were ushers andprograms to certify their talent, their perseverance, their right to renown.People would read the chronicles of their adversities and achievementsin the program notes, nod gravely, and whisper to their consorts bits oftestimony to the reality and verity of this experience, as if from The Livesof The Apostles. The house lights would go down, there would be a momentof silence like that heralding the Transubstantiation in the mass,the great velvet curtain would sweep up, the performers would step forwardbathed in an unearthly radiance, there would be a burst of applausefrom the vast dark auditorium, and All would be Redeemed. All wouldbe redefined and justified and pronounced good: the world, humanity,virtue, capitalism, Christianity. God would be reborn. There was nothingto fear, nothing to regret; grief, uncertainty, dissent were swept awayby the tide of beauty and ceremony that swept over them, as obscenitiesscrawled in the sand are swept away by the sea. Certainly there was noreason to feel shame.

    In addition to this bath of beatitude which he enjoyed every Fridayevening in the Patron's box, Ben learned things at the Kennedy Center thatwere useful to him socially and in his business, which was advertising.He had become growingly familiar with the scores of the major classicaland romantic symphonies, had learned to identify half a dozen pianoand violin concertos, was no longer startled by the advent of the specterin Le Spectre de la Rose, and regularly sang in the shower, in an exuberant,errant tenor, arias from Puccini, Verdi, and Rossini. He took pride in thefact that he was able, at parties, to speak of these composers with some confidenceand even, on occasion, to offer opinions on Purcell along with afew bars of Dido and Aeneas. In the field of drama, his judgments werefar less adventurous, effusive, or gratuitous than those he offered on symphony,the ballet, or the opera, and this was because it was an art he understood.He understood it better, in fact, than most of the people in thetheatre, including any critics who might have been present and many ofthe performers themselves. He knew more about the stage than mostmen living, and the feelings that moved in his breast when he watched aperformance of Shaw, or Ibsen, or Shakespeare were complex, too complexfor Priscilla to make out in the shadows of their private box when hemurmured?as he often did?lines that he knew by heart, or closed hiseyes and lowered his head in dismay, or smiled and breathed deeply. Heunderstood the stage with a profound intuitive insight, and had onceperformed on it with brilliance; some had said with genius.

    As a young man, three years before he had abandoned it to found hisenormously successful agency, Razullo, Inc., he had attended the RoyalAcademy of Dramatic Art in London, where he had been a student of greatpromise. His three years at that institution had been the consummationof a passion that was born in him at the age of eighteen when Miss FlorenceReplogle, his English teacher in Groveland, Florida, high school,had asked him to read the part of Romeo in a classroom recitation of Shakespeare.Until that moment he had done nothing well in his life, nor hadthe opportunity ever arisen for him to discover that he could. His entirelife, except for the hours he spent in school, had been spent...