The evening show was exquisite. The script was thoughtful, the pacing of the performance was thoughtful, the actors and actresses were elegant and beautiful. It would be hard to imagine a better production. An adorable redhead played the daughter of the Comtesse, and the young man who played the gaunt Curé with the bicycle had a haunting presence. A real donkey crossed the background at one point—for verisimilitude and symbolism. The way the light shone off the gunmetal bicycle, the simple but measured gesture of the hands—everything was animated with—what shall one call it?—spirit. I shall never forget the addition of old cinematic or phonographic static to the soundtrack—that pure, nostalgic sound of snowflakes falling. All was grace. The curtain closed. It was silent. My applause had been delayed by my ecstatic scribbling of notes, but the silence was paralyzing. I turned around. The lifeless audience just sat there; some were even slumped over. I got up and walked past rows of blanched faces. They were all dead. An actor joined in me checking pulses and listening for heartbeats. They were all dead. Someone mentioned gas, but there was no scent of any such thing. And as the possibility was being pondered a nervous stagehand struck a lighter to light his cigarette. Nothing happened. Large tears flooded the pale blue eyes of the daughter of the Comtesse. The Curé went backstage to telephone the police. And I walked out of the theatre and onto the rainy street of glowing lampposts to light my own cigarette and wait.
the lost way 