He places the pin on his lapel. �Oh it�s certainly turning out to be just that brother dear.�
The sound of the orchestra beginning to tune up for the second act stops me from asking him exactly what he meant by that.
�I must go. Thank you for the gift. I�ll treasure it.�
And with that he is gone.
* * * * *
I do indeed find Dietrich in the men�s lounge and upon seeing me enter he excuses himself from his conversation to join me for the walk back to our seat which is no easy feat for we are constantly stopped by more of mothers friends and even a reporter who missed us before curtain time who wished a comment on the performance and a photo. I am always worried about returning to my seat late for the start of an act but miraculously the conductor has always made his entrance just as we were sitting down no matter how long or short the intermission was intended to be. I�ve always marveled at this coincidence but unbeknownst to me, the conductor is under instruction by mother that whenever we are in attendance he is never to begin until he can see that we have taken our seats. I can clearly see Allen in the pit and try to smile at him but he will not look up.
When the first scene of the second act is over, the other moment everyone has been waiting for has finally arrived. The curtain came down and a spotlight appears on Allen in the orchestra as he stands up and the famous Meditation interlude begins. The segment is by now a well-loved and highly recognizable concert piece outside of the opera stage but this time instead of some anonymous player in the pit, the son of the star of the opera is providing the heavenly musical commentary.
I have heard Allen play many times (and often quite well) but was completely unaware (as was everyone else) of the fact that he is actually brilliant and now everyone is discovering this at the same time including mother who stands in the wing opposite our box with the main curtain being held aside to make room for her.
Music and its effect on the spirit is something that words naturally fail to adequately describe. Any competent musician can play a piece of music beautifully but a virtuoso musician is a storyteller who speaks to a crowd through his instrument. Allen proves in the three and a half minutes he plays for the packed house at the Paris Opera that he is no merely competent musician. He is indeed a storyteller. His Stradivarius sings of newfound hope in such a way that we all find ourselves with tears in our eyes not just for it�s beauty but for the triumph of the moment that no one knew was possible.
The standing ovation that follows is so genuine and so heartfelt that I find myself crying yet again for finally that moment that I have always wanted for Allen has come. Dietrich and I actually have to share his handkerchief as we shout our �bravos� and I can see mother equally overjoyed as she applauds in the wings. Allen smiles and takes his bow then looks up directly at me for a moment with a strange almost amused expression. As the applause finally dies down he then steps out of the orchestra pit, lays his Stradivarius on the lap of the Viscount de Charmagne sitting front row center and proceeds to walk up the center isle and out of the theater.
�What the hell is he doing?� I ask incredulously and the audience now totally confused becomes suddenly disquiet and Mother actually steps out from her hiding place in the wings and onto the side stage. I have seen her angry before Lord only knows how many times but this particular expression of outrage on her face is one that will burn in my memory forever and I will never be so unfortunate enough as to ever see it again.
Allen stops about three quarters of the way up the aisle, turns and looks at mother, blows her a kiss, waves goodbye then looks up at us in the box, smiles and proceeds with his exit. The reporters occupying the standing room only area are all scribbling furiously in their notepads but the look on mother�s face communicates to them that they will regret exiting to the lobby to ask Allen any questions.
