Sonetto 104 del Petrarca

November 23, 2000


From the shadows of the dark theatre faces emerge; some women, some men, but not 
clear enough to distinguish features. And he is not sure if this is really a 
theatre at all. Maybe it is a large sanctuary, or a warehouse that has been 
abandoned. It is very dark, but he can make out a stage of sorts in the front. 
He is seated in a balcony, so he assumes that he is in a theatre, or a church. A 
group is singing on stage; probably numbering fifty or sixty. The music is 
non-descript; no discernible melody and the words are unclear. In fact, the 
group may be vocalizing or warming up. For what? He does not know.

It is warm inside this place, he thinks. He feels comfortable; safe. He thinks 
it is daytime outside, as there seem to be rays of sunshine leaking into the 
hall, or auditorium, or whatever this place is. Tiny dust particles float 
effortlessly within the angular golden rays, like tiny planets in a distant 
galaxy. The singing becomes louder, but not offensively so. The tone of the 
choir becomes warmer and richer, rolling over him like soft waves in the 
darkness. He feels the warmth of sound melting into his body, sinking within his 
chest, consuming his being.

"Do you direct the choir" her voice asks him. He turns and among the faceless 
people he sees her face clearly. Her face is familiar only in its penetrating 
beauty; a face that he knew long ago. He feels a stab of sadness; a simultaneous 
mixture of longing and relief. Her hair is shoulder length, dark, freely 
floating onto her neck. Her eyes are dark, warm, and kind. She speaks with a 
voice that is quiet and demure. "I don't know" he answers. She stands, and 
slowly walks away; within him the stabbing pain intensifies. He does not ask 
where she is going. He has to descend and direct the singers now.

He makes his way to the front of the hall, floating downward, or walking...he 
cannot tell. He is impatient and uncertain. What must I do? he asks himself. 
What music are they singing? He stands in front of the group but still cannot 
see their faces. He can only see her face. Eva? Ava? The name comes to his mind 
from the past, but it is too vague, too unrecognizable. He leads the singers in 
a brief and intense offering. To whom? Then he turns back and ascends the steps, 
but it is much brighter now, and he sees the spot in the balcony where she spoke 
to him.

She is there again. He walks toward her without seeming to get any closer. She 
waits and smiles at him. He knows her and he loves her. But he does not know who 
she is.

Then the dream is over.

Sitting at the piano today he tries to prepare something for a casual recital. 
An edition of Liszt's "Annees de Pelerinage" is nearby. On the cover of the 
score, Liszt's portrait strikes a noble pose; left hand folded on his hip, right 
hand resting confidently on his piano. The cover is cracked and worn. E leafs 
through the pages and finds one of the pieces based on a Petrarch sonnett.

He plays through the piece, and the longing returns. The dream returns to him. 
Her voice and then her face reappear. He wants to remember, to remember, to 
remember again. He plays the piece again, and again, to make him remember. The 
final chords close the piece, die away, and the room is again silent.