Count

7. Just Your Everyday Gothic Mansion

Night had fallen by the time the car let Sergio and me out at the impressive entrance to the theater. The glowing lights and swirling crowd made me dizzy, and I was grateful for Sergio's steady hand on the small of my back.

A swirling design of pink, green, red, and blue hung on posters around the hall, advertising Vivaldi's "Four Seasons." The same pattern graced the cover of the playbill an usher handed me.

"Your seats will be five rows from the front, on your left," the usher said, handing us back our tickets and waving us through.

"Thank you," Sergio said.

The chairs were the same red velvet as the enormous gathered curtains framing the stage. Musicians in matching tuxedos and floor-length dresses warmed up in front of us in a delightful cacophony.

"These seats are incredible," I told Sergio after we sat down. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, my dear. Have you heard "Four Seasons" before?"

As the seats around us filled, chattering voices joined the disharmonized instruments.

"I think I have," I said over the crowd. "And you?"

"It is one of my favorite pieces of music. After it finishes, tell me which season was your favorite."

"Which is yours?"

"I'll let you guess." He intertwined his fingers with mine and let our hands rest in my lap.

As the lights dimmed, the theater quieted. The first chair violinist entered to applause. Then she drew out a long note, and the rest of the orchestra joined in, tuning their instruments in a steady and rousing display.

Before Vivaldi were several other short pieces, including an excerpt from an opera, that featured violins prominently. I relaxed in my chair, content to let the music and the feel of Sergio's hand in mine transport me away from reality.

An intermission followed, and then the first strains of "Spring" lept from the instruments in front of us, instantly recognizable. After the conclusion of "Winter," a standing ovation urged the musicians to perform an encore piece. It was late when the car finally picked us up, but I enjoyed every minute of the night.

"So which piece was your favorite?" Sergio asked when we were snugly back in the car, on our way to his place.

"Spring," I answered. "It was more complex than I expected it to be. I typically think of spring as light and whimsical, full of butterflies and flowers, but the music didn't stay bright and airy all the way through. There were ups and downs." I smoothed my dress over my legs. "And I liked the bits that sounded like birds chirping."

"Interesting," Sergio mused. "Spring is the most recognizable piece, but I like what you said about it having unexpected highs and lows. What might the composer have been thinking of?"

"April showers, maybe? I don't know. I liked it. But my guess is that "Winter" was your favorite piece."

Sergio stroked his chin. "Why do you say that?"

"You were moving around more—playing with my hand. You seemed to be more engaged."

"On the contrary. I was restless because I was eager to get out of there," he said cheekily. I smacked his arm. "No, my favorite is "Fall." I think it is brilliantly reminiscent of "Spring" while still maintaining its uniqueness."

So his favorite piece from the four was "Fall." I added that to the list of things I knew about him, finding it pitifully short. "What's your favorite color?"

"A deep blue-green, like teal."

"Not black?" I joked.

"Ah, black. It is elegant, efficient, lazy, classic, and mysterious. It is one of my favorites but doesn't earn the superlative. What color is your favorite?"