Well Justin, I’ve come through for you yet again. You should consider doing me a favor some time in return. A friend of a friend from college is on the board of the Seattle Phil. She’s married to one of those tedious financial executive types and would love to have well known sculptor and man about town Justin Vincent escort her to the symphony tonight and join her in her box seats for the performance. Her name is Margaret Shaughnessy but she goes by Maggie. She’s small but I did once see her knock a drunken Duke Lacrosse midfielder out cold with one punch. Nonetheless, please avoid becoming involved with her. I’m not your personal, twisted version of Tinder.
Margaret’s cell number and email address followed. I smiled. Valerie was like a magnificent spider—at the end of each of the myriad strands of her web was some old friend or acquaintance that was happy to help her out with a favor. Each of those people had their own web and could reach out farther if needed. I had never doubted that she would find a way to get me into the reception. I called Maggie and she answered on the second ring with a deadpan, suspicious tone.
“Yes?”
“Hello, Maggie?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“It’s Justin Vincent. Valerie Walker’s friend.”
“Oh yes,” her tone lightened. “Sorry, I’m always suspicious when I get calls from unknown numbers.”
“Understandable. Valerie said I should give you a call.”
“Of course! I wish we could get dinner but I’m on the parent group board at my daughter’s school and we’re meeting to do some planning for the annual gala this afternoon. I’ll only just have time to pop home and then head straight to the performance from there. Can we meet each other? Say seven forty-five outside the main entrance?”
“Yes, that sounds perfect. I’ll plan on seeing you there. I’ll be the guy in the black suit.”
“Delightful. I’ll be the lady in the yellow dress. Or maybe red. Haven’t decided yet. I’ll text you a selfie so you can recognize me. You do the same.”
****
Benaroya Hall, home of the Seattle Philharmonic, was only ten blocks from my hotel so I decided to walk. Seattleites were out in sundresses and shorts, enjoying the warm evening. It was the beginning of summer in that latitude. Coming up Second Avenue, I saw the postmodern bulk of the Seattle Art Museum and cringed just a little. Robert Venturi’s buildings—with their weird nods toward classical architecture that blew forms carefully honed over generations all out of proportion, flattened them, and abstracted them into cartoonish grotesqueries—were not for me. The style made me queasy. I turned my gaze instead to Benaroya Hall across the street, shining like a lantern in the long summer twilight, lit from inside, its curving facade almost flying saucer-like. That was a building I could not just endure but appreciate.
I was a few minutes early so I took up a position outside the main entrance and watched the concert goers arrive. It was interesting to see how people dressed for the performance. I had long held the belief that when people talked about comfort they meant, usually unconsciously, psychological more than physical comfort. How people dressed when they attended formal events gave a lot of clues about their individual psyches. Some people wore fancy clothes effortlessly. The rich fabrics, bold colors, and stiff or unusual cuts seemed to almost float and drape about them. Others looked like their suits and dresses were only one step removed from medieval torture devices, clinging here, baggy there, rubbing necks or wrists raw. Others simply eschewed fancy clothing and came to hear the music in jeans, T-shirts, sweaters. Some of these appeared to be college students. Some appeared to be wealthy men who had taken on the uniform of the eternal teenager in an attempt to stay relevant—their only gesture to formality being the universal sport coat worn over their T-shirts. When I saw Maggie step from a white SUV I recognized her immediately. She looked just like the photo she had sent. I also knew at once that she fell into my first group of people who went formal effortlessly. She wore a red, sleeveless, A-Line gown with princess seams and one massive pleat at the front of the skirt. An emerald pendant sparkled above the plunging V of her gown’s neckline. She was small as Valerie had said but she moved confidently, striding up the steps toward the entrance. I waved and she waved back. She offered a hand and I took it.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise Mr. Vincent, the mysterious sculptor. Shall we go in?” She said, twining her arm through mine.
“Of course,” I answered and we joined the ambling crowd making its way through the doors into the grand lobby.
“Valerie didn’t tell me much about your visit to Seattle or why you needed to attend this concert on such short notice. I hope it’s not a very big secret. I’m a curious person.”
“Only a little bit secret. I can tell you most of the details. Can I get you something first? Champagne?”
“Yes please. I’ve been running here and there without a break since I woke up this morning. I need to relax a little.”
I waited in a short line and procured a couple of champagne flutes from a white gloved bartender. When I returned to Maggie she was speaking to an older man with florid cheeks and a white goatee.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the glass from me. “Justin, this is Archibald Matthews. Archibald, Justin Vincent. Justin is an old friend. In town for a day or two.”
Archibald Matthews nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Yes. Indubitably. A pleasure to meet you.” He said in a pretentious drawl, lifting his chin and peering down at me. “Was it this performance that drew you to our city?”
“Yes, actually it was.”
“You must be an enigma enthusiast as well.” He took a deep breath, no doubt preparing to tell me his theory about the variations.
“I’m sorry Archie,” Maggie cut
