Las Vacaciones del Dr Zito (VI): Is this the way to Damascus?
Many believe that this congress thing is a field rich of affaires and romantic adventures to be explored. But, to tell you the truth, being alone and disoriented in a city that it is not yours (what a novelty!) does not help you to develop any flirting mood more sophisticated than the simple thrust of fucking any living thing. Perhaps, in order to solve this problem and alleviate these latent tensions, it is the rule that delegates must be entertained and amused in the most elegant way possible. Yesterday, for instance, we were taken to the cathedral for a choral concert.
The cathedral was a magnificient and improved version of the typical building that characterizes the christian franchise in the same way as the golden arches are the hallmark of McDonalds. Pre-capitalist marketing, they call it. Ironically, this temple of past opression and present innocent erudition, is right in the middle of the financial district of Capital city. A simple succession. A new definition in the dictionary for the word “power”.
The concert was as fantastic and pompous as expected. The acoustics were simply overwhelming. The acoustics. I came just to tell you about them. Because at the very end of “My Soul, there is a Country” of Hubert Parry, the last word that the choral sang was extended, trapped in the air, for at least ten seconds after their mouths were shut. Ten breathtaking seconds that allowed me to identify almost perfectly the voices of each one of the members of the choral, trying to hold to life, climbing, grabbing the luxurious walls of the cathedral. After that, they became feeble, inaudible, irremediably lost.
It was impossible not to have a revelation. Damn it. That’s what they wanted.