“Remind me never to let you be in charge of tickets again,” he said. He had traveled all the way to Dublin just for this concert, and the seating was truly a disappointment, way in the back and right beside a noisy ventilator. I wanted to cry.
But oh. God. Rufus Wainwright, Antony
, Lou Reed, Nick Cave, Beth Orton, Perla Batalla... all of them, and the songs, Cohen's songs… The concert was magical, fabulous, so beautifully orchestrated it took my breath away. I was at the edge of my seat all night, overjoyed, ecstatic. I could hardly see the performers from back there, but it didn’t matter at all; the music, the singers, the interpretations were so powerful.
Stumbling out of the theatre and into the cold, damp night nearly four hours later, it felt like I had been pushed out through the gates of Heaven and was falling toward the abyss. “I don’t see how I can return to mundane life after such a divine experience,” I told him, genuinely sad that it was over. He was speechless, for once.
We walked in silence, side by side along the murky Liffey, all the way back through the city without uttering a word. I was thinking about the concert and hardly noticed his unusual silence until we approached the entrance to my hotel. He hesitated for a moment before giving me a quick hug. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. It felt awkward; all of a sudden I wanted to cry again. “I’m so sorry,” I said. My voice was stifled, I had to clear my throat before I could continue: “I know you’re disappointed in me.” He looked surprised. “What do you mean?” he asked; “why are you crying?” I sniffled. “The horrible seats,” I said with a sob; “you came all this way for this concert and spent all this money, and I blew it!”
He pulled me close, and I heard his low laughter toward my ear. “You are so silly,” he said, kissing my cheek and hugging me tight. “I came here for you, idiot,” he whispered, softly; “I don’t even like Cohen all that much, I came here just for you.”