BY CATHERINE BUCK
The audience holds their breath as the orchestra prepares to play without their instruments. The conductor opens his arms. The violinists reach across their bodies and the flutists cradle the air. They purse their lips and release little puffs that in a colder space might have made clouds. Drummers punch down with clenched fists and the bass player seems to caress an invisible partner in a fiercely choreographed routine.
Guests have paid good money to be here, nearly $200 each. They have lined up for days to witness what has been hailed in papers as a game changer.
The conductor is famous for these endeavors. He was the producer of such sights as the zoo without animals, the aquarium without water, and the gift shop without doors. There was something compelling, said Marquis Pompette, about taking away, learning how much one could remove before an experience ceased to function as defined. Not everyone agreed.
“It’s just a bunch of empty cages,” complained one visitor who’d shown up for the zoo’s opening day.
“It’s a brilliant commentary,” said another, clutching a plush toy of a tree, bought at the initial gift shop, which did have doors.
The zoo was relatively uncontroversial. Mostly it functioned for photo opportunities. The aquarium, though, had caused a near-international stir. PETA sent out volunteers in full force. They carried photos of deflated pufferfish, flailing carp, and one image of a deceased penguin. An image of this went viral with Pompette’s thin frame superimposed, and he was forced to issue a statement.
“None of the fish in the aquarium are endangered,” he explained. “None would appear out of place at an above-average restaurant.”
For this he was praised and excoriated in turn.
“He’s showcasing hypocrisy!” said one commenter. “Ignoring it doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
“He’s killed without respect,” said another. “How can we praise this brutality as art?”
From an invested undergraduate: “It it even an aquarium without the aqua?”
Before long, guests stopped coming-- the smell was tremendous-- and Pompette shoveled out his fish and windexed the glass before leaving. His next project, the Gift Shop, raised so much interest that many who were invested in such matters said he was going soft. Some cried he had sold out, and popular opinion decided that Pompette had lost his touch.
It was nearly a year, then, until the orchestra arrived. One golden poster proclaimed ‘a musical experience like none other,’ another that it ‘must be seen to be believed.’ Those who attended previews were evasive about the experience, as if waiting for someone else to go first. Tickets were scooped up and resold online, prices rising until the buzz became so deafening that some guests arrived days early to save their spot.
Audiences watched from plush chairs as soundless music permeated the room. It pulsed, wove its way through and under seats, reached a root usually unavailable unless in the presence of a concerto. But there was no sound, only unidentified vibrations. The musicians played fiercely, played their hearts out. They built a cathedral on months of rehearsal, and the crowd was there to worship.
The guests departed in a daze, as if the performance had made them forget how to make sound themselves.
“It was like the memory of music,” whispered one elderly woman. “It wasn’t really there—but we heard it, all the same.”
Her friend, a classically trained pianist, agreed. “I knew what sounds they should have made, though I couldn’t focus on them all at once. That might have helped.”
Still, there were critics. Some were unable to connect the hearing of their eyes to their ears and left angry messages on newspaper websites. “A TOTAL SCAM,” wrote one. “Nothing made any sense. I left halfway through to vomit.”
“I did not see it,” said a reply. “But this is what happens when artists are allowed to run amok. They make up shit like this and convince us we’re all crazy.”
Many who had seen the music later struggled to describe it. There were a limited number of performances, and it was almost impossible to attend twice.
At this final performance, there is indeed one repeat guest. He sits in the front row, his cell phone tilts just towards the stage. A beam of light catches the glass, and a gruff doorman appears by his side.
“Sir,” he says. “You’ll need to come with me.”
The man holds up one hand and leans as far away as possible without collapsing onto his neighbor. As the guard grabs for his phone, the man sticks it higher into the air, and people are turning to look.
Now the silent room is home to a host of smaller noises. Programs shuffle, whispers float, and the doorman sharply clears his throat. One of the performers notices and gasps. The saxophonist lowers his hands, distancing invisible reed from mouth. The timpani player pauses in midair and nonexistent cymbals leave a hug interrupted.
The conductor turns too, arms raised, and his baton tilts in an unintended question.
The cameraman has his shot. Pompette locks eyes with screen and it captures him in a moment of shock. Triumphant, the man slackens his grip, and is pulled down the aisle. He bumps into every armrest as he goes, and heads turn, mutters merge, and the sound barrier is shattered.
How could the show go on? Guest and performers all recognize it. Musicians lower their hands, visitors exchange glances, and Pompette alone remains with his arms aloft, something missing from the stage.
Catherine Buck lives in Jersey City, NJ, with her partner, pets, and plants. She holds an MFA from Rutgers University Camden and was a member of the Tin House YA workshop. Her work has appeared in Rougarou Journal, Bending Genres, Vestal Review, and elsewhere. In her free time, she attempts to bake bread and explore new places. You can find her on Twitter at @buckwriting.