A Night at the Opera

by Simone Westfall — April 14, 2007

In the meantime, there is Devesh, the Indian financial adviser, and Daniel, the lawyer. On Saturday afternoon I have a long a funny conversation with Daniel, who is at his office plowing through piles of paperwork because he is about to go off on a Caribbean cruise with his wife and kids. All week he will email me from on board, telling me more about the wife ("I married a résumé , but we have a lot of history together and great affection for each other") and telling me what a great trip it would be if only he were with someone "more romantic." He also confesses to finding "mature" women much more sexual, and this throws me for a loop because he's only two years younger than I am. (And where the hell is Mrs. Daniel while he's drumming on his Blackberry?)

There are also emails from Devesh, who never sends a phone number (nor does he request mine) or a photo (ditto), but is so enchanted to find someone who knows a bit about music and opera that he goes ahead and buys tickets for La Traviata at the Met a week from Monday. When I protest that it seems like a good idea to meet first, for a drink or coffee, just to get a gander at each other, he suggests dinner on Friday. Okay, fine. But I have a sinking a feeling about this one. Nevertheless, I seem to be stuck.

On Friday I meet Devesh at an Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side, and as soon as I am within 10 feet of him, following the svelte hostess to the rear of the dining room, I know this is never, ever going to work. He looks like Yoda without the ears. From the outset, he is stiff and reserved and has a typical Indian singsong accent, tilting upward toward the end of sentences. There is no trace of warmth or humor, and when he tells me, for at least the second time, that his wife travels half the year, I am not surprised. I would too. He becomes animated only when talking about his clients and how much money he has made for his clients. Fortunately, this is why we have alcohol, and I guzzle enough that I can’t even remember what I ate for dinner.

I know things are not going to improve during the course of a three-hour opera (though in the back of my mind I’m wondering if perhaps he could turn into a music buddy, if only he weren’t such a stiff), but I haven’t been to the Met in two years and so I dress up in a little black number and dangling earrings, and I think I look pretty damned spiffy. Devesh offers no compliments. He simply comments, as I am wrestling my way out of mine with no help from him, that he never wears a coat to the opera or theater because it is too much of a bother. But he has bought excellent seats, and Verdi is Verdi. I find myself fighting back tears even as the orchestra launches into the plaintive overture.

How fitting is it, or how deeply ironic, that a would-be mistress is attending a performance of an opera about a courtesan with a heart of gold who comes to a wrenching and tragic end? Too late, as Violetta is collapsing from consumption, everyone realizes just what a splendid person she was all along, how noble and self-sacrificing, even in her foolish quest for pleasure. I remind myself to take vitamins when I get home.

During intermissions, Devesh complains about the quality of the singers. The tenor does not project well enough; the soprano is “washed out.” I begin to wonder if this man ever has any fun at all. It makes me hideously uncomfortable to be sitting next to him, as though I am forced to share a coach class seat beside some whining obnoxious stranger.

After the performance, he excuses himself to move off to one side of the lobby and make a phone call. I assume he is calling his wife, wherever she is, as the conversation goes on for several minutes. But no, he has been trying to summon a private car, and when we step outside the opera house and cross the plaza toward the curb, he is fuming. The car service, which he has used many times before, can’t find the Met. “How can a driver not know the way to the Metropolitan Opera House?” Has he considered that not every stratum of society is familiar with pricey New York landmarks? That maybe the driver is a newly arrived immigrant, just trying to make it, as he must have been doing so many years ago? No, I do not like this man and his arrogance.

And, besides, there are plenty of cabs, and as we are going in different directions, he hails one for me. I part from him gratefully and as graciously as possible, taking his long cold spatulate fingers in my mine and thanking him for the evening.

A few days later, I get an email from Devesh telling me he would be delighted to offer financial advice whenever I need it. I don’t think so. I’d rather stick with Investing for Dummies.

Simone Westfall is the pen name of a novelist and critic in New York City. To read all of Simone's posts in The Dating Life, click here.