A Hint of Color by Ben Hahn

I didn’t know what they were playing that night. I couldn’t tell you a thing about most composers, so I generally don’t pay much attention to the program. I go to listen and appreciate, not critique. I love classical music, but I can’t stand those who pretend an intimate knowledge of it. I don’t advertise my lack of expertise, but neither do I hide it. I am certainly not a poseur. It was no special occasion, merely a Tuesday evening in which I meant to get out and culture myself. I’ve only got two suits, one brown, one blue, and it took me a while to decide which I should wear. I’m generally not too particular about my appearance, but I only have four ties, and I had spilled spaghetti sauce on the light brown three weeks ago and had no idea how to clean it. The light brown goes perfectly with my brown suit. I tried on the blue suit, and wore it in front of the mirror with all three blue ties, but I didn’t look nearly as good in blue as in brown. My eyes are brown. In the end, I wore the brown suit with no tie, just a buttoned shirt loose at the top. I arrived at the concert late, took a program and sat in the balcony on the railing, where the usher guided me with a flashlight. I asked the man next to me where we were in the program, and he said it was the second movement of the first song, so I hadn’t missed too much. A guest director was in charge of the orchestra, much more animated than the regular director. He kept my attention through most of the first song, jumping and waving his wand across the stage, but as always, my eyes drifted towards the audience, the people sitting in rows, all dressed up, attentive and composed. These are not the types of people I generally observe in my line of work.

I am in marketing. This is what I tell people when they ask what I do. I market. This sounds official and exciting. What I really do is research coupon trends. I keep track of which coupons are used most, which are clipped from newspapers, which are taken from store-bought items and used to promote new products. It is fascinating to watch coupon trends, the rise and fall of the profitability of HEB’s newspaper coupons, the dependency of the success of Planters Fiesta Nuts on the coupons stashed inside cans of Planters Peanuts. It was fascinating, rather, once, for a period of time. To see what sort of products attract the type of people who use coupons, the trends they go through. Certainly none of the people below me cared to clip tickets out of the Sunday paper, or had any need to. To them, coupon was a funny word, a joke. Sure, they would always look for the best deal, but would not make do with chicken instead of roast beef Thursday for dinner because a slip of paper from the back section of the paper gave them nineteen cents less per pound. It wasn’t worth their time. I loved these people for it. I came to watch these people, these beautiful, intelligent people, to listen to the music and watch them watch the orchestra. I allowed myself the pleasure of trading the supermarket for the symphony, one place whose science I understand completely for another which confounds and delights me.

I leaned forward on my perch in the balcony and put my arms on the railing, unlike the others in my row who sat with stiff backs and hands folded in their laps. I scanned the audience. The concert hall is large but intimate enough that the light from the stage illuminates, however slightly, the crowd, and plays tricks in coiffed hair and teases reflections from black suits. It is enough for me to make out the sides of faces, the style of dresses. Many faces are familiar. The season tickets sit in the same seats every week. I come once a month, if that, but I feel I know many of the people in the audience. There is one face that I did not see at first, that I thought I might. I scanned the audience twice without catching sight of her, before I spotted her on the far left, towards the front, illuminated by the light shining on the orchestra. I had to strain over the railing to look at her. I had not noticed her at first because she was sitting next to a man, and they appeared to be a couple. I had not expected her to be sitting with anyone. She wore a black dress, and he, a black suit. His head appeared inclined towards hers, although the light made it difficult to tell. Her legs were crossed and one hand sat in her lap, one on her left leg, close to the man. I thought they might be holding hands, but realized I was wrong. The hand on her left leg was simply larger than her hand should have been. It is swelled, I thought, from what? I stared at her hand, and at the man’s head inclined towards hers. I imagined I saw him whispering something into her ear. I looked back at the hand on her leg, and for a moment, thought it might not be hers at all but his. It was close to her knee, not very far up the leg, but it sat confidently, and underneath it, the leg willingly filled its palm. It did not matter to me; that leg was free to rest under the grasp of anyone. I was simply intrigued by what tricks the light might be playing on my eyes. Through the third song, I kept my eyes on the hand, and believed I saw it, once or twice, tap the leg it sat on. It could have been in time with the music or it may have been a gesture of intimacy. I could not tell, but it did not really matter.

I watched the hand a minute longer, and remained consumed by the question that plagued my mind. I turned to the man next to me. “Do you see that couple down there?” I asked.

He did not acknowledge me, so I nudged him gently. “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you see that couple?” I pointed. He crossed his arms, shook his head and refused to look. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I just have one little question about that couple down there.” He looked to where I was pointing. “Do you see that man and woman there?” I asked. He nodded slightly. “Do you see the hand on the woman’s knee?” I stared into the dim light. “Is it his hand or her hand?”

He coughed. “Please be quiet,” he whispered, and turned back to the orchestra. At intermission the lights came on and I hoped to catch a glimpse of the hand, but the people in my row stood and pushed me from where I leaned before I could see proof of anything. She was gone when the view was clear.

I did not walk into the balcony bar, but walked down the stairs to the lower circle and ordered myself a whiskey coke. I stood in a corner of the room, and watched her come in. She appeared to be alone, though she talked to plenty of men in black and white who stood talking in circles. I was the only man without a tie. I felt conspicuous. She saw me standing in my colorful costume, as she had seen me the first time we had met.

“Hello, Jeremy,” she said.

“Hello, Christina.” I smiled.

She had no drink of her own in her hand, merely a purse. “Are you enjoying the concert?” I asked.

“Immensely,” she said. “You know me. First Tuesday of the month, here I am.” She smiled. The dress she wore was modest but taut, packaging her body tightly.

“Right,” I said. I sipped my whiskey.

“Not wearing your brown tie tonight?” she asked.

“Nah,” I said.

“It goes so well with your eyes.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I stained it. Haven’t really had time to wash it out.” I laughed a little, smoothly, at my own charming ineptitude.

“Why didn’t you wear your blue suit?” she asked.

“Oh, you know. I had to rush to get here, busy day at work. I just threw this on before I remembered about the tie.” I laughed, and my eyes shone the bright brown of my suit. She laughed a little too, forced it out, and looked away.

“I should probably be getting back to my seat,” she said.

“Who did you come with?” I asked, but she had already turned and was walking out of the bar. Men in black suits followed her out. I downed my whiskey and walked up to my balcony seat. I sat down and watched the musicians play their instruments. Our conversation had seemed too short, stilted. We had known each other for months before anything blossomed between us, and though it had ended, I believed we were still close acquaintances. Surely enough to merit more than passing, paltry words. My eyes flowed over the audience but did not stop on any one person for too long.

When the performance ended, I stood to applaud with everyone else and walked outside with the final orchestral strains still in my ears. I was greeted by the city’s own cacophonous symphony, the horns and sirens of traffic over the bass hum of car engines and trains rushing underground. I had no one to wait for, but I did not walk down the street to the subway. I lingered, smelling the night and watching the traffic as people came out. I knew no one, and no one approached me. As I was about to leave I noticed a circle of people just outside the door, talking and laughing. Christina stood in the circle, and a man in a black suit stood close to her. “The third movement of the Chopin piece was exquisite,” I heard him say. I stood near the circle for a moment, but was not invited in. I don’t know if she saw me there or not. I don’t think she could have missed me, but they all seemed quite engaged in their conversation. At any rate, she did not recognize me. I stood for a moment, examining the façade of the theater, the traffic in the street, and my own hands. I stood alone. Then I left.

I don’t know much about classical music. If pressed, however, to express my taste in music, I could easily come up with “the third movement of the Chopin piece was exquisite.” I could speak in flowery language about abstract pieces of art. I could learn to tie a bowtie and I could buy a black suit. I could become the product, sell myself wholesale.

Eighty-seven percent of all coupons that are printed are thrown away. They are a tremendous waste of paper. A few people seek coupons religiously. People generally choose the rest not because they are interested in the product being sold, but because an advertisement catches their eye. An interesting headline or a striking combination of colors alerts them to a product on sale that they do not need, but which, since it is going cheaply, might be nice to try once. And so they clip out a coupon, and stick it in a purse or wallet and vow to use it. Sometimes they buy and become hooked, and continue buying it. Sometimes by the time they come around to buying the product, ready to make a commitment and finally redeem the coupon, it has already expired. It is worthless. The coupon, for all its color, is discarded.

On the subway ride home, back to the apartment that I live in by myself, which I have shared on only one occasion, I looked at the people that sat around me staring into themselves. My cheap suit looked dull under the fluorescent lights of the train. My eyes shone brilliantly.