A disembodied male voice—Vivienne told me it was the choirmaster—issued vague instructions in English. Somewhere to our left we heard the chit-chat of awaiting singers. We began walking around the space, investigating, eavesdropping. We leaned into one loudspeaker and heard a bass clear his throat of phlegm. A tenor two places down from him said, “I didn’t quite hear that properly.” Laughter. A boy soprano in an affected voice said “and this is Spem in Alium by Thomas Tallis… la di da…” A baritone practiced his scales. And further down:

“Do you mind passing this to Stafford?”

“I’m not touching that.”

“What about you?”

“Which one’s Stafford?”

“Oscar Wilde. Bass-baritone.”

The tap of a conductor’s baton ordered the room into silence. Vivienne took hold of my arm and led me to the center of the room.

“Close your eyes.”

“What? Why?”

“Trust me. Close your eyes…” She looked terribly excited.

I shrugged my shoulders, and she squeezed my arm, approving. When I closed my eyes, the weight of her touch disappeared. The air was cold on my lips.

A solitary voice, mournful and androgynous, swept over my shoulder and began spiraling skywards. Suddenly my skin was tingling warm. Now a second voice came, lower, as if it were falling down a well. Then another, again deep…then another, this one higher: four voices, then six, eight—they were coming too quickly, multiplying, thickening, holding for so long it seemed almost inhuman. The voices broke off, then quickened in swarms, soaring, spiraling, driving down into depths, circling and crossing, fading, diving, gently bearing down…conspiracies of whispers that teased close then vanished, only to return again, sometimes consoling, sometimes mocking, sometimes pitying…why pitying? Pitying me? A terrific rising, a monstrous wave—

I opened my eyes.

The circle of black speakers looked newly ominous as the ghost choir continued singing, flooding the room. I felt dull, heavy, my mind alert only to the cold sheen on my skin and the thick, slow swirling in my chest. Vivienne stood a few feet away, eyes closed, an expression of astonished pleasure on her face. I started towards her, then stopped. I wasn’t afraid of disturbing her; rather, a strange certainty fell upon me that even if I were to touch her arm or try to speak to her, she would not know I was there.

Vivienne found me later sitting on the floor by the doors outside the exhibition room.

“There are chairs everywhere, Audrey. What are you doing down there?”

I got up off the floor and busily straightened myself.

“Oh,” she said, turning to the door. “I think they’re starting again.” She was looking through the glass panes. An old man with powdery white hair sat on the bench, his tweed shoulders trembling like a moth.

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

Vivienne didn’t answer. She was humming to the music, eyes half-closed.

“He’s not crying, is he?”