I’m not sure what just happened, but it’s possible that Vidal is still in the building, so I go into the dining room to take a look. As soon as I open the doors, a wave of sound comes thundering over me. It’s the piano, the cello, but most of all it’s the woman standing at the front of the room, singing.

I have never been able to afford a ticket to the opera. The closest I came was watching a young man, a busker like myself, blast “Time to Say Goodbye” from a boom box on the steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery. His voice soared over the music like nothing I’d heard before. I gave him half of the money I’d earned that day and walked away feeling a lightness inside to match the lightness in my pocket.

So when I hear the band start this song, I recognize it immediately. It’s not opera, per se, but for my money it’s better. It’s something I can understand. Something I can feel. I’m more of a blues gal, myself. The rawness of the blues, the stories of it, they’ve burrowed inside of me and made a home that I’ve never been able to root out. But you can’t be tethered to your blues every second. There are epic, grand things in life to experience, and what is happening here is just a little taste of it.

Standing just inside the room, I forget, for a moment, what I came here for. This time it’s a woman singing, and she is so good that nobody wants to say good-bye to her when it’s over. I feel tears in my eyes, and I don’t know why. Her voice has wrapped itself around me, but it doesn’t feel light, like it did with the busker. It feels like I’m choking on it.

In her voice I hear nothing but melancholy and longing.

Grabbing my coat, I leave to the sound of ecstatic applause. The ecstasy is lost on me, but the melancholy remains. The lobby is stifling. Everything is gold and red. If I sink into one of the overstuffed armchairs, I might never rise again.

The doorman, having seen me shake hands with Bernard Lam, doesn’t bat an eyelash at me. Besides, what trouble could I be on my way out?

“Have a nice night, ma’am,” he says to me.

I guess shaking hands with Bernard Lam is enough to earn me a ma’am and some well wishes for the evening. The song I’d just heard stays with me, dissipates my anger toward Lam.

I was this close.