**John Adams’ *Nixon in China*** is today’s entertainment. For the first time since the start of our confinement, the opera is in English with subtitles—a welcome change, as we can (most of the time) understand the singing. It’s a war between two men, between two ideologies. One cannot help but draw even more contrasting arrows between Nixon and Trump—one president opening China for U.S. profits, and another trying to close it, believing China has profited enough.
Today, one million people have been infected with COVID-19.
Carolle thinks we have another month of confinement; we should be so lucky. I believe we will be fighting COVID-19 until summer. The country is not on the same level of urgency, with some states still hedging their bets. One governor, who claims not to have gotten the memo about the highly contagious nature of the virus, is fighting with town officials trying to close beaches, even threatening jail if they proceed with their protective plans. If all states lock down, there is a chance of containing the virus in hotspots; otherwise, the health community will be playing whack-a-mole for a long time. I am not optimistic that this lockdown will be short.
I feel bad for Carolle. I have essentially cloistered her. She can’t visit stores for fear of falling ill. Shopping, a simple pleasure, is no longer hers, and I sense from her questions that she misses it. She longs for normalcy. Normal has gone, and it won’t be back anytime soon. I believe one person doing errands is risky enough, but with all precautions taken, the risk is controlled. So far, so good, and I intend to keep it that way.
The opera had an entertaining perk: a wonderful ballet. Carolle, who loves ballet, enjoyed it immensely. In one scene, women workers overtook their abusive rapist boss—a powerful depiction of women taking charge of the revolution. The scenes were violent by nature; Pat Nixon, so frightened by the performance, thought it was real and leapt on stage to help a woman being flogged. It was great theater until we learned it had actually happened. Then we began wondering: what was wrong with that poor woman? Was it a reflection of her husband’s well-known paranoia? Was she medicated?
The next day’s opera, Verdi’s *Don Carlo,* brought us the Inquisition and the burning of heretics. The good thing about these horrifying scenes, always accompanied by powerful arias, is that they make one feel better about one’s condition—reminding us that others have endured far worse. As if to say: don’t complain. In the old days, you might have been skewered or, like Saint Lawrence, grilled on a charcoal pit. Small consolation, but in these days of confinement, rationalization helps.
Today, fatalities in New York reached 3,000.
The guitar I sent my grandson has arrived, and he seemed excited by the surprise. He’s just the right age to start learning and can progress quickly if he practices. They say it takes 40,000 hours of practice to master any skill. I’m sure I’ve long surpassed that threshold, yet my fingers still feel clumsy. Seeing his happiness elated me. COVID-19 must be frightening for him and his peers; perhaps this instrument will distract him. When I was his age, I was terrified of the atomic bomb. I remember being in school in France during the Cuban Missile Crisis, under Kennedy, thinking bombs would rain on us. I was in school, too, when his assassination was announced. Class was interrupted, and we were not only sad but also scared that war might result. I know what it’s like to grow up scared. I hope the guitar brings him as much joy as it brought me during the short time I was its custodian. And it should keep him occupied for a while.
Our days are a roller coaster of bad news and deep sadness. Countless artists and beloved personalities are succumbing to COVID-19. Today, it’s Bucky Pizzarelli, the virtuoso guitarist. At first, I thought it was his son, John, whose radio show I listen to occasionally. But it was Bucky, John’s father, more famous than his son but unknown to me. Discovering recordings of them playing together delighted me—and filled me with jealousy. Though I know a few licks, watching Bucky reminded me that I would never attain such skill. Not that I ever aimed to be a professional guitarist like my friend Danny, who is stranded in the islands due to COVID-19. For all its glamour, it takes immense work to make a living as a musician, even backing legends like Etta James, Buddy Guy, or Otis Rush. My guitar playing is a hobby, mostly for my amusement. Perhaps, one day, my fingers will land on the right string at the right time to produce a perfect note. Until then, I’ll keep playing, self-punishing yet enjoying the noble instrument.
I abandoned France and my prior life when I was twenty years old. Together with a newfound friend—a self-proclaimed poet whose name I have forgotten—I left my car at the ferry docks and took the next boat to England. After a few days there, we crossed the Channel in the opposite direction to Amsterdam. Out of money, he returned to France, and I ended up in Vondelpark, where hundreds of hippies were converging in the 1970s. There was drumming, music, and the sweet smell of hashish everywhere. The police were very lax.
In the park, I met a German man and his friend Charlie. Stephan played a simple flute, and they were traveling like me, kind enough to share their food. Stephan, a musician and artist, knew Amsterdam well and let me tag along. We slept in communal houseboats or lofts equipped with bunk beds for hundreds. Food was basic—mostly yogurt and muesli, if I recall. Stephan’s favorite spot was Zandvoort on the shore, where we visited his friend Richard, recovering from a near-fatal overdose. A kind woman had found him half-naked in the street and nursed him back to health.
Richard, born in Belgium, had traveled to the U.S. and worked in commercial art, though he was vague about his past. One miserable, foggy day, we sought refuge in an abandoned WWII bunker on the beach. While my friends were out buying food, two young men arrived, seeking shelter. I invited them to the rear, where they discovered a bag of coins. Unsure what to do, we waited for my friends to return. Richard declared it a treasure: finders, keepers. We divided it into four shares and sent the Swiss boys on their way. The coins, silver guilders, brought us food and new plans.
Richard taught us to draw with chalk on sidewalks, earning money from passersby. I learned to work with the medium, creating simple but striking designs. When Amsterdam grew less profitable, we moved to Germany, staying with Stephan’s family. There, I learned my first guitar chords from Stephan, my talented friend. His girlfriend, a beautiful Turkish woman, eventually had to return home. We decided to follow her on our way to India.
Crossing Europe by train and bus, we reached Istanbul. The markets were vibrant, with tea vendors weaving through the crowded souks. But trouble arose when the police raided our hotel, questioning Stephan’s girlfriend’s passport. We were jailed for two days in a dungeon-like cell. Without explanation, we were released, and I decided to return to Germany. Stephan stayed behind.
Months later, I learned Stephan had been found dead, meditating in his Istanbul hotel. His loss devastated me. He was the first friend I lost to death, and I still think of him often.
The opera *The Pearl Fishers* by Bizet reminds me of Stephan. The opening scene, with deep-sea divers, reflects the beauty he sought in meditation. Perhaps he dove too deeply, finding something that took his breath away. The sadness lingers, as does the weight of the pandemic. Time stands still when you lose someone you love.