Shame and horror

To Saddlers Wells last night, with Felix and his RADA friend Lucie, to see a production by Robert Wilson, whom they revere. I had bought the tickets on the phone and chosen the upper circle for the best view. Unfortunately, the two circles at Saddler’s Wells are very deeply raked, and we had seats right at the front, with only a low glass and aluminium barrier in front of us. Walking down to them was like descending a ski-jump, but one with no lip at the end of it, just a pure drop like the one that James Bond skis over at the beginning of one of his films. We had not brought parachutes.

Our seats were wonderfully positioned, A 16-18, right in the middle of the row. Blind determination got me to mine, facing away from the stage at the serried ranks of chairs above us, stopping them by sheer willpower from breaking loose and sliding down to sweep us over the edge. But once I had sat and seen what lay ahead and below, I could do nothing but slither down my seat as far as possible, and grab the rail in front of me, while the whole balcony moved like a ship at anchor.

The stage was empty but for a single chair, small and foreshortened, behind a translucent curtain which was raised very slowly until it disappeared into the ceiling level with where we sat, about ten meters above the ground. The floor heaved sluggishly as it rose behind me, sheer and slippery. I felt a huge urge to jump, just to get it over with, and grabbed Felix’s hand so he could pull me back. I stayed that way, clutching his hand with one of mine, and braced against the rail in front with my other hand, for the first half hour or year of the show. Then I managed to straighten out and look to my other side, where a couple of people in the front row, less gripped than I was, managed to rise form their seats and leave. That did it. They had walked along the edge of the cliff, and I realised that I was going to have to do so when the show was over.

I kept telling myself that I had walked last Christmas through the Skocjan caves in Slovenia without the mountain falling on me but there at least I had been walking. Here I could only sit still and hold on. And, when the show was over, I would have to walk along the edge. I may have started to whimper at this point. I don’t know. What I finally did, after about an hour, was to slither off my seat, very very carefully, and crouch in the footwell, so that the balustrade railing was above my head. That way I could cling on to the seat behind me, and, when I needed more comfort, see that I wasn’t on a cliff face any more. I was in a sort of ditch, with a protective wall each side of me. I could perhaps have managed a shorter show, but this one went on for nearly 100 minutes. I couldn’t believe it when people started cheering and the lights went up. I didn’t look to check, though.

When everyone else had left our row, I shuffled out, standing, but with my hand on the back of the chair I was facing. I know this wasn’t logical. The chair could have come loose.
With every step away from the edge, I grew more buoyant. By the time we had ascended to the main auditorium, I could make jokes again. I didn’t hug anything to celebrate its delicious vertical or horizontal qualities. I walked back to the car and drove. What else could I have done? I don’t carry valium around with me; that’s too much an invitation to a panic attack, and, besides, it’s hard to get and has to be hoarded for travel. I couldn’t drink, since I was driving. Screaming out loud would not have helped.

Lucie and Felix thought the show was disappointing.