The house lights come on. The actress receives her applause lightly and modestly. I recognise her loneliness but hold back my tears – I don’t want to explain my vulnerability to the elderly people sitting around me.
I’m at La Voix Humaine by theatre company Mooi Weer with a friend. Before the performance, we were served a Christmas dinner, even though it’s January. Next to me sat a glamorous woman in her seventies. Her expensive blazer stood out against the grey outdoor wear of the other retirees. She had blow-dried her hair and put on makeup. I noticed that the glitter from her eyeshadow had settled into the wrinkles around her eyes.
Her date arrived 40 minutes late, blaming a cancelled tram. She had been waiting nervously for him – the tickets were in her name. He was in his eighties and didn’t turn towards her as he spoke about the buildings he had designed as an architect. There was little eye contact between them. She looked at the food on her plate but didn’t eat. I tried to catch her eye, and she winked at me – the way grandmothers sometimes wink at babies in prams.
After the performance, we keep talking. The man doesn’t ask for her thoughts on La Voix Humaine – in fact, he asks very little at all. The woman puts on her coat and lingers. “I’m leaving…”, she says to her companion, but he doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he pulls out his phone and shows us all his apartment buildings on Google Maps.
Apart from my friend, him, and me, only a few people remain in the theatre. Our wine is finished, and I interrupt him: “Why didn’t you walk your girlfriend out?”
He doesn’t seem to care – she likes him more than he likes her. He has four other girlfriends, and she knows it. She also has several men to go to the theatre with. He shows us photos of all his lovers, on holiday or having dinner. They look nice. Then he shows us old photos of himself and his wife. She stands in a kitchen, wearing pyjamas, her hair in a loose bun. They had been married for 52 years until she suddenly passed away.
He puts down his phone, takes off his glasses, and leans back. We sit in silence, looking at the empty stage.
