I spent quite a bit of time attempting to peer around a great looming head, which constantly insisted on shifting position. In addition to being plagued by a view-obstructing cranium we were victimized by the seating hierarchy. Alas, our perches were pretty high up, and while we were able to gaze at the chandelier face to face, the faces on the concert hall stage were somewhat indistinct. Really we were like inverted Elizabethan groundlings, and unfortunately neither of us own a pair of opera glasses.

After a time of crowded ambience (ladies adjusting their diamonds for optimal display, men casually examining their platinum Rolexes) the lights dimmed; Who’s Who didn’t matter suddenly as the master himself hobbled on stage followed by the Maestro carrying the violin. Perlman is 70 years old and has legs twisted like knarled branches–he had polio once.

Seated firmly in his chair with crutches at his feet, the orchestra behind him, the people before him, and everyone together in the palm of his hand, he began to play.

The most beautiful sounds swirled around us; transcendental melodies, delicate, sublime voicings–music God Himself would gladly dance to. We were lost–lost in the swelling vagaries of an ethereal fantasy. And when it was over, when the master had thrown his white rag as a poetic “goodnight! do you think music such as this can suffer an encore?,” then I sat still and silent, trying to breathe, trying capture the delicate soaring tones in my heart forever.