How many years had it been? She was there every opening night of the Central City Opera Festival in her fur and satin pillbox hat or lace trimmed beret, gloves in one hand and opera glasses in the other. Prim, dignified and smelling of White Shoulders; the same cologne my grandmother wore.

She would arrive, especially these past few years, with her hand holding tightly to the arm of a young usher guiding her to our row, then smiling shyly as if to say “forgive me for disturbing you,” as she shuffled slowly to her seat.

I never learned her name in all the years we sat next to each other. “Names,” she once told me while gazing deeply into me, as if she knew my soul intimately, “are just lies.” “The truth is,” she whispered, “we don’t really exist, you know.” Then she added with a lightness to her voice, “Names are just convenient tools for young parents to use to get their children’s attention.” And then winked - leaving me with a feeling she was simultaneously pulling my leg while showing me that she could be terribly, terribly serious. The image of Mary Poppins came to mind.

During intermissions we would sit in the garden, usually under an umbrella, exchanging anecdotes about people we both had known from around the Central City area. What amazed me was that I had never seen her in town, other than at the summer opera festival. Ever. Nor had I heard any talk about her from anyone else I knew. How was it that she knew about the summer of ‘75, or the winter of ’87. She knew business owners as if they were her brothers and sisters. She knew about accidents, injuries and deaths of people who have long since left this world - or at least Central City.

How could a woman of her social standing and rarefied background know about the illegal after-hours’ parties or the woodsies at the campground, or the recreational drugs being freely shared back in the old days. I could only assume she was related to someone who lived near Central City who filled her in on these things. But she never let on, even when she let me buy her a glass or two of sherry after the opera.

There didn’t seem to be an event that had taken place in Central City that she didn’t know everything about to the tiniest detail. Her forehead would tighten when she recalled the confrontations that had taken place from time to time amongst locals: police and bikers, bikers and hippies, opera people and locals, city mayors and residents, men and women, women and women, men and alcohol. Yet, her face would soften and her normally piercing blue eyes would well up when we shared stories of the kindnesses of people who would help out strangers and the struggling business owners who would hire some rather sketchy characters who were down on their luck out of compassion because it was winter and everyone was trying to survive until the summer tourist season.

It never failed to impress me that this little old lady, wealth and culture oozing from her every pore, never expressed disdain nor judgement about the questionable behavior and practices that she recalled. Her giggles of delight over the shadier side of life in Central City filled me with affection as we talked of the antics and pranks we loved the most.

Once I asked her how it was possible that I had never seen her in town other than at the opera? She only remarked, with a hint of mystery, “I love Central City.”

I couldn’t help imagining her visiting town in various disguises, so as not to be recognized. A cowgirl? A Victorian lady? A birdwatcher? A homeless woman? A Denver Post reporter? All of which could have walked down Main Street and blended in with the atmosphere of this tourist filled town on a summer day.

Last year, on opening night of Don Giovanni, I was running late, but managed to sneak in as the house lights went down. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I found “our” row (she and I had claimed it as ours, years before) - I saw something that made my heart skip a beat. There in Seat #17 was a young man instead of my long-time friend. I felt disoriented and fidgeted restlessly through the whole first act.

Finally, mercifully, the intermission began and I wasted no time. I turned to the young man and asked him how he happened to get a ticket for that seat. He said it had been made available only an hour before the opera and wasn’t he fortunate, as there had been no others available.

I was barely present through the remaining acts that night. After the opera, I walked slowly, deep in thought, over to the bar at the Teller House Hotel where she and I enjoyed our glasses of sherry. As I sat alone by the window, a young woman came up to me and said “Are you the woman who sits in Seat #18 at the opera?” I replied with a spark of hopefulness, “Why yes...I am”. She placed a tote bag on my table and just said, “This is for you. Goodnight.”

From the worn out cloth bag I pulled a parcel wrapped in several equally worn red bandanas sewn together. A note was pinned to the fabric:

My dearest opera friend,

You once asked me how I knew so much about so many people. Well, here is the answer. I have had a subscription to the Little Kingdom Come publication since its inception. I read every issue many times and made it a point to memorize the best of the stories. I know some were made up - but within each of those tales was a Truth about the kind of people who live in the Central City area. I pass on to you my collection of them and I hope you will find someone with whom to share these delightful stories. Stories are wonderful things to cherish.

As a last wish, I have asked my grand-daughter to find you and give them to you. So now I have performed my final act. Bravo!

Fondly,

The Woman in #17