Salome is an historical figure whose existence is recorded by the gospel writers and by the Jewish historian Josephus, and who has for two thousand years stirred the imaginations of artists, writers and composers. The 'Salome' of this story is the central character in an opera by Richard Strauss, based on a play by Oscar Wilde. This 'Salome' performs an erotic dance for King Herod of Jerusalem, in return for which she asks for the head of John the Baptist.
In the last twenty years or so there have been a handful of sopranos who possess not only the vocal ability to acquit this difficult role, but also the physical grace and freedom from inhibition necessary to perform a credible 'Dance of the Seven Veils' to Strauss' erotically charged score. There's no explicit sex in this story, but I've classified it as 'Exhibitionist and Voyeur' because 'Salome' is, when all is said and done, an opera about a strip-tease.
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It was his favourite restaurant, a comfortable walk from his apartment through the public gardens in the mild autumn twilight, with the bats squeaking in the darkness of the giant fig trees. Sufficient to get the stiffness out of his joints without tiring him. A Victorian-era building, sandstone, and inside, a Victorian atmosphere, white table cloths, fine china, silver service and uniformed waiters, chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, faded oils of rustic scenes on the walls, and thick carpets and hangings to muffle the din of conversation.
He fidgeted with his sherry glass, glanced at his watch, mumbled to himself. But she had never been punctual, he thought resignedly, and after all, she was a diva.
Then the door opened and she swept in. She scanned the faces and beamed when she picked him out. A murmur of recognition and heads turning as she made her way across the room to his table. A small figure but with curves and wearing an off-the-shoulder evening gown that showed them off to perfection. That rare combination of raven-black hair and eyes and milky-white skin. Salome herself must have looked like this, he thought.
He struggled to his feet and bent to kiss her cheek. The waiter pulled out the chair for her but she kept them both standing while she leant on the table with one hand and bent down, revealing her deep cleavage, and pulled off first one shoe and then the other, sighing in relief and throwing the exquisitely styled, but obviously painful, items under the table.
'What did you think?' she asked, when they were finally seated. He was chuffed that she was eager for his opinion. After all, she didn't need it, the reviews had been ecstatic. But he disguised his pleasure with a show of gruffness, and instead of immediately answering, called for the menu and wine list.
She left it to him to order the wine while she studied the menu intently, as she might a score, questioning him about particular dishes and, when she found his descriptions lacking, calling on the waiter to elaborate. Finally, after many hesitations and false starts, she gave her order and handed the menu back to the waiter, at the same time throwing a casual glance of appraisal over him. He was a strongly built Italian lad, muscles bulging under his starched white shirt. Then she turned back and looked sternly across the table. 'Well?' she demanded.
'An ideal production, perfectly executed. None of those ridiculous anachronisms or Freudian interpretations. The blood-red moon, Jochanaan bellowing prophesies from the cistern, the set and costumes spare but tasteful, the whole setting redolent of decadence, superstition and lust. The cast, perfect, the orchestra in fine fettle, the singing magnificent and you, my dear, in superb voice. And the dance, done as the composer intended. Herod panting with excitement and pumping his fist up and down under those regal robes as the veils come off and Herodias looks on, her face like thunder.'
They both laughed. 'You don't have to be a battleship in a caftan in order to be a diva,' she joked. He picked up his glass, raised it to her, and savoured a mouthful of the fine shiraz. But she wasn't going to let him off that easily. 'The veils, did they fall as they should?'
He set his glass back down, and gulped, and she smirked in triumph. He was rarely discomfited. She leant forward, elbows on the table and cheeks in palms, as though about to witness her own performance.
'They knew what to expect, of course, they'd read the previews.'
He paused to gather his thoughts.
'The music starts, swirling, oriental, seductive, and she appears from the wings, covered from head to ankles by the veils, only her little feet showing as she glides across the stage to Herod's throne. She pirouettes and whips off the first veil, uncovering her head. A collective intake of breath from the audience. It's true. It is the singer herself who will perform the dance.'
He was getting into his stride now, carried away by the memory of it.
'She leers at Herod, insolently, disdainfully, pulls off the second veil and drapes it over his head. He gathers it in his hands and sniffs it ecstatically. He lunges for her, but she slaps away his hand and dances across the stage to the five Jewish scholars. They were earnestly debating scripture until the music started, but since then they have been ogling her every bit as lecherously as Herod. She tears off the third veil and flings it down at their feet. Back and forth across the stage she dances, back and forth. The audience, men and women alike, are on the edges of their seats, literally, craning forward, following every movement. The fourth veil comes off.
'Then her eyes fall on the cistern. She runs up the steps onto the grate and looks down through it, parting her thighs and thrusting her pelvis lewdly back and forth, allowing the fifth veil to slide off as she does so. "Look up, Jochanaan," her movements say, "and see what it is you have spurned." The rouged nipples, the dark shadow between her thighs, we can glimpse them now through the remaining veils.
