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When David Tudor and I walked into the hotel where we were
invited to stay in Brussels, there were large envelopes for each
of us at the desk; they were full of programs, tickets,
invitations, special passes to the Fair, and general
information. One of the invitations I had was to a luncheon at
the royal palace adjacent to the Fair Grounds. I was to reply,
but I didn’t because I was busy with rehearsals, performances,
and the writing of thirty of these stories, which I was to
deliver as a lecture in the course of the week devoted to
experimental music. So one day when I was coming into the hotel,
the desk attendant asked me whether I expected to go to the
palace for lunch the following day. I said, “Yes.” Over the
phone, he said, “He’s coming.” And then he checked my name off
a list in front of him. He asked whether I knew the plans of
others on the list, which by that time I was reading upside down.
I helped him as best I could. The next morning when I came down
for breakfast there was a man from Paris associated as physicist
with Schaeffer’s studio for musique concrète. I said, “Well,
I’ll be seeing you at luncheon today.” He said, “What luncheon?”
I said, “At the palace.” He said, “I haven’t been invited.” I
said, “I’m sure you are invited. I saw your name on the list.
You’d better call them up; they’re anxious to know who’s coming.”
An hour later the phone rang for me. It was the director of the
week’s events. He said, “I’ve just found out that you’ve invited
Dr. So-and-So to the luncheon.” I said I’d seen his name on the
list. The director said, “You’ve made a mistake and I am able
to correct it, but what I’d like to know is: How many others have
you also invited?” |