There is absolute blackness; there is cold; there is the smell of the ice. Deep within the inky gloom, someone coughs. There are people in there, furiously concentrating on an empty smear of light. Suddenly, within it, a figure appears. His shoulders are hunched, and his hands are pushed deep into his pockets. Clad in white, he seems illuminated from within – a dazzling statue – until a solitary piano stirs him into life.
Now there is a new sound: a metallic rasp; cold steel on colder ice. Frozen dust sparks from his heels. Friction and weight, not muscle, yield movement and direction. No other impulse is required. Invisible strings pull him forwards, then backwards. The man’s power, like the light, seems to come from some deep, brooding well. Shapes flow and his body unfurls. He pleads and he beckons. Nothing is forced and everything has a purpose. He is telling us a story; his story: I am a man trapped in a strange place; a lost and lonely man. I am a man on the moon.
As the music builds, so does his urgency. Gesturing skywards, his arms plead for rescue. None comes. Every night he beckons to the mute stars until tears stain his face. No one is coughing now. Thousands are frozen in reverential silence. Lost within the darkness, even stagehands and fellow skaters stand transfixed in the wings; just as they always do. No one has ever seen anything like it. Sometimes it is so intense, so raw, they turn away. Many of them are crying.
Out on the ice, as the moon leaves the sun, the chill has returned. Darkness has fallen. In the fading light, not even the thunderous applause can liberate the lunar castaway. Tomorrow night, he will try again. And the night after that. But he will never escape. He is trapped in his own solitary miracle. He is alone.