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‘Mr Linton!’
‘Yes, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’
‘Cease that immediately!’
‘What, Sir? I’m not doing anything.’
‘Cease looking at me like that!’
‘Like what, Sir?’
He held out for another three impressive seconds—then gave an indistinct noise in the back of his throat and turned around.
‘Maybe I should assess the performers’ capabilities a second time, just to be sure.’
‘I think that’s an excellent idea,’ I agreed primly, and followed him up the stairs to the box he had apparently reserved from himself. I wondered if I should start whistling in triumph, but decided that would probably be pushing things a little too far.
We settled in the luxurious box, and my derrière got to enjoy the rare experience of sitting next to Rikkard Ambrose on something that wasn’t a bare plank of wood, the hump of a camel or a slab of stone in a South American ruin. Sighing contentedly, I leant back and prepared to enjoy the show as the curtains opened.
Since I didn’t understand much French besides merde, the plot was a little difficult to follow. If I grasped matters correctly, the heroine was in love with a gentleman who was in love with another lady who was in love with a man who was in love with the heroine. Everyone was very brave and noble and suffered in silence, except for the villain, who was villainous and sang for about a quarter of hour about how he was going to kill everybody, not seeming to care that the heroine was within hearing distance, and so on, and so on.
I must admit, the performance wasn’t quite what I had been hoping for. I had been expecting a little bit more intrigue, more passion, more action on the stage. But all I got was another aria about two characters in the woes of love. I was about to lean over to Mr Ambrose and ask how long the performance would still last, when suddenly, a body dropped from the higher levels of the scenery and hit the stage with a thud. Gasps rose from the startled audience, and a bit of fake blood trickled down from a stab wound on the actor’s chest.
‘Now this is what I’m talking about!’ Clapping my hands, I leant forward. ‘Finally! I was waiting for something exciting to happen. It’s done so well! Especially the fake blood. How did they get it to look so realistic?’
Slowly, Mr Ambrose leant over. His face seemed even stonier than usual.
‘This,’ he informed me, ‘is not part of the performance.’
It took a moment for his words to sink in. My eyes flicked back to the prone actor on stage and the fake—or maybe not-so-fake—blood trickling from his stab wound. A cold tingle travelled down my spine.
‘Oh.’
‘Indeed, Mr Linton.’
For one single moment, there was fateful silence. For a moment, everything hung in the air. What would happen? Screams? Chaos? A scandal that Paris would never forget?
Then one of the violinists struck up a timid note. Others joined in, rising in a sinister crescendo, and the singers on the stage resumed their aria, sounding slightly shriller than before.
‘They’re singing! Why the heck are they singing?’
Mr Ambrose cocked his head, listening to the French words. ‘Ah. Apparently, the clandestine romantic meeting of the two characters has been interrupted by the ghoul of a former lover, who, in his undead wrath, has decided to haunt them and bleed on their shoes. An innovative storyline. Perhaps I should suggest to the playwright that he incorporate this into his libretto.’
‘They put the corpse in the opera?’
Mr Ambrose gave me a look. ‘You might have heard of a saying that is popular among performing artists, Mister Linton: the show must go on. Especially when the man paying your wages is watching.’
‘I don’t quite remember that second part.’ I still couldn’t tear my gaze away from the dead man on the stage. The pool of blood was widening, and the actors were having increasing difficulties not stepping in it while they finished their aria about the woes of love.
‘Innovation is everywhere, Mr Linton. Especially in the opera.’ Leaning forward, he raised an opera glass to his eye. ‘Ah. Apparently, even in the face of this daunting haunting, the two protagonists remained faithful in their unending love. How romantic. And profitable.’
‘There’s a dead body on the stage. A dead body!’
In the audience, tears sparkled and handkerchiefs were raised to eyes. Here and there, some noses were cleared, and applause rose as the aria came to its climax. With an energetic kick, the lady singer kicked the corpse off the stage. With a thump, it fell down into the opera pit on top of some hapless tuba player, and to frantic applause from the audience, the two lov
ebirds sank into each other’s arms, kissing passionately. The curtain closed, and several people rose to their feet, shouting ‘Da capo! Da capo!’
‘That was a truly ingenious ending wasn’t it?’ an elderly Spanish lady in the box next to ours said to her friends, who nodded energetically.
