The musicians began to play the fourth movement. That meant several minutes of adagio to go, followed by a piano largo and an allegro moderato to finish. Then, it would be the end of the concerto, and the interval, at last.
Not that Edward disliked the performance of the London Philharmonic Orchestra tonight, but his knees were hurting him. He was sitting on an uncomfortable seat, with his legs awkwardly folded and pressing against the seat in front of him. It made the piece of music feel like real torture. If only I had booked an aisle seat, he reproached himself.
The moment the concerto ended, the audience broke into applause and Edward sprung up from his chair. He briefly clapped and left the row of seats. He started down the stairs to exit the concert hall as fast as he could.
He had to be careful, though: the stairs were steep and his numbed legs made his steps unsure. He hobbled a few metres, unable to overtake those who had left their seats before the round of applause had died out. A procession of people, some with a cane, others with a walking frame, were forcing their way to the foyer. A wheelchair blocked the doors, and Edward had to wait before he could pass through.
By the time he entered the foyer, his legs were functioning normally again. Yet, they couldn’t bring him very far. Another queue awaited him at the bar. If only I had ordered beforehand on the Internet, he rebuked himself while watching the display of beverages, ready to be collected by clients whose names were written on a label. Cups of tea and coffee, bottles of apple and orange juice, small, medium and large glasses of wine, lager and ale… None of these interested Edward. He snapped his fingers and shouted, “Ice cream!” Then, lowering his voice as the waiter bent over to take his order, he specified, “Vanilla clotted cream, please.”
Hardly had he been served than he retreated to a quiet corner of the room. There, his back turned to the crowd, he removed the lid from the tub and started spooning its contents into his mouth. This ice cream was the delicacy he treated himself to, at every interval of the many concerts he attended. Gulping down the sweet and refreshing cream made him feel like a child again.
Several music lovers were indulging in the same pleasure. Edward watched them scooping the cream from the tubs and stuffing it between their wrinkled, red-painted lips or into their groomed grey beards. As the bell rang to announce the end of the interval, they hurried to finish their little treat. In procession, they returned to their seats.
Edward sat down at his place. He wasn’t bothered by the lack of space any more. The LPO started with an allegro vivace; he beat time with his feet. The musicians paused; he coughed politely. They started the next mouvement; he held his breath. And when the piece ended, he joyfully joined the round of applause. Galvanised by the spectators’ display of appreciation, he even whistled like a foolish young man. Not that he found the second part of the concert better than the first, but he’d become euphoric, thanks to the ice cream.
On the train back home, he was already looking forward to returning to the concert hall for the next show. He was so eager to catch up on the cultural front. When he was a resourceless young man, he couldn’t afford to go to such events. Nor was he able to attend them when he was an overly busy businessman. But now that he had time and money on his hands, he could endlessly stuff himself with the rejuvenating elixir in the cultural tub.
Provided he booked the tickets early in the season, of course. And that wasn’t easy: competition was fierce among pensioners bingeing on culture. If only I had signed up to a membership, thought Edward.
A story from the collection
Rx Bodo 