LJ Idol Week 28: The Copernican Principle
Nov. 17th, 2014 10:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jexiaGary hated the opera. Wailing warbling wobbling women, trilling away in incomprehensible duets. Even when they used English, they kept singing over the top of each other. Ridiculous. But Cleo wanted to go, and what Cleo wanted... he sighed, and stared at his neatly-hung shirts, trying to choose one.
It's not that Cleo had any particular love for the opera, herself. It's that the neighbours had raved about it, and she was determined to impress them. It's all she seemed to do, these days; they'd only bought the house a month ago, and she wanted to fit in.
He suppressed the thought that she never would; the other houses around here were filled with the guffawing, giggling products of the best British public schools, and a plumber and his wife were never going to be particularly welcomed. Lottery winnings could buy you a house, but they couldn't buy you that ineffable, upper-class grace.
Cleo tried, he knew. One day, he'd borrowed her phone to google "electrician woldingham", and "elocution lessons woldingham" had come up in the history. She'd taken to flicking through a thesaurus before bed, consciously expanding her vocabulary so she could converse in a manner resembling theirs. She would tentatively use the new words in conversation, and look to him for approval. Like he knew! He was a plumber! He just wanted to kiss her and tell her to be herself, the woman he loved.
A clattering of coat-hangers came from the walk-in closet on her side of the bed. Ludicrous, really, to have not one but two walk-in closets, but she'd set about filling hers with a joyful avarice that made him smile. They'd got by okay before the lottery win, but they could indulge now. It made him happy.
"Darling, it's nearly time to go," Cleo called. "Are you dressed?"
"Nearly," he called back, and clattered his own coat-hangers.
"Wear the tux!" she called back.
Gary winced. He'd never imagined himself as the sort of person to own a tux, but Cleo had insisted. He picked out trousers, shirt, jacket, and tie. Dressed, he emerged to find Cleo bustling about, trying on jewellery in the mirror. He grinned. She looked glorious, her dress skimming down over her curves.
"You look ravishing! Sure we have to go?" he said, waggling his eyebrows and patting the bed.
Cleo grinned back, and waved the tickets at him. "Definitely. I got us the best seats in the house! Front row, centre. I wonder what the Harrington-Smythes will think of that!"
#
The Harrington-Smythes didn't think much of that, since they were sitting next to Gary and Cleo. Julian and Eloise offered courteous greetings, though Gary was sure he caught a glimpse of a smirk shared between the other couple.
The seats were plush, with rich red velvet that made Gary want to doze off. Not much chance of that, though, with seats directly in front of the orchestra pit, and two burly, horned-helmeted sopranos conducting aural war over a rotund tenor. Generous bosoms trembled under the combined force of industrial corsetry and operatic lungs, and Gary amused himself by imagining what would happen if the corset strings broke. Cleo watched happily, though her frequent consultations of the programme suggested he wasn't the only one who was perplexed.
The scene ended, with the tenor marched off stage at shoulder-height, standing on a giant shield and brandishing an axe. Someone with the deep, gravelly voice of an operatic Darth Vader, and the backing of an enthusiastic chorus of Viking villagers, bemoaned the loss of his wife. Or possibly mother.
Gary started to fidget. The two beers he'd downed to steel himself for the evening were jostling for attention in his bladder. At last the curtains descended with the audience shuffle that signalled intermission, and he could excuse himself.
As he left, he saw Cleo lean over to Eloise, and overheard her say, "Aren't we luc- privileged to be here tonight? To observe such a wonderful event?"
Eloise answered her with a disdainful, "Indeed," then promptly turned away, pretending interest in something on the other side of the room. Cleo gaped, then slumped back into her seat, staring fiercely at her hands.
Gary fumed all the way to the bathroom, and fumed all the way back. He clasped Cleo's hand as the curtain lifted again, silently willing his love and support into her.
The next scene managed to engage his interest. The two burly sopranos were apparently now in a love triangle, no, square, with the rotund tenor and the gravelly bass. Either that, or it was a very enthusiastic family reunion. The tenor, with cup in hand, gestured and proclaimed dramatically, and the chorus answered with fervent echoes.
A dramatic pause in the music was filled by a metallic crash from off-stage. The cast started in surprise as the giant shield from the first act rolled across the stage, and the music came to an uncertain halt. The rotund tenor jumped backwards to avoid the shield, but tripped over a soprano's foot. Stumbling, he managed to somehow headbutt the bass in the stomach. The large man, already rather flushed from his sonorous exertions, turned a peculiar purple-green, and promptly vomited.
Into the tuba.
A startled cry of "What the hell?!" was heard from the depths of the orchestra pit, followed by a thump and a howl of pain. Gary, convulsing with laughter, unashamedly stood to see what was happening. Julian and Eloise glared at him, and Cleo clutched nervously at his hand, but Gary didn't care. He was too busy laughing at the antics of the musicians.
The tuba player had dropped the fouled tuba onto the trombonist's foot, who was hopping up and down, holding her squashed appendage in one hand. The other hand still held her trombone, but since she wasn't looking too closely at what she was doing, she managed to whack the trumpeter in the side of the head with it. The trumpeter fell off his chair, causing a domino effect of toppling music stands. Violinists and cellists fluttered nervously in the front rows, and the conductor slowly swiped his hands over his face in horror or despair.
The toppling music stands finally reached the double bassist, who, in attempting to protect her instrument, somehow managed to whack the table containing assorted percussion instruments. One end folded, and a maraca flipped into the air, performing a perfect parabola and striking Eloise between the eyes with the exact sound of a dropped coconut.
Eloise collapsed in pain and surprise. Gary collapsed in laughter, wiping tears from his eyes and snorting in a decidedly lower-class way.
He loved the opera.
It's not that Cleo had any particular love for the opera, herself. It's that the neighbours had raved about it, and she was determined to impress them. It's all she seemed to do, these days; they'd only bought the house a month ago, and she wanted to fit in.
He suppressed the thought that she never would; the other houses around here were filled with the guffawing, giggling products of the best British public schools, and a plumber and his wife were never going to be particularly welcomed. Lottery winnings could buy you a house, but they couldn't buy you that ineffable, upper-class grace.
Cleo tried, he knew. One day, he'd borrowed her phone to google "electrician woldingham", and "elocution lessons woldingham" had come up in the history. She'd taken to flicking through a thesaurus before bed, consciously expanding her vocabulary so she could converse in a manner resembling theirs. She would tentatively use the new words in conversation, and look to him for approval. Like he knew! He was a plumber! He just wanted to kiss her and tell her to be herself, the woman he loved.
A clattering of coat-hangers came from the walk-in closet on her side of the bed. Ludicrous, really, to have not one but two walk-in closets, but she'd set about filling hers with a joyful avarice that made him smile. They'd got by okay before the lottery win, but they could indulge now. It made him happy.
"Darling, it's nearly time to go," Cleo called. "Are you dressed?"
"Nearly," he called back, and clattered his own coat-hangers.
"Wear the tux!" she called back.
Gary winced. He'd never imagined himself as the sort of person to own a tux, but Cleo had insisted. He picked out trousers, shirt, jacket, and tie. Dressed, he emerged to find Cleo bustling about, trying on jewellery in the mirror. He grinned. She looked glorious, her dress skimming down over her curves.
"You look ravishing! Sure we have to go?" he said, waggling his eyebrows and patting the bed.
Cleo grinned back, and waved the tickets at him. "Definitely. I got us the best seats in the house! Front row, centre. I wonder what the Harrington-Smythes will think of that!"
#
The Harrington-Smythes didn't think much of that, since they were sitting next to Gary and Cleo. Julian and Eloise offered courteous greetings, though Gary was sure he caught a glimpse of a smirk shared between the other couple.
The seats were plush, with rich red velvet that made Gary want to doze off. Not much chance of that, though, with seats directly in front of the orchestra pit, and two burly, horned-helmeted sopranos conducting aural war over a rotund tenor. Generous bosoms trembled under the combined force of industrial corsetry and operatic lungs, and Gary amused himself by imagining what would happen if the corset strings broke. Cleo watched happily, though her frequent consultations of the programme suggested he wasn't the only one who was perplexed.
The scene ended, with the tenor marched off stage at shoulder-height, standing on a giant shield and brandishing an axe. Someone with the deep, gravelly voice of an operatic Darth Vader, and the backing of an enthusiastic chorus of Viking villagers, bemoaned the loss of his wife. Or possibly mother.
Gary started to fidget. The two beers he'd downed to steel himself for the evening were jostling for attention in his bladder. At last the curtains descended with the audience shuffle that signalled intermission, and he could excuse himself.
As he left, he saw Cleo lean over to Eloise, and overheard her say, "Aren't we luc- privileged to be here tonight? To observe such a wonderful event?"
Eloise answered her with a disdainful, "Indeed," then promptly turned away, pretending interest in something on the other side of the room. Cleo gaped, then slumped back into her seat, staring fiercely at her hands.
Gary fumed all the way to the bathroom, and fumed all the way back. He clasped Cleo's hand as the curtain lifted again, silently willing his love and support into her.
The next scene managed to engage his interest. The two burly sopranos were apparently now in a love triangle, no, square, with the rotund tenor and the gravelly bass. Either that, or it was a very enthusiastic family reunion. The tenor, with cup in hand, gestured and proclaimed dramatically, and the chorus answered with fervent echoes.
A dramatic pause in the music was filled by a metallic crash from off-stage. The cast started in surprise as the giant shield from the first act rolled across the stage, and the music came to an uncertain halt. The rotund tenor jumped backwards to avoid the shield, but tripped over a soprano's foot. Stumbling, he managed to somehow headbutt the bass in the stomach. The large man, already rather flushed from his sonorous exertions, turned a peculiar purple-green, and promptly vomited.
Into the tuba.
A startled cry of "What the hell?!" was heard from the depths of the orchestra pit, followed by a thump and a howl of pain. Gary, convulsing with laughter, unashamedly stood to see what was happening. Julian and Eloise glared at him, and Cleo clutched nervously at his hand, but Gary didn't care. He was too busy laughing at the antics of the musicians.
The tuba player had dropped the fouled tuba onto the trombonist's foot, who was hopping up and down, holding her squashed appendage in one hand. The other hand still held her trombone, but since she wasn't looking too closely at what she was doing, she managed to whack the trumpeter in the side of the head with it. The trumpeter fell off his chair, causing a domino effect of toppling music stands. Violinists and cellists fluttered nervously in the front rows, and the conductor slowly swiped his hands over his face in horror or despair.
The toppling music stands finally reached the double bassist, who, in attempting to protect her instrument, somehow managed to whack the table containing assorted percussion instruments. One end folded, and a maraca flipped into the air, performing a perfect parabola and striking Eloise between the eyes with the exact sound of a dropped coconut.
Eloise collapsed in pain and surprise. Gary collapsed in laughter, wiping tears from his eyes and snorting in a decidedly lower-class way.
He loved the opera.
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no subject
Date: 2014-11-18 12:19 pm (UTC)This line made me smile.
Because I really loved the vivid descriptions of the opera from the perspective of a fish out of water, and the slapstick worked really, really well. But what made this piece special to me was the love that Gary has for Eloise, from his desire to do unseemly things to her in her gown to his amusement at her attempts to fit in... It made me swoon a little.
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Date: 2014-11-18 05:38 pm (UTC)Cheers!
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