The Opera

He was fifty-two years old and had not taken care of himself for a minute in his entire life. His swollen feet caused him pain in every single step he took. His back would not leave him rest whenever he was seated. His inflamed stomach and constant heart burn were never-ending reminders of a life of excess to which he had happily surrendered all those years ago. Every single one of those three hundred steps that took him to the central gallery of the Opera brought him doubt; why was he here? This was the thirty-seventh time he had taken this path. The last time he would. The opera season was almost over, the company will leave town, likely on its way to present the show in far away countries. His daughter was unlikely to come back. Her voice will probably be discovered and soon she will be booked by a big time producer and will never look back. She will experience moderate success, marry a trumpetist from the orchestra, have two children and will never talk about her growing up. She was leaving easily, as she had nothing left in this place holding her back. By the time he took twenty steps he was sweating and his breath was completely agitated. He had learned, since his first visit, to come with extra time to climb that painful mountain, to refuse the help from the ushers and to avoid eye contact with the tourists who would not offer help but would offer plenty of pity. 

His mother died when he was sixteen, and since his father had abandoned them long time before, he was forced to live on the streets. He befriended a Romanian accordion player who reminded him of his own father. They shared the tips as they shared a shipping container down at the docks, it was a place to pass out and escape the cold winters. The Romanian musician offered to teach him how to play, but every time he skillfully refused, changing topics; he never told the musician that his father had taught him how to play and was fairly good at it. His theatrics and his way of presenting attracted people and tips, that was good enough. 

Russian couples in night gowns and tuxedos overtook him in the staircase, so did Brits and Americans wearing shorts and T-shirts; the audience was surprisingly diverse. It took him forty-seven minutes to reach his seat: 'Gallery Centre Right, Row 1, Seat 28' not a particularly fancy spot but with a great view. 

He was twenty-one when the Romanian musician died in his sleep. He took the accordion and ran away. The police suspected murder; the young man living with the Romanian was the logical choice, but nobody really gives two damns about people living on the streets, the matter was soon forgotten. 

He was not the first one on his seat, but it was still rather early; young beautiful women came down to the space next to him to take photos and admire the shiny chandelier. 

He soon found himself playing tangos on the streets, while he played all his worries vanished and at the end of the day he had enough coin for a warm plentiful dinner of fried sausage, potatoes and some fortified wine. Life was good. 

He sat close to the aisle, couples would come and go, taking a selfie here and there. After so many times here he knew the lyrics by heart, and yet, excitement filled his troubled head. 

She was at least twenty years older than him, a rich widow, infamous for preying on young artists. She was fascinated by bohemians and performers of all sorts; there was something about them that made her feel young again. She would keep them for a while, clean them up, pay up their vice and would just let them go when they no longer interested her, when their charm and spark would fade away or when a younger brighter star would appear. 

Little by little the seats were taken, looking down you could see a parade of suits and dresses, looking up, shorts and shirts. It was not a particularly fancy or special night at the opera and the re-sellers would jump through hoops to get the last twenty-Euro tickets out of their hands; standing tickets, all the way up. People would stay for the first act, and escape as soon as the doors open for the first intermission. He hated those people but knew damn sure that he would never be able to stand for three hours, he blamed the administration of the opera looking to get a quick buck. 

She saw him on a summer night, it was almost eleven in the evening but the sky still had a touch of brightness. He had been playing for hours but was drunk on attention, a crowd had formed and for some reason it refused to disperse. A young lady in a summer dress started to dance around him, spreading her legs like a gazelle, he could smell a faint hint of perfume and sweat, it was intoxicating. She did not pay much attention to the dancer, in her mind there was no real talent in hijacking an artist's performance, the dancer was just looking for attention, nothing more. No, she was interested in him, his strong fingers pressing the keys of the accordion, the way he held and pressed his instrument, how he kept his rhythm with his right foot, his dry and tan skin, his dark long hair, the way he had kept the attention of all these people for so long; oh yes, he would do just fine. And just as she imagined him holding her as the accordion, their eyes crossed paths for a split second. 

The orchestra started assembling, some strokes of the bows could be heard here and there, amongst the sounds of people rushing to their seats, if you payed attention you might even hear the turning of pages of the music sheets; it was all expectation. 

He saw her that same summer night, she was not particularly beautiful by any standard, but there was something about her, the way she conducted herself, the way she proudly stood amongst the crowd, the way she walked and moved her body, the confidence that she exuded, it was different, it was interesting, it was, almost sexual. 

The lights went off, a single spotlight appeared on the far right of the stage, the conductor walked in and bowed in the middle, quickly took his position and with a swift motion of his right hand, the music started. He was not paying much attention, he was not there to listen to the music, let alone observe the conductor. 

When the crowd became a sad group of two or three tourists, he thank them and played a last piece, 'La Comparsita' a favourite of his. She had left already, gone home to put on her favourite red dress and black hills, she knew where to find him; inevitably, all lost artists, hopeless bohemians and out-of-this-century romantic poets will converge at 'The Hemingway' her hunting grounds for years now. 

The musical intro ended the same way it started, without a bang, it was, as he liked thinking to himself, an uninspired collection of boring pieces put together for the sole purpose of warming the orchestra up. But the waiting was over, the spot light illuminated his daughter's face while she started singing. 

The Hemingway was a poorly lit joint hidden in an alley near the main square, completely unassuming from the outside, but to tell the truth, hiding nothing of interest inside, except for the people that had made it their home. The beer was cold but the arguments were heated. She was already waiting for him, seating in a corner at the bar, casually looking at the door when a new patron walked in. He immediately recognised her and the smug smile she shamelessly ported, he ordered a beer, sat next to her and said hello. 

His daughter was not the star of the show, but she shone just as bright, her voice was crisp and melodic and her pronunciation of the Russian lyrics was perfect, or at least for him, a person whose only command of Russian was the word 'Da', and this was pure coincidence as 'Da' means the same in Russian as it does in Romanian, a language he perfectly picked up alongside his accordion a few years back. At the very least she did not struggle with the words as much as her co-stars, her singing felt more natural and rhythmic than the jumpy, almost abrupt blabbering of the rest. 

It would be an overstatement to say that they immediately hit it off, they had nothing in common except for the promise of some sexual relief. However a few drinks can work wonders. She was fascinated by lost artists so she provided a more than eager ear to his stories. He was completely full of himself so he was more than happy to provide stories, both fictional and real, about his life. 

This was a modern take on an opera classic, the stage was minimalistic and full of crystal-clear cubes illuminated by red and blue LEDs. It had been particularly acclaimed by the young hip crowd, but he hated it, though he could not tell if he hated it because he preferred the classics or because deep down he knew it would be the last show his daughter would have in this town. 

She kept a flat about two blocks away from the Hemingway, it took them five drinks and twelve and a half minutes to reach the bed. Her body was toned and tanned, and he was young and relatively fit. She thought she liked being submissive in bed and he liked to be a little rough. All these summed up to a mildly entertaining night long session of mindless fucking. 

When his daughter was not on stage, his attention drifted towards the music, the musicians, the venue, the people seating next to him and everything had something wrong about it; he was smart to be the first one to point it out, his life as an artist at the edge of society had given him, according to himself, the right and duty to judge everything around him; the orchestra was not synchronised, the violinist was off by a note, the chandelier had not been cleaned in ages and why is that dumbass falling asleep in the middle of the scene?

She had started her pattern, yet again she had found herself a little project, she would clean, dress, teach and push said project beyond recognition. At which point, either she would lose interest in someone who wasn’t willing to adjust to her needs or the project would fully embrace the transformation which would make her lose interest as the very thing that attracted her in the first place was no more than a distant memory; this relationship was doomed from the very beginning. 

The intermission came swiftly, people would rush to the bar to get a drink, then the toilette, then back to their seats. As much as he would love to have a drink, he hated crowds and doing the same as everybody else. Truth be told, the real reason he was not getting that drink was the fact that he was not fit enough to go up the stairs, to the front of the line, to the toilette and back in a reasonable amount of time. 

And doomed it was. She took him shopping the next morning; he cleaned up nicely. But after a few outings in the city and one too many corrections of his table manners he had enough, yes, gifts, food and drink were good, but not better than his 'freedom'. He left in the middle of the night, she was still awake but didn't bother too much, she was losing interest already and there was a young graffiti artist she had laid her eye on. 

Most of the short wearing tourists standing atop the furthest point in the opera house were gone by now. They would now check this off their bucket list and would never have to endure the boredom. They will, however, happily recall the experience when talking down to their less traveled friends. 

He saw her at the bar the night after he left, he hoped she had not seen him when he chugged his beer and ran through the back door; she had, however seen him alright, laughed a little at his cowardness and quickly moved to her new project. 

The ending of the show came quicker than the intermission, most likely due to the expectation than real time contraction. He was the first one to stand up and clap for his daughter, he remained there for the next thirteen minutes, staring blankly at the centre of the stage. The usher, who knew him by now, finally approached him and offered a hand to walk up, down and out, he took the usher's hand and offered a beer or two in return. 

It was years before he saw her again, every time he walked into the bar or glanced at his audience he secretly hoped to spot her face, but she was never there, and she truly was not there, she spent years traveling in Asia, South America and, well, basically anywhere but there. 

He urged the usher to get ready while he walked down the stairs, that would give him a good thirty minutes; he would wait by the door. They walked in silence for about ten minutes until they reached the Hemingway. It was almost poetic to end this night where it had all begun so many years ago. 

She had been back for a few months, when he finally gathered the courage to walk up to her and buy her a drink, ten years had passed since he walked out on her and she had no idea who he was, or so she said. It wasn't until he vividly re-told the story of how they met and the exaggerations of the sex they used to have, that she admitted knowing who he was, and for a fantastically long night they talked, and they drank and they laughed. 

The usher drank his beer as quickly as he could, politely thanked him for it and left; he was expecting as much, at this point not even the bartender was up for listening to his life story anymore, why would a total stranger be. 

They would cross paths every now and then, occasionally nodding and smiling at each-other like old acquaintances. It wasn't until his daughter was thirteen that he found out. She asked him if he would like to meet her and apologised dearly for keeping it a secret, she wasn't sure about him, not like she was now... but she could not have been more wrong, he agreed to meet his daughter in a cafe, only to stand her up and flee the city, he was away for the next ten years. 

He finished his beer and walked next door to the leberkäse joint, ordered the biggest piece on white bread and yet another beer, the fat dripping down his chin while the 'meat' almost melted in his mouth was about the only pleasure he could lately have. 

He only came back for her funeral, after finding out she had died of a heart attack, he approached the only young lady in the room, presumably his daughter. He was right, but soon after revealing his identity to her he found out how little interest she had in him. She did not hate him or anything of the sort, she had just grown up without even thinking of the guy, she had plenty of family and friends that loved her, she did not have the need to connect with anything related to her just for the sake of companionship, not like he did anyways. 

He walked outside and quickly turned right in one of the poorly lit alleyways, he knew the way through them better than the big streets and avenues. 

They had lunch together a few times, but judging by her increasingly pronounced indifference to his stories, she was doing this out of pity and he would only be able to ride this horse for so long. They said goodbye for the last time after having coffee and pie. 

The mugger had a ten centimetre blade, he would hold most of it with his bare hand leaving only the tip visible, he would lightly stab his victims, just a small injury to convince them to relinquish their wallets. Older fellas who would not put up a fight were his usual targets.

They never spoke again but he did not forget her. He would collect newspaper clippings of her reviews and occasionally stalk her at the cafe, she noticed him as he was not particularly good at hiding, but she thought that it was harmless enough to let it pass, the last obsession of a lonely old man. 

He felt a searing pain a little to the right of his belly button but quickly this pain was overpowered by a pain in his chest and a numbness of his left arm. Quickly he could not breathe, he grabbed his chest and relaxed; this was as good a time as any. His heart stopped and before the mugger could even reach for the wallet, he collapsed on top of the mugger who was not ready for this. The blade went completely into his gut cutting the mugger's hand in the process, two shades of red mixing and collecting into a puddle. Horrified at the result and thinking he had killed him, the mugger ran away leaving his blade behind. The mugger was arrested a couple days later, seeking medical attention for an infected cut in the palm of his hand. No body ever figured out that the musician was already dead when the blade was buried into his gut. 

His funeral was a simple ceremony organised by the music community, his daughter was there, holding some daisies. He would never know that  late at night when insomnia kicked in, his daughter plays 'La comparsita' in the accordion, this doesn't help her sleep but makes her feel connected to someone she has never known.