Elaine let herself be immersed in the full swell of the
orchestra, felt a rise in her tummy: butterflies! She looked to her left, and there was Wayne,
staring vacantly ahead as if he were stationed in front of Telly Tubbies with their two year old – father, son time. Fuck him,
she thought. Fuck him if he has the intellectual capacity of a fence post. Fuck him. Fuck. Him. And his cultural
intransigence. Da de da de da. Fuck him!
People like Wayne
were probably responsible for killing painters, writers, classical musicians in
Nazi Germany anyhow. Da de da de da. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him!
Down in the orchestra pit, the conductor, tall and lithe,
was working himself into a frenzy as the movement built to crescendo. The
whole auditorium, the whole building seemed alive, throbbing with the sound of
strings, woodwind, brass, Beethoven.
Elaine had never been to a classical music concert before and this was most
certainly exceeding expectations – oh
yes! And Wayne ’s
complete indifference was not going to spoil it this time – oh no! And Fuck him again!
Tears gathered in her eyes, a lump, one of those beautiful
lumps lodged in her throat. She could have swallowed it, but she wanted it
there, and she wanted the tears, let them come, hot and fast - she wanted to be
moved. She wanted her body to ache with unfettered joy and profound sorrow all
at once, she wanted to be humbled as if in the presence of God, she wanted to
be carried away on a tide of feeling, spun out in an emotional whirl. Fuck Wayne
... She knew what he would say when they got home. Do we
have to do that again? And she’d want to scream: Yes, WE will fucking do that again, you fucking Nazi! ... Six million! Six
fucking million! And then she would regret it, and Wayne would give her that admonishing look, naughty school girl look, say: Cool it with the anti-semitic remarks. And
she would take a few deep breaths, put the heel of her hand to her forehead,
think: I feel faint. Carbon Monoxide? Or
just the intoxication and claustrophobia of married life? Married life with a
big, stupid, jeaned up fan of Pink Floyd and fast cars. Which one is fucking Pink anyway?!
But, she would walk over to him, put her arms around his
waist, say: Not if you don’t want to (YOU
LUNK!). And Wayne, his face would brighten, like their two year old when
the purple Telly Tubby popped its
head out of a hole in Telly Tubby House,
just after Telly Tubby Bye Bye, going
Da de da de da; Wayne, would smile like a smug and yet pathetic pastiche of
flesh, bone and middle aged man, pull her close, close enough to get the full
force of his halitosis, closer still, and dumbly start singing Jimmy Nail.
Did Beethoven ever thank Jesus he was deaf?
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