A Tale of Two Sittings

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times….

My friend, being of a few economic classes higher than myself, moves in such circles that occasional tickets to large scale events are mysteriously forthcoming. He, a gentleman and a scholar, will at times furnish these tickets upon friends and family when such an action confers him some social advantage.

All social advantage failed on this occasion, for I can only imagine my name was way down on the list of potential companions, yet he was wont to call me. I, in the spirit of honesty with which I now relate this tale, am a writer. That is to say, I write. Sometimes. I, like many who earn a crust through the art of digital penmanship, am easily distracted from the task at hand and welcome any invitation that may spirit me away for the evening.

"The Opera!" said he. "Boris Godunov, at seven?"

"Nay," said I. For I must confess the idea of an opera is one I have found to be most abhorrent, uneducated as I am in the ways of the upper classes. In my childhood I wanted for little, but I hail from the stock of people who prefer a pie and a game of Rugby to poncing about in costumes singing about crap. Nevertheless, he pressed his hand.

"And first, some drinks at a local taverna? My dear friend, these tickets are free and highly sought after in all the finest houses. It's Bryn Terfel at the Royal Albert."

Though, by my own admission, unfamiliar with the world of opera (what knowledge gleaned predominantly from a particular car insurance advert), I am aware of Mr Terfel's existence and believe him to be an excellent singer. Such a supposition came from my intimate knowledge of a recording of 'Bread of Heaven', a Welsh rugby anthem, looped ad-infinitum on the CD by my mother during lengthy autocar journeys.

"I accept your invitation," said I, thus sealing my evening fate.

A few drinks too many

If one is to become intimately familiar with a social convention that one has hitherto unexplored, it may be prudent to consider the imbibing of some alcohol. This, of course, comes with the caveat that your social convention does not include any form of driving.

As my friend and I had not seen each other for some time prior to this evening of Boris Gudonov - we were well met in a tavern around the corner from The Royal Albert Hall. 

He, being somewhat over six feet and two inches, elected to drink the house beer, whilst I, a somewhat diminutive five feet eight inches elected only for vodka and diet coke. 

This would prove to be both his undoing and mine.

I made polite inquiries about the plot of the opera but my friend waved away my questions intimating that upon arrival at the hall we would purchase a programme. This manuscript would outline the political machinations of early Russia to my satisfaction, provide me with cuttings of interest and negate the need for an in-depth conversation that would become self-evident once the opera began.

He and I agreed, and our idle chatter turned to matters of gossip.

Caught up in conversation about wayward friends and the perpetually absent, we did not notice the half striking hard upon the clock. Our vittles consumed and with little time to spare, he and I both ran for the hall - him sloshing in a markedly foreboding manner - and me concerned we would be eyed angrily for our tardiness.

Arriving ruddy-faced, we were quickly escorted to our seats. My friend is accustomed to such grandeur in buildings, but I was temporarily overwhelmed.

"Sit down!" he hissed, for I had remained on my feet to gaze in wonder at the architecture, causing no small amount of disturbance to those behind us. One lady, no less than three thousand years old, glared at me with a reptilian malevolence I have yet to see outside of Jurassic Park.

And almost as suddenly as my buttocks were placed, the room erupted with thunderous applause.

This was not directed at me, though I confess after four vodka and cokes I was pleased not to mistakenly sit upon the knee of the gentleman immediately to my left. 

Our applause was directed at a small bespectacled man in the middle distance, who bowed and raised his arms in a gesture of quiet acceptance. "Why are we clapping?", I inquired in some confusion, "He hasn't done anything yet".

This, I was assured, was the convention. Though I thought it somewhat presumptive to clap before someone has performed any function, I kept such an opinion to myself. This was not my world and I should not expect to understand all the nuances and trivialities upon first experience.

It began, and I to my great horror realised I had not purchased a programme.

Abandoned at my darkest hour

Being without a narrative aid, the initial singing confused me somewhat. I am unfamiliar with opera, but aware of how stories function. Each tale upon The Netflix begins in earnest with exposition, the purpose of which is to give the audience a firm grasp of what is to transpire.

A mere five minutes in and I remained confused. None of the principal players had come forth and made clear their roles.

"Are they singing in English?", I enquired of my friend.

"No, in Russian", he replied in a somewhat terse way. This certainly explained the initial problem I was facing. Their words were in a language not familiar to my own tongue, my familiarity with this Slavic language being the single word pajzhalsta which, thus far, had not formed part of the plot.

This, I reasoned, was no problem. My friend would purchase us both an ice cream and a programme during the interval. I would need to concentrate.

Some ten minutes hence and after much shifting in his seat, my friend got up and was the recipient of his own crocodilian glare from the desiccated skeleton behind us. He shuffled out of the row and left the hall. This, I reasoned quite correctly, was to empty his bladder. Our hasty departure from the pub had allowed him scant relief from the ravages of hops.

After ten minutes, he had not returned. I was struck. Perhaps he had been the victim of some unfortunate accident upon the stairs. He may have been urinating like the proverbial racehorse. I became increasingly aware of the empty seat to my right. 

It seemed to grow with every passing minute and encapsulate the hall.

Another ten minutes passed and I considered going after him, worried for his safety and concerned something had befallen him. One hiss from she who shall not be named, or at least has not been named since 1703 when she was born, and I remained still in my seat.

I decided I would wait for the interval, then all problems would be resolved to the mutual satisfaction of everyone involved.

The end of days

Dear reader, the interval never came. In our haste to find our seats, we overlooked a small but obvious sign informing patrons that the performance was being recorded for the BBC as part of the proms.

Furthermore, were a person to exit the auditorium, such an action would forfeit any right to return. My friend, who exited a mere ten minutes and one round of applause into the opera was not to be readmitted.

I, glued to my seat by conventions beyond my understanding, remained in place for the next two hours and five minutes waiting patiently for an interval that would never arrive.

Devoid of any understanding of the opera as it unfolded, I contrived my own plot about Santa and his workshop. The titular character, or perhaps another character - I am still unsure, being a white-bearded fellow. 

Inventing my own plot did succeed in ensuring a limited emotional investment in the overall experience - but at the cost of my concordance with the plot as experienced by the other 5400 patrons.

I would later discover a moment of high tension occurs at the beginning of Act IV in which many impoverished people have gathered in front of the Cathedral of St. Basil and a high profile monk is excommunicated.

This drama was lost upon me, believing it to be the suppression of an elf rebellion so close to Christmas eve. Whilst those around me dabbed their eyes at the death of the eponymous hero and the descent of chaos upon the Russian people, it caused upon me a giggling fit from which I could not recover.

This, I concluded wrongly, would fuck the elves right over if they didn't do some sort of Miracle on 34th Street ex-machina. They did not.

After clapping the already pre-applaused man once more, we were allowed to leave and I reunited with my friend. He had been forced to watch the production on the bar television, and no amount of remonstration with the staff had granted him re-admittance.

When I confessed I had sat through the remaining two hours of opera, listening to a language I could not understand, sung in tunes I neither cared for nor enjoyed, about a story I didn't know, he laughed uproariously. 

When I related my creation of the festive alternative plot to maintain some semblance of sanity, he nearly wet himself for the second time that day. It would be a story he would relate to all his opera friends for years to come, one which would generate significant merriment in the upper classes.

Somewhat traumatised by my first experience of opera, I also enjoyed telling the story but for the opposite reason. With no offence to my dear friend, I firmly believe that world to be inhabited by people merely pretending to enjoy themselves out of conditioned social obligation.

To this day I have never returned to the opera, and I likely will not do so at any point soon.