Boos begin when a cello slips into the background of the piece, a solo disjointed note, the first of many to come. They are discomfited, they are annoyed, this is not what they came to see.

Conducting, he hears them. Pushes their unplanned discord from his head. Continues.

There is an argument beginning where the crowd grows poorer. They dislike what they are hearing. They dislike what they are seeing.

He winces at the noise. But he will overpower them. Soon the theme of his piece will rise and meet any challengers.

They seem to hear him, growing steadily louder. No longer paying attention. Brawling in the aisles.

The orchestra plays on. It cannot do anything else. It rises and swells and begets noise upon noise upon beautiful noise.

Someone starts a fire. That is it. The police and intermission arrive simultaneously.

He looks out on the heaving, brawling audience. The police swinging clubs. He had hoped they would listen, that it would hypnotise and delight them. Something awful, something new, something unlike anything before it.

He sprints to the back door. Throws it open. Angry, but anger turns soon to bitter sadness. He begins to weep as he walks aimlessly through the anonymous back streets.

It begins to rain but he does not turn around.

Tags: fiction