That’s All, Folks!

Albert Bayes hated Carlos DeSousa. Almost everybody hated Carlos DeSousa, because Carlos DeSousa was a deeply unpleasant person. Narcissistic, egotistical, opinionated, abrasive and abusive, he was eminently dislikeable.

Carlos DeSousa was principal Tenor of the Highertuft Philharmonic. It was unusual for an orchestra to have a principal tenor, just as it was unusual for a small town like Highertuft, Norfolk (pop. 6,921) to have its own orchestra. The latter had come about thanks to the generous work of Gertrude Halliwell, a rich Bostonian who had spend a very pleasant year in the charming coastal town after the war, helping her husband convalesce. On his death, almost forty years later, she had moved to the town with the intention of using her considerable fortune to transform the place into a genteel Centre For The Arts. She had failed in this ambition – not least due to her own death just a few years later – but had succeeded in establishing an eye-wateringly well-endowed charitable trust, and acquiring, and repurposing, an abandoned cinema, which was now the Philharmonic Hall. There were enough affluent retirees in Highertuft and the neighbouring coastal towns who liked the occasional musical soiree but found Mahler a little too radical for their taste for the Philharmonic to gain a small income from modest Classical concerts which, in conjunction with the proceeds of the trust, ensured its survival.

In the heady days at the turn of the millennium, the Philharmonic had dabbled in opera, recruiting a small chorus and a number of principles, including DeSousa. DeSousa was pre-eminently the most talented of these acquisitions, not outstanding but certainly good enough to make the bill at London venues and tour nationally, had he wished. Over time, the others had been let go, and it was a matter of some debate whether the fact that DeSousa’s tenure had not been similarly curtailed was a consequence of his talent or the fact that no-one had the temerity to ask him to go.

Carlos DeSousa hated Albert Bayes. This was because Albert Bayes was, like DeSousa, headstrong and stubborn, and was quite immune to the passive and indeed active aggression which were key to DeSousa getting his own way. Albert Bayes took no nonsense from Carlos DeSousa, and this was not a situation DeSousa enjoyed.

Albert Bayes was stage manager at the Philharmonic Hall, a position he had held for forty years. He was a resolutely practical man, a master of detail, solid, dependable and unflappable. It was a matter of pride with him that he had not, in forty years, taken a single day’s sick leave; and that every event at the Hall under his control had proceeded without a single logistical hitch. He was a consummate professional: he had seen performers of all shapes and sizes come and go, and he regarded DeSousa as essentially another piece of furniture which had to be on stage in the right condition at the right time. The tantrums, the verbal abuse and the constant arrogance would have made this all but impossible for most stage managers, but Bayes was made of sterner stuff, and never let the man ruffle him.

This situation led to a rivalry between the men which expressed itself in the politics of the Philharmonic. DeSousa would complain that Bayes did not respect him, did not afford him the treatment commensurate with his enormous talent. Bayes would complain that DeSousa was unreliable, that he could not count on him to turn up to rehearsal or be ready to go on stage. Ian Jones, the long-suffering director of the Orchestra, the Hall and the Trust, did all he could to smooth ruffled feathers and prevent any serious breakdown and this he had, more or less, accomplished. Nonetheless, DeSousa was more or less universally disliked, ridiculed and avoided while Bayes was respected, popular, and generally held in high regard.

Almost everyone hated Carlos DeSousa, but Edward Fourier was not of their number. This was not because he held DeSousa in any special regard, but because he did not hate anyone. A younger man, working as Bayes’ assistant, he combined a zen-like calm with a seemingly limitless goodwill towards his fellows. People meeting Edward often asked themselves if this attitude was genuine, or rather if it concealed a seething pot of resentment and rage. Whether the future had in store for Edward a long life and a peaceful death or a Terrible Incident Involving Firearms leading to a period of national hand-wringing, no-one could decide.

4^th June was the Last Night of the Proms in Highertuft; it was also, technically, the First Night of the Proms, but this detail bothered only the sort of patron who was fond of dropping oblique references to Lewis Carroll into conversation. 4^th June was also Bayes’ final day of employment at the Philharmonic; he was near retirement, and the end of this season was a logical time for him to go.

The hour after lunch found Bayes in his office, running through his checklist for the evening’s performance, and contemplating the Special Arrangement he had in mind for DeSousa. Edward entered, zen-like, calm, and radiating universal goodwill.

“Do you want the piano on stage for the whole of the first half?” he asked.

Despite the fact that Bayes was a man who was always in control, he still experienced an adrenalin rush, a frisson of anxiety and excitement, in the run-up to a performance, and found Edward’s continual evenness of mood mildly irritating. That said, he would be the first to admit that Edward was perfectly competent, and the lack of nervous energy had never led to him neglecting his duties. Quite the reverse – over the last few years, Edward had proved to be an excellent assistant and Bayes hoped that it would be he who took his place the following season.

Still, the combination of calm and competence occasionally strayed into a sort of smugness which Bayes could not help but find irritating.

“No.” Bayes replied curtly. “Let’s bring it on just before the Granger and leave it there until the interval.”

“How about the podium and mic for DeSousa?”

“Put them on in the interval and leave them for the whole second half.”

Edward turned to go.

“What’s Davis up to?” asked Bayes, not looking up from his papers. He liked Edward but didn’t want to give him too much encouragement.

Davis was the sound engineer. Most concerts did not require a sound engineer, the Orchestra being quite loud enough under its own devices. DeSousa, however, insisted on having a microphone for his performances – not, of course, because he was not capable of filling the hall with his Magnificent Voice, but just in case that fool of a conductor could not keep the Orchestra together and DeSousa had to provide a strong rhythmic lead by being the loudest voice in the room, something which, Bayes reflected wryly, suited his temperament perfectly.

“He’s finished the sound checks and has gone home. He’ll be back at six thirty.”

“Good,” said Bayes, still not looking up. Edward paused for a moment, smiled briefly, and left the room.

***

In the sound booth, Bayes took from his pocket a USB drive and a folded sheet of paper.

He was not a technical man. Too old to have had a BBC Micro, or to have been truly caught up in the .com boom, he knew his SIMs from his SMS but not much more.

His granddaughter Julia, however, was an entirely different matter. She took to technology like a duck to water although he was uncertain if she was directly acquainted with either. He usually had difficulty following the energetic flow of words which expressed her excitement at finding some new program or gadget; it would come as no surprise to him were he to learn that she spent the night hours working for the CIA hacking into terrorist server networks; and he somewhat suspected she would one day announce that she had become a cryptocurrency millionaire and was set to retire before she finished her A-Levels.

She shared his interest in music, though, and over the years, he had taken time to give her the “inside track” of events at the Hall. Including, on more than one occasion, visits to the sound booth, which she had enjoyed enormously. The vast and ever-expanding array of equipment in her room included some dedicated to making music, and the two had spent some happy hours experimenting together. Recently, she had introduced him to something called a “vocoder” which changed the nature of a singer’s voice. They had both enjoyed, for example, hearing Albert intone “When I’m cleaning windows” in the style of Porky Pig.

He unfolded the paper and looked at the instructions Julia had written out for him. Pushing the drive into a slot in one of the machines, he began, with his usual patience and care, to follow the consecution of steps she had enumerated, installing the Porky Pig vocoder into the path of DeSousa’s microphone. He allowed himself a small smile, hoping that he would finally best DeSousa once and for all.

***

The first half of the concert went, predictably, without a hitch. After the orchestra had vacated the stage, Bayes, Edward and their team of helpers began the process of resetting the chairs, lecterns and other accoutrements in the arrangement needed for the second half. The piano was removed, DeSousa’s microphone and podium added. The process took some time and most of the audience had returned to their seats before it was done.

By this time, only Bayes and Edward remained on the stage, making final checks and adjustments, and Bayes noted, as he adjusted the height of DeSousa’s microphone stand one final time, that Edward had exited stage left and closed the door behind him. Satisfied that everything was well, Bayes followed him, walking calmly to the door stage left and pulling to open it.

It was locked.

He had learned early on in his career that the most important thing, when on stage before an audience, was to make it seem that whatever was going on was precisely what you wanted to be going on. Consequently, he did not knock on the door, or otherwise attempt to attract Edward’s attention. Instead, he patted the door in an ostentatiously affirmative manner, as if he was there only to check that it was, indeed, locked. Then he turned and began to walk calmly towards the exit at the right of the stage.

To his horror, he saw the distant door open, and the orchestra begin to file in. Quickly, but not hurriedly, he positioned himself downstage so that all the players could reach their chairs without obstacle. As the last few entered, he resumed his path towards the door, only to be greeted by Ian Jones, who gently took him by the arm and led him back to the centre of the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Ian, “if I may have your attention for a moment?”

The audience settled into silence, and Ian continued. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have no doubt, over the years, seen many distinguished individuals perform for you on this stage. Soloists, conductors, singers and indeed the talented members of our Orchestra. Yet you may never have considered others without whom those performances would not be possible.

“Please allow me to introduce you to Albert Bayes. For the past forty years, Albert has positioned chairs, moved pianos, and distributed folders of music. He has ensured that the horns could see the conductor, that the conductor could see the soloist, and that the soloist could leave the stage and return for an encore without tripping over the violins. In short, he has been responsible for every practical matter related to what happens up here on stage.

“Tonight, I am sad to say, Albert will be leaving us, and so I wanted to take this opportunity to ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to join the Orchestra and the administration of the Philharmonic in expressing our profound gratitude and well wishes for the future.”

He held out an extravagant hand to Bayes and, on cue, the audience applauded. Bayes, genuinely surprised and moved, accepted Jones’ hand and shook it warmly. After a few moments, the applause subsided.

Jones stepped forward and detached DeSousa’s microphone from its stand. Handing it to Bayes, he said, “Albert, perhaps you would like to say a few words?”

Albert froze, knowing the consequences of speaking into the microphone. For a moment, all he could see was the black, bulbous head of the thing as Jones thrust it at him.

“I couldn’t possibly,” he said at last.

“Oh, really,” said Jones, “you must!” He pushed the microphone forward again. “After all these years, you must have wanted to be in the limelight yourself for a change?”

The audience laughed politely, allowing Bayes to search for an escape route. He glanced stage left to see Edward in the wings, nodding enthusiastically and encouraging him to take the microphone.

Bayes tried to demur again but Jones was insistent. It seemed he would be able to do nothing but speak; and any speech he gave would be heard through the vocoder he had installed earlier in the day.

In a flash of inspiration, he realised there were three words he could say. They would be apposite and could be explained as a joke he had decided to play on Jones on learning about the surprise congratulation – albeit a joke which he would, in retrospect, admit was not entirely appropriate. Most importantly, it would allow him to explain why he had installed the vocoder.

He took the microphone from Jones, turned it on, and with elaborate hesitation, spoke into it.

“That’s all f-“

He heard his voice echo around the hall, but it was his voice, with no distortion, no special effects.

“- fantastic to hear, Ian.” The danger past, Bayes was quick to recover himself. “It’s been a tremendous honour to have contributed to the life and work of the Philharmonic over the years…”

And so he continued for a minute or so, to encouraging nods from Jones and a thumbs-up from Edward, and then wound his speech up, knowing that it would be too easy to outstay his welcome, allowing Jones to initiate a final round of applause. The ordeal over, Bayes walked calmly to greet Edward in the wings, and couldn’t help but breathe an audible sigh of relief.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” asked Edward. They heard the audience applaud the conductor’s entrance, and DeSousa joined them.

“Well,” he said in his affected European accent, “I am sure you must be very pleased with yourself, Mr Bayes. Just let us be clear that for all this cheering and applause, I for one shall be glad to see the back of you.” He turned his attention to Edward. “And as for you, young man, if you are lucky enough to be promoted to fill his position – something I will oppose with all my energy – I will make sure you come to understand how important I am to this company!”

Simply smiling gently with zen-like calm, Edward opened the door and nodded, allowing a snorting and disdainful DeSousa to make his entrance to appreciative applause. Closing the door again, Edward continued as the orchestra began to play.

“I am sorry I wasn’t able to let you know the microphone would be safe to use before Jones gave it to you; I left the stage earlier than I had thought to help one of the hands and then had the signal to lock the door.”

“You removed the – er – vocoder?” Bayes realised he had not actually said the word out loud before.

“Yes, well, I saw you in the sound booth this afternoon and thought I should make sure everything was okay. I thought you must be worried about something, so I gave everything an additional check.”

“Well, that’s that, then, I suppose. My last chance to get one over on DeSousa gone down the drain.”

“What you had planned was rather mean, and not the sort of thing I would do myself, but I didn’t want to ruin your retirement celebrations. I made the mic okay for you to use, but I also left some special instructions with Davis.”

He inclined his head towards the stage, where they could hear the orchestra playing.

The two men listened as the orchestra played a familiar theme, and then softened for the tenor’s entrance, and then as Porky Pig intoned the first few words of “Rule Britannia” and then, rather abruptly, ground to a halt.

Filed under: Humour, Writing