Tirez Le Pianiste
Cruising the South Pacific, between Bora Bora and Pago Pago, at eight bells, passengers savor a seafaring institution. They drink Darjeeling from India, on Limoges from France. They dine on dainty sandwiches and savory scones with clotted cream. Trying hard to ignore the intolerably out of tuned piano being badly bungled by a well-intentioned entirely tone deaf Pianist. Playing paralyzing, imperfect Pachelbel, the Cannon in D. Delighting the distracted decrepit deaf but unfortunately not the diminutive doyenne dining, distraught, silently screaming. Her horror hidden behind dying dahlias and defenseless daffodils. She mutters, "I didn't care about the Poulenc but the Pachelbel, He should be punished, preferably put out of his pathetic fumbling." Marching on, this devil murders Mahler then brutalizes Bach oblivious to the obvious discomfort his articulation disturbs Madam. Searching her knitting for a stray pastille she fingers a pistol, a keepsake, a ‘toy' given for protection not reprisal. Pearl handled, silver filigreed, bejeweled, never discharged. Once fingers found, a thought gripped her palm, ‘do something.' Would a threat make this cacophony cease? She was powerless to...
STOP! "Margret, please, she meant nothing, I love y..." the pianist pleading, patting at the crimson stain spreading across his crisp punctilious waistcoat.
22 April 2016