The Reptilian Orchestra

 Today, I find myself backstage, sitting on a speaker about the size of a night table, holding a violin bow like a sword and staring at the clock on the wall, waiting to give the most critical performance of my year. How did I even end up in this strange, cold land? Have I ever chosen to come here, or was I destined to fulfil someone else's ambitions? These thoughts come up uninvited while I am trying to mentally retrace a few tricky notes that I worry will escape my memory.

'Take a deep breath, this will calm your nerves, you might manage to forget that you will be the final performer to take the stage'. Such things I say to myself but the fact remains; I will have to walk alone with the spotlight revealing my every move, in the dark.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the stage manager walking up and down erratically like a bee, or a squirrel. He looks so much like a squirrel, he must be nervous too. He keeps peeking at the packed theatre through the slightly open curtain and biting his lower lip. No matter how we feel, how much anxiety and terror, time is irreversible and indifferent to our emotions. Soon, this hour will be in the past and the performance will be over. The stage manager nods sharply and the wind instruments make their way onto the stage, bowing to the audience before taking their seats. The string instruments are next. I see the violinists, then the cellists walking past me. Behind them come a couple of double basses that look as if they are walking on their own, moving towards the stage because the humans behind them are smaller than the instrument. That entertains me for a moment.

 The pianist is next, a very renowned virtuoso whose entrance triggers applause and cheering. Finally, the conductor has to join them on stage. Just before making his way there he looks at me and he softly smiles. I am still sitting on the speaker , legs crossed, my blue dress flowing down like a waterfall. He says something that I find unexpected, something I don’t quite understand: ‘We will meet again as our true selves’ . I don't have the luxury to ponder over this now, I have just enough time to finish smoking my lucky cigarette. I hear the applause again. Then silence. The stage manager nods at me. My cue has arrived.

The lights are off; I hear my steps breaking the heavy silence. The sound of high heels on the wooden floor. I am holding my violin in my arms like a baby. The orchestra is waiting for me to arrive; I smile awkwardly. A spotlight follows me. A sea of serious faces waiting to hear Sibelius’ Violin Concerto in D minor. I take my place in the front of the orchestra and the lights of the stage flare to life. I start playing with determination and passion. I immerse myself in this performance and feel every note to my core. A deep sadness. The notes make colours that leave the violin and escape for the sky, like fireworks.

Soon, the score calls for a few moments of silence for the soloist; a rest. I do not want to rest at all. I want to consume every note of the orchestra and admire this composition as if I were in the audience. Tonight it sounds like magic; it sounds like the warm and humid afternoons we used music to escape reality and just be happy; or at least try. My eyes drift towards the audience. Some faces in the front row look unpleasantly familiar . My mother and father are here. They are frowning. I don’t remember inviting them and they have never joined any of my performances before.

  It looks like they talk and whisper and disturb the people around them. I decide to ignore this. 'Forget about it!'. The rest is ending so I grab my bow again but the rosin doesn’t work so well anymore. Water. Where did the bow get wet from? I see the dark floor, and I notice the reflection of my face next to my feet. A thin layer of water. The tail of my dress is already floating.

'You don't have time for this now, just play'. I look up, searching for the conductor’s eyes to catch the exact downbeat for my re-entry. It’s the first time I am looking directly at him tonight; he looks a little strange. A little too distorted, a little too large. I take a closer look, the back of his tailcoat is bulging, something tears through the fabric; is that a tail? A long, green, scaly tail. His face is also morphing into a crocodile. He looks like a mythical monster; a leviathan. It's time for me to play, the leviathan turns his head towards me and holding his baton, he gives me a very strict look. I am in horror but also I start playing again. 

I play the next few notes. My fear is noticeable but only in a way that it helps the music. It sounds even more horrifying. Even chillier and as I turn back to see if anyone else is shocked by the sight of our conductor I see black, cold, reptilian eyes staring back at me from the orchestra. The first movement is about to end. I bow and hear the applause of the audience. I am trying to shake off the impression that I saw my mother and father here, that the director and the orchestra were all crocodiles. When I look down, the floor is perfectly dry.  

I am heading off to the bar to spend the interval. Thank God, everyone looks human enough out here. A slow sip of wine will surely bring me back to reality. As I swallow a very human figure approaches me. oh! It's an old friend from primary school. They talk to me in my first language. I ‘ve not even heard this language for years. This is their favourite piece, they always wanted to hear it live and now-oh! I ‘ve ruined it. Another person joins the conversation but there’s no consolation there. It's the same comments again and again. I can see my mother and father laughing behind them: I told you. 

'I told you'. This is all I can hear now. I hear it so loudly and intensely that I can’t move, I can't run, I can’t leave the venue or go home or go backstage. I am just standing there hearing everyone being so unhappy, so disappointed; so negative. The ugly and unkind laughter. The shouting: ‘this is what was going to happen, what did you expect?’.

The noise is so loud but I am still holding my violin in my hands. I lift it to my shoulder, look at the people straight in the eyes and drag the bow across the strings. I am playing again. The music is shaky, squeaky; it's deafening; it contains a tragic pain of restricted emotions, held by fingers that were never allowed to play. What a sweet feeling. It’s louder than their pettiness and they have to hear it. They can't help but hear it. The doors of the theatre are locked and there is no escape. I am in control of this place. I notice I am growing a green majestic tail too. A full Reptilian Orchestra, with a Leviathan as the conductor and all kinds of snakes. The pianist, a very sophisticated lizard cracking its fingers before he touches the instrument. The clarinetist is a snake with red and black stripes that blows the reed with her forked tongue.

The more the audience hates our creeping, crawling sound, the more I enjoy it and the more my tail grows. As I play and almost levitate above the floor I notice a clicking noise that brings my feet back down to the earth. I ignore it, but it persists. I try to ignore it harder, it still isn't going anywhere. It’s getting even louder than the music.

My eyes snap open. I slowly get up from bed, my hand instantly reaching behind me but there is no tail. I see my violin rotting in the corner of the room. Unplayed for years. It is my first day at the new job in the office. I still have an hour to get dressed.