slight grin. Slowly the gilded obscurities of the great old opera house of La Scala came into being around them. They were up inone of the second-tier boxes on the right side of the house, and down below them, faintly illuminated by the light of the stage, people in evening clothes were standing in their seats, even on them, throwing things at the stage and howling imprecations.
“I told you we ought to discuss violence in opera,” Riker said. “This seemed like a good time.”
“I thought you meant
in
opera,” Worf said, looking down in mild astonishment as two men in white tie began a fistfight. Several ladies around them fainted decorously; other ladies, and various gentlemen, began betting on the outcome—at least it looked like it, as money was changing hands.
“We are in,’” Riker said with a grin, and sat down, leaning on the railing in front of the box. “Or as ‘in’ as we need to be. I confess, though, I’m curious: does it ever get like this at the Great House at tl’Gekh?”
Worf shook his head, looking down at the stage with delight. The set and flats, depicting a fashionable nineteenth-century salon, were rapidly becoming splattered with broken eggs, and tomatoes better suited to pasta sauce than to salad. Shattered cabbages lay about, and the occasional, doubtless symbolic, lemon. “There are occasional duels,” Worf said, “but they take place outside. These days no one would dream of disturbing the performance so.”
“Even when it was terrible? The tenor was, this night. Pietro Dominghi, it was. He won’t come out now—listen to them yelling for him!”
They listened. The cries were not so much for Dominghi as a whole performer, but for the man in pieces. “Wait till the carabinieri show up,” Riker said. “Then you’ll see something.”
They watched the police show up and plunge into the crowd. The crowd’s reaction seemed to indicate that they considered this a private riot, not one that just anyonecould join. Without hesitation they turned on the carabinieri, and soon policemen were flying in all directions, crashing among the seats, several of them even being tossed out of the lower boxes and into the aisles.
Riker watched Worf with satisfaction. The Klingon was twitching slightly in sympathy as blows went home, looking down at the huge fracas with cheerful approval. “These people are true warriors, and this is great art.”
“You think
this
is art,” Riker said, “wait till the performance gets started again.”
It took some minutes, of course, but the diva in question chose her moment perfectly, a period a few breaths long in which the rioting had paused for its own breath. In crimson lace and an awesome jet-black mantilla, holding in one hand an oversize fan depicting the Judgment of Paris and in the other a Baccarat bell-goblet full of champagne, the great Irish-Czech soprano Mawrdew Czcgowcz strode out into the brief lacuna of sound and the vegetable-laden stage. With the fan she imperiously gestured at the conductor for him and his people to stop crouching in the pit as if they were about to be shelled. They obeyed, as much to their own surprise as anyone else’s. She whispered a word or two to them; the conductor hissed the same word to the orchestra as they put themselves back in order. Toscanini tapped for the downbeat, and the orchestra plunged into the heady rhythm of the prelude to the
Sempre libera
.
“
Follie”
Czcgowcz sang, “
FOLLIE!”
—each cry loud enough to stun anything with ears. The police and the rioters together stopped fighting and fell silent, staring at the consumptive apparition now moving in a graceful whirling dance among the splattered eggs and the cabbages, beginning to sing in ecstatic upscaling cadenzas of the delights of living free, no matter how short the life was.
“Now
there
is crowd control,” Riker murmured, but Worf was whispering the words of the aria along with Czcgowcz, lost in the moment. Riker smiled.
“I told you we ought to discuss violence in opera,” Riker said. “This seemed like a good time.”
“I thought you meant
in
opera,” Worf said, looking down in mild astonishment as two men in white tie began a fistfight. Several ladies around them fainted decorously; other ladies, and various gentlemen, began betting on the outcome—at least it looked like it, as money was changing hands.
“We are in,’” Riker said with a grin, and sat down, leaning on the railing in front of the box. “Or as ‘in’ as we need to be. I confess, though, I’m curious: does it ever get like this at the Great House at tl’Gekh?”
Worf shook his head, looking down at the stage with delight. The set and flats, depicting a fashionable nineteenth-century salon, were rapidly becoming splattered with broken eggs, and tomatoes better suited to pasta sauce than to salad. Shattered cabbages lay about, and the occasional, doubtless symbolic, lemon. “There are occasional duels,” Worf said, “but they take place outside. These days no one would dream of disturbing the performance so.”
“Even when it was terrible? The tenor was, this night. Pietro Dominghi, it was. He won’t come out now—listen to them yelling for him!”
They listened. The cries were not so much for Dominghi as a whole performer, but for the man in pieces. “Wait till the carabinieri show up,” Riker said. “Then you’ll see something.”
They watched the police show up and plunge into the crowd. The crowd’s reaction seemed to indicate that they considered this a private riot, not one that just anyonecould join. Without hesitation they turned on the carabinieri, and soon policemen were flying in all directions, crashing among the seats, several of them even being tossed out of the lower boxes and into the aisles.
Riker watched Worf with satisfaction. The Klingon was twitching slightly in sympathy as blows went home, looking down at the huge fracas with cheerful approval. “These people are true warriors, and this is great art.”
“You think
this
is art,” Riker said, “wait till the performance gets started again.”
It took some minutes, of course, but the diva in question chose her moment perfectly, a period a few breaths long in which the rioting had paused for its own breath. In crimson lace and an awesome jet-black mantilla, holding in one hand an oversize fan depicting the Judgment of Paris and in the other a Baccarat bell-goblet full of champagne, the great Irish-Czech soprano Mawrdew Czcgowcz strode out into the brief lacuna of sound and the vegetable-laden stage. With the fan she imperiously gestured at the conductor for him and his people to stop crouching in the pit as if they were about to be shelled. They obeyed, as much to their own surprise as anyone else’s. She whispered a word or two to them; the conductor hissed the same word to the orchestra as they put themselves back in order. Toscanini tapped for the downbeat, and the orchestra plunged into the heady rhythm of the prelude to the
Sempre libera
.
“
Follie”
Czcgowcz sang, “
FOLLIE!”
—each cry loud enough to stun anything with ears. The police and the rioters together stopped fighting and fell silent, staring at the consumptive apparition now moving in a graceful whirling dance among the splattered eggs and the cabbages, beginning to sing in ecstatic upscaling cadenzas of the delights of living free, no matter how short the life was.
“Now
there
is crowd control,” Riker murmured, but Worf was whispering the words of the aria along with Czcgowcz, lost in the moment. Riker smiled.
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