Understand!” The punctuated voice sounded almost enthusiastic. “Is-good-joke-you-make. Is-good-thing-to-hear. You-understand … Shipperton?” He didn’t wait for Shipperton to answer. He burped on, “Is-interesting … human-societal … document-opera. You-Knollwood! Wish-to-know-all … strange-sexual … questions-raised. Turandot! Her-male-parent … order-sex-with-stranger. She-not-want. She-rather-die. Is-possible-so?”
Shipperton gave me a warning look. “As you can see, Barak is very interested in human social customs, as well as our music.”
“I can see that,” I said. The look in his eye told me I should take this dumb conversation seriously, so I thought for a moment before I added carefully, “Of course, operas are not exactly realistic depictions of life, Barak. But that particular element of the plot is, yes, based on things that have sometimes happened with human beings. Both men and women sometimes have been known to commit suicide for love, either because they were forced to, ah, have sex with somebody they didn’t want to, or because they couldn’t do it with somebody they did want.”
“Fantastic!” burped the starfish.
Shipperton nodded approval. I hesitated for a moment, then offered, “But, look, Barak. That’s not really a very good opera, you know. I mean, hardly anybody does it anymore; the only Turandot you ever hear in the major houses is Puccini’s.”
“Makes-no-difference!” Barak was silent for a moment, looking thoughtfully at me—that is, that’s what I thought he was doing with most of those eyes, which were as featureless as a lobster’s. Then he suddenly changed the subject. “ Okay-you-sing-now. ”
I said, “I beg your pardon?”
“You-sing-now! What-role-you-know?”
“Sing something,” Shipperton hissed uneasily.
I hissed back, “But you said I stank.”
“Do it.”
There was no point in getting huffy, and the surroundings weren’t right for starting an argument. So I said, “Well, I suppose I could—not any of the Barak arias, I’m afraid; I don’t remember them at all—”
Barak’s burps began to sound irritated. “Sing-some-damn-warhorse! Know-Pagliacci-prologo?”
“Well, sure, everybody knows that. I suppose I could manage that, if I had some kind of accompaniment—” Barak waved an arm to shut me up. Without raising his voice he belched out an order: “Purry-you-come.”
The drapes against the wall rippled, and through them a sort of sweet-potato-shaped creature came rolling and skipping into the room.
Purry was, maybe, even stranger looking than Barak, though that’s a close call. Purry was about the same size as Barak, and it did (or he did) have short legs along the bottom of its (or his) body. He (or it) also had perforations all over the surface of its body, each cavity equipped with a set of muscles like lips or—well, like some other kind of orifice muscles worse than lips. Although it had warm puppy eyes, they were not attached to a head of any kind that I could detect, but that didn’t keep it from speaking. “Here I am, Barak,” it said in beautiful, golden tones that seemed to come from the holes in its skin. “Hello, Mr. Shipperton. Hello, Mr. Stennis. I’m Purry. I’ll be your orchestra. Would you like me to play something?”
“Pagliacci-prologo,” Barak commanded—and instantly out of that little creature began to come a volume of sound I would not have believed possible.
An orchestra? You bet Purry was an orchestra. Not just your skimpy thirty-piece opera bunch, either, but what sounded like the Chicago Symphony or the New York Philharmonic with all the seats in the pit filled, all ready for Mahler. It began:
“Dum dee-dum, dum … deedle-eedle-eedle-ee …”
It was the opening notes of the introduction to the Pagliacci prologue, as fine as I’d ever heard it played. I could make out every instrument, all from that one ocarina-shaped body that pulsed and swelled as it puffed air through
Shipperton gave me a warning look. “As you can see, Barak is very interested in human social customs, as well as our music.”
“I can see that,” I said. The look in his eye told me I should take this dumb conversation seriously, so I thought for a moment before I added carefully, “Of course, operas are not exactly realistic depictions of life, Barak. But that particular element of the plot is, yes, based on things that have sometimes happened with human beings. Both men and women sometimes have been known to commit suicide for love, either because they were forced to, ah, have sex with somebody they didn’t want to, or because they couldn’t do it with somebody they did want.”
“Fantastic!” burped the starfish.
Shipperton nodded approval. I hesitated for a moment, then offered, “But, look, Barak. That’s not really a very good opera, you know. I mean, hardly anybody does it anymore; the only Turandot you ever hear in the major houses is Puccini’s.”
“Makes-no-difference!” Barak was silent for a moment, looking thoughtfully at me—that is, that’s what I thought he was doing with most of those eyes, which were as featureless as a lobster’s. Then he suddenly changed the subject. “ Okay-you-sing-now. ”
I said, “I beg your pardon?”
“You-sing-now! What-role-you-know?”
“Sing something,” Shipperton hissed uneasily.
I hissed back, “But you said I stank.”
“Do it.”
There was no point in getting huffy, and the surroundings weren’t right for starting an argument. So I said, “Well, I suppose I could—not any of the Barak arias, I’m afraid; I don’t remember them at all—”
Barak’s burps began to sound irritated. “Sing-some-damn-warhorse! Know-Pagliacci-prologo?”
“Well, sure, everybody knows that. I suppose I could manage that, if I had some kind of accompaniment—” Barak waved an arm to shut me up. Without raising his voice he belched out an order: “Purry-you-come.”
The drapes against the wall rippled, and through them a sort of sweet-potato-shaped creature came rolling and skipping into the room.
Purry was, maybe, even stranger looking than Barak, though that’s a close call. Purry was about the same size as Barak, and it did (or he did) have short legs along the bottom of its (or his) body. He (or it) also had perforations all over the surface of its body, each cavity equipped with a set of muscles like lips or—well, like some other kind of orifice muscles worse than lips. Although it had warm puppy eyes, they were not attached to a head of any kind that I could detect, but that didn’t keep it from speaking. “Here I am, Barak,” it said in beautiful, golden tones that seemed to come from the holes in its skin. “Hello, Mr. Shipperton. Hello, Mr. Stennis. I’m Purry. I’ll be your orchestra. Would you like me to play something?”
“Pagliacci-prologo,” Barak commanded—and instantly out of that little creature began to come a volume of sound I would not have believed possible.
An orchestra? You bet Purry was an orchestra. Not just your skimpy thirty-piece opera bunch, either, but what sounded like the Chicago Symphony or the New York Philharmonic with all the seats in the pit filled, all ready for Mahler. It began:
“Dum dee-dum, dum … deedle-eedle-eedle-ee …”
It was the opening notes of the introduction to the Pagliacci prologue, as fine as I’d ever heard it played. I could make out every instrument, all from that one ocarina-shaped body that pulsed and swelled as it puffed air through
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