The Connoisseur

Chapter 8 - Divinity

One scene more and the audience leapt to their feet, cheering and applauding.  Sophia jumped up, gazing down at the great conductor as she clapped.  Mozart was panting and wiping his brow as he turned to the delighted audience, but he fizzed with energy, casting huge smiles and great gestures around the theatre.

“Do they do whooping at eighteenth-century opera?” she asked Alexander.

“Not yet.”

Sophia whooped.  It didn’t worry her that Alexander was still seated, eyes closed, breathing in deeply.  If he was odd in 2013, he was allowed to be odd elsewhere too.

“Wow,” she said once the applause had died down, replaced by eager chattering.  “Just, wow.  That was incredible.” 

“It was better than I ever thought it could be,” said Alexander.  He was shaking his head in disbelief.  “Did you see Mozart?  He was so invested in it, in every moment.  Not to mention the ensemble.  Sublime.”

“I think I know what would help us appreciate it even more.”  Sophia frowned.  “But I’m guessing there aren’t many bars around here.”

“Unfortunately not.”

“So back home again?”  ‘Home’ was a strange word.  “Unless you’ve got a midnight stroll planned through Prague.”

“No.   I thought we’d go to the afterparty.”

A short, sharp thrill passed right through Sophia’s body.  Alexander looked deadly serious.

“Ah, of course,” she said, nodding soberly.  “The afterparty.”

“Yes.  The afterparty.  Dear old Wolfgang will be there, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

They stared at one another.  Alexander raised an eyebrow.  Sophia raised both.

They both began laughing at exactly the same moment.  Alexander held out his hand.

“To the party!” he sang, stealing Mozart’s tune.

*

They rolled through the cobbled streets of Prague in a beautiful coach, the interior furnished with velvet.  Other carriages were lined up before and behind; they seemed to be in a long procession through the city.  Soon they arrived at a stately townhouse, draped in long banners and with baskets of colourful flowers hanging from the wrought-iron gates.  Laughter and bubbling conversation spilled out into the street.  Alexander and Sophia swept inside even as many others were dismissed by alert attendants.

“Wine, sir?” said a servant, holding out a silver platter of glasses.  “Madame?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Sophia.  She took a glass, drank, and winked at the servant.  “Now I’m off to get wasted.”

The servant promptly looked away, clearing his throat.

“I not really planning on a heavy night,” she said to Alexander as they walked on into the house.  “I just wanted to see if your miracle translation could do slang.”

“Of course it can.”

“Of course it can!  Cheers.” 

They touched glasses and sailed into the ballroom.  It was thronged with people in the most lavishly coloured jackets, dresses and wigs, all laughing and drinking and snuggling into corners.  Tables groaned under dishes of sweetmeats and fruit, and the walls under huge draped curtains, tapestries and gold-framed portraits.  Rococo statuary, the gaudiest imaginable, filled in the gaps around the edge of the room.  It was all in fabulously bad taste.  Sophia couldn’t stop smiling.