Oliver's Story

When I am laid …

Thus begins the song that was the hit of 1689. The problem with an English opera is that sometimes you can understand the words.

When I am laid —

Am laid in earth

May my wrongs create no trouble —

No trouble in thy breast …

Dido, queen of Carthage, was about to self-destruct and feel the need to tell the world about it in an aria. The music was fantastic and the text antique. Sheila Merritt sang it brilliantly and well deserved all her ovations. Finally she died definitively, dancing Cupids scattered roses, and the cur-tain fell.

'Hey, Gwen, I'm glad I came,' I said, as we arose.

'Let's thank our benefactors,' she replied.

We threaded through the people moving out and reached the orchestra.

'Where's Steve?' said Mr Stein as he was covering his cello. He had flowing grayish hair that didn't seem acquainted with a comb.

'He's on duty with Joanna,' Gwen replied. 'This is Oliver, a friend of hers.' (She didn't have to put it: quite that way!) At this moment, bearing her viola, Mrs Stein approached. Sort of small and stocky, though her effervescent manner made her quite attractive.

'Are you holding court. King Stein?'

'As usual, my dear,' he answered, adding, 'Gwen you've met. And this is Oliver, a friend of Jo's.'

'Nice to meet you. How's our daughter?'

'Fine,' retorted Mr Stein, before I could respond.

'I didn't ask you, did I, Stein?' said Mrs Stein.

'Jo is fine,' I said, not quite in sync with all their badinage. 'And thank you for the seats.'

'Did you enjoy it?' Mrs Stein inquired.

'Of course. It was terrific!' said her husband.

'Who asked you?' said Mrs Stein.

'I'm answering for him because I'm a professional. And I can tell you Merritt was superb.'

Then back to me, 'Old Purcell could write music, huh? That finale — all those great chromatic changes in the downward tetrachord!'

'Perhaps he didn't notice, Stein,' said Mrs Stein.

'He had to. Merritt sang the thing four times!'

'Excuse him, Oliver,' said Mrs Stein to me. He's only crazy when it comes to music'

"What else is there?' Stein retorted, adding, 'Everyone's invited Sunday. Our place. Half past five. That's when we'll really play.'

'We can't,' said Gwen, at last returning to the conversation. 'It's Stephen's parents' anniversary.'

'Okay,' said Mr Stein. 'Then Oliver — '

'He may have other plans,' said Mrs Stein to help me off the hook.

'Who are you to talk for him?' said Stein to Mrs Stein with righteous indignation. And then to me, 'Show up around five-thirty. Bring your instrument.'

The only thing I play is hockey,' I replied, in hope that I would gross him out.

'Then bring your stick,' said Mr Stein. 'We'll put you by the ice cubes. See you Sunday, Oliver.'

'How'd it go?' said Steve, when I deposited his wife.

'Wonderful,' Gwen rhapsodized. 'You missed a great performance.'

'What did Barrett think?' he asked, though I was standing there. I wanted to refer him to my newfound spokesman, Mr Stein, but simply mumbled, 'It was good.'

'That's good,' said Steve.

But inwardly I paraphrased the late Queen Dido as I thought, Now I am screwed.