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Perhaps it was God who destroyed the Universe. Because aimless nature would not make every last thing vanish and keep on an orchestra. There it was, on a disc in nothingness, under a gothic tower whose pinnacle was a mile above and whose shaft extended below infinitely into the nothingness. It was the most excellent possible orchestra. Playing music forever in such a company would not be unpleasant for the 324 masters of their instruments. But one survivor of the destroyed Universe had not been picked from among the old world's great orchestras. He was a patisserie chef who nervously knew he did not belong, that he was there in error. But, suited up, with his sombre affable face, his greying kiss curl and swollen abdomen, he looked no different from half of the rest of the orchestra. As an extra timpani he was sometimes useful. The gong also he was honoured to whack if a piece demanded. He also helped file away the scores at the end of the day. The conductor, especially, liked to tell the patisserie chef his problems, to which he gave sound answers, his sensibility honed in the delicacies, easy disasters, and perfectibility of patisserie. Everyone loved him. He was their best friend, their sounding board, their public. So when during a rehearsal for Schumann's Rhenish symphony a black angel dropped down from the tower and carried him away howling, they yelled into nothingness for an explanation. When one was not forthcoming, they downed tools. How long for? Impossible for them to guess. But, slowly, guiltily, they had to admit that there was nothing else to do but tune up and start playing again. They played fiercely for a while, loving it more than ever before. Then for ages they played sadly, more sadly than ever before. It is important to note that the music the orchestra performed now was not from the repertoire, but new incredible pieces which they just seemed to know. |