Okay, this is what we’ll do. As you know, history repeats itself. We’ll do the same thing the Von Trapp family did in The Sound of Music. Did you see that film?

"We’re not going to perform, are we?" As you know, I absolutely can’t sing, and The Full Monty isn’t for me either.

"Come on, James, you’ve got a hot body—don’t be so childish," says Oliver while jokingly, and the men laugh their heads off.

James looks aggrieved. He has no idea what’s so funny and thinks of what his mother said: Don’t worry, boy—he who laughs last, laughs best.

"Frits, you buy the tickets. No, boy, not online—just at the counter, so you have an alibi," says Magnus, pouring the last bit of red wine into his glass. He peers inside to see if the last drop has really leaked out. What a pity you can’t wring out a bottle like that, he thinks. That was possible in the Heinz tomato ketchup advert on TV back in the day—and that bottle was made of glass, wasn’t it?

He sits thoughtfully at the table on the terrace, no longer paying attention to what the others are spending. He’d rather think about Katrien and listen to Vivaldi. What was that piece called again? It had something to do with pizza—four cheeses, but something different. In his mind, he watches the leaves fall from the trees. Is it winter already? Where’s this wind suddenly coming from? The radio says the wind is blowing from Antarctica. He doesn’t feel like going to that concert, but just like the Von Trapps, something good has to come out of this evening.

When evening comes, the men sit in the theatre hall, listening to music most of them don’t really like. But you have to do something when the police knock on your front door to drag you out of the house, accompanied by a group of soldiers.

"Sir," James whistles, "your phone keeps flashing—did you forget to turn it off? Those flashes hurt my eyes, and that buzzing is annoying. I can’t enjoy the music like this. Could you put that thing on aeroplane mode, please?"

What are those two up to? Frits wonders. I mustn’t forget to ask them for the money for their tickets—I’m not a philanthropist, and the family needs to eat if I don’t come home. I’ve got a strong head if this ends well. That James isn’t exactly a genius either. We should never have raided the ATMs, but now it’s too late. Who actually left that loot where? And where’s Wilhelm?

Suddenly, the fire alarm goes off. The guests look surprised. The lights go out, loud bangs echo through the hall, and when they come back on, it’s a bloodbath. The stage curtain hangs limp. Vivaldi plays his final notes, and the gentlemen’s musical hour—now dissolved into thin air—is over

continued

<sub>6.4.25
Painting: Musikstund (1897) - public domain
Painter: Magnus Enckell (1870–1925)
The contest "Art & Writing" is hosted by @solperez

#story #art #review #creativewriting #enckell #musikstund #steemexclusive</sub>