Spring has Sprung

by David Yates

May 29th 1013

The Theatre des Champs Elysees, Paris

About half past ten, just after the premier of ‘The Rite of Spring’

Igor Stravinsky, an almost but not quite handsome man with small black round glasses, a pencil mustache, thick slicked back black hair and big ears, hastily exits the theatre with his mate, Florent Schmitt. Schmitt unfortunately for him, will be dead in about ten or fifteen minutes time. He doesn’t know that yet. Nether does Stravinsky for that matter. But needless to say, had Schmitt had known that fact, he probably would not have left his bed this morning. Igor rubs his cheek. A bruise was already starting to appear. “Did you see the way the woman in the tiara smacked me on the side of the face? She could’ve broken my nose if she’d been any taller.” “You’re lucky,” said Flo “She was stood on her seat as it was. Come to think of it, if Debussy hadn’t have taken her out with a swift left hook, you’d been a goner. Where did he learn to punch like that anyway? He must be at least fifty?” “He’s been married to a professional wrestler for seventeen years’” Said Igor. Schmitt couldn't believe his ears. “Has he? I didn’t know that? He’s a bit of a jolly old dark horse that one! Ah, yes, now I come to think of it, I’ve met her once. Huge woman. Huge. She’s only got one eye if I remember.” “That’s her. She lost the other in a knife fight with a one armed pool player in Tangier.” ‘She didn’t?” Igor nodded. They both walked on down the alley behind the theatre, trying their utmost best not to think too much about Debussy’s terrifying wife. Flo couldn’t help it though, he was just that sort of chap. The more he thought about it, the worse she became in his head. Quite how someone gets in a knife fight in the first place was a scary enough thought. Perhaps it was a particularly violent dinner party? Maybe one of the guests had taken offence to one of the starters? Goodness knows he’s had a few Rillettes de Tours that have made him feel like stabbing the host. “It was a disaster!” said Igor, snapping Flo out of his particularly unsavoury train of thought. “I never in a million years would’ve thought that it would have started a riot! It was just music! I can’t believe it happened. I really can’t.” His thin moustache quivered. “The dancers couldn’t hear a thing over the racket from the crowd. Vaslav Nijinsky was going spare, did you see?” “I’ve always thought choreographers were a bit highly strung. They’re all prima donnas. Don’t blame yourself. Maybe it was the C and F sharp combinations that did it? You might as well have dropped your trousers - musically speaking, of course. Ah never mind. Look on the bright side”

“Bright side? What bright side? There isn’t a bloody bright side! It was a disaster” said Stravinsky shaking his weary head. “Yes, there is old man! Ravel called you a genius. Twice. I heard him. He’s never called be that” “Hmmmmmm” said Igor, still thinking about the feral crowd. “Do you think we’re safe out here?” “Oh yes, of course!” It was in times like this the Stravinsky was pleased to have a coward as a best friend. They always know the easy way out. “We lost them good and proper by climbing out the window in the ladies powder room” said Flo. Suddenly there was a roar of noise from behind the theatre. Igor turned around just in time to see a gaggle of mad and praying society women, screaming for blood, run into the alley. “IGOR RUN!” shouted Flo. A lethal tiara flew through the air just above Stravinsky’s head and smashed against the wall, covering them with diamonds and pearls. “LEG IT!” shouted Igor. They ran as fast as their little legs could carry them down the alley, hounded by the bourgeoisie. “PHILISTINES!” Shouted Flo. Another tiara flew passed their heads. “Everyone’s a bloody music critic!” cried Igor. One particular innovative and elderly aristocrat pulled her necklace apart and threw pearls as hard as she could at the fleeing avant garde composers. Flo skidded on his feet and fell face first to the ground. “RUN! RUN IGOR! SAVE YOURSELF!” he screamed. Stravinsky hesitated as he turned back down the alley. The air was full of flying tiaras. One hit him square on the shoulder. It ripped through his dinner suit and drew blood. He howled in pain. “RUN! LEAVE ME. I’LL ONLY SLOW YOU DOWN. RUN, RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN MY FRIEND” Flo was cut short as a tiara hit him on the back of the head with such force his neck snapped. Igor stooped down to help him up but it was too late. Just before he died his friend pulled him to his mouth and whispered in his ear “You’re a great composer, Igor.” and with that, he was gone... Stravinsky picked up Flo’s violin and ran. As he looked back, he could see the ladies descend on Flo like a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. Some were battering his friends body with their handbags. He had to do something! Looking down at the violin as flash of inspiration came to him. He placed the end of the bow in one of the strings and pulled back. Raising it to eye level, he took aim. One of the aristocrats broke from the pack and ran towards him screaming. She had pulled up the layers of her gown and was swinging her handbag above her head like a hammer. She started to pick up quite a speed. Stravinsky gritted his teeth and with the satisfying twang of a perfect fifth, the bow flew! It hit her square in the neck and opened a jugular vein. Blood spluttered everywhere. She tumbled forward a few paces and fell heavily to the ground. “Thank you, my friend” Igor whispered to himself and was gone into the Parisian night.

THE END