The Case of the Orphaned Bassoonists by Barbara Wilson

calm waters of the human soul, yearning, restless and joyful.
    Beside me, Albert and Marco listened intently, but I heard Andrew sighing in disgust, presumably at ear-bending oboe errors that I couldn’t recognize. The rest of the audience seemed quite enthralled. At least until, during a solemn moment, the sound of a cell phone trilled as demandingly as a tiny poodle wanting to be picked up.
    It was Gunther’s Handy. He answered it in a low voice, at the same time rising to excuse himself. Of course he was in the middle of the row. From the set of Bitten’s shoulders, it was clear she wasn’t at all happy, and after a few minutes, just as everyone in her church pew got settled again, she popped up like an extremely large jumping jack and pushed her way out after Gunther.
    The concentration of the singers and players faltered, particularly after the second interruption (for some reason Bitten felt compelled to say Scusi several times in a distractingly loud voice, especially after she half-fell onto the lap of an elderly man who had been snoozing), and although the musicians went on with as much verve as possible, Andrew’s critical, pained sighs increased.
    At the next interval Marco got up, murmuring, “I must tell Gunther to turn off his telephone.” A moment or two later, Andrew followed him out.
    Albert and I remained where we were. When the rows around us had emptied, I said, “It’s quite unusual that two bassoons should go missing at the same time, don’t you think?”
    “Highly unusual,” said Albert, “and, in fact, quite untrue.”
    “What do you mean, untrue?”
    “It’s the same bassoon all right.”
    “But Signore Sandretti…”
    “One might ask oneself why.”
    “Did you get the strong impression that Bitten recognized it?”
    “Yes. But for some reason she didn’t want to say anything.”
    “Marco thought the bassoon was the right one,” I pointed out.
    “But after his father said it wasn’t, Marco immediately fell in line.”
    “What about Andrew?”
    “His face reveals nothing most of the time except a great eagerness to be with Marco. But no, I’m tempted to believe that he didn’t steal it. Nor did Gunther.”
    “Why would Signore Sandretti…?”
    “That remains to be discovered. Meanwhile the bassoon is safe.”
    “At the Danieli?”
    Albert smiled, but all he said was, “Ah, so you can eavesdrop in Italian too. A useful skill.”
    None of our friends returned for the opening of Act Three, a truancy I’m sure the performers appreciated. Perhaps it was the absence of a critical voice next to me, but from the opening strains I began to hear and feel the music this time. In spite of the hard pews and less than perfect acoustics, the singing began to penetrate my bones with intense sweetness. Festive, sober, giddy, tragic, the music floated me down rivers and danced with me in mirrored reception rooms. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, I glimpsed for just a second a world other than the superficial and tawdry one I lived in. It was not a perfect place, of course, for it was created by human beings who loved intrigue, complexity, luxury and revenge. Emotionally, it was not a simpler world, but it was one that was livelier and more dignified. I opened my eyes and saw a richly intricate Guardi painting superimposed over the church scene. Instead of a motley collection of tourists dressed in T-shirts and jeans, I saw silk dresses, velvet capes, embroidered breeches and stockings. I smelled sweat and heavy perfume, candle wax and damp stone. Behind the latticed balconies, the voices of the chorus poured out like water. And the orchestra of women below was filled with beautiful orphaned musicians looking pale and monastic. Like Francesca.
    The presentation was over and everyone took a bow, many more bows, actually, than necessary. As Albert and I got up to go, I saw Bitten in a side pew, alone. Outside the church we found Marco and Andrew leaning against a