The Conductor from Hell

Ebenezer Papuccino

             The room buzzed with tension as Dr. Ebenezer Papuccino took the podium, his long black conducting stick in hand.

             Dr. Papuccino was a genius, no doubt about that.  He’d written his first concerto at age three, become principal violinist of the nearest Philharmonic orchestra at eleven, first taken the podium at twelve, finished college at sixteen, refused six-figure positions from no less than eight prestigious ensembles, and now, at the age of sixty-five, was currently enjoying a nice quiet life in the Swiss countryside.

             He lived mainly off the auctions of his original pieces, renowned for their aesthetic value and beautifully embellished solo lines.

             He was intelligent, creative and musical, with perfect pitch, rhythm sense like a metronome, and excellent mastery of more or less eighteen different instruments.  He also happened to be a complete jerk.

             Now, Dr. Papuccino had been invited as a guest conductor for the Amenza Symphony Orchestra, then considered the finest in the world.  He accepted the offer, presumably because he wanted to test-drive his newest piece, Hell’s Tempest.

             So he spread his score across the conductor’s stand, flexed his conductor’s wand, and surveyed the orchestra severely.  They gazed back nervously.  It had been fifty years since his last experience with an orchestra, and that had been rather . . . memorable..

             “You’re an incredibly ugly-looking group,” he informed them tactlessly.

             They gaped.

             “You’re also remarkably ill-prepared.  Why is no one turned to bar six-hundred and sixty-seven?”

             There was a perceptive rustling in the room as everyone scrabbled to find the page.  No one mentioned that it was the first they’d heard of bar six-hundred and sixty-seven.

             “That’s better,” he said crossly when they were all ready.  And then he whipped up his wand and began hacking at the air violently.”

             About half the orchestra managed to get instruments up in time and scrap out some kind of sound; the other half stared blankly for a moment before realizing that he was, yes, conducting and no, not having a seizure.

             “Imbeciles,” he screamed.  “Fools!  Useless loonies!”

             “But sir,” began the principal cellist.

             “Silence!”

             “But sir—”

             “Silencio!”

             “But sir—”

             “Shut up!” screamed Papuccino, and thunked the cellist over the head with his wand.  It snapped.  There was a very uncomfortable silence.

             “Oh, not to worry,” said the conductor, smiling, snakelike, around the room.  With his skeletal frame and his eccentric black cloak, he really did look like some bat from hell, standing there with his twig fingers clawing the air.  “I’ve got lots more.”  He grinned evilly and opened a suitcase at his feet.  It was full to the brim with black wands.

             “Hehe.  Hehe,” snickered Papuccino.

             They all stared at the insane Swiss recluse in horror.

             “Now!” said Papuccino, straightening up.  “Let’s continue.  667, if you don’t mind, ladies and gentlemen.”

             “But sir!” cried the cellist in desperation.

             Papuccino clenched his wand threateningly, and the cellist fell silent. 

             “667!  Now!”

            The spasmodic wand-waving began again.  Sound issued forth from the orchestra, but it was a hellish sound indeed.

             “You!” shrieked Papuccino suddenly, stabbing his middle finger at a percussionist in the back.  “Yes, you!  Why aren’t you playing?”

             It was a youngish college student, his mallets held useless in one limp hand.  He was clearly lost.  “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered.

             “You’d better be!  You’re fired!”

             “But sir!” cried the cellist.

             Papuccino hurled his wand at him, javelin-style.  The cellist dodged, and it shattered into matchsticks on the stand behind him.

             Papuccino laughed and looked around conspiratorially.  “You know what happens to a musician who can’t play?  They take away his instrument and give him a pair of sticks.  Then they send him to go bang on the pots and pans.”

             No one dared move.  The silence was like molasses.

             “And if he can’t manage that,” came a very quiet voice from the back, “then they take away one of his sticks and make him a conductor.”

             Papuccino roared like a lion and threw several more sticks at the percussion section, but the percussionist had scampered safely out the door by then.  Several people looked after him longingly.

             Papuccino looked ready to explode.  “Six.  Hundred.  And.   Sixty.  Seven.”

             The principal cellist’s lip quivered.  His stand partner elbowed him sharply.  “Don’t.  He’ll stab you.”

             The piece began.  It was rather strange.  Random scales, arpeggios, bits and pieces of various other works echoed through the hall.  Bach, Rossini, Copland, Tchaikovsky and Mozart all clashed and mingled at various tempos and dynamics.  They would have turned in their graves to hear the racket.

             Papuccino seemed perfectly content with the performance.  He went on fencing with some unseen opponent, completely ignoring beat and meter.

             The unbearable clamor went on for about half an hour.  Anyone who appeared to be giving up was promptly met with a flying black wand.  Some suspected, by the end of that rehearsal, that those ominous black missiles were actually sharpened weapons, but that was questionable, as Papuccino gathered them all up and took them with him when he left.  The orchestra dragged through the piece.

             At last, Mr. Rozzi, the orchestral manager, dropped in to announce the rehearsal’s end.  The noise hit him like a hammer; he staggered backwards.  Then he walked in again, his hands clapped firmly over his ears.

             “The rehearsal is over!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.  It was barely audible, but hear it the orchestra did.

             Everyone jumped up and cheered.  Papuccino didn’t seem too perturbed.  “All right, you worthless wannabes, escape!  Run off home to your little mommies and complain!  And practice!  Don’t just tickle your instruments!  Play like men!”

             The concert mistress (who, after being excused from Mr. Moor’s realm, had successfully auditioned into the Amenza) glanced up sharply.  The people around her caught the danger and grabbed her shirt sleeves. 

             “Oh please!”

             “No, NO!  Don’t say anything!”

             “He’ll kill you!”

             She looked around at the desperate little group and, shaking herself free, marched out the door.  There was an audible sigh of relief.

             Meanwhile, Mr. Rozzi was curious as to what—ah, unique piece of music had been playing as he walked in.

             “Oh, bar six-six-seven of Hell’s Tempest,” replied Papuccino, digging one of his black weap—er, conducting sticks out from under a stand.

             “Ah!  Hell’s Tempest!”  Mr. Rozzi snatched up his copy of the piece and began leafing through, intensely curious as to what the music must look like.

             Papuccino snapped his suitcase shut and straightened.  “Well, I’ll be going.”  He watched the last of the musicians rush out the door.  “Ah, I just love to torture them,” he said introspectively.

             “But—but sir!” cried Mr. Rozzi, bewildered.  “The music stops at six-six-six.  There is no bar six-hundred and sixty-seven!”

             “I know,” said Papuccino calmly, and strolled down the corridor, whistling.