Unwanted Guests

I put up with the opera singer's practising for as long as I could, working away at my laptop while Ian, who is ill just now, dozed fitfully on the sofa. Her warbling voice was intrusive but bearable as she worked her way through an assortment of exercises and scales, and at first was no more distracting than the usual traffic noise and building works and the constant hum from the electricity substation.

Oddly enough, there used to be an opera singer in one of the neighbouring houses when we lived in Brixton as well, and his rehearsals would float inescapably around the neighbourhood of an afternoon, especially in the summer when we all had our windows open. He had a ghastly voice, though, quavering and tuneless, unlike our new soprano. At least this one can carry a note.

Gradually, though, her singing came to seem more insistent, louder -- closer.

When she embarked on the mad scene from Lucia di Lammermoor, I realised I could hear not only the woman's voice but her stomping up and down in full dramatic flow. I pictured her gesticulating wildly in a bloodstained gown, rushing across the room and then flinging herself to the floor. The noises were so distinct that she had to be right next door.

Or, actually, there in the flat. Just a room away.

Ian stirred and, still half-asleep, asked what the hell that racket was. I said I'd go and deal with it.

When I went into the bedroom, there she was; not, of course, in some pantomime get-up smeared with Kensington Gore -- why on Earth would she be? -- but storming around like a wild thing all the same. Reaching the end of her aria, she flopped down on the bed, exhausted. She seemed only a little surprised to see me.

"Can't you keep it down, for God's sake? Ian's trying to sleep!"

She smiled apologetically.

"I mean, what are you even doing here? This is our home!"

"Oh," she said, as if this fact was some sort of surprise. "Of course. You must be the ones who lived here twenty years ago!"

"What? We live here now. I don't even know who you are. Get out of our house! Whoever you are, out!"

Her expression was a discomfiting mixture of amusement and pity as she said: "No, this is my house. You're just a ghost. I'm sorry, but I live here now and I want you to go away."

With a terrible lurch of sadness, I realised she was right; and went away.
Posted by matt at October 7, 2006 11:06 PM