Masterclass In Voices Of Danger

At da Kleine Hedonist, later that evening:

Word has got around that Arthur and Pablo are conducting a Masterclass.

In what, nobody knows.

Excitement is mounting. Drinks are being consumed. Men unbutton their loungy retro jackets. Women kick their heels off. Speculation abounds.

Will it be Poetry? Jazz? Or boxing?

Gaius steps up to the podium. Boo!

Come now, says Gaius. This is supposed to be a creative fish tank.

Swim off, says someone.

Heh-heh! laughs a group of lads who have brought their own sandwiches (as no food is served).

I am here to conduct a Masterclass, says Gaius. With the help of my young colleagues, Arthur Rimbaud and Pablo Neruda.

Arthur! Arthur! Pablo! Pablo! chant the afficionados.

My talk is about teaching birds a new language, says Gaius. You may wonder at the usefulness.

Yes! calls out someone. What is the usefulness?

(Gaius knows they are hooked now).

Pablo strikes up a chord on a Spanish guitar. Plong!!!! (He is Spanish)

Birds that have been raised in captivity, says Gaius, are at a disadvantage when released into the wild. They have not learned the language by which they warn one another of danger.

Wark! Wark! calls a wag with a sandwich.

Foreseeing danger, Arthur approaches the podium.

Now for the demonstration, says Arthur.

(Plonnnnngggg! Pablo reproduces his one Spanish chord)

I'll be the bird. Pablo will represent Danger, says Arthur.

Gaius is confused. What does he do?

You don't do anything, says Arthur. Watch me.

Arthur sits down at the feet of Pablo, who continues his repetitious plucking.

The crowd is on tenterhooks now.

Arthur speaks, in bird language:

Cawawaoogleeeeooowaeeoeeo!

Pablo (the Danger) stops playing.

The Danger stands up.

Schleeffoorhowwahspingelroohe! says the Danger, and leaps upon Arthur, who rolls up in a ball.

Now, says Pablo, you will see how this could have been different, if we spoke the same language.

Gaius is outraged.

No! The Danger never speaks the same language! That is not it at all! The victims must learn their own language.

Yes, yes! cry several Belgian beer drinkers. They must learn their own!

Would you pay money for that? asks Arthur, catching the zeitgeist.

No! cries a punter. Not money!

Unless...... trills a red-cheeked lady in a stiff cotton dress..... unless he would teach them our name!

Super! calls out her friend. Our own names! I'd pay money for that!

I'll make a list of names, says Pablo, taking out a pencil and notepad.

Gaius is impressed. A young man who can produce a pencil!

Soon Pablo has a list of twenty names, each person having paid Arthur twenty euros for the privilege.

But the Masterclass is not over.

Pablo gives them a poem, on the spur of the moment.

Ode to Danger:

I pluck the chord
And dig the holes
Now I can connect things
Otherwise it's not going to work.
When I finish I make a list
My pencil is smaller
But to get the job done, it's worthwhile.

A good ode. And relevant. Everyone likes it.