Soul Music - Tricked

For the last five minutes he'd also been hearing muffled thumps and the occasional tinkling noise from inside the Opera House. He'd made a note of it. He did not wish to appear stupid. Detritus had never been inside the Opera House. He didn't know what sound it normally made at 2 a.m.

The front doors opened, and a large oddly shaped flat box came out, hesitantly. It advanced in a curious way - a few steps forward, a couple of steps back. And it was also talking to itself. Detritus looked down. He could see . . . he paused . . . at least seven legs of various sizes, only four of which had feet. He shambled across to the box and banged on the side.

'Hello, hello, hello, what is all this . . . then?' he said, concentrating to get the sentence right.

The box stopped. Then it said, 'We're a piano.'

Detritus gave this due consideration. He wasn't sure what a piano was.

'A piano move about, does it?' he said.

'It's . . . we've got legs,' said the piano.

Detritus conceded the point. 'But it are the middle of the night,' he said.

'Even pianos have to have time off,' said the piano.

Detritus scratched his head. This seemed to cover it. 'Well . . . all right,' he said. He watched the piano jerk and wobble down the marble steps and round the corner. It carried on talking to itself:

'How long have we got, d'you think?'

'We ought to make it to the bridge. He not clever enough to be a drummer.'

***

Soul Music - p83-84