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The maestro waved his baton faster, liquid motions, trying to stay ahead of the heart attack. The pains were coming at one and two minute intervals now, in time with the timpanies, and it worried him no end. These musical maladies were spreading like wildfire amongst the symphonies of Europe, and no one seemed immune. Even the stoutest tuba player in Prague had taken ill with it, tho' he had made a quick-enough recovery once rushed to hospital and exposed to the malicious mus-ac of their lift systems. Only the fickle cellists, brandishing their burnished bows in rebellion, remained free of the scourge. A snare drum fired off on cue, and Pavel thought his heart had given in. But when the solo ended there he was, bathed in applause. Before he knew it, he was shaking hands. The President, the Prime Minister, Lady DuPris of DuPris House for Fine Ladies was there. His ego swelled where it always did, and he tried his best to conceal it. A reprieve! He flushed with sweat, nervous relieved sweat. He would have until tomorrow's performance, at least, before he'd be again at risk. Tonight he would dine at Chez Chaise, drink the finest bordeaux and sample from the entire dessert tray. But for now he wiped away the beading sweat from his forehead with Isobel's silk handkerchief and smiled his best conductor's smile. Only one snide cellist had shown that she noticed his symptoms during the concert. As he exited out the stage door she allowed her case to hit him - feigning calling for a taxi. Lady DuPris at his elbow, he struggled to shrug off the slight, heading towards the closet for his coat. He faced a wall of cellos when he opened it. Lady DuPris squeaked and stepped back. They toppled on him, constricting his air flow. His heart began to gallop.
