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pattern in the carpet. Just there!” he pointed with his stick. “It looks like a smiling face, a smiling dancing face almost singing with delight.”
    He moved to rise from the chair.
    “Don’t bother! Just tell me where it is!” I replied impatiently.
    He froze for a second before relaxing back into his seat.
    “Try my jacket.”
    I looked around and noticed his jacket hanging on the back of the door. The pen was in the breast pocket, a beautiful black and silver Lalex. I screwed the top off and checked for ink by writing Camille’s name on the back of my hand. Her name appeared in vibrant blue. I replaced the top and clipped the pen to my inside pocket.
    “I’ll be back around ten-thirty.”
    He ignored me; his eyes were again fixated on the imaginary face. A faint smile caressed his lips.
    It was a warm evening and I immediately regretted wearing my jacket. I contemplated returning it to the apartment but to be honest I didn’t want to have to speak to my father again. By the time I left the square I was beginning to sweat so I removed the jacket and draped it over my arm. This cooled me a little though I was aware that my underarms were now beginning to dampen my shirt. I continued along the narrow streets filled with Friday night revellers, all laughing and scurrying off to meet friends, family or lovers. Fifteen minutes later I arrived at L’Opera Comique, put on my jacket and walked inside to join the throng of fashionable Parisians dressed in stunning evening dresses and well-tailored suits. A pretty young usher approached me.
    “May I help, Monsieur?”
    I fumbled for my ticket.
    “Ah, Le Cercle, follow me.”
    She walked off quickly and stopped at the foot of the stairs.
    “Go to the second floor Monsieur. Keep to the right.”
    My feet sank into the thick carpet as I walked up the stairs. I continued to the second floor where I bought a programme before being guided to Row G of the circle. I almost gasped with delight when I saw the theatre for the first time, marvelling at how the seats swept down towards the stage still hidden behind red velvet curtains and surrounded with impressive carvings of naked figures. I squeezed past the first five people in my row and settled into my seat. I looked to either side. On my left was a bald fat man dressed in an evening suit complete with red bow-tie and an unlit cigar in his mouth. His head shone in a blue light. To my right sat a woman dressed in a pink satin evening dress and wearing a hat that I thought was much too large. Her perfume, a light mixture of peach and jasmine was pleasant enough but every time she moved, the brim of her hat threatened to blind me.
    I opened the programme and smiled with anticipation as I read Camille’s name. She played Micaela, betrothed to Jose, who fails in her attempt to rescue him from the clutches of the seductive Carmen. There was also a short biography describing how she came from Limoux to study music at the Conservatoire de Paris and how this was her first credited role with L’Opera Comique.
    Applause filled the auditorium and I looked up to see the orchestra entering. Everyone around me shuffled with excitement. The applause became more rapturous as the conductor took his position. He turned and acknowledged the reception before extending his arms. The lights dimmed! Then the first note sounded of what must be the most rousing overture in Opera. The clapping began immediately; the bald man bounced recklessly on his seat while the lady with the hat almost decapitated me. I didn’t care! I was lost in the music, clapping feverishly and stamping my feet! Slowly, the curtain opened to reveal the square in Seville. A group of young soldiers relaxed and waited for the changing of the guard. I caught my breath as Micaela entered and enquired about Jose. Her vulnerability was evident as the soldiers invited her to wait with them. She declined saying she would return later. The factory bell rang and the stage filled with