"Get dressed, we have to be there in an hour!", shouted Hubbard from the upper storey. "I was not aware we were going somewhere", I replied. "Heard about it not too long ago. Count Fosca has two spare tickets to Die Fledermaus and gave them both to me. The opera starts at 7 and it's just after 6, now hurry up and get dressed", Hubbard said with even more urgency. "But what should I wear, what does one wear for such an occasion?", I asked. "I forgot, we have not fitted you for the appropriate attire, but there is still time!". Hubbard disappeared into the back of the house and came down a few minutes later in full black and white regalia. "We have not a moment to loose!". Hubbard did his best to shuffle as fast as he could out the door and through the square towards Fleet Street. Following him was quite entertaining and I could do so in a leisurely fashion. He made it to the next corner when I was able to convince him to get into a cab. "Where are we going first", I enquired. "Tredwell & Nailor my dear boy, the finest and more importantly fastest tailors in all of London and probably the whole of India as well".

As he hobbled along for a few minutes, my old companion turned to me and said: "Let me explain, this is a unique opportunity for you to learn about milieu. London floats on its social interaction and you will see plenty of highbrow action tonight. What you have experienced so far with your friends and even with our more knowledgeable next door store owners is child's play compared to the subtle and complicated interaction you will see shortly. No time to explain further, here's our tailor". Hubbard pushed me through a small opening I would not call a door into an even smaller looking room one could barely stand in. Fabric rolls were stacked up randomly and only two smaller work benches showed any kind of surface area. A young man in a stiff black suit approached us in a foppish manner, apologizing for offenses not yet committed. "Good evening gentlemen, how may I be of assistance", he said with an air of arrogance. "We need to suit this fine young man up for the opera", said Hubbard pointing at me. "Very well, if you are so kind to step this way". We were directed into a similar room of the same size where a space was cleared in the center, presumably used for fitting. I was positioned in the center of this clearing and was measured, prodded and completely taken into account from all sides. All this activity was accompanied by low murmuring of the store clerk and the scratching of a pen on a piece of paper now containing my measurements in the innermost details. "May I congratulate you sir on your excellent proportions", he said in my general direction. To Hubbard he said (assuming that he was the one financially responsible): "We will have the attire ready in exactly 3 days". "I'm afraid that is not good enough, we will need it before 7." "Today?", said our tailor with just the slightest of facial expressions. "Yes today, which gives you just under one hour". For a moment I expected the stern man in front of us to either buckle and cry or start shouting. With not the smallest frown or disposition on his face the tailor turned to Hubbard and said: "Very well, if it so pleases you I can use a garment almost completed and adjust to your young companion's measurements. Please be advised that you will be responsible for the costs incurred in re-creating the original suit." "I fully understand and will be most obliging", replied Hubbard.

We left the tailor's abode and retired to a nearby tea shop for tea and pastries. Rapidly Hubbard was getting anxious and was barely paying attention to his tea cup and scone. With not even 10 minutes to spare we made our way again to the tailor's. Within, a completely different man greeted us. Gone were the stiff approach and arrogant features and in their place we found a worn out young lad with ruffled hair and untidy clothes. He did not say a word but instead shoved me into what appeared to be a closet with a heap of clothes and shut the door. Having never adorned a full suit I had to guess where everything goes and I have only once witnessed my father taking on the endeavor of getting into the woven harness. I must have come out looking quite ridiculous and Hubbard could barely stifle a laugh. Our by now broken tailor started tugging and moving pieces frantically and after a few minutes I must have looked somewhat respectable.  Hubbard did not wait but dragged me out of the store and into a cab.

As we climbed the stairs of Covent Garden's Royal Opera House we were surrounded by people looking more or less similar to us, be it that they had clearly spent more time on their attire. Men in stiff suits, standing up straight as a result of the enormous amount of starch that surrounded them, women in all fashions of dresses that seemed to defy gravity going up the stairs, gliding next to what I was assuming to be their husbands. I had never been inside an opera house before and it was quite a shock to see the interior of Britain's most famous venue. One could only describe the foyer as an informal version of St. Paul's cathedral. "Excellent, we have an hour to spare to get you acquainted with the beasts", said Hubbard. "Excuse me but didn't you say the opera started at 7?", I asked. "Yes indeed, but this is very much a part of the opera experience. Wars have started in the lobby of an opera house, wars have been prevented in the boxes at the opera. But enough of this, you need to experience all of this for yourself."

From across the hall a rather large man made his way through the mass of people and made straight for us. "Here comes Count Fosca, he will act as our gracious host for the evening, don't forget that", whispered Hubbard. "My dear Hubbard, so glad you could come and who do we have here?", Fosca asked looking in my direction. "Count, I would like you to meet my young pupil Jeremy Bartlett." Not knowing exactly what to do I extended my hand and bowed slightly. "Well well your pupil certainly has manners," laughed Count Fosca. Now turning to Hubbard again and treating me as if I was a mere temporary source of entertainment. The count asked: "Have you heard the rumors about Lorenzo? He is supposed to have the famous Laplace Perpetuelle with him tonight." Hubbard was visible shocked and gazed at the Count for quite a while before he could stammer: "You mean edition that was known to be stolen from the family more than a hundred years ago?" "The very one", smiled the Count. "Apparently it turned up some weeks ago during a renovation of the Basso castle, where it had been locked in an oubliette still clutched in the owner's hands. How the unfortunate man ended up bricked up behind those walls nobody knows and it was certainly not a family member. Hubbard, I need you to verify the authenticity of the watch tonight. Lorenzo has agreed to meet us after the performance in his dressing room. I can't talk more right now, I have to escort his lovely daughter through a barrage of Duchesses and Barons before we can retreat to our box." And with a lofty wave of his hand and a shallow bow he left us.

"Hubbard, forgive me for asking, but are all these high-society people so awfully foppish?", I asked. "Never you mind Jeremy, it's all part of the game. What's more important is that the watch has been found", Hubbard replied. "What is so special about this watch anyway?" I asked. "We have to find our seats first and then I will explain," said Hubbard. We slowly made our way through the mass and every now and then Hubbard stopped to greet a customer. It then slowly dawned on me that my employer and teacher must have done quite a lot more than repaired their watches. What this might be I did not know but it made me wonder what exactly Hubbard's place was in London's society. Our opera box was on the right side of the stage on the second floor and it turned out to be quite a voyage through hallways filled with red brocade and thick tapestries. One could not help but wonder if all this fabric was an intentional noise reduction mechanism. It certainly muffled the conversations I heard around me although there appeared to be a natural tendency to speak in lowered voices.

With Hubbard moving slowly and with all the amazing objects and decorations around it took a while to get to our seats. The old man kept pointing out paintings and pieces of furniture that had been there for centuries. Apparently the building was a social museum of sorts, where London's rich and powerful admired and revered those from the past whom they attempted to model and emulate. Hubbard could no longer contain his curiosity: "That watch Fosca mentioned is really only a rumor. The maker was a famous but eccentric designer from France who kept making these impossible constructions. Some of them worked and are still masterpieces but most of them are mediocre at best. His approach compares favorably with Stradivarius who used instinct and intuition more so than actual engineering principles. As his last masterpiece, if we believe the stories, he made the Laplace Pepertuelle. A miniature machine that was supposed to need no winding. It never worked of course, but it became a legend throughout the watch making community. Collectors have been trying to locate it but it simply disappeared. It was during a train trip eastwards, after Francois Laplace finally agreed to submit the mechanism to the Swiss board for certification, when both the device and creator disappeared in the Alps. After search parties had combed the mountain-side for days they found something resembling a body, crushed under a rock next to the train tracks that was suppose to carry the watchmaker to Switzerland. If it was really Laplace nobody could tell. One thing we are sure about is that that body did not carry a watch, nor any identifying papers." Hubbard frowned and looked at me with a gaze that told me he would think about this for quit a while longer than that evening's performance. He turned towards a rather large painting of a man with a long white beard and a serious face, looking not unlike my mentor in fact. "Whomever this man was that was found in the Basso castle was most likely also not Laplace, the man had never been to Italy and had not even been much outside his residence in Paris, but if Fosca says the watch is genuine it must be. I will have to ask him more about this later."

As we approached our box we ran into an old friend of Mr. Hubbard. Doctor Roberts  greeted his friend with a solid handshake after which he introduced himself to me. "Wonderful performance this should be tonight, been looking forward to it all season. Plenty of talent on stage. Except that Lorenzo Basso of course. Wish they would get rid of him", blurted out Dr. Roberts in one breath. Perhaps this was a bit forward of me, having met this person so shortly but he seemed the jovial type and I could not resist but ask: "Surely Lorenzo is a great talent to be singing here". "Nonsense, his voice is too flighty, no control whatsoever, should have stayed in Italy. Thank God he's not playing Herr Eisenstein. Not that he could, he's too short. He is singing the Fatal Tenor although we would lucky if he played the part to true to life" "Lorenzo is not playing the lead?" I asked, immediately realizing this showed that I did not know anything about either the performance nor opera. At this, the good doctor laughed heartily and turned to Hubbard who at this point had turned a lovely shade of purple. "Teaching your young student something about opera are we now? Good on you, everybody should experience the magnificence of an opera night. Anyway, have to see to the lovely creature I left in my box, quite the temper but very delightful." How the man could speak so fast apparently without breathing I could not fathom. At this he disappeared behind the curtain of his box and immediately started a new conversation.

"Interesting character isn't he?" said Hubbard. Now with a more serious tone he continued: "Jeremy I have brought you here because this is the best place to teach you about the finer social interactions that will help you run the store, not to mention improve yourself from the street urchin you still are. Let me remind you however that you have a long way to go. These people will speak in tongues at best and will avoid direct verbal confrontation and it is best advised not to say anything unless you are absolutely certain you will do no damage. Language is everything here. It is not the dresses, the pearls, the top hats or anything else one wears or carries, it is what is being said that changes the course of history. Do you understand?" "Sorry Sir I guess I got carried away with all of this", I stammered. "I don't suspect there was any real harm done, they still see you as an outsider. Once that starts to change be careful. Now let us find our box I need to sit down", said Hubbard somewhat calmer now.

Our opera box was just as large as the little alcove library in Mr. Hubbard's house. Four chairs were placed roughly facing the center of the auditorium. My mentor walked towards the front and turned around. "Our host is not here yet, excellent. You will have noticed that the front chairs are placed almost in front of the back chairs. This is intentional to accommodate two couples. The two ladies would take the front seats and their husbands or escorts the ones in the back. In our case Fosca's guest will sit in front of him and as your elder I will take the seat beside his guest". I nodded indicating that I had understood. Hubbard reached into his pocket and took out a set of opera glasses. "I'm afraid I do not have two pairs but I will lend them to you on occasion." As Hubbard was explaining some of the finer details of opera etiquette the curtain opened and the Count entered with a women of a beauty I have never had the privilege of meeting up close. All I remember from that first encounter was a cloud of chiffon gliding past me.

After the Count made introductions at which he promptly had forgotten my name, everyone took their seats whilst I stood still, unable to move. Hubbard turned towards me and said with a smile: "You can sit now Jeremy, no need to be that polite". With a hot collar I took my seat and tried to stare uninterested in front of me. Her name as I was told later was Paola Basso, the daughter of the 'Fatal Tenor'. With untied long black hair she was a vision I had never seen before. What I remember most about her were the eyes. Black piercing eyes that dissected and evaluated. There was enormous intelligence behind those eyes, most likely matching or even superseding that of the Count and perhaps even Hubbard's abilities. Below us the hall was slowly filling up and the soft murmur of voices grew steadily until the hall was filled with anticipatory buzzing. Suddenly Paola stood up and addressed the Count: "Forgive me I just remembered to attend to my father's medication. He is so forgetful. This will only take a minute." And with that she glided past me again disappearing beyond the curtain. "Wonderful isn't she? Quite unlike her father, not even a hint of an accent. Rumor has it she speaks at least 6 languages. I should see if she needs assistance, if you will excuse me gentlemen?" Count Fosca turned on his heels and walked out with a lightweight almost ballerina like movement.

Not that I had a chance to let events sink in, not a second after Fosca had left Hubbard turned to me and said: "I'm glad he left, now I can fill you in on some more opera details. This opera we will be seeing is one by Johan Strauss II, the very same who wrote all these waltzes. Before we delve into the vocal parts there will be a prelude known as the overture. Think of this as both an introduction and an overview. Those waltzes I told you about will make their appearance briefly in this part. Opera combines many forms of art. There is the spoken portion or Libretto, something that most real opera lovers do not often notice too much. Obviously the music is the foundation for the experience and it truly melts the experience together. But Jeremy what really makes opera a special event is the skill of the vocalists. Truly great opera singers have phenomenal voices. Much like how we describe wine or food, a diva's voice can be described by it's clarity or depth, robustness or any other such characteristic. Jeremy are you listening?", asked Hubbard. I must have caught some of what my mentor was explaining but his actual explanations must have been much more extensive.

Fosca and Ms. Basso at this point re-entered our little world and took their seats. Not once did the young lady look in my direction. Not that she made much eye contact with the other men either and there was no need to since she did not need to see to know men were looking. Hubbard offered her his opera glasses but a pair magically appeared from somewhere inside her dress. Fosca had made use of the earlier interruption to pick up a bottle of champagne, which he was now opening. Being a true gentleman he had brought four glasses with him into which he was now pouring what must have been a first rate champagne. "Young Jeremy have a taste of this, those monks do know how to use Gods gifts", he exclaimed handing me a glass. Not sure what good champagne tasted like I agreed with the Count wholeheartedly.

Hubbard did not have a chance to reply and comment on the contents of his glass because the lights were rapidly dimming and the conductor made his entrance into the theatre. A roar of applause rose up from below whilst the head of the orchestra strutted towards his first violinist to shake hands. With barely enough space between himself and the edge of the musicians box, the conductor attempted a deep bow. Only his extreme familiarity with Covent Garden permitted this to happen without an accident, where a concussion would be the least of his injuries. The opera had begun, or at least it must have because the orchestra began playing a set of melodies with definite waltz motives. During this musical interlude the curtain remained closed and I reminded myself to ask Hubbard what this was all about. After the musical piece came to an end and after an appropriate pause the curtain was finally pulled and the interior of a large mansion appeared on stage. Die Fledermaus had begun. It would not be appropriate nor wise to recount the events in this work, it must be experienced in person instead. Ms. Lorenzo's father made his entrance through one of the mansion's window and gave a stellar performance as the intruding fatal tenor, seducing the lady of the house: Baroness von Eisenstein. On stage this man appeared as a punitive pompous man with a voice that can hardly be imagined coming from such a small frame. Ms. Basso did not stir or otherwise indicated what her opinion was of the performance of her father. From the box to our left I could hear the voice of Dr. Roberts, grumbling that the man should be removed when it was not absolutely necessary for him to on stage. To my surprise the first act of the opera ended rather suddenly, or so it seemed since I must have enjoyed the play tremendously and was not expecting intermission when it was announced. My head was full of questions but more than curiosity about opera was the desire to talk to Ms. Basso. Not that this was in any way realistic, nor feasible for Count Fosca whisked her out of the box into the hallway.

As it was my duty I escorted Hubbard and supported the old man when he stood up after having sat still for such a long time. That's when I realized the champagne in combination with his enjoyment made his legs not entirely obey his commands. "No Jeremy I am perfectly alright, just been sitting for a while. The stiffness will pass momentarily. Let us get some more champagne, that will steady my legs", said Hubbard. I did not dare disagree with him on this. None the least since I was looking forward to more of what Fosca had been serving. As was customary during intermission a loud buzzing of intense socializing had filled all available spaces within the opera building. Hubbard and myself made our way to the rear of the main hall where we thought we saw Fosca and Ms. Basso talk to the little man we had seen on stage not minutes earlier. Basso apparently desired as much focus and attention off stage as well as on and was talking to his daughter and the Count in a loud voice. It was clear that Fosca was hinting at courting the tenor's daughter when the singe shouted out: "Senior, only Italians of the purest blood will ever be eligible to ask for my daughter's hand in marriage!" As I pointed out this little scene, Hubbard dragged me towards the refreshments and had me fill two glasses to the brim with a fresh supply of the bubbling liquid. Roberts had caught on and joined us exclaiming in a loud voice: "Excellent performance, except that little man, how utterly annoying he his". "Come now doctor, he is doing a most excellent job for the role he was assigned. Remember he is playing an annoying Italian in love with an unreachable Rosalinde Eisenstein", remarked Hubbard. "He should be doing so in Italy where his character is more appropriate", balked Roberts.

As Roberts was adding more evidence why the fatal tenor should implement his role to the letter, the noise of raised voices entered my consciousness. I turned my head just in time to see senior Basso slowly collapse to the floor. Roberts was still talking as I politely tried to intervene: "Excuse me sir but I believe your assistance is needed over there." As if the entire conversation about Basso had never occurred, Roberts now turned into the professional doctor attending to a patient. He rushed over, pushing various bystanders out of his way, including Fosca who was kneeling beside the tenor. Ms. Basso stood by her father's side gazing both at the doctor and her father with confusion and disbelief. "Strangely curious Roberts, the man simply fainted dead away", remarked Fosca as if the current set of events were part of the ongoing performance. "Let's hope that you were correct about the fainting and not the dead part", contributed the doctor, "Someone fetch me my bag from my box and give this man some room. Luckily I came here directly from a patient" A valet rushed off to obtain the doctor's professional belongings and in the mean time the doctor himself examined senior Basso. "Has this happened before?" asked Roberts, turning to the daughter. "My father has a heart condition for which he takes medication. It is very rare now for this to occur. Sometimes he would get an attack when he overexerted himself but that has not happened for a while", said Ms. Basso. It was the first time I heard her voice, which only added to the mirage. "Did he take his medication tonight?", asked Roberts. "Yes he did I gave it to him myself. That is, I brought it to his dressing room where his maid Maria prepared the espresso he usually drinks before the performance, we add the medication to that.", answered the distressed woman. The valet had returned with Robert's medical kit, which he handed to the doctor. Ms. Basso kneeled next to her father and held his hand. Basso was breathing heavily and did not open his eyes. Roberts took out a small bottle and a syringe from his bag. "Fosca, please hold his arm." The Count obeyed and rolled up the tenor's sleeve. Roberts administered an injection and immediately pulled out his stethoscope to see if the poor man responded to the medication. "We need to get him to a hospital immediately", said Roberts to Fosca. "I will get a carriage", came the answer from Basso's daughter. "Very well, in that case help me carry the man out Fosca", spoke the doctor completely ignoring social ranking. Fosca did not seem to mind and was gladly helping. Seniora Basso picked up the doctor's bag and lead the way towards the entrance.