Slayer's Solo

The little flutist wasn’t satisfied to murder the lovely soprano’s glorious duet—he wanted to murder the entire opera!

To MURDER an entire orchestra. including the conductor and the soloist, would be an ambitious undertaking but Eneas Marques Porto very nearly did it. And to finish off the job, he murdered the opera as well!

It happened in Rio de Janeiro in 1934. Porto, a flutist with the Joao Caetano Theatre, was a dumpy little man with a jaw like a bulldog’s. In his heart, however, burned the conviction that he was the greatest flutist in the entire world—in addition to being the greatest mind and the greatest lover. And so when the lovely soprano, Ada Calucci, refused his love, Porto was very angry.

“If you don’t stop annoying me,” Ada had said, “I’ll tell the conductor and get you fired!”

Seething, Porto headed for the stage door. In the wings he met Paolo Antonio, the conductor. “Paolo,” he cried, “what do you think?” And he related what the soprano had said to him.

To his astonishment, Antonio offered no sympathy. “She was perfectly right,” he said coldly. “In fact, if you don’t correct your bad habits and stop being late to rehearsals, I will fire you anyway!”

At this horrible moment, Porto heard suppressed laughter behind him. He whirled to see Airy Ferriera and Manoel Mendonca, slaughterers of two barbarous instruments, the bass viol and the cornet.

Porto felt his rage crystallize within him into something deadly. With perfect calmness, he bowed to Antonio and said, “You are right. I will try to do much better in the future.”

Alone in his room, Porto brooded. No ordinary revenge, he decided, would suffice for the injury that had never been done before.

Porto became a model of deportment. Even Mile. Calucci noticed it, and felt a twinge of remorse. To atone for her harshness, she suggested to Antonio that one of her arias in Fedora, which they were rehearsing, be rewritten to be accompanied by flute alone. Antonio was agreeable, and it was tried. To everyone’s surprise, Porto’s flute-playing beautifully complemented the soprano’s clear tones.

On opening night, Porto was on hand early, anxiously scanning the audience. The house was packed. “Good!” exclaimed Porto loudly.

He had never played better in his life. As if inspired by his efforts, the rest of the orchestra performed faultlessly. Then came the aria he had rehearsed with Mile. Calucci. Porto played the introduction; then the soprano took up the melody. She stopped, and again Porto played alone—superbly.

Then Ada Calucci sang a long solo passage. But when she stopped, Porto produced, not his flute, but a tiny child’s toy, a kazoo on which he played a startling, raucous travesty of the notes Ada had just sung.

Audience and orchestra were thrown into confusion. Porto, however, smiled blandly when he had done, picked up his flute again and nodded to Mile. Calucci to continue.

Desperately the conductor waved the orchestra on, hoping that Porto’s foolery was over. But no. When Ada stopped again, once more Porto took up his kazoo and produced an earsplitting series of noises.

The opera was now quite definitely dead. The audience was a mass of hysterical laughter, boos and catcalls. Waving his arms, Antonio started for his errant flute-player.

Porto let him get within a yard; then he stood up, whipped out a revolver and shot him in the chest. The conductor fell.

“Thus to all tyrants!” Porto shouted. “And all coquettes!” He fired at the singer, but only wounded her in the cheek before she dropped to the floor. “Now Mendonca, maker of vile noises! ” shouted Porto, and shot the cornetist in the throat—a fatal wound. “And Ferriera, torturer of cats!” Ferriera hid behind his bass viol; Porto fired three shots at him, wounding him seriously.

Then, believing that he had killed all of them, Porto climbed out of the pit and ran to the door of the “green room”—the singers’ reception room. Now was the time for the greatest gesture of all—the crowning act that would make Eneas Marques Porto’s name a byword for many generations to come.

“Farewell!” he cried, putting the pistol to his own head. But he had already fired six times; the pistol was empty. There was nothing for him to do but to run frantically out the stage entrance—straight into the arms of the police!