A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

We decided to set aside centuries of bad taste, filth and foul language, a family legacy of poor choices, including, it must be said, in f ashion, hairstyles, hygiene—

To state it plainly: we were of the swamp.

We were setting all that aside—to go to the opera. My father, a throwback in sweatpants and tube socks, stepped into a tux. My stepmother put on an evening gown. But there was only so much anyone could do for Grandma: a fat, frog-like person, and a Jew-hater to boot, she had outgrown everything but shower curtains. We wrapped her in faux-furs.

I was 12. I loved the opera. Tosca, Maria Callas and the doomed strains of Violetta’s “È Strano!” penetrate even to the swamp.

By the middle of act one, we were all in tears. Father was godlike. Grandma was worthy of love. We had realised the full spectrum of our human splendour. Even my two stepbrothers glimpsed something more to life than date rape and football.

We welcomed the intermission.Then the lights flickered, and we began our climb back up to the highest tier. My stepmother refused to finish her second glass of wine and brought it with her. When we reached the top, the final act was underway.

You could hear a pin drop when we came barrelling in. Heads turned. We shushed one another and began our descent.

Grandma first, accompanied by Father. Then my stepmother, her two sons, my sister and me—only I stepped on the hem of my sister’s gown! She cut the legs out from under my stepbrothers. They dropped like stones and shouldered my stepmother into the air. As she fell, her red wine sprayed everyone near and far. So many unsuspecting people, finding themselves suddenly spat upon at the opera, came to attention and looked around in disgust.What they saw in the half dark was a family of hillbillies snowballing down the stairs. The Ferris clan—they can’t even descend a few stairs!

I alone remained standing. Last to go was Grandma. She was launched backward. For a moment, it looked as if she might do a series of cartwheels and be just fine—but no. Her roll was momentous: 250 pounds of fur and flesh hitting every stair with a thud. She howled in pain and fear. Her big white bouncing breasts came out. I should not have laughed. But the truth is, I never cared for that fat old broad. What a nasty piece of work! However, when she kept going, over the banister—

Freeze on Grandma in free fall. That is how I prefer to remember the opera: full of drama, suspense, imminent tragedy.

Joshua Ferris ( born in Danville, USA, 1974) has written short stories for The New Yorker, Granta, and Best New Amer

ican Voices. His f irst novel, Then We Came to the End

(Little, Brown; Neri Pozza), was translated into 24 languages. His latest book is a collection of black- comedy short stories titled

The Dinner Party ( Little, Brown; Neri Pozza).