What shall we do with Zebedee?

We should never have listened to it. We should have torn up the letter. Throw it away. And forget about it. As if it were a supermarket flyer. As if it were a tax return. A speeding ticket.

We would have had a normal life by now. The kind we were used to. A modest, normal, and enjoyable existence. Especially the latter. After all, we know the misery in the world. We know about disasters, wars, injustice, and violence. And that's why we love it so much. Making music. Having a beer. Having fun together.

But the very fun disappeared after we received the letter.

It was the chairman who, during the Monday evening rehearsal, ordered us to be quiet. He stood before the group with some weight. We watched tensely. Had something real bad happened?

The opposite turned out to be true. The music association had received an official letter from the royal family. The Harmonie Orchestra 'Concordia' had been invited to perform at the annual festival. This was a custom of the king and queen of our country. Once a year, special guests were called upon. And this time, Concordia had been chosen to perform on his personal party.

Cheers erupted. There was spontaneous honking, blowing, and drumming. Sheet music was thrown into the air and fluttered like cheerful autumn leaves onto the worn wooden floor.

We hugged, we kissed, we congratulated each other. We could hardly believe it. An invitation from the Royal Family!

And what were we, anyway? We were an insignificant orchestra from an obscure hamlet. We played on third-hand instruments, our conductor was older than the memorial to the last war, our rehearsal space was a pigsty, our last performance had been ten years ago.

But all of a sudden, everything was forgotten. Our sad history. Our meaningless origin. Our dull rehearsals. Our pale inferiority complex. A new era would dawn. We would become famous. Renowned. We would be watched. TikTok, YouTube, Instagram.

That same evening, the chairman and several members met. We agreed. Now that we've been given this opportunity, now that we can make a fresh start, things will have to change.

We look at each other. And we all know what the biggest problem is. It's not our repertoire. It's not the worn-out instruments. It’s not the dull rehearsals. It's not the money either. It's Zebedee.

Zebedee is the son of a pastry chef. His father plays the tuba in Concordia. He's also the one who introduced his son to the club. Zebedee is an enthusiastic, jovial, and very friendly young man of around thirty. He can read and write at the level of a ten-year-old.

He can eat and drink at the level of a sixty-year-old.

But has no musical talent whatsoever. He can't play a single note.

Sometimes we give him a tambourine. Occasionally he's allowed to join in on the trumpet. Usually, he just sits around. Joking.

Until now, we've tolerated his behaviour. For the reason that it didn’t matter, He's a village boy, his father sponsors the club.

But now? We're on the threshold of a new chapter within the music association? Do we still want him as a member? What will the king think when we perform and someone like Zebedee is only capable of making silly faces? Acting crazy? Disturbing the order?

Despite that we have identified the elephant in the room, we waver. We drink a beer, grab handfuls of salted peanuts, and hum along to the background music ("Only fools fall in love"). But the blank sheet with the policy plan remains empty for now.

"Should we talk to Bokke, his father?" I finally ask. Everyone can picture it. Bokke has the build of a bread oven. Heavy, tall, square. With his wild eyebrows and heavy hands, he's a fine tuba player.

But besides his love of Lemon Drizzle cake and marching music, we also know he can be short-tempered. Legend has it that he once doused a complaining customer—she claimed the red velvet cake wasn't red enough—with beetroot juice. After which he put her out on the street and shouted, "Is this red enough according to you?"

The moral is clear. You don't want to mess with Bokke.

"What if we have a chat with Zebedee himself?" I suggest. But no sooner have I asked the question than I, too, see the inconceivability of my request. No one has ever had a normal conversation with Zebedee. Either he says nothing. Or he's constantly quipping. Or he starts talking about something else.

The remarkable thing, however, is that he's anything but unworldly. He knows what's out there. But Zebedee makes his own decisions. He seems to know what he wants. He is sure what he’s doing. Hence all these stories about his travels. To the United States. To Japan. To Vladivostok. To South Africa. To Greenland. Apparently, he's now in contact with dozens of prominent figures around the world. Bruce Springsteen. Mark Rutte. Elon Musk. Murakami.

Is that his charm? He’s openness, his mischievousness, his ability to cross the line. Subtle? Kind? Is that why he's so elusive? He seems to live in a different dimension than us. The mortals who make music. The members of Concordia. Zebedee floats like a colourful shadow through our grey, melancholic existence.

Three months before the Royal Concert, we get a new conductor. Our old conductor is now in his 90s and thinks it's high time to pass the baton. Fortunate, we could find a worthy replacer.

That first rehearsal session, we see it happen. We haven't told the newcomer anything. About Zebedee. We haven't even played ten minutes when the new conductor stops the music.

"Young man! Young man! What are we doing?" Zebedee stands next to the timpanist, eating paprika chips from a small bag. While all eyes are on him, he continues chatting. About his next trip. To Laos. About which Buddhist monasteries he wants to visit.

"May I know your name?" Our conductor's voice now sounds sharp and irritated. But Zebedee doesn't move. His father does. Bokke carefully places his tuba in the stand, hikes up his pants, rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt, and shuffles forward. With one hand, he grabs our leader, lifts the man from the ground. His feet squirm. Calmly and composedly, Bokke whispers. Leave the boy alone.

We've come to terms with it now. We can't get rid of Zebedee. The new conductor has left; the old one has temporarily returned.

Now he thinks he'll retire when he's at least hundred years old.

But despite everything, even with Zebedee, we are proud that the king has selected us. Concordia is on the map. We have been chosen. That's what it feels like. We mean something in this world full of wars, natural disasters, lethargy and indifference. We feel like the Beatles, Abba, Queen, Billy Elish, and Taylor Swift.

We'll become famous. It's in the air. Even if in real life we're still plumbers, accountants, teachers, cleaners, entrepreneurs, priests, municipal officials, or soldiers. Soon everyone will know us. Through social media. Through TikTok, YouTube, Instagram.

As a result, people will stop us on the street. We will be honoured, praised, adulated. On the big day itself, we depart in a luxurious double-decker bus for the capital, where the festivities will take place. Bokke has paid for the trip. And also, for the new uniforms.

While travelling in the comfortable double-decker bus, the tension is palpable. There's chatter, whispering. And looking out the clean windows. At the same time, it's buzzing, humming, and rustling in our musical heads. This is a turning point. We shouldn’t spoil it.

We've rehearsed a lot in the past few months. Three times a week. Nothing has remained of the loose, playful, and cheerful club we once were. The inhabitants of our village know as a driven, ambitious, and uncompromising band. There's no room for slackers, amateurs, or slackers. Except for Zebedee, of course.

The bus stops in front of our hotel. To our surprise, we notice that the king's party is already there. And he's waiting for us!

Before we realize it, Zebedee gets out of the coach. This can’t be true; this isn’t really happening. Is he going to ruin it for all of us?

However, the king steps down to meet him. They hug!

"Good to see you again!" says the monarch amiable. "Remember that ski holiday two years ago? I'm so glad you accepted my invitation. And on this bus? Those are your fellow musicians?"