From Moscavide to the Albert Hall

From Moscavide to the Albert Hall

In Moscavide, under the Lisbon firmament and communist overhead tube lighting in the local community hall, there stood two proud Portuguese women on stage. With matching make up, tassel turquoise dresses and sharing a microphone they were to give a repertoire of the nation's classics. Pedro was on drums, Luis on trumpet and Eduardo and another Pedro on guitar. The singers were Ines and Margarida in their thirties, known in this Lisboettan suburb as neighbours who liked to put on a shindig every once in a while.
Lisbon, though a capital city in the western hemisphere of EU, is more a cluster of villages than city. The Moscavide district with its falling buildings and faded elegance is off the tourist trail. Nothing glamorous about it, and it was for this reason a certain musical director in London's West End was sniffing around there, looking for an inspiring real-life story - a tale of how two down-and-out Portuguese washer women find fame, hence the musical director's title blossoming and growing, sprouting petals like audience members in sold out theatres in his mind - 'From Moscavide to the Albert Hall.' Moscavide, he said over in his head. It had a ring to it. He sipped on his beer frequently, brought on by his mouth needing to do something - he was unable to converse with the people around him in Portuguese. Instead, a light drunken feeling wrapped his body and set him swaying to the traditional music with repetitive choruses of which he managed to mime to before the song was over. The people in the community hall whispered about him, then when realising that he didn't even understand one word except obrigado (thank you), they talked about him openly and in front of him. One of the mob tested out his English on him, asking what football clube he like. He was grateful for the interaction, and smiled, feeling happy he had made a friend. 'I'm sorry, I don't really like football,' was his reply. It was the shortest friendship he'd had.
Small moustached men were holding white plastic cups of table wine over their bellies, and mixed with the music were shrieks of gossip and banter from their wives. A few toothless old ladies sat around scattered tables and clapped, some singing along. Widows were in black and young kids who go to bed when they want were running in and out of it all.
Ines and Margarida were belting the out songs, coarse, edgy, but melodic and upbeat. The musical director watched on. The power in their voices had much potential. All they needed was the right guidance. Their fearless approach was the only thing that could not be taught, and this was there special asset to get them to the top. 'Tis a dream come true, said the musical director on behalf of the singing duo before his eyes, for he was the only one who had the knowledge that these women were headed for Broadway, and he chuckled at his blessed position as dream caster and destiny maker. He would approach them in the old fashioned way, handing both cheque and contract to sign in front of the punters. 'Tis the story of an impoverished and derelict village and its community hall, where two singers were discovered and whisked away to a new dream life. A life to sing songs about. Nothing better than a musical based on a real life story. So, with behaviourist response, he dug around in a silky trouser pocket for his mobile phone. He scrolled through 'D' and selected Doug. As the number went through networks back to London from Lisbon, he shuffled over to the cold air in the outside corridor where the music was dimmed.
'Doug, hi. I've found them!' He scanned the old cracked mural tiles around him depicting a castle and olive groves while Doug congratulated and asked for more details. 'I haven't spoken to them yet, but Doug, it's gonna be West End! It's gonna be Albert Fucking Hall!
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'Twas a nice story, but to get it onto the West End, a few dramatic twists had to be dreamed up in the so-called true story ' for real life is far from a musical. For Ines, I envisaged a meeting. It was a meeting to set the course of destiny. With her meagre savings running out and desperately wondering the streets of London concrete, she catches the eye of a charming, wealthy and influential man. He takes her out for dinner and she sings to him in exchange from the bubble bath. The night is going well, he's so knowledgeable and rich, she has nothing to offer but a voice and a mysterious beauty that he wants to see more of.
The last tube has gone, she has far to go from the Southbank to Streatham, and a nervous tension is building up as bed ritual approaches. Though she is curious to see his pyjamas, being a respectable girl, she knows she shouldn't sleep with him. And for the rich and influential man, he is also nervous about spending the night with her. Her film-like beauty is troubling him.
The pyjamas have zebras on them, and she looks extremely sexy in one of his extra-large t-shirts, but as his hand strokes over her thighs and discretely lifts up the hem, she closes her eyes and clams up in religion. She whispers to him that she is not that kind of girl, and she will remain a virgin until her wedding day. She dares not open her eyes, for this is the part where all the men heave a sigh and go to the window to smoke a cigarette. But not him. For him it is like music to his ears ' as he has a hang up about his small penis, and his ultimate fear in life is the idea of going through it alone as bachelor. For him she was perfect.
For Margarida, I added in a few things, just to make the plot more melodic. Margarida comes from a poor background, and was told she was a good-for-nothing by her husband. Sick of hearing this she disappears to London with Ines, and later on the husband leaves Portugal in search for his runaway wife. When he finds her singing in the old people's home, her new found quasi-fame causes him have a reality check, and for the first time he believes he now knows what love is. Without more ado, he realises what a wanker he has been, and looks upon this woman, his wife, as an angel, or maybe his saviour, as he now wants to worship her.
Meanwhile Ines has secured a deal to perform in a musical, and she will not do it without Margarida, so she quits and they write their own musical about their hard lives, about their struggles as washer women and their journey to find fame. So, now on the West End stage, Margarida's husband realises that when he used to call her a useless bitch - he wasn't really talking to her, he was talking about himself. He wants to go and hug her, take her home and feel her knicker elastic, but now she is too far away, behind that sweltering spot light, and he can only get close to her now as a spectator.
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Unluckily for them, the musical was a total flop, and it seems that no one I ask has heard of it even to this day ' 'twas that much of a flop. Both myself and Doug sobbed our hearts out, and we had to say goodbye to Ines and Margarida. I guess the critics just weren't ready for them. They went back to Moscavide, and I'm left now singing Fado and on my quest for the next musical.