The Aeschylus

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The concert hall doors swung open, and a cloaked figure came striding into the cold. Scowling, Max watched the newcomer approach, sensing his moment of peace and quiet was at an end.

“Do you have a cigarette?” the man asked.

After a brief internal debate, Max turned and offered one without a word.

The man glanced at the package. “Reemtsma. I've never had these.”

At this, Max could only grunt. He didn't know who the stranger was or what he expected, but he'd find no Gauloises or Marlboros here, no cheap French or American rubbish. These past few months, even something as banal as one's choice in cigarettes could be considered politic.

“My thanks, old-timer.”

Max was an old man, and like most old men, he didn't like being disturbed. He didn't like crowds, or speeches, or the smoky confines of the concert hall. He didn't care for chatter, either. He was about to say something to this effect when applause erupted behind them, and the muffled sounds of the audience came tumbling through the walls. Max opened his mouth and stopped. It was too cold for conversation anyway, too damned cold. He'd been to Stockholm in winter only once, and at the time, he swore he'd never come back. But he found he couldn't say no to the Nobel committee, and Ada had always wanted to see Scandinavia. And so here he was now, stuck beneath the concert hall frieze with a man who didn't know what a German cigarette was.

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