I was chatting with actor P.S. of the theatre named after Nottara, when a youngster with a shock of hair typical of 1958 came up to us and addressed our tragedian with perfect politeness:

“Maestro, I’d like to have your advice, sir!”

Hearing the word “maestro,” my elderly friend blushed with uninhibited pleasure. He whispered to me:

“Here is a well-bred youth. How beautifully he calls me ‘maestro’. He deserves helping! A youth with that sweet word in his mouth!” And aloud he answered:

“Oh, please, I’m ever ready to come to your assistance!”

“I’d like to have your opinion about my being gifted enough to take my chances with the Institute of Drama. I want to recite a poem to you!”

We all withdrew to the rehearsal room. The young man recited the poem like a baby’s rattle which could never be stopped, “What d’you think of it, maestro?”

            Agreeably flattered to hear the same sweet word, my friend started helping him. He recited the poem to him four times, but the candidate failed to take in even the slightest hint. A bit irritated and wishing to put an end to that awkward situation, the tragedian invited him to have a couple of beers at a nearby restaurant. When we were seated, the young men asked:

“Dear maestro, could you explain things to me once more?”

            Having whispered in my ear “He’s not more gifted than my left shoe, but I’m reluctant to discourage him, for he’s got such fine manners!” the actor gave him a whole lesson in reciting, beginning like this:

“My very dear young man, you are indeed a talent! But you must take punctuation into account. And you have to measure your breathing properly. And try to be as natural as you can.” And so on and so forth.

After the first round of beers, I ordered another. The lesson went on:

“Listen to the way I recite it. Pay attention to my intonation. Mind how I change my tone when the personage changes.”

            I myself had by now come to know the poem by heart, and so had the waiter. The candidate however, as soon as he opened his mouth, rattled on monotonously and annoyingly, after which he never failed to ask:

“Was that any better, maestro?”

With a sigh, sweating all over and driven to the farthest limits of his patience, my friend was proving a will of iron in keeping himself in check, and even endeavoring to smile benevolently and blandly:

“Yes, my boy. But we must still rehearse until we reach perfection. Listen carefully to the way I recite it!”

Suddenly the young man started shouting: “Maestro! Maestro!”

My friend addressed him tolerantly and obligingly:

“Yes, my dear, what would you like to tell me?”

But the young man apologized:

            “No, I was not calling you, but the waiter. That’s my way of addressing people. Hey, maestro, you’ve forgotten about those cigarettes!”

            My friend paid the bill and left in a hurry whispering between closed teeth:

            “Not only he’s not gifted, but he’s cheeky too! I’ll kill whoever calls me ‘maestro’ again!”

“I see, maestro!”

“Well, when you say it, it’s quite different!”