Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C minor, Op. 67, also known as the “Fate” Symphony, heralded the call from my boss. It was only half past twelve, but he was already pressing for the proposal, which was promised by one pm. This was the price of working from home – bosses always harboured the illusion that their employees were slacking off. In stark contrast, my wife harboured her illusion that “working from home” meant holiday. One moment she was asking me to buy groceries, the next to check out the latest offers at Ocean Park, and then to take out the trash. “I’m working,” I protest. She retorted, dissatisfied, “Does taking out the trash even take a minute?” Perhaps she was right, but then, who took out the trash when I was at the office?
And on such a frazzled day, a burly man decided to rob us.
He was wearing a black T-shirt emblazoned with “NETFLIX,” covered by a woollen balaclava with three holes cut out for his eyes and mouth, forming an equilateral triangle. He rang the bell, I opened the door, and he barged in. Gun in hand, he ordered me to sit on the sofa and not to make any sudden moves.
My wife emerged from the kitchen. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “what do you want?”
Nervously, I urged her, “Come here, darling, do as he says – we have insurance,” She sat beside me, hands raised.
“Lower your hands,” the thief commanded. “You have Netflix, right?”
“Yes,” I answered truthfully.
“Wise choice. Now sit in front of the TV and watch the first episode of Sherlock. No funny business, or I’ll blow your head off.”
“Sherlock?”
“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.” He pointed his gun at my head and closed one eye to aim, which I thought was totally unnecessary. I was only two metres away from him.
“He must work for Netflix,” my wife began to analyse. “He insists on Netflix over Amazon Prime, and his bloodshot eyes suggest long hours in front of screens. Plus, his T-shirt reads NETFLIX.”
I glance at my wife, then at the intruder, closing my eyes for a two-second deep breath. “I’ll share my password with you, you can watch in your own home.”
“I’ll blow your head off!” the robber threatened.
“Honey,” my wife said. “I think he means it.”
I sighed heavily. “Fine. We’ll watch.”
Thankfully, the robber chose lunchtime to barge in. I didn’t know how long an episode of Sherlock is, but if we watched it quickly, it shouldn’t interfere too much with work. “I’ll watch after submitting the proposal. Just give me five minutes.”
“Watch it now.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I’ve been instructed not to let you work, no matter what.”
“Instructed? By whom?”
He thrust the gun forward, coldly saying, “Your nemesis.”
“I don’t know what nemesis you are talking about, and frankly, I don’t care. I need to use the bathroom before watching. I’ll go now.”
“Leave your phone.”
“I can’t go to the bathroom without my phone.”
“Is it you or your phone that goes to pee?” the robber snapped impatiently.
My wife interjected, “Let’s just watch, alright? I’ll go make some popcorn.” And with that, she actually got up and headed to the kitchen, the robber unmoved by her autonomous action. Trying to seize the moment, I attempted to reach for my phone, but he shoved me back, sending me tumbling deep into the sofa.
“I’ll help my wife with the popcorn!” I shouted. It was already past one.
“You go, leave the phone.”
I racked my brain for a way to submit the proposal but found no solution. My boss must already think I’m slacking off. What to do? Suddenly, Beethoven’s Fate Symphony started playing again. The thief’s attention was diverted. Seizing this brief moment, I dived for the phone, grabbing it successfully, but unexpectedly, my wife emerged from the kitchen. We collided. The popcorn in her hands erupted like—well, popcorn—scattering and whirling through the air, tracing parabolic arcs as they rained down to the floor.
Silence fell as the symphony stopped.
My wife looked down at the popcorn, as if counting the stars in the sky. The caramel-coated, glinting popcorn did resemble stars, albeit without the romance and with the added chore. After counting, she knelt down, starting to pick them up one by one. I helped her, apologising as I brushed past her. “It’s alright,” she said, “we’ve been robbed at home, after all.”
The thief helped too, his gun now tucked in his waistband.
Picking up popcorn turned out to be a hectic task. Some had flown into cabinet crevices, others under the sofa. Finally, after collecting them all, my wife dumped the popcorn into the trash. I wiped the floor with a cloth, going over it three times as I didn’t want my floor caramelised. After finishing, I asked my wife if there’s more popcorn. She said yes. So, I told her to make another batch and started Sherlock in the living room, waiting for her. The symphony played again, but the thief turned it off, shutting down the device and tossing it to the windowsill.
Fifteen minutes later, my wife returned with a bowl full of fragrant popcorn. The thief, as if suddenly remembering his role, pulled out the gun again and threatened, “I’ll blow your head off!” Under his coercion, we finished watching the first episode of Sherlock. It was a modern take on Holmes, with a case of serial suicides. How could suicides be serial? To find out, you’ll have to watch it yourself.
After we watched the episode, the robber fled through the front door.
“What a bizarre case,” I said.
“Indeed, a real mystery!” my wife agreed, intrigued. “Looking forward to the next episode.”
“Then let’s watch the next one.”
“…right now?”
“Killing one episode after another is the best way to pay homage to a crime series.”
“But what about your work?”
“It’s fine,” I assured her. “We’ve been robbed at home, after all.”