A Certain Music (3 page)

That night the man dreamed. On a crumpled bed in crumpled clothes he dreamed: his hat, his frockcoat and boots, like pieces of a jigsaw, tossed upon the floor.

He is four. He is wearing a white shirt and yellow britches. The shirt has frills. He is playing in the square. A group has gathered. He doesn't have to tell his fingers where to go or how long to rest upon the strings. They know. The violin is a quarter size, the smallest. Another Mozart, they're whispering. His father smiles.

The boy loves this little instrument. It sings for him. But now his violin is gone from its peg in the hall, and the bow with it, and his father is saying that from now on he will play only the piano. And the sound he makes is slurred with drink. The boy says nothing, for there is violence behind the words, and fear too. And both come from knowing poverty and sickness and despair ...

Now the scene changes. It is dark, it is late, well after midnight.

He is five. He's in bed, he's shivering, it's winter and the room is damp. He curls into a ball and pulls the coverlet higher; blocks out the rattle of his mother's breath, her coughing and gasping, hears voices, boots lurching on the stairs ... The cover is ripped away. In the dark, his father's voice is thick with drink. 'Downstairs, you hear?'

'Please,
Vater
–'

A hand reaches out as if to strike. Instead it yanks the small shivering body from the bed. 'Now!'

'Yes,
Vater
.'

He is five. He pulls the cover around his nightshirt and creeps along the cold stone floor, descends the stairs, sees his breath rise like autumn mist in the stuttering candlelight.

They stand before the last dying embers in the grate, his father and Herr Pfeiffer his friend, who is to be the boy's teacher. Both are red-eyed and watchful.

His father points a wavering finger at the piano. 'Start playing!'

He is five. He sits at the piano. His teeth are chattering, it's the cold, the fear, it's the shame of it...

'What shall I play,
Vater
?'

The man lurches into a chair, tips a second one over, 'See how I suffer! Imagine Mozart asking ''What shall I play"?'

The small boy places his hands on the keys, hands that are stiff with the cold. The sound they make is cold ...

Fists crash upon the table, a glass shatters. 'You dare to humiliate me –'

'I'm cold,
Vater
–'

'Play, damn you!'

'Please,
Vater
–'

The man staggers up, sinks down, clasps his head in his hands. 'Another Mozart, they said. Fools ... fools and idiots ... '

The small figure hunched at the piano closes his eyes and starts to play. Only music can take away the cold, only music can relieve the hunger, and the pain. He plays on. When finally he stops, the visitor has left and his father is asleep at the table.

He puts down the lid and creeps upstairs.

The dreamer stirred, poured from the bowl of wine that stood on the sideboard, drank deeply, dreamed on ...

Now he is standing in front of a carved door hewn from oak. He is wearing a blue frockcoat. It has gold buttons and is trimmed with lace. Frills of lace flow from his throat and also from his wrists. His britches are the colour of chocolate, and there are gold buckles on his shoes. His hair explodes in curls of red. His face, by contrast, is pale.

He is seven and a half and is about to give his first public concert. His father is by his side.

It's like a palace. The boy has never seen such a room, with its rich red carpet, its walls of mirrors, its magnificent paintings, the enormous deep-hanging circlets of fluttering light. And the women and the men, so elegant in their silks and laces and gold brocades ...

The room is full of circle upon widening circle of balloon-backed chairs that face the platform on which stands the piano, all shiny and black.

He is seven and a half.

He moves to it and sits, he adjusts the chair, hears silence fall.

Now there is only the music. He places his hands on the keys.

And begins.

>• • •

The man pulled himself up and stood long in the dark. He paced to the window and back, to the window again, sloshed down wine, whipped up a sheet of manuscript that was lying on the floor, lit a candle, and in a frenzy started to write and play and play and write. But the sound he made was full of pain, and had no purpose, but to ignite pain.

In the darkness of his lonely room he lifted up his head. And howled.

Long he stood. Then once again he went to the piano and began to play. Now the sound was different. He was seven and a half again, in that wonderful room with its walls of mirrors. Over and over he played what he had performed on that evening when he was seven and a half ...

He played until the white light of morning leaked into the room. He threw open the door and went on playing.

From time to time he glanced into the street ...

Beneath the conifer that grew beyond her window, the child sat, a sheet of paper in her hand. From time to time she'd look up as the body of needles above her rippled in a rush of wind.

Eight days had passed since her father had embarked upon his new life, and now word had come and with it a page for her.

' ... I am sleeping well,
Liebling
,' he wrote, 'for the day begins early and there are many things to do, and you will be happy to know that your papa is fit and has been praised for his diligence and cooperation.

'Also I have a friend. His name is Manfred and he is the son of a farrier. I was a blacksmith for a long time, and he and I talk about axles and rims for wheels, and the shoeing of horses – how very dull, I hear you say, but it makes me happy to talk about things I know of, and it's good to have a friend.

'Here is something that will make you smile. At the garrison we have a pet, a red squirrel. He has taken up residence in the elm tree on the edge of the parade ground. We feed him grains and bits of fruit, and nuts when we get them. He is quite tame and on one occasion he lined up with us on parade. It was difficult for everyone not to smile. His name is Fritz.

'I have sent
Mutti
some money and a little extra to buy something for my best girl ... '

The words concluded with a plea to keep helping her mother, enjoying the last days before school goes back and holding him close to her heart ...

The child went into the house and returned with paper and her box of crayons.

She would draw a picture of the conifer. She hoped she could suggest the swaying of its needles in the wind.

It would make him feel he was home ...

Now the winds of winter swept through the Vienna Woods. The elms and the maples, the beeches and the oaks were bare, their leaves sunk deep into the earth.

Soon the child would return to school, so now when night fell she would plan the following day with care. And today she would relive a time that would remain with her for the rest of her life; the time she had taken a different path home and had heard the music.

From the fork in the tree she stared into a filigree of branches, traced webs that spiders spin like Frau Neumann's lace work. She looked towards Rauhenstein blanketed in mist, watched carts trundling into the marketplace, the toing and froing of vendors across the square.

She jumped down. The earth made a squishing sound beneath her boots while above, the sky hung heavy with cloud.

She started out, though now the houses with long windows, where boxes of flowers stood and chimneys poked from rooftops, were carved in her memory. Once again the door to his house was open. The sound coming from it seemed to fill the street.

'I performed this when I was seven and a half,' the man shouted. The child came closer. 'In a place with walls of mirrors. The Elector of Cologne was there, imagine that!'

The child grinned.

Along the street people were running. The man jumped up. 'I too must feel the air against my skin; rejoice in the wonders of God's garden! ... Let the devil play what he will ... '

The child heard the last mumbled words but their meaning was lost to her. She watched as the man whipped up his frockcoat and hat and charged to the door.

Along the street people were running, but it wasn't to rejoice in God's garden. A man had fallen under the wheels of a carriage and been crushed to death. The crowd had blocked the road. Someone was attempting to calm the horses.

'He was driving like a madman,' yelled a voice.

'Poor thing had no hope.'

A woman was being pushed to the front. The crowd went silent. All was quiet but for the scream.

The man saw but heard nothing. The child wondered if it would be worse or better to see such a thing and not to hear it. She studied the hand, hanging beneath a grubby frill at her side. How strange it is, she thought, for hands to make sounds like that and look like everybody else's.

She tugged gently on the thumb and the man moved away.

In tangles of mist they walked towards the woods and through the woods where the mist was thick and the only sound the squelching of boots in damp earth. And as they went the child slipped her hand into the pocket of the frockcoat by her side.

In that way and in silence they went ...

At the window the child stood, watched drops like pellets fall from the roof, drip upon puddles; heard the rhythm of the rain.

A horse pulling a cart clip-clopped by; spray rose and hissed ...

She set about sweeping the floor and fixing her bed. She checked the pail her mother had left outside the door. There was water enough to wash the dishes – also a cloth or two and a few things of her own. She hummed to herself as she went about her chores. Then she took her coat from its peg, wound a scarf around her head and set out.

Over puddles she jumped, splashed into others, flicked rain from her nose. Came to the square, watched rain splatter on covered caravans and carts and people in hoods hurry this way and that with their heads down.

She skipped on, crossed the tiny parkland where a flock of waterbirds had gathered, and turned into the Reinerstrasse
.

She could hear sound coming from the house before she reached it, and as she got closer it grew louder and louder; it swept into the street and through the street as though it would rise to the very heavens and send stars crashing to earth.

The child huddled by a neighbour's wall, heard screaming, smashing, the thundering of boots on wood – him.

' ... Copy the score exactly, I said.
As I have written it down,
I said. And the fools and idiots have done the opposite. They've done it on purpose. Yes, the treacherous dogs, they have done it on purpose! That I have to deal with such imbeciles, such cretins and half-wits!' Something smashed. 'Music? They know nothing of music! How can one describe beauty to barbarians! If it's not copied exactly,
exactly
, as I wrote it, the speed will not be right. And if the speed is not right – Oh God, God, must I suffer this ignominy ... It is because of the singing. Yes. They fear it as they fear anything that is not tried and familiar and predictable. As the swine in the sty knows nothing more than its feed and its filth and the stench of its own excrement ...'

Now in the street, wind was blowing, People clung to shawls and hats. Leaves rose and fell swirling to their gutter graves. Suddenly the door to the house, which had been ajar, blew open. The child listened, heard nothing. She moved closer.

The man was standing in a mess of clothes and food and papers and smashed china. Suddenly he swung around and charged at the child, his eyes wild with torment. 'Get out!' he screamed. 'Away from me! What are you, some devil sent to haunt me, to drive me mad! Out of my sight, do you hear. What would you know of beauty ... I tell you, get out! Out! Out of my sight!'

The child stepped back, tripped, fell, scrambled up, slumped against rough brick, pulled her coat tighter, heard her breath, the beat of her heart.

Long she stood, and stared into the cobblestone street, saw the man rush from the house without his coat ...

She tried to think of what to do and where to go. But all she could hear was a voice screaming, 'Out! Out of my sight!' She was bewildered, she couldn't understand it. But strangely, what she felt was not fear. Only confusion.

A pebble whizzed by her head. Raggedy boys from the Volkschule, like tigers, were prowling ... The child pressed her head to the brickwork, felt a presence ...

The man stood there. His hair, his shirt, were wet. 'Ah,' he murmured, 'I have made you cry. I'm sorry ... I am mad, you see. Brutal.' He moved closer, drew a finger across the small cheek, wiped away a tear, 'A child is precious,
eine kleine Blume –
a little flower ... You must blame my head, the ringing in my ears that drives me mad ... And the other. Always the other ... I'm sorry, I'm sorry ... '

He moved towards his door, then turned and beckoned. 'Come,' he said. 'I will make you forgive me.'

In the room shards of china and ripped sheets of manuscript rose at the kick of his boot. The child followed.

He drew the small table that held his 'conversation book' into the centre of the clutter, set a chair at it and began rummaging through the debris for his coat that was lying on the floor. 'Here,' he cheered, and held up a block of chocolate, which he began breaking into bits. 'Like a princess, you shall sit and eat, and I shall play for you.'

The child sat and ate.

'I shall play my "Ode to Joy",' announced the man. Then, 'Tell me, what is an ode?'

The child shook her head.

'A poem. Or song. If one is to eat chocolate one must learn a new word. That is the rule.'

He began to play.

The child paused in her eating. This sound was different again. And joy was the right, the perfect word, to picture it. To the child it was as though all the things that make for happiness had been put into a bottle; the cork pulled, and they had exploded upon the world.

The man turned in his playing. 'Well?'

The child nodded. 'Yes,' she mouthed.

The man started to play again, but suddenly there was a knock at the door. He got up. In the pale sunshine that now coloured the street, the man and his visitor talked.

The child contemplated the mess. She got up. A bowl had been broken and a plate. She collected the pieces and took them into the kitchen, where food and the remains of meals lay unwashed and congealing. Untouched on a plate were slices of ham, cheese and pickle.

She returned to the room, picked up bits of food that were lying on the floor, everything except the papers stamped with the strange markings. She shook out the frockcoat and hat and hung them on a peg in the small bedroom. The room smelt. The covers on the bed dripped to the floor and the chamber pot was full.

Had she been on her own she would have emptied it. She would have drawn water from the pump in the street and cleaned up the kitchen.

On the sideboard a candle was stuttering. It had burnt to the wick, and grease had spilled onto the floor. As she blew it out the man came in.

He didn't seem to notice the change in the room but held up six fingers. 'Six weeks,' he said. 'They have six weeks to get it right. I, on the other hand, have got it right already.' He grinned. The child grinned back and pointed to the plate of food she'd brought from the kitchen.

'When I am working I forget to eat.'The man sifted through papers strewn across the floor. 'They say no singing, but are they right?' He straightened up. '
Are they right?
'

The child shook her head.

There came a roar of laughter. 'You're a strange little flower, yet you know things – things only old people know, and wise ones too. Where does this wisdom come from? What is your secret? What of your parents? Does your mother play?'

The child shook her head.

'Sing?'

Another shake of the head.

'Your father?'

The child went to the conversation book. 'With the army,' she wrote.

'I think –' the man paused, 'I think that you will bring me luck.' He moved closer, she could taste his breath.

'This is the first time
ever
that there will be voices. There will be a choir. And not only a choir – singers on their own. Four of them. Two on one side and two on the other. What do you think? Am I mad?'

The child shook her head.

'Should there be singing?'

The child nodded hard.

'And so there shall be! There shall be singing, and dancing too!' With that the man leapt to his feet, grabbed the child by the hands and whirled her around and around the room, and together they laughed and whirled and whirled and laughed and the man sang of a song to joy and the child with him ...