Just then the phone began to ring again. As I had expected, it was Chikashi calling from the post office. Apparently a special delivery package had arrived very late the previous night, and the postman, assuming we would all be asleep, had thoughtfully decided to leave a note rather than disturb us with the doorbell. The next morning when Chikashi called the local post office, a clerk had read the sender’s name and address to her and had suggested that if the package was important the quickest option would be to pick it up in person. She was at the post office now, waiting in line, but the place was mobbed and the queue was longer than usual.
Also, Chikashi went on, Akari had an appointment for a routine physical, but she wasn’t feeling well enough to take him to the university hospital herself and hoped I wouldn’t mind going in her stead. By the time I had managed to make myself somewhat presentable (Akari was already dressed and was still working on his composition), Chikashi was back. She handed me my package as she got out of the cab, and then Akari and I piled in and headed for the hospital.
We made it there barely in time for our eleven o’clock appointment, but as it turned out there was a notice posted near the receptionist’s window saying that the doctor we needed to see was running at least an hour behind schedule. The delay didn’t bother me at all. Chikashi had chosen this particular specialist because he was well known for his expertise in treating patients who had been born with brain damage, and we understood that he would sometimes be called away on unforeseen emergencies. When I presented Akari’s patient ID card to the nurse on duty, she told me to go ahead and get his blood work done.
As I was looking through the file containing our insurance information and other documents, I saw that an appointment for blood tests was scheduled for two days later, so I suspected that the nurse had thoughtfully found a way to make use of the fallow time we were going to spend waiting for the doctor. The blood tests took only a few moments to complete, but they left Akari in a foul mood. He had a phobia about having blood drawn and hadn’t been expecting to undergo that ordeal on this visit.
After securing a couple of seats in the waiting area, I finally set about opening my exotic-looking package. The sender was a cherished friend, a distinguished American woman whom I had known for decades (I’ll call her Jean S.). The enclosed note explained that she had finally gotten around to sorting through the mementos left behind by a mutual friend of ours, the late university professor, author, and comparative culture scholar Edward W. Said. During the process, Jean wrote, she had come across something she thought I might like to see, so she was sending it along. The item in question was still in its original, stiff paper file folder, and Jean had simply wrapped up the folder and popped it in the mail. The folder contained a trio of custom-bound booklets: the musical scores for three of Beethoven’s piano sonatas, printed on the finest grade of thick cotton paper.
Jean S. was the person who had first brought Edward W. Said and me together, many years ago. The two of them were old friends, and her posh apartment on a high floor in one of the most desirable neighborhoods in Manhattan even boasted an “Edward W. Said Room” decorated with motifs inspired by antique Islamic books. By chance, I was in New York City at the time of Said’s discharge from the hospital after a stay there (the first of many) to treat the leukemia that would eventually kill him; Jean threw a party to celebrate, and I was invited. Every year since we had met, Said and Jean had made a custom of telephoning me late at night on New Year’s Eve (which was already New Year’s Day, postmeridian, in Japan) from wherever they happened to be enjoying dinner together along with their respective families.
Shortly after my brother-in-law, the film director Goro Hanawa, committed suicide, Jean S. happened to be throwing another of her famous parties. Edward W. Said was there, and he entertained the guests by playing the piano — something he did exceedingly well. When Jean shared the news about Goro, Said apparently sat down and wrote a condolence note on the back of the score of the Beethoven piece he had just finished playing. Later, Jean made a clean copy of the draft on plain paper, carefully transcribing Said’s longhand scrawl for added legibility, and faxed it to me in Tokyo (I’ve never made the transition to email). After Said died, Jean told me that if the original note ever turned up again, she would send it to me.
For the first time that day Akari was showing an active interest in what I was doing, and he cast an expert eye on the sheet music as it emerged from the wrappings. “Those are the three sonatas dedicated to Haydn,” he announced. I knew from a long letter Jean S. had sent earlier that Said had been playing the second of those sonatas at her party. Looking through the score, I quickly located his distinctive penciled annotations, and then I stuck the slim booklets back in their folder.
I shepherded Akari to the nearest restroom, which was down on the first floor. Then, in the interest of efficiency, I quickly washed his hands and mine as well. This was another departure from the normal routine — he usually performed such simple functions by himself — and it clearly intensified his already disgruntled mood. On the way back upstairs we stopped in at the hospital gift shop, where I bought a plastic pouch containing two sharpened pencils: HB and B (medium soft and slightly softer, respectively).
When we returned to the seats where we’d left our things, I handed Akari the B pencil (the softer of the two) along with the sheet music for the sonatas. As he held out his hands to receive these unexpected gifts, my son’s formerly downcast face was transmogrified by joy.
Whenever Akari was reading sheet music he would always draw light circles around certain bars or measures with a pencil, exerting barely any force. For reasons unknown to me, he would also write an assortment of glyphlike symbols in the margins. I had already ascertained that the sheet music (which was, in effect, a posthumous bequest from my dear friend Edward W. Said) was printed on exceptionally thick, sturdy paper. My long-range plan was to transcribe any notations Akari might make on those pages onto the ordinary music-store sheet music for the same sonatas, which I knew we had at home. I figured if I wielded the eraser with particular care, no visible marks would remain on the originals.
Akari began reading the sheet music, holding one booklet at arm’s length in front of his chest, and I caught a whiff of the same intoxicating aroma of vintage ink and paper that suffused the innumerable volumes of European special editions in my library. Before long my son was completely immersed in the scores, and I hesitated to disturb him.
In a low voice, I ventured a question: “Is it interesting?”
“Yes, very interesting!”
“I’m glad. Could I take a quick peek at the sheet music for the second sonata?”
“Oh, that part is really interesting!” Akari replied, tapping his finger on the relevant section with an emphatic staccato rhythm.
“My friend Jean mentioned in an earlier letter that Edward Said played the first theme humorously, while the second one sounded sad and mournful,” I said. “At the time, I said to you, ‘Please choose your favorite CD of this piece from your collection.’ Do you remember?”
“Yes! And I put on the Friedrich Gulda recording,” Akari said eagerly. “He played it the same way, too.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “It was just the same, and with the volume muted as well. Could you please circle the relevant sections to show me where those passages are? Then when we get home I’ll listen to the CD again, using your annotated score for reference.”