Skizzen and his mother disappeared into Mr. Maine’s quirky spaces, rarely entertaining anyone. They were not in the habit of making ostentatious improvements they could then parade before a community constrained by good manners to admire them. And every passerby enjoyed Miriam’s garden, a pleasure the strollers had to regard as a gift. The house might look run-down, but the garden was glorious, and this constituted an acceptable compromise.
The two papers that Joseph Skizzen believed were responsible for obtaining them the house, and retaining him his job, had been written at the kitchen table of the cottage, despite the strain of a dim light, during evenings of the first three years of his tenure. Joseph felt that it was essential for his future that he define himself as an au courant guy, someone hard-edged and up-to-date, as well as a bit menacing. If he had correctly gauged the level of scholarship at the school, the publication of even a few papers would put him high on the list of productive people, and if he had read the intellectual thermometer properly, his choice of specialty — Arnold Schoenberg — should be effectively frightening. Such intimidation might keep people at a distance, and output of any kind should give him a secure income.
Since Joey’s career depended upon the ignorance of others, and their natural reluctance to make that condition public knowledge, he had to select material that would be sufficiently musical to establish his expertise, yet not so technical as to exceed his limited understanding: in short, something historical or biographical, something on the edge of the subject the way a fringe completes a shawl while at the same time remaining a lot of useless yarn. He was taking a big risk, he knew, but he chose a topic for his first essay that would immediately advertise him as a person in the “know.” Its title would intrigue, confuse, and frighten simultaneously: “Max Blonda’s Von Heute auf Morgen.”
What is scary about today having a tomorrow, Miriam wanted to know, after he had boasted about his choice. And who is Max Blonda?
Exactly. Who is she?
She?
Yes, dear, it is an assumed name. Arnold Schoenberg’s second wife wrote the libretto for his light Viennese opera, Von Heute—
She was a Blonda? what sort of name is that? did she bleach?
I have no idea.
Well, why “Blonda” then?
I have no idea.
Ach, so you are writing, why?
To find out. Oh yes, and to get ahead.
After some months, the essay, which had ripened like a fruitcake soaked in the sherry of its own neglect, had an even more angular title. It had become “Max Blonda’s Saxophone.” The editors of the little music magazine he had in mind wouldn’t overlook this one when it arrived in their weekly slush pile. Finally, however, needing a prominent name up front, he went with “Schoenberg’s Saxophone.” That would shake them up.
Like everything else, from table silver to lines of nobility, the instruments of the orchestra constitute a kind of country club and possess a rigorous social hierarchy. So before you can be consigned to a life next to the wooden clappers in the percussion group, you have to be accepted by each of the orchestra’s sections. Many instruments, including the piano, which appears as a soloist from time to time, aren’t fully permissible precisely because they can stand so easily alone or, like the harp, are too limited in their range or peculiar in their quality to be called upon often. Alas for the piano’s social ambitions, it was fatally bourgeois, and unattractive ladies played it. There are a few noisemakers that belong entirely to the folk, to their jokes and hokum, such as the tin whistle, banjo, and kazoo; others, like the xylophone or bottle organ, appear to have been created mainly to show off the player’s dexterity and might have been invented by a juggler; while many are just too weak to make their voice heard — the Jew’s harp and wax-paper comb, even the recorder or lips’ whistle — puny as dwarfs among giants; or those that have been harmed by their close association with one sort of music and consequently called for only when their sort is about to be performed, such as the guitar and castanets; or there are those whose tones are coarse, vulgar, untrue, or mechanical like the electric organ and amplified guitar, as well as the accursed accordion that has too many fatal shortcomings to list. Some simply were born on the wrong side of the clef like the saxophone and trombone, associated first with military and marching bands and ultimately with jazz combos, cigarette smoke, and syrupy dance kings. Gadget instruments occasionally had music written that included them just for the hell of it. Foghorns, whistles, sirens, typewriters, telephone bells, and the glass harmonica were sometimes placed in an experimental composition for amusement, shock, or surprise. The saxophone, sounding like a hound baying at the moon, its notes too full of air for refinement, was a particularly bad joke. To prove that Arnold Schoenberg was one of the boys and could write operetta with the best of them — no doubt also seeking vainly for a popular success — he included this instrument in one of his few efforts at levity, Von Heute auf Morgen.
His new wife wrote the libretto, but Krenek’s, Weill’s, and Hindemith’s successes spurred him on. The saxophone may have jazzed the tunes, but a twelve-tone row created the main alignment, contrapuntal variations were the order of its march, and canons memorialized its end — the heaviest light opera ever penned. In books about Schoenberg, Von Heute auf Morgen was lucky to get a line, which made it perfect for Skizzen’s purposes.
Schoenberg was incapable of the middle-C mind. He was unable to sustain mediocrity. Skizzen thought he probably never understood the bland, the ordinary, the neutral, because it is as difficult to strike as oil. To be the man at the party whom no one remembers is easy for the guest who can shrink into the woodwork without trying, he is so inherently shy; but to be a person who disappears because he is so like everybody else as not to count; who is neither the least lively nor the most; neither the designated driver nor the drunk; neither the most drably dressed nor the most flamboyant; who is as unidentifiable as a glass someone has emptied two drinks ago and left upon the tray like keys mislaid on purpose and subsequently lost: to pretend to be such a one when one is not such a one is to undertake the circling of the square.
During his preparations, the paradox inherent in his plan became increasingly obvious and embarrassing. Joseph Skizzen had chosen this subject and this theme in order that its author, who would have to be Professor Joseph Skizzen, would be noticed. It was desirable for the professor to be impressive so that the real Skizzen — Joey — who really didn’t care much for either Schoenberg the man (a tyrant) or Schoenberg the musician (a romantic at war with romanticism) — who, when the maestro’s atonal music washed over him, felt as if his head were being held in a toilet Polly who found these serenades and songs beyond him Wolly quite over his head, his hair, his head of hair like a sudden shower Doodle who recoiled as the land does in front of distant mountains Polly-Wolly for whom Liszt’s Transcendental Études were about as adventuresome as Skizzen could bring himself to be Doodle as he could bring himself Polly-Wolly-Doodle yes, so the real Skizzen might fade like a figure a flower in the wallpaper a wall of paper flowers a pattern whom familiarity ignores, paint obscures, or the sun fades Polly-Wolly-Doodle all the day.