“So why not play real music? How are you in sight-reading and improvising?”
“I’m good — ’specially improvising.” His expression was interested, and he was getting into the conversation more. I didn’t see how it could lead anywhere useful, but I had nothing better to do.
“I’d like to hear you,” I said.
“Pick a tune.” He looked positively eager. So was I. It was one thing to meet a musical thug, but natural talent is hard to find anywhere and it’s intriguing when you meet it.
“How about a contemporary work?” I said. “How many late twentieth century piano pieces do you know?”
“Damn few — an’ that includes early twentieth century as well.” He struck a few sparse and dissonant chords that sounded like an extract from Webern, but not one I could place. “Hear that?” he said. “That’s not music.”
“So what is music?”
He thought for a moment. “This is.” He began to play a beautifully balanced piano transcription of the first movement of the Schubert String Quintet, nodding his head with the rhythm.
After about a minute he stopped.
“Go on,” I said. I was ready to hear more. “Who did the piano arrangement?”
He looked sheepish. “I did it myself, from listening to records an’ all that.”
“I’d like to see a copy.”
“Aw, I don’t bother to write much stuff down.” He sniffed. “If it’s any good you remember it anyway.”
“Could you improvise on part of that?”
He shrugged noncommittally, and began again. This time he took only the first subject and began to carry it through a series of variations and modulations. He was soon so far away from C Major that I wondered how he was proposing ever to get back. Finally he set up a mock fugato, in which successive voices began to move him elegantly through the different keys. When he finally landed back in the tonic he grinned at me in triumph, ran through a flashing display of double octaves, and added a jaunty little coda. I noticed that his left hand, in spite of its less smooth movement, was perfectly agile and made the wildest jumps accurately.
“You’re damned good,” I said when he paused. For a few minutes I had forgotten that I was tied to an uncomfortable chair, a prisoner in a strange house with an unknown tomorrow. No denying it: Pudd’n was a better improviser than I ever was or ever would be.
He was flushed with pleasure. “Bit of all right, that, eh? It had me really goin’ for a while with that fugue, but it came out not bad.”
“Better than not bad. Look, if you want to try and earn an honest living, come and see me.” (As I said that, it occurred to me that I wasn’t going any place. See me where?) “You need some advanced training on use of the pedals, and that left hand could use some special exercises. But if you want to work at it, you could be doing this professionally in six months.”
“Nah.” He closed the piano lid. “I’m better off this way. Twelve years of do-re-mi practice was enough. I’m goin’ to try an’ learn to play that thing you did, though — just to prove I can.”
He stood up. “I’ll have to be off. Dixie will be up here in a minute. Take my advice, try an’ act polite to ’im, even if he does come in ’ere an’ start dancin’ about like a bleedin’ pet monkey. He gets nasty if you rub him up the wrong way — too fond of that bleedin’ knife, it’s goin’ to finish him off one of these days.”
He scratched his head. “Well, see you tomorrer. Don’t get into no trouble.”
I was left tied solidly in the chair, contemplating the pleasures of the evening ahead with Dancing Dixie as my companion. It was hard to work up any enthusiasm, even if I followed Pudd’n’s advice and didn’t get into no trouble. And I was getting awfully itchy to leave that chair.
- 7 -
Dixie had his own ideas of a pleasant evening. First he left me with the door locked for about two hours, sitting in the dark. I had plenty of time to try straightening in my chair and testing the strength of the wood. I could get about an inch of play there, far too little to do me any good, and after a while my legs and wrists were giving me hell and no amount of bending could bring my head close to them. All the knots were tied on the underside.
When Dixie finally rolled in and switched on the light, he was carrying a loaded tray of food, a flat half bottle of whiskey, and one glass.
“Still here, are you?” he said. “It’s amazing how you don’t get bored.”
He poured himself a sizable Scotch, added water from a little jug, and sat down on the piano stool with the tray on his knee.
“What about me?” I said. “I’m absolutely starving.”
Dixie stopped with the fork halfway to his mouth. “What yer talking about? Pudd’n fed you.”
“No he didn’t. He took me downstairs, but when we got there I was too sick to eat. I felt bad.”
“Well, that’s your bloody funeral, in’it?” Dixie ate the forkful of potato. “If you think you’re getting any of this you’d better have another think.”
I leaned back in the chair and let my head loll over to the left. “You saw the operations I’ve had,” I said, my voice all weak and throaty. “I can’t eat much at a time, but if I don’t eat anything at all I get really bad. I’m not supposed to go more than three or four hours without food.”
“That’s your problem, then,” said Dixie . “You had your chance with Pudd’n.” He went on eating and drinking, but every half minute he would give me a worried and annoyed glance. I lay back, eyes half closed. I let my breathing become slowly more hoarse and labored. When he was finished he sat and fidgeted for a moment, then at last drained his glass and stood up. He left the room without speaking. I heard him going downstairs, while I strained at the chair again with the usual negative results.
He was back in five minutes with a glass of milk and a plate that held a big lump of cheddar and a thick slice of buttered fruitcake.
“Here.” He put it down on my lap. “Now you can stop yer bloody grumbling.”
I nodded my head towards my bound hands. “You’ll have to feed me. I can’t move.”
“Like hell.” His face turned red with anger. “I’m not your bloody wet nurse. Hold still.” He took out his knife and held it carefully in his teeth, while he worked the knots on my right arm loose enough to move freely. “Now, you can work that the rest of the way for yourself. Don’t try anything, though, or you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
He stood about two feet away from the chair, holding the knife lightly. I could sense from the look in his eye that he wished I would give him a reason to use it on me. I carefully worked at the loosened bonds until I had my hand free, then forced down the milk and the food. It was an effort — Pudd’n had fed me more than I really needed — but at last I was done.
“Right,” Dixie said. “Sit still. I’m going to tie you up again.”
“Wait a minute.” I fished in my shirt pocket and took out the pillbox. “I have to take two of these.”
“Well, get on an’ do it.”
“I have to have water,” I said. He had used the last of the little jug of water in his whiskey.
“Yer bloody moron.” I thought for a moment he was going to hit me, then he pulled back. “Why didn’t you tell me that before I went downstairs? I’m not your bloody slave.”
He stood furious for a moment, then turned and walked out. I estimated that I had thirty clear seconds. I took three capsules out of the box and tugged them apart with my teeth, holding each one in my right hand. My plan had been to drop the powder from them into his drink, but his glass was way out of reach, over on the piano. All I could do was tip the contents of each capsule into the open bottle of whiskey, then stuff the empty containers in my pocket and give the bottle a quick shake with my thumb over the open top.