He replaced the phone and continued to keep his eyes closed until the music started to ebb, then he opened them and leaned back in his chair and sighed almost inaudibly as his minds eye watched the music drift away…
then he looked at the phone, Have a nice day. He breathed deeply and took another file from the pile on the left side of his desk.
At five oclock he closed the file he was working on, brushed the paper dust off his desk, put his pencils and pens in their proper place, and did the same with everything else, centering his calendar just so, and put the morning paper in his briefcase before leaving.
He read the evening paper on the way home, and when he arrived he hung up his coat, put away his hat, and gave Virginia the morning paper. She loved to read the bridge game and work the crossword puzzle. Thank you, Harold.
Youre quite welcome, Virginia, and he pecked her on the cheek. Then he pecked Helen. How did everything go today?
Fine, Harold. How was your duckling?
O, it was good.
Not too salty?
No, no, as a matter of fact it was just right.
O, I am happy to hear that. You have to be careful with duckling, you know. Very greasy.
Yes, I know. But it was rendered properly. He started upstairs to his rooms.
Dinner will be ready in half an hour, Harold.
Fine, Helen.
We’re having a little change tonight.
O?
Yes. We're having peas and carrots with the lamb rather than cauliflower.
O, good. Good, and he continued up the stairs. He hung up his jacket and turned on his phonograph and put on a recording of arias sung by Renata Tebaldi. As he listened he looked through his carefully filed collection of autographed pictures of opera stars and took out his favorite of her and glanced at it from time to time, hearing his Monday voice blending in an extraordinary way with Tebaldi… O, how he loved Monday nights. The music of her voice was still with him, and the exquisite magic of Tebaldi, both carressing him as he sat in his chair, all those glorious dreams of music flowing from his soul through his hands as the poets voice read lyrics that invited him to find the melody to clothe them, and he breathed deeply as the experience of those memories was once more reawakened, not to be re-imagined, as the images had long since been distilled and annihilated, but their memory was still there… the imagined joys were still there… the ecstasies were still there… hidden away in the warm folds of his brain where they could never be destroyed by any hand, and though the once brilliant images of concert halls and applause were now only flashes of light passing by his closed eyes, the experience, O, God, the tingle of the experience breathed itself eternally in his soul and he held Tebaldis picture in his hand, his attitude and all his being a prayer of thanks to her and the music and his Monday voice as he listened with his heart…
At dinner each reviewed their day and they smiled and chatted pleasantly, each trying to make the others happy. Virginia was almost shaking with excitement as she related to Harold what had happened at the supermarket. It was just about the most frightening thing that has ever happened to me.
Really? What was it?
She smiled at Helen, I have already told Helen, but I was checking the eggs—to make certain they werent cracked you know—Harold nodded—when all of a sudden there was the most terrible explosion—Helen started to giggle—it really was you know, Helen. I know dear, Im sorry. Harold smiled and looked at them, but said nothing. Well, there was this terribly dreadful explosion and I dropped the carton of eggs—in the case so no damage was done, thank goodness—but I was trembling so badly I could not move. Finally, after what seemed ages, a clerk came by and I asked him what had happened—I thought there were gangsters trying to rob the store—and he told me someone had dropped a seltzer bottle—Helen started giggling again and Harold smiled then chuckled and Virginia grinned, I know it seems silly now, but I was absolutely terrified. And then, to top it off, I forgot the eggs, and she started giggling too.
After dinner they continued chatting as they drank coffee. Eventually Helen asked Harold if he was ready. Yes, I think so.
Good.
O good. The table was cleared and the dishes set to soak while they went to the parlor. Harold sat at the piano and rubbed his hands for a few minutes, played a few scales, then turned to his sisters, shall I play the Appassionata?
O yes, do.
That would be wonderful, Harold.
He turned to the piano, straightened his back and looked at the keyboard for a moment, then started playing. With the first contact of his fingers with the keys he felt transformed and transported. It was not just that he was no longer Harold Livingston age 53, bachelor, lawyer, living with his two unmarried sisters; or that he transcended his daily life and was now a concert pianist. He transcended even that. He simply became a part of the music. But not a part of the music he played, but the music Beethoven wrote. Many times, through the many years, Harold tried to believe he was hearing something other than what he was playing, but his ear was too keen. There certainly was passion in his playing. And power. And the arpeggios were clear and distinct. He knew his playing was inspired and he had great respect for the music, but he also knew that there was a slight stiffness and imperfection of technique. But what he did not hear was of even greater importance than what he did, for he did not hear the brilliance of imagination, that rush of genius that made for greatness which was the only flaw that practice could not erase… not now. But Harold had long since stopped hearing the notes coming from the piano and listened instead to the music that came from his heart, the music that was in the soul of the notes. This is what Harold heard as he watched his fingers moving across the keyboard, and what flowed through his being…
When he finished he sat still for a moment, still experiencing the music, then smiled and turned and looked at his applauding sisters who were thrilled beyond words, having heard the greatest rendition of the Appassionata ever performed. He stood and bowed and walked over to his sisters. Thank you. Thank you.
O it was marvellous, Harold, simply marvellous.
O yes, it was the finest I have ever heard.
I'll go make some hot chocolate for us to have with our cake. O, how I love Monday nights.
Before retiring Harold played the Sviatoslav Richter recording of the Appassionata, his eyes closed, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, hands in front of his face, fingertips touching slightly. He heard the music… From time to time he smiled and nodded his head in approval, feeling a sensation of wholeness as the music within him matched the music without. When the music stopped he continued sitting for many minutes with his eyes closed until the flashing lights vanished. He got up and put the record carefully in its jacket. Virginia is quite right about Monday, though it is not just the night that is wonderful.
He undressed and hung everything in its proper place, put on his pajamas and robe and went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then rinsed his mouth. He looked in the mirror, then turned off the light and went back to his bedroom. He lay on his back for a few moments feeling the silence, then thought that perhaps he would not have boiled eggs for breakfast… but he did not have to make that decision now. He turned on his side, closed his eyes, and slept.
Of Whales and Dreams
Many, many years ago a man told me that to deny my dream was to sell my soul. I was young and did not know that the words were finding their own particular place within me so they would be mine forever, but I do remember blinking my eyes and nodding my head as if the very motion was forcing the truth in what he said deeper within me.
And I was full of dreams. Dreams, dreams, dreams. And I dream still.
And the whale is a dream.
When I was a child and landlocked, playing ships was my game. A stick in water was fine. I did not need sails or steam, only imagination, and my ships sailed through mirror-like waters or weathered the most treacherous of storms. And the suns reflection looked up at me from the south sea lagoons, or, as a breeze rippled the water, the reflection became a broken moon in the Atlantic. And sea-walls and jetties were my playgrounds and I would spend endless days on the shore or pier watching the various vessels of every description and flag sail in and out of the harbor, or drop their anchor and rest while small launches brought men ashore. I was aware the pilots knew just where each ship should be, and how much room to leave, yet still I constantly marvelled at how a harbor filled with anchored ships could be so free of problems. And I would sit for hours watching the tide slowly change the positions of the ships as they tugged at their anchor chains. I watched and dreamed.