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“What if I only have a few more minutes left?” she asks. “Or just seconds? I’m scared to play, in case it runs out and I can’t get it back.”

“You mustn’t think like that.”

“But it’s happening to people all over the world! You must have seen the news!”

“I have,” I say with a sigh, “but I’ve also lived long enough to know that something like this simply can’t happen.”

“Can you still play?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply, but with more hesitation that I should like.

“Are you sure?” she continues. “Have you tried?”

“I know how to play the guitar,” I tell her. “One does not lose such an ability overnight.”

“Everyone else has,” she says. “Or they’re in the process of losing it. What makes you think that you’re going to be any different?”

“Because…”

I pause, as I try to work out how to explain this to her. Before I can say anything, however, I hear a distant scream, and Sarah and I both turn to look toward the door. It sounds as if someone somewhere is having a bad night, although they would seem to be some distance away. Finally, turning back to the poor girl, I see fear in her eyes.

“Because this whole story is nothing but hysteria,” I tell her. “It’s an idea that’s spread all around the world. What’s the word that young people use these days? Viral. That’s it, it’s a stupid idea that’s gone viral. And now people, even very intelligent people, are tricking themselves into believing that music is somehow going away. I’m not saying you’re foolish for believing it, I know very well that the human mind can be fooled in so many ways. But how about we try to ignore it, eh? Would you like to come up to my place for a glass of wine?”

“I’m scared to play it,” she replies, looking back down at her guitar.

Sighing, I realize that Sarah – an intelligent girl, and very sensitive – has fallen for all this nonsense. I should very much like to dissuade her, but I’m exhausted and I’d very much like to think that the whole world will have sorted itself out by the time I wake up in the morning.

“I think I should pack myself off to bed,” I say finally, as I step around her and start making my way up the stairs. “You should do the same, Sarah, and things will seem fine tomorrow. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“We’ll see,” I tell her, preferring to avoid a big discussion on the subject. “We’ll see.”

She’s clearly still troubled, but I can’t stop and talk to her for the whole night. My legs are aching as I make my way up the stairs, although I try not to show the discomfort until I’m well out of sight. By the time I reach my door, I can afford to let my shoulders slump a little, but it’s only when I’m safely inside my apartment that I allow myself to truly relax. I push the door shut and lean back, and then I wince as I feel a flicker of pain run up my spine. I’m not doing too badly for a seventy-one-year-old, but now and again I feel twinges and twists all over my body.

Shuffling through to the front room, I stop as soon as I see my guitar over by the window.

Usually when I get home, I practice a little, just to soothe my mind before I go to sleep. Tonight, however, I have so much nonsense ringing in my ears. Sarah’s words, in particular, seem to echo in the darkness all around me.

“I’m scared to play it.”

“Rot,” I mutter, but I turn and head through to the bedroom.

I’ll play in the morning, and by then hopefully the world will have shaken itself from this mass hysteria.

Four

Alas, this does not prove to be the case.

“Quite extraordinary scenes outside one French music school this morning,” the attractive lady newsreader says on the television as I shuffle into the front room, carrying my morning bowl of porridge, “where angry students are demanding medical help to restore their ability to play music. A spokesman for the students told reporters that the mysterious condition must be some form of contagious sickness, and that the onus is on governments around the world to come up with a cure.”

I change channels, but I quickly find that the same subject is dominating all the broadcasts.

“It could be some kind of neurological condition,” a doctor is saying on the BBC, “although it’s difficult to imagine how this could have spread so quickly, given that there were no reports of anyone losing musical abilities before about eight o’clock last night, British time.”

“But one thing that our viewers are repeatedly saying,” the interviewer replies, “is that they’re even losing the ability to sing, or to hum. We’re getting messages from parents who can’t sing to their children. It’s as if human minds are no longer capable of understanding music.”

“Indeed,” the doctor replies, “and that goes back to my suggestion that this is neurological. It’s possible that the sounds are still emerging, but that we can no longer hear them or interpret them as music. This might also explain why recordings of music are failing to work.”

I change to yet another channel, and this time I see that our beloved prime minister is addressing the nation with his usual sickly, lying grin.

“I want to assure everyone,” he says, “that we’re sparing no efforts in finding a solution to this problem. An international team is being assembled to determine the cause of what’s happening, and to come up with a solution. Now, I can’t give a time frame as to how quickly they’ll be able to get to the bottom of it all, but I’m assured that there has to be an answer eventually. It’s simply not possible that we’ve all lost the ability to play and hear music, all at once.”

“What about reports that some people are losing the ability more slowly than others?” a reporter asks.

“We have people looking into that as well,” the prime minister replies, “and there does seem to be some hope there. Again, I’m not an expert, so I can only really talk in generalizations, but whatever’s happening is clearly reversible. We just have to understand the mechanism.”

“And what about suggestions that this is an attack?” another reporter asks.

“There’s nothing to suggest that at the moment,” the prime minister says. “This condition seems to be affecting people everywhere in the world. England, the United States, Russia, the Middle East, Australia. We’re getting reports from Africa and from North Korea. We don’t think that this is an attack. At the moment, our best guess is that it’s some kind of mass, simultaneous outbreak of a sickness that we don’t yet understand.”

I switch the television off, and then I stand for a moment in silence. There are some voices outside, yelling in the street, but that’s hardly unusual for this part of town.

Slowly, I turn and look over at my guitar.

I’ve been delaying this moment all morning, but I know now that I have to see if I can play. I keep telling myself that I’ll be fine, and indeed I’ve managed to hum a few bars already. At the same time, the news reports can’t all be wrong, and I’m deeply concerned that perhaps something’s seriously wrong after all.

I set my bowl of porridge down, then I take my guitar from its stand and go to sit on the sofa.

“Come on, old thing,” I mutter, still not quite daring to play, not just yet. “You’ve never let me down before, so don’t start now.”

I get into position, but something’s still holding me back.

“You can do it,” I continue, before taking a deep breath and deciding to start with something nice and simple. A Carulli piece, perhaps.

I take another deep breath.

And then I start playing.

To my great joy, everything works. I’m able to play the entire piece, all the way through, although I do make a couple of uncharacteristic mistakes along the way. Still, those are most likely caused by nerves, and I feel a rush of relief as I get to the end of the piece.