Running Barefoot (9 page)

The clapping drew a little gasp from the churchgoers, and my eyes flew to see who was committing the faux pas. Towards the back of the church, standing next to the pew where his grandparents always sat, dressed in a white dress shirt and black pants, his hair pulled back off his face and secured in a low ponytail, was Samuel. He was clapping, his face serious and unashamed, and he kept clapping and clapping. His grandparents were seated beside him, their faces torn as to whether they should silence him or clap with him. Slowly, people began to join him, standing up around him as broad smiles broke out and the clapping became a roar.

I stood unmoving, not knowing quite what to do, until Sonja stole to my side and asked me to play Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’. I knew ‘Ave Maria’ by heart only because I loved it. I had never intended to perform it, but the continued applause encouraged me, and I sat back down on the bench and began the unplanned encore, inviting my audience to be seated and listen. When I finished the intensely beautiful and sacred number, there was no clapping. The silence was total and complete, the room hushed, as the congregation wept openly.

Sonja told me later there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. I found my eyes returning to where Samuel had stood. His eyes met mine, and he nodded once, solemnly. I slightly bowed and walked back to my pew where my father waited for me with open arms.

“You never told me you could play the piano like that.”

Samuel and I were back on the bus again, the heat pouring out of the heaters under the seats, the smell of wet feet and rubber boots wafting up all around us. Christmas vacation was over, two weeks of freedom ended, and the kids were glum. I had not seen Samuel since the Christmas Eve service.

“When was I supposed to tell you?” I asked, stumped. “We’ve never discussed music. Do you play an instrument?”

“No. We have traditional songs – but I don’t really know anyone that plays an instrument.” Samuel looked at me in wonder. “But you.... you play like ....like no one I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you.” Samuel’s words washed me in pleasure. “And thank you for clapping,” I said softly. “It was the most beautiful moment of my life.” I realized I sounded a little overdramatic, and I felt my cheeks turn pink. But it was true. I had never experienced anything like it. The music, the applause, the beauty of the church, and the people I loved looking at me and
listening
to me. I had never in my life been the center of attention, and I knew now why people performed. I had learned to play simply for the love of music and for the joy it gave me. But performing definitely had its perks. Just thinking of Samuel, of the expression on his face as he stood and clapped - for me! - I would never forget it for as long as I lived.

“It was for me, too.” Samuel’s voice was gruff, and I could see he was embarrassed by his admission. “I have never heard music like that.”

“Did you know you weren’t supposed to clap?” I asked shyly, smiling at him.

“Yes. But I couldn’t help myself.”

“Someday I’m going to travel the world, playing beautiful music, making people happy, hearing people clap,” I said dreamily, and for a moment we sat together in companionable silence, contemplating my future.

“Would you like to hear something?” I asked him suddenly, reaching for my cassette player and my headphones. Sonja and Doc had given them to me for Christmas, and I had spent the remainder of the holidays making tapes from my favorite music in Sonja’s collection.

I pulled out my Sony Walkman and popped it open, looking at the music inside. ‘Beethoven’ it read, in careful print. I pushed play and Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony filled my ears. I rewound it to the beginning and placed the earphones on Samuel’s ears. I listened to music loudly - you can’t really appreciate classical music, the rises, the individual notes and trills, if you don’t turn it up and give it your complete attention. I pushed play and held my breath a little.

I don’t know why I cared so much. But I did. I felt like I was revealing something very private about myself, and his approval and appreciation of this music was paramount to me. I had come to care deeply about his opinion, and I wasn’t quite sure how I would react if he rejected my music. It might feel like a rejection of me. If he said, “It’s okay” or “Hmmm, interesting” it might also affect the way I felt about him. Realizing this, I regretted my spontaneous gesture, and tried to remove the headphones from his head - I suddenly didn’t want to know what he thought.

His hands flew up and covered mine, and his eyes met mine fiercely as he pulled his head away. My hands fell to my lap, and I looked out the window dejectedly, waiting until he was finished. Every once in a while I sneaked looks at him. His eyes were cast downward, and his hands were locked over the earphones where he’d left them after my attempt to take them. There was a rigidity to his posture that I couldn’t decipher. The music was loud enough that I could faintly hear when ‘Ode to Joy’ ended. I clicked the stop button, and Samuel slowly pulled the earphones from his head.

“What is it called?” He asked, and there was reverence in his voice.

“It’s Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. It’s also known as ’Ode to Joy.” Samuel looked at me as if he wanted to hear more.

“Beethoven first heard the poem called “To Joy” more than 30 years before he set it to music with his Ninth Symphony. The ninth symphony was his last. By the time it was completed, Beethoven was deaf and sick. It had taken him ten years to complete it - he changed the “Joy” theme over 200 different times until he was satisfied with it.” I stopped, not certain whether he wanted to hear more.

“He was deaf?” Samuel’s voice lifted in astonishment.

“Yes. Sonja told me that he couldn’t hear the audience applauding behind him when he conducted it for the first time in Vienna. A singer turned him around so that he could see the people cheering and clapping throughout the concert hall. He would lie on the floor during rehearsals so that he could feel the vibrations of the music.”

“How did he know what it sounded like? I mean, in order to write music, don’t you need to be able to hear it?” Samuel replied in wonder.

“It was inside him, I guess.” I pursed my lips in contemplation. “It was in his head and in his heart. I guess he felt the music, so he didn’t have to hear it with his physical ears.” I paused. “Sonja told me once that many of the great composers, including Beethoven, have said that the music they compose is in the air, that’s it’s already there, you just have to be able to hear it. Most of us can’t…we can only appreciate that people like Beethoven seem to be able to, and then write down what they hear.”

“Do you hear it?” Samuel asked, his eyes penetrating.

“I don’t hear it…but I know it’s there.” I struggled to express something that I’d never put into words. “Sometimes I think if I could just
see
without my eyes, the way I
feel
without my hands, I would be able to
hear
the music. I don’t use my hands to feel love or joy or heartache - but I still feel them all the same. My eyes let me see incredibly beautiful things, but sometimes I think that what I
see
gets in the way of what’s…what’s just beyond the beauty. Almost like the beauty I can
see
is just a very lovely curtain, distracting me from what’s on the other side…and if I just knew how to push that curtain aside, there the music would be.” I threw up my hands in frustration. “I can’t really explain it.”

Samuel nodded his head slowly. “I found myself closing my eyes while you were playing that night in the church. Others did the same. Maybe that’s why. Our ears were trying to hear what our eyes keep hidden.”

He understood. I felt a luminosity fill my soul and a sudden urge to hug him.

“It’s in the air,” Samuel mused softly. His eyes were unfocused and his brow creased in reflection. “Like
ni ch’i
.”

“What?” I didn’t understand.

“It’s like
ni ch’i
.
Ni ch’i
is the Navajo for air or the wind ... but it is more than that. It is holy and it has power. My Grandmother says
ni ch’i
means the Holy Wind Spirit. Everything in the living world communicates through
ni ch’i
. Because of this, the Holy Wind Spirit,
ni ch’i
, sits at the ears of the Dineh, or the people, and whispers instructions tells them right from wrong. People who constantly ignore the
ni ch’i
are abandoned, the
ni’ch’i
will not remain with them.” Samuel’s eyes became focused again, drawing down on mine. “My grandmother believes that the ni ch’i is breathed into a newborn baby as they take their first breath. The child then has the companionship of the
ni ch’i
at all times.
Ni ch’i
guides him as he grows.

“It sounds like the Holy Ghost. I learned about the Holy Ghost in church. It helps you to do what’s right, guards you, warns you, leads you, but only if you are worthy of His company. It only speaks the truth. My Sunday School teacher says it is the way God talks to us.”

“Maybe what Beethoven hears is
ni ch’i
singing God’s music.

“I think you might be right.”

I rewound the cassette and extended the earphones to fit a head the size of Goliath’s. Then I leaned close to Samuel and fit the whole thing over both of our heads, one earphone on my left ear, one earphone on his right and we listened to God’s music, with our heads pressed close together, for the rest of bus ride.

Samuel never complained about my taste in music, in fact he seemed to enjoy it immensely. He rigged my earphones so that we could turn the fuzzy ear pads outward, so that our heads weren’t pressed together when we listened. I hadn’t minded a bit…but I wasn’t going to admit it. He seemed concerned that someone might misconstrue the intimate proximity of our heads. We each held one side of the headphones pressed to our ear. After about a week of non-stop Beethoven, I brought my tape of Rachmaninoff. We were listening intently to Prelude in C Sharp Minor, and Samuel’s black eyes were wide and shining. He turned towards me as the movement came to a stunning finish.

His voice was awed. “This music makes me feel so powerful, like I could do anything . . . like nothing could stop me as long as I kept the music pounding into my head. And there’s just that one small part where the music becomes triumphant, like the intensity is climbing and climbing and pushing and reaching and then those three chords play and it says ‘I did it!!!’ - kind of like Rocky raising his hands at the top of all those stairs. You know what I mean?” His voice was soft and sincere, and he looked at me then, smiling a little sheepishly at his enthusiastic review. “It’s so powerful .... I almost believe if I kept on listening I would become ‘Super Sam!’”

I laughed, delighted with his rare humor. Samuel didn’t joke around a lot, and he was definitely not verbose.

“I know exactly what you mean. Remember when I fractured my ankle?” I confessed sheepishly. “I got a little carried away with the music in my head and for a minute I was convinced I could fly.”

Samuel stared at me with a half smile on his face, shaking his head.

“Maybe I will have to make us matching capes and this can be our theme music.” I struck a pose. “Super Sam and Bionic Josie here to save the day!” I sung out.

Samuel actually laughed out loud. The sound was even better than the music, and I smiled at him, happier than I could ever remember being.

Samuel sat silently for a moment, not putting the earphone back up to his ear. I pushed the stop button on my player.

“Do you think you could make me a copy of that tape?” Samuel said stiffly. I wondered why it was so hard for him to ask such a simple thing when I was so obviously his friend.

“Sure. Definitely,” I said brightly.

Samuel looked at me, his eyes troubled, and the joy of the music fading to a new concern. “I told you I wanted to go into the Marine’s, right?”

I nodded my head, waiting for him to continue.

“I’m scared to death.” He held my gaze fiercely, daring me to speak. I stayed silent.

“A Marine has to know how to swim....and I have been in a pool exactly twice in my life. I grew up on an Indian Reservation, Josie, herding sheep all summer long, not swimming. I can dog paddle sort of…” His voice trailed off.