Song of the Silent Snow (21 page)

He enjoyed his lunch and briefly wondered how many different waiters had served him since he had been coming here???? My goodness, there really wouldnt be any way of knowing. Or Maitre'ds or hat check girls or washroom attendants or boot blacks or ... he smiled and chuckled inwardly, or even how many ducklings. Maybe tomorrow he would try to ... Hmmm, tomorrow ... stuffed veal chops ... Just might be able to, you know. Only been on the menu a few years. He brushed his lips lightly with the napkin one last time, then got up and left the restaurant.

He stood just outside the door for a moment, then slowly edged into the lunch-hour crowd and walked to a nearby department store. He browsed quickly in the racks of ties then went to the lingerie department and walked slowly around the display cases looking at the many items on the countertops, in the cases, and especially on the manikins. A few times he brushed his hand against the sheer softness of the garments and allowed his body to give voice to a slight tingle of excitement. He continued strolling through the department for a few more minutes, then left and returned to his office.

He worked on a few more files until about four oclock when he called again. There was that delicious feeling of anticipation as the second ring faded and he heard the click that meant that he would be hearing her voice: Hello, this is the recorded information line for the Stuyvesant Museum. If you are calling for other than General Information, please call - He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk - the new sculpture garden is now open during regular museum hours. In it are works by 19th and 20th century American and European artists. In the Willnymer Gallery there is a special showing of 14th and 15th century Japanese prints, now through the end of the month. The exhibition consists - he was smiling as he listened and gently brushed his cheek with the fingertips of his right hand, allowing her voice to flow through him in gentle, soothing currents that made his body feel unaccustomedly alive with an unknown energy - program of lectures, music and dance recitals are scheduled for the evenings. Tonight is a performance of traditional Indian dances related to Shiva. Tomorrow the Bartholemew Quartet will play the music of Handel, Beethoven, and Bartok, while on - His smile broadened, Yes, I think thats wonderful, and he felt a slight flush at hearing himself, and was silent again as he did not want to miss too much of her voice - for ticket information call the museum ticket office. Admission to the Dunbar Gallery is always free where fine paintings, sculptures, graphics - he nodded his head and closed his eyes as little dots of light flashed by and images flowed through his body. He was still brushing his cheek and smiling when he told her her voice was beautiful, then quickly silenced so he could listen - If you have missed any part of this recording - Her voice blended in with the music it created within him and he felt it as well as heard it and his body once again moved in time to it - Thank you for calling the Stuyvesant Museum and have a nice day. He did not hear the click, he was still experiencing the music ...

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.

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Of Whales and Dreams

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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.

And then, as the years went so slowly by, I would stand at the head of a pier and wait for a tug to tie up, hoping the captain would see me and yell down for me to come aboard, that they needed a messboy, and I would leap on her deck and the mooring lines would be let go immediately and we would be off on our adventure.

And at night I would lie in my bed and allow my imagination to take me any-which-where and I would sail to the places I had seen in pictures, and see our tug battling the seas of Cape Hatteras, or sailing thru the Keys, the very words sounding distant and romantic.

And one day I did leap on a tug and crossed the harbor and back. I was living in a dream. An old deckhand chuckled at me and told me about his days at sea and all the countries he had seen and all the oceans he had crossed, and told me of the time he shipped on a whaler and how the whales looked as they flowed through the sea, and of the sudden bursting forth when they breached and the banging roar of the huge flukes cracking the surface of the water. And he even imitated the voice of a whale. The captain let me in the wheel house, and allowed me to take the wheel for a minute, but I spent almost all of those few hours with the old deckhand listening to more and more stories about whales. For days and nights I relived that day, dreaming always of teaching the whales to dance.

While still in my mid-teens I finally went to sea. A lifetime spent dreaming of the sea died and now a new life of living the dream had begun. And still I pursued my dream even though it was now my life. I never did ship on a whaler, but manys the time Ive seen them break the surface of the sea, barely causing a ripple, looking so gentle and strong and indomitable, and, as I stood at the gunnel watching them, in my head I would be playing a song on a concertina and pipe, teaching them to dance, and they honked their glee as they whirled and twirled through the water waving their flukes in time and merriment to the music

And when it came time to stop they sang a final note and waved and continued on their inevitable way, and me on mine, leaning against the gunnel, staring at the disappearing ripples, feeling a part of them was still with me and a part of me with them. They somehow became a part of my dream, in some strange way as important a part of the dream as me. It took the two of us to make the dream. And it does still.