My NaNoWriMo Days 6 and 7
“Well don’t you look nice today!” Ellen said as she walked into the office. “New man already?” Carolyn blushed.
“No, of course not, she said. “I just have somewhere I need to be later.” As soon as this answer slipped between her lips, Carolyn knew she had made a huge mistake.
“What?!” Ellen said with a gasp. “Where? What for? Who’s it with? Business or pleasure? Oh you simply must tell me now! I will die of curiosity!”
“I will tell you,” Carolyn said after Ellen finished her barrage of questions, “But it will have to wait until after. Right now, we both have work to do. Plus if nothing comes of it I will be too embarrassed to tell you anyway.”
“Alright,” Ellen said, clearly not satisfied, but also knowing that pestering further would give her no further insight. “But promise me I will be the first one you tell when you finally get everything together.”
“Promise,” Carolyn agreed.
The next few hours went swiftly. Carolyn worked through lunch. In part because she was too nervous to eat, but also to avoid any more of Ellen’s questions, in case she decided to press further. Finally, a half hour before she was to meet Mr. Garbo, Carolyn got up, grabbed her things, and left the office, heading for the subway station.
It was a relatively short ride to Drieper’s Street, and Carolyn found herself in front of his apartment building a full ten minutes before their interview was scheduled to begin. She used this time productively, pacing back and forth up and down the street until she felt she could buzz for his apartment without being rude. She asked the man at the front desk to ring Mr. Garbo and let him know Ms. Carolyn Grant was here to see him.
After a half-minute ride up the elevator, Carolyn was greeted by a jolly, portly fellow with a warm, colorful voice that sounded as if it would burst into a joke at any moment.
“Ms. Grant! So wonderful to meet you in person at last. I have so been looking forward to this interview since our first correspondence.”
A twinge of guilt coursed through her stomach when Carolyn saw how much the man looked forward to this interview. Perhaps this was the first time a major publication had asked to speak with him about his work. Carolyn would do her best to keep up the appearance of a legitimate interview as long as possible.
“Do come in,” the man said, gesturing behind him toward the small living room behind him. The room was small, but well appointed with all the typical furniture one would find in a single man’s living room. It was neat for the most part, but a bit dusty, the furniture in reasonably good shape, but starting to show signs of wear. Please, please sit anywhere you like, the man said gesturing toward the two arm chairs facing the solitary large window on the far wall that let in the afternoon light.
“Thank you, she said, choosing the one that showed less wear. That would be the chair for guests, she figured. On the table between them, Mr. Garbo had set a tray for tea. The set itself was beautifully forged, and looked as if it might be an antique. Perhaps a family heirloom.
“Oh!” he said, sitting down then standing right back up again. I forgot to put the water on. Please, excuse me.” With that, he dashed off into the small room behind them and, with a few clanks and crashes of kitchenware, returned and sat with an embarrassed smile.
“Shall we get started then? Carolyn asked, becoming a bit nervous and self conscious of her deception. She had expected some haughty, artsy type with a holier-than-thou-disposition and a swanky, hip apartment full of expensive items; the results of his ill-gotten fortune. The only clue to his musical affiliations were the piles of sheet music scattered about and the modest piano in the corner. None of this suggested the man just made bank on a hit new single. Too late to turn back now, however. She put on her reading glasses, pulled out her pen and writing tablet and began to go through the questions’s she’d come up with the night before.
“So,” she began “Let’s start with your background. Where are you from?”
“Well,” he began somewhat shakily, “I was born in a sleepy little country hamlet called Edlandsberg. My parents were simple farmers, making an honest living growing grains. My mother would teach me piano after school. My father felt this is a waste of time, but I knew I wanted something more in life.” As the man continued talking, Carolyn grew more and more convinced this routine had been heavily rehearsed a few nights before and was more fable than truth. She continued to nod politely, asking about his influences growing up, when he moved to the city, what that was like, and what sort of jobs he did before he got his “big break” as he called it. His responses were predictable, and Carolyn started to grow impatient with this coming-of-age cliche. Her notes went from actual bullet points of his narration to abstract squiggles as she stared out the window.
“Oh my! I completely forgot about the tea,” he said suddenly, snapping her attention back to him. “Oh, I hope the water hasn’t completely boiled off.” He again leapt out of the chair and dashed back into the kitchen. Carolyn couldn’t help but be impressed with the man’s nimbleness. His physique suggested none of the lightness with which he moved. Presently, the man returned with a steaming pot of water.
“Let’s discuss your latest work,” Carolyn said, as Mr. Garbo filled the teapot and once again took his seat. “Many have commented on how different this work is from your previous efforts. What was your inspiration?”
“Funny thing about that,” he began. Carolyn prepared herself for another fish story like he had told before.
“I was up late working on a new piece. I had pulled a double shift at work the night before, and was quite exhausted. Still, I was determined to get a head start on this next piece before the week’s end. It was late.” he continued staring at the piano in the corner as if the story was written there. “I had the radio on in the background, left on, even though the last song of the night had been played hours before. All of the sudden, I must have dozed off or began hallucinating due to exhaustion, for the static began to sound like music, the most peculiar sounds I’ve ever heard. Then, a woman’s voice, sad and soulful, began to sing, singing in a language I’d never before heard. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced. Then suddenly, it was gone, I woke up, my face stained with tears. I spent the rest of the night trying to capture the melody on paper. I called off work the next day, and did not leave my flat for days, working non-stop to capture this beautiful sound I had envisioned.”
It was a one-of-a-kind experience unlike anything I have ever experienced.” His voice filled with melancholy as he said this. “One I am not sure I will ever replicate again.”
Carolyn just stared, dumbfounded, her mouth hanging slightly open. “You don’t believe me, do you?” He asked after waiting a moment for her to respond. “It is a bizarre story, but I assure you it’s true.”
“On the contrary,” Carolyn said finally, “Pardon my bluntness, but it is the first part of your story that I have no trouble believing.” Truly, she expected some other tale or explanation about how an artist’s muse is a mysterious thing, or some other garbage like that. She never imagined he would simply volunteer the truth. In retrospect though, there was a certain charm in it. Believing oneself the recipient of inspiration in a dream. There was something romantic about it.
He looked surprised, and then blushed with embarrassment at her statement.
“It’s just, my actual upbringing is so normal and typical, it wouldn’t make a very interesting read for your subscribers. But I swear on my actual mother, what I told you about that song is true! I did hear it in a dream just as I described.”
“As I said, I believe you,” Carolyn assured him. “I don’t think it was a dream, however.”
“Oh?” The man said looking confused.
“I’m afraid I too have been dishonest,” Carolyn admitted, also slightly embarrassed. “I am not a writer for the Telegram, though I do work for its parent company. I’m hear because many months ago, possibly around the same time as you, I heard the exact same song in a language I’ve never heard, with strange instruments. I was sure it wasn’t a dream, but until hearing your version of it, I had no idea what it could have been.”
It was Mr. Garbo’s turn to appear dumbfounded. It took a bit for all of this to sink in.
“You’re not a reporter?” he asked. “Th-then why are you here?”
“Because I thought you a fraud. I was hoping to get you to tell me where you had heard that song before. I knew it couldn’t be original. I figured you must know where it came from!” Admitting this aloud turned her cheeks an even deeper shade of red. What a ridiculous plan she’d concocted. What was she thinking?
Mr. Garbo seemed not to know how to respond to this. “So then, what now?” he asked finally. “Apparently there’s no story, and I’m sorry to say I have no more knowledge of the song’s origins than you. I’d assumed it was a subconscious concoction of a mind deprived of sleep. I never imagined it to be something I actually heard.”
This was a good question. Carolyn had no idea. She now felt extremely foolish for her charade. The man had every right to be cross with her. Between her initial deception, and now admittedly insane claim that she two had heard the song before, Carolyn was surprised he hadn’t immediately asked her to leave. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I just don’t know.”
