Your Symphony
A short piece of fiction
When the conductor raises his baton and the grand hall’s chatter dies down, that’ll be the moment. Of course it will be. You feel it as you would a cold ball of steel tight in the pit of your stomach. That’ll be the moment when the world should take heed and not blink, not even for a thousandth of a second. It’s about to be introduced to someone grand. Someone important. Pens will scribble and lips will whisper and it’ll be your name. Yours. Think of it—your name and your picture in tomorrow’s papers, plastered in black and white glory. AUDEN JAINSKI. It’ll go down in the important books that sensitive, diligent boys will read all over the world—in Zurich, in Vienna, in the Julliard School where you, diligent and sensitive yourself, studied the lives and works of the greatest masters of composition.
They’ll name the city in those history books, you know, the city where you were first hailed as a genius. London. It’s a fine city, a marvelous city. There’s a wonderful river, a clock tower which struck you at once with its grandeur. Aren’t you a fair pair? You and the city, going down in history. You’re shaking. Stop that. Are you cold? There’s no need to be nervous.
“As the crow flies, the cuckoo will sing.”
Shut up, pay attention. Look, they’re warming up. The violins and cellos are playing notes, tuning strings. It’s almost time, MR. AUDEN JAINSKI. You like the sound of that, don’t you? Your name, grand and important. When this is all over, they will address you by that name in news articles and e-mails and phone calls, when the awards roll in easy and the commissions even easier. When all this is over, your musical career will be certain. So stop fretting already. Stop that tapping; you’ll tire those fingers.
Look to your left. You’re in the front row, where all the important people sit. Is that the mayor, three seats down? His forehead is red and shiny, and he is chuckling with a sunken-cheeked man next to him, some distinguished diplomat undoubtedly. They are having a grand old time, although you cannot make out their words. You know that the mayor is a connoisseur of fine wine and music. He will be the first to jump up after the last sweet note fades and he can finally breathe again, and he will call out Bravo, Bravo! He will be joined by other claps— slowly at first, like the opening splatters of rain on the streets, and then faster and faster, louder and louder, until the hall erupts into thunder and the sounds deafen you, only to echo in your ears long after the night has passed. Close your eyes; you can imagine that feeling, can’t you? You can almost taste it—the applause, the elation. These people are music-lovers, dressed to the nines in their dark suits and glittering jewels. They’ve heard the best of the best. Debussy and Bach. Berlioz and Beethoven. Auden Jainski. For the love of God, stop trembling. Don’t make a fool of yourself when you’re three seats away from the mayor.
“As the crow flies—“
Someone behind you keeps singing that same line over and over again, an inane verse which sounds like a familiar something from a nursery rhyme. You want to tell him to please be quiet—this repeated ditty is clearly out of place here. You spin around sharply with the words already on your tongue, only to be caught by surprise. The people seated behind you are an old couple, silent and stoic. They stare back at you unblinking. Surely it couldn’t be them. And the others nearby are unlikely suspects also. A young couple to the right, chatting animatedly with each other in French. Her lips are bright and moving a mile a minute, and he is inhaling her every word. On the other side, a plump woman and her thin, bespectacled husband read the evening’s program. You are puzzled. But. Why do you care? It’s just a foolish tune. It’s just nothing.
Turn back around and think about something else now. Think about your mother, how she will react when you bring her the clippings bearing your name. Maybe then, she will ask to hear your work. You will pretend to think about it, ruminate out loud on the ways she might acquire a ticket to a sold-out performance. Of course, in the end you will refuse. It will give you great pleasure to do so. She has never cared a thing for your compositions in the past, why should she have the privilege of hearing your first great symphony?
Think about your old maestro, with his strong hands and fierce eyes, shouting Vivisimo! And you, you in the back row would snicker, because his eyes would bulge and it would look as if he were being squeezed by an invisible hand. And the boy next to you, a redhead with a nervous voice and stick-like frame, would giggle also, and that is how you two became friends.
Ah, your friends. Think of them. That redhead Arthur, so delicate even a breeze could knock him down, but possessing the musical gifts of someone larger than life. Jonathan, who spits as he talks and curses like a sailor, but who holds the softest spot in his heart for the sound of wind instruments. They will congratulate you, they will slap you on the back. They understand what it is like for the passion to consume you, how it feels to be taken by the crash of chords and the maddening rhythm of strings. They can sympathize with the obsessive streams of melody that haunt your dreams such that even as you are sleeping, you are composing. They know the sacrifices that you have made, and that the success did not come easy. You suddenly wish that they were here now, with you in your greatest moment. Suddenly, you feel your stomach twist sharply. Where are they, anyway? Why aren’t they here? In a flash, you remember that Jonathan is teaching community college in Virginia,
“Crows, crows, crows.”
It’s that same singsong voice. You whirl around, furious, but you see that same old couple, gazing back at you with their owl eyes. You want to figure out exactly who is behind this rude trick, but just at that moment, the lights above begin to dim. The tuning period has ended. You snap your attention back to the stage, startled. Don’t worry. It’s all going to go smoothly. The voices around you are fading to murmurs now, and the members of the orchestra shuffle into place and flip their sheet music on the podium. Don’t be afraid. Don’t pay any attention to your twisted insides, or the way your fingers dig into your lap. Tell your body to be calm. Be still. It’s going to be wonderful.
The conductor walks on stage to approving applause. He is a tall, dignified man, and when he walks across the stage he carries himself with the air of a stately lord. You have met with him before, during the rehearsals. He loves your work—he has told you in his lilting British tongue that the piece is “splendid, absolutely brilliant work.” Of course you knew it already, but you were gracious. You looked away and mumbled your humble thanks, heart hammering with elation. His orchestra is a fine one, and they will represent your symphony well. But. For the love of God! Why does it take him so agonizingly long to walk up to the center podium and begin? For the love of God, walk faster!
Calm down. Be patient. You know that patience is a virtue. He is an important man, and important things will take their time. Look, there he is. He has stepped up to the center. The pages are flipping, and he is reading the first one, glancing over the notes that he has made for himself, notes that he has probably memorized by now. Maybe he is nervous too. He conceals it well. Try to follow his lead and bury all that anxiety inside of you. He is the messenger—he is as involved as you are. He will deliver the music the way it ought to be delivered.
Look, look! There it is. There’s the moment. He has lifted his arms, as if in an offering to heaven. The musicians bring their instruments up. Do you feel it? That tightness, that anticipation? Do not mistake it for dread; it is only excitement, a moment of stillness. The silence before the most dazzling storm.
You watch as it is dropped, just like that. The baton. It hits an invisible spring and bounces up again, and in that motion the music begins. Slowly, quietly, the lush sounds creep out from the instruments like invisible vines, growing and expanding to fill the space in the hall. This is the sound of the symphony that bears your name, yes, but it sounds almost unfamiliar in your ears. You have scrutinized it so often in your mind that the way it materializes now seems like a how a recurring dream might unfold into reality—completely and utterly surreal. The music sounds fluid and smooth, not broken up into pages or measures, not constrained by shapes on lines over white paper. You can make out the dainty sounds of flutes and clarinets fluttering high above, playing a game of romance in the sky. Below them, the bassoon echoes the beating of a fervent heart. The strings flow and ebb with a sense of question and answer. This is your symphony. Your work. Yours. In it, you have poured your discord, your hope, your longing, your deepest melancholy. Everything you wished you could express.
“As the crow flies, the cuckoo will sing, sing, sing.“
You can hardly believe your ears. It’s almost too much to take. The nerve of him, with that stupid, vile voice, to continue singing when the performance has started! You whirl around and hiss into the darkness. “Please be quiet. We’re trying to listen.” There is no response, but the voice stops. Your heart is pounding now, but maybe you’ve gotten him to stop for once and for all. The man on your left turns toward you with an irritated expression. No doubt he is also annoyed by the rude song. You nod to assure him it’s all right, and he turns back around. Take a deep breath now. And another. Put your hands between your knees to steady them. Focus on the music, the music, the music. The lulling strings and woodwinds paint a peaceful scene, but you know that there are hints of unrest. The timpani stirs in the background. Your favorite part of the entire symphony, the segment you nicknamed the hurricane, is fast approaching. You allow yourself a slight satisfaction when you sense that the audience is tensing in their seats as well. Watch the hands of the bass players. Are they vibrating? Are they shaking? They are pulling their bows so quickly that only the most observant will notice their faint movement or pull apart their low, incessant humming—a sound both subtle and disconcerting. The hairs on the back of your neck begin to stand. Trumpets ease their way into the dangerous medley and—
“As the crow flies is the shortest way, the shortest way—“
This time, something inside you snaps. Your anger is explosive.
“SHUT UP! SHUT UP!
You struggle to contain your voice at a whisper, but it is difficult. Everyone around you shifts uncomfortably. Why aren’t they helping to silence that disgusting sound? “It’s my symphony and you can’t ruin it!” The hall suddenly feels hot. Your shirt is sticky and uncomfortable on your back.
You feel a tap on your shoulder. A man leans in to whisper. His voice is gruff but not unkind. “Please sir, you’re making a scene.”
“I’m just telling him to be quiet,” you retort sharply. But before either of you can say anything else, it starts again.
“Pick the crumbs and feed your mouth. When I’m gone you’ll be a louse.”
You are horrified. “Do you hear that? Can you believe it?” you choke to the man next to you. He furrows his brows.
“What do you mean?”
“That singing! That loon who won’t shut up about crows!”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. The voice continues its jeering taunt.
“Pick my brains and build a house— ”
Finally, the man speaks up, brows further tightened. “I’m sorry, but I don’t hear any singing.”
You look at him bewildered. Is he crazy? Is he deaf? On the stage, the storm has begun and the singing voice is in sync with the howling piccolos, in union with the shrieking violins. You look around you wildly. There are towers of people in the hall, up on the balconies lining both sides of the wall, behind you seated on the slanted slopes of the room, people everywhere in the room, cloaked by darkness and listening to the rough, whirlwind music. Who is it? Which of them is responsible for this mocking prank, this treason during your finest hour?
“A louse in a house, a house with a mouse—”
Up there! Look, at the very top of the hall where the exit is, where there is a light. Is that a man standing there? You can see his silhouette, thin and small. He’s waving at you! Is it him? It must be. You are sweating hard now, and even the crash and swell of the orchestra’s sounds cannot mask the teasing, singsong-voice.
Push yourself up from your seat, make your way through the row. Ignore the sounds of protest from the people you are trying to clumsily maneuver over. Do not worry about them. They will enjoy the music better in its pure form when you rid them of that second unwanted melody, the coarse rhymes that now seem to echo across the entire hall. You are seething with rage. After much struggle, you finally stumble onto the isle. He is just up ahead, still waving. The adversary. The infuriating voice. With your heart desperately pounding in your chest, you run up the steps. Behind you the, the trumpets are blaring the destruction of the hurricane. For a moment, the music drowns out the other song. But. It is only a moment. Then, as the winds die down, the voice sounds once more, with greater insistence.
“The path of the crows are the streets made of gold—”
You’re nearing the source now, panting for breath, legs pumping you up the stairs one at a time. The air is cool as it whips your face, streaking past the sweat trails. The man at the top grows into focus. He is waving one arm in a large sweeping motion. You notice that he is wearing a flannel shirt and loose, shapeless pants. No shoes. A shock of red hair is haloed by the light behind him. The recognition hits you instantly.
“Arthur?” You gasp, incredulous, as you finally hit the last step. He lowers his arm and stares back at you, unsmiling. His skin looks blue in the dim setting.
“Hi Auden.”
“What are you doing here?!”
“I wouldn’t have missed this.” He smiles broadly, and it has the effect of shriveling up his tiny face.
“Are you the one singing?” you demand, and as you watch his face, there is a sinking realization in the pit of your stomach. “Why?!”
Arthur doesn’t say anything, but you are no longer angry. The run up has consumed your fury, burned up all your resentment. Now, the only thing you feel is tired. In the distance, the orchestra sounds hazy. The eye of the hurricane.
“Why?” you press again.
“Don’t you recognize it? I sang it for you the last time you visited me.” Arthur’s voice is quiet and mirthful, although his eyes betray no merriment. You force yourself to think. Recall. The task is unbearably hard. Even though it has only been about a year since that day, the memories of your visit with Arthur are densely clouded. Sorting through them feels like trying to scale a stone wall. You close your eyes and try. Try.
It was at his home, the last time you saw Arthur. He and his mother lived in a tiny rectangular house with peeling yellow paint and a front yard overgrown with weeds. He’ll be so happy to see you, his mother, a plump, nervous woman, had said when she greeted you at the door. Today is one of his good days. You remember walking in and being engulfed in pungent odors. His mother saw your face and explained apologetically, It’s herbal medication. It helps him.
You remember that Arthur had been in bed in his room when his mother led you in. He was singing quietly to himself, arms tucked away into his sheets. What was he mumbling? Suddenly it dawns on you that it might have been the same song about crows and houses and louses. But something still doesn’t seem quite right. You fumble for words.
“But—but you’re really sick, aren’t you? That’s why your mother said you left school…”
Arthur turns his head slowly to look behind him, then turns back to face you.
“Well she’s not here right now, is she?” He shakes his head. “She sold the house, you know. She moved away. A shame really. I liked that place, dingy as it was.” He takes a step towards you. Instinctively, you step back.
“So… where are you living now?” you stammer. You start to feel that same cold, nervous tension.
“I’ve been watching you.” His smile unnerves you. Surely he is joking.
“What? That’s impossible. You—”
“I was watching you the day you came to visit me in my room, you know. Don’t you remember? You’ve always had the greatest memory.”
You think again, straining hard to overcome the obstacles that fog your recollection. Why? Why is it so hard to remember? Arthur, his mother had called gently after she had led you into his room. Auden is here to visit you. Arthur had paid her no attention, still lost in his song. I’m sorry, his mother had apologized again, for the hundredth time, It’s the drugs. He’s easily distracted these days. You assured her you were fine, and she looked relieved. She said she would make you some tea, and left you alone. You remember examining the room. It was small and cluttered, holding only the bed and a beat-up desk. There was a small, faded painting of flowers over the bed, and yellowing lace curtains over a small window overlooking the desk. You were uncomfortable in this place. You didn’t know what to do. So you talked. You told Arthur about your last year at Julliard, the year he had missed. You told him about your senior composition, the high hopes you had for this opus. How you thought that it could be a start to your career. At some point, his mother came in briefly with a tray of tea. She did not want to intrude on your conversation. And Arthur—Arthur had kept singing his song, almost as if he were—
“Arthur!” you gasp, yanking yourself out of your reverie with a stunning understanding. How could you have forgotten such a monstrously important fact? “Arthur, you’re mad! You’re crazy! You left Julliard because they said you weren’t psychologically well enough to attend!”
Arthur ignores your comment completely. “Do you like my song?” he asks. The second half of the hurricane has started now, and the hall shudders under the crash of cymbals.
“What?” You see now that he is clearly insane. You should have guessed it from the beginning, when you first heard the ridiculous ditty. No sane person could have been responsible. You suddenly feel a surge of sympathy for your old friend. “Arthur, you shouldn’t be here—”
Arthur cuts you off, still smiling. “Your memory has always been top-notch, my friend. I was watching you, you know. That day you came to visit.”
What on earth could he be talking about? The oboe wails, and its forlorn cry sounds distant. Think. Think. That day, a little more than a year ago, you had visited his house. You spoke to him even though he never responded. You delivered a monologue to him, this friend from school who had gone cuckoo. You talked for so long you drank all the tea and then leaned on the desk in his room because you were tired of standing. The desk was uneven and you nearly lost your balance, and when you steadied your hands on its surface, you noticed that it was cluttered with paper. Sheets and sheets of paper. Shapes and lines over white pages.
Arthur interrupts your thoughts. You look at him, stricken. You want to run but your legs feel anchored, as if they were bolted to the ground.
“I was watching you know,” he continues, “I may have been off my rocker, but I saw what you did. I saw you reading..”
“Arthur, please—” He has to stop. You have to stop him. Your shoulders are shaking.
“Your memory has always been top-notch, my friend. But not every detail is correct. Like here—” he pauses, cocking his head to the side and taking in the music. The hurricane has ended now, and the strings are meandering in the aftermath, humming in sorrow. “Here, no—not the clarinet arpeggios. A bit tawdry, don’t you think?” His smirk is like a knife. “And even though I never quite made it to the end, I think I would have done something a tad more dramatic. Trills and grace notes, maybe. Something to shake them up a little.” He looks past you, surveying the hall and the stage. “Still, in the end, it’s quite splendid. Absolutely brilliant.”
You feel his words crushing you, bearing down on you like stones. “I didn’t mean—I couldn’t—”
“Auden, Auden, Auden. For you, it was always about the rewards, wasn’t it? Well, now you’ve found your way to fame. As the crow flies.” Arthur’s eyes bore into you.
“Please,” you choke. “Please, I couldn’t forget. It—it was always in my head. It just— Please—” Far away, a flute and a clarinet flit around shyly, resuming the opening duet.
“Oh no,” Arthur says, “I’m not going anywhere. You haven’t forgotten the letter you received a few months back, have you? The letter bearing some ill news?”
You try not to think, but it’s too late. The memory overwhelms you, and you fall to your knees. The letter, with its shaky words and smudged ink. Dear Auden, I’m sorry to inform you that my son Arthur died a few days ago…
The flute and clarinet fly into the air, fluttering, twirling, whispering, fading.
The audience holds its breath as the conductor grips his baton rigid in the air, transfixed like a statue. A moment of stillness, and then the instruments breathe one final sweet sigh before falling to silence. The conductor lowers his tired hands.
The applause is instantaneous, rumbling like thunder, deafening and ecstatic, agitating your very core. Arthur walks over towards you, but you cannot move. He is still smiling. You think you might see that leering smile forever.
“Congratulations on your symphony.”
