“I am painfully attune to the bright glorious
hues of the universe, and the way in which they capture the eye. I have always
enjoyed the intrigue of perhaps a jelly fish, or the dark wood of the mahogany,
or the rich purple hue of many trees unfurled of snow and barren of leaf.”
The man’s eyes spoke little in the way of
soul but wore great conviction of simplicity. Dr. Sirus’s cold pupils dilated,
peering directly at me, speaking into the pores of my skin as only the finest
psychiatrists may do. But perhaps, or perhaps not, for in the lobes of my brain
it is a certain fact, the priciest ones are no more than a copped up version of
the amateurs. These doctors demand a large wad of pocket lettuce for each
service, and in return they are respected. Perhaps, through observance of issues
at hand and astounding lack of action, the souls of Dr. Sirus focus on deception
of the mind. Self-help relations, egotistical sway… all these beauties interest
each patient to visualize within himself a more common nature of pride. Regardless, every man requires his qualified
portion of pride, if at all to accomplish any sort of success.
“You might set aside more than a little
time each day, would be my advice, if you truly desire to experience the
wonders of vision.” The doctor paused, and I took a great long look at his appearance,
as one might take a deep whiff of a peculiar smell. Dr. Sirus basked in a futile
dark green hue, the material of suits, and the form of a long drifting reptile.
He lifted his head, gracefully, impishly, and pivoted cool grey eyes toward my
own blue irises. Sirus was still – a violent
darkness as it descends upon the Indian Ocean.
“Oh to be blind, to be the victim of such
cruel and wasting fate, oh to be the shell of a human being where nothing else
but choice scents or auditory pleasures can be endured! I should rather bear a
merciless, forbidden end of attrition than to suffer such a beginning! This is
why, dear friend,” Dr. Sirus leaned forward dangerously, according to his
practice,
“You have no choice but to purchase, for
your wife, the thing she desires most - a piano.”
Sirus chortled as if he was making some
marvelous fun, and then popped right back into his salamanderin fixation and
stilled. A moonless lake.
“Because
the joy of hearing, and especially
that of muusiccc,” he continued, (I was not so sure he drew this word out but
in my mind it was long and forbidden)“is
not so distant from the joy of sight, and while you’ve got the most important
one, why not indulge a wit in your other sensory blessings, while pleasing your dear Sophia’s long contemplated desire?” He
lifted a dark creeping eyebrow – one brow so thick it appeared to be dark green
itself – and beamed.
“A man so well endowed as yourself should
never be slight in the way of spending, but should rather ensure that all
around him and nearest him,” He held
up his index finger, as if to emphasize the wisdom of his didactic ideas, “are
the happiest clams that could be. Make your choice young man,” The shrink
peered at his watch. “Joy for all, or selfishness for you? Conquer your
ailment, dear Trenton. Destroy your fear of music before it destroys you.”
The clock tower rang out – twelve bells on
the dot – the end of my appointment for the day, the beginning of supper, and
so the times went on. I should have been offended by the wiles of Dr. Sirus,
but I also acknowledged the dull fact of my own appearance in the office – my
pale face, remarkably salivating and
secreting goo despite the dismal rain that flew as flying fish – despite the
reckless self-sufficiency that my kind is so often equipped with – despite
countless mystical genies that patiently waited in my cellar with clasped paper
hands and mournful golden eyes, listening acutely for my every command, yet
eventually passing into others’ hands – despite all these, my mind fostered
guilt with all the fervor of a petri dish and yet despised anger. My eyes drifted down, peered into my own
perspiring palms, and understood at once that I could not grasp coppers much
longer. Such relentless guilt! Such
surprise! I, by Jove, had been caused to perspire! I have withheld the one gift
that my young, impressionable wife could truly appreciate. My dread of musical
devices – of the clanging and piercing clash of symbols – of the petrifying
rasp of flute vibrato and the hollering of women… Obsession filled me up until
I trembled and sweated and swore. Such was the best day and the worst day and
the most anxious day of the year – such was the first anniversary of our
marriage.
She a musician, I a business man. She an
artist, I a hunter. The object of disaster threatening most was my terror of
the melodic word music, and her love of the same.
“Get me a piano,” Sophia whispered a
fortnight ago, delicately stroking my chest. “I’ll put it to good use.” Her words struck a
frigid cord in my bones. One string of a harp plucked over and over again. My
whole being shivered.
No. No no no. Not getting her a piano.
This was the last straw.
I peered all around at the nearby shops. A
barber shop to the left, and young man Bradley waving a razor in the air. It
was all brick around in good old Boston. Heat waves of the air were absorbed
like potent drugs. Misers tanning in the
lawn were fried up by the sun, throwing a grand alcoholic stink into the air.
Greed. Jone’s Books to the right; Jilly Bean’s coffee straight ahead. Citizens
swarmed, dressed in the finery of the day –
A street musician stood on one particular
corner. I sensed this fellow was truly proud of his racket, thus I promptly
chose a different path. This will add a few extra miles, I contemplated
miserably. What an inconvenience, and all due to my cowardice…. From then on a
worm of discontent grew up in my stomach, gnawing on my intestines. What device
might defeat such a vile trap as fear, as discontent, as the bloody mixture of
them both? I must consider our wedding – the sixteenth of July, 1892.
From the day of our marriage our souls
differed directions. Her persona reigned triumphant and I caved – I permitted
live music in the ceremony. Violins, violas, the appearance of a Stradivarius. Each
wooden beauty haunted my visions and dreams alike. I see their silhouettes even
now, trailing at the edge of the abyss. Understand this – my illogical and
unprecedented panic at the sound of music dictated nearly all my actions – but
not all. Never all. The allowance of music
at my wedding was a genuine demonstration of my sacrificial love for
Sophie. Although she did not understand the extent of my suffering, I understood.
On the day of our wedding, love suffered a victorious triumph over hatred.
Now I considered. Was I so incapable of
another feat of courage? Could I not torture myself once more for the sake of
my beloved through the soft, innocent gifting of a priceless piano? What kind
of weak, oily man was I? What better way to despise my whole fear than to look
it in the face and spit!
As I strode down the
Boston street, my feet had purpose. I had no need to grace a music store with
my presence. No, no music stores. A musical jewel – a cocked hat piano built by
the George M. Guild Piano Company of Boston – was already in my possession.
An heirloom from my mother. Of course, the
terror of my childhood persuaded her store it safely in the attic above. No one
knew its location but me. I am ever thankful for her sympathy upon such a poor,
frightened child. She was a pianist at heart. Perhaps this has ignited the fear
of attics – a piano living, creeping inside. I guffawed, acknowledging my own
childish antics.
Yes, now. Now is the time to grow up.
I reached our mansion. It was of the gods
– red brick, silver knobs, French terraces and German efficiency. I grinned. Fitting
attire for such a famous piano.
I called for servant Charles and whispered
in his ear.
He did naught but lean back with saucer
eyes and blanch.
I
smiled reassuringly and patted him on the shoulder and he went straight about
his duty.
Sophie, my airy sprite, flew into my arms
as I walked through the door. She chattered continually about the happenings of
the day and how perhaps she and I might go out to a nice French dinner and
visit with the military officers and sit in one of the new tubs filled with
steaming water. Her curling hair was pinned to the top of head, and an ostrich
comb stuck out the top. A fitting comb. As I listened to her prattle and drank
her elixir of light, she did seem to be an ostrich. What a beautiful, showy
bird. My beautiful showy bird. The
one that gave me courage.
When I kissed the top of her head her
eyes brightened.
“Charles
come forth!” I cried out exultantly, and he and four other panting butlers plowed
through our double doors with a large, rolling black item in the midst of them.
The rolling item was decorated with a large, flopping red bow tied round.
“From the attic, sir,” stated Charles. All
five butlers eyed me with caution, preparing to restrain or recline me. Time
will tell. I managed to overcome. My prize, my Sophie, clung to my arm.
She covered her mouth in wonder, in awe
of the glorious instrument that stood before her – the Guild piano – the
masterpiece of a century. It glinted in various places where cast sunlight
kissed. Its ornament detail reflected every turn of the century contemplation,
every philosophical enlightenment of the arts and of the sciences. Its hue
represented wonders of the world. Black
- dark as the deepest crevice in the ocean, hidden from light. White - pearly
radiant as an angel’s teeth. Gold – the warbling voice of a dove.
I shall tell you no more of that night,
for my darling Sophie was abundantly amazed and maudlin with thankfulness, and
I, through all my suffering and all my anniversary wishes, managed to bear her
tickling of the ivory.
My most bitter anguish originated from an
entirely different source….
The prearranged divorce papers sitting on
my desk the next morning. Sophie’s signature, embalmed by ink so dry, struck my
heart until it fairly struggled to beat. My dear, innocent, spritely Sophie. My
imp. My treasure. The one for whom I sacrificed so much and revealed so little
of my pain.
Sophie
had gone. With my heart and soul. With the piano and with the red bow I placed
upon it. With… everything that seemed worthy to me at the time.
A sealed letter had been placed next to
the signed divorce documents. The red wax was dry as glue. I wished it to be
fresh – then something might be done to correct this confusion. Ah! Sophie’s
perfume! I recognized the scent straight away. I breathed it, hardly daring to
read the flowing script. Content with the scent of my wife as on our wedding
night. Then, all at once, greed filling my soul. Remorse. Revenge. I had to
know. In sprawling letters, the note read,
“Dearest
Trenton,
Thank
you very much for the beautiful piano. I adore it. Also, thank you for our
single year of marriage, however short it may have seemed. You have been most
kind. I have not known such a sweet and sacrificial man for some time. Although
I recognized my ultimate desire almost immediately after our first engagement,
it would be… unfair of me to act as if my love to you was entirely untrue. I
felt as if I was a captive and you the captor, yet your willful passions inclined
a steady ear to my spirit. I was quite fond of you. However, I must insist I
have always loved music more than I ever loved you. Rest assured, an
investigation will only reveal what you already know to be true.
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