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The Composer
By John Jalsevac

"Maestro."

The voice floated over the sharp slant of light that cut the room-top corner to bottom corner-into two nearly equal triangles. Competing with the warm tones of a piano and an unknown sonata, it became lost in a sudden flurry of trills.

"Maestro." A little louder this time.

It was easy to detect the sarcasm; but it wasn't meant to be insulting. This little joke between the speaker and the pianist had stood for a long time, since they had first met in high school; there was warmth in the voice, such as there usually is when an inside joke is appealed to between two long-time friends. Despite initial protests against the name, insisting that he was unworthy of its implications, the pianist had long ago resolved himself to its use.

The gentle undulations of the piano stopped; the final note lingered for a moment. The sustain pedal creaked back to its resting position, filling the room with silence.

"Yes," a voice wafted over the propped-up cover of the piano.

"You haven't answered my question."

"I don't much like it."

"You never have. I wouldn't expect you to now."

"Then why do you persist in asking it?"

"Because I am your friend."

A sniff was heard from behind the stand that hid the face of the musician. Then a shuffling as a page was turned. "Then you should understand why I hate it."

From across the room the original speaker stood up, placing his hands on the armrests and lifting himself up with what seemed to be an excessive amount of effort. The collapsing chair within which he had been sitting groaned under the weight, but stubbornly willed its parts together. Besides the hulking grand piano that dominated the tiny room, this was the only bit of furniture in the entire space.

Although reaching just over six feet, by no means was the standing man abnormally large. Rather, he seemed little more than tired, explaining the undue exertion involved in standing up; a drawn look and pale complexion and excessive blinking of the eyes in the dim lighting stood as evidence to this. But other than an apparently temporary mental and physical lethargy, his six feet of mass was lean and evidently accustomed to regular exercise. And he carried himself well through habit, straight as a board, despite his physical exhaustion. He was about thirty-five, perhaps a little more, but was frequently taken to be much younger than that. The suit he wore was wrinkled, but worth a great deal-so fashionable that few knew it yet.

"Forgive me," he said in a tone touching on annoyance, stepping over the endless reams of manuscript that were strewn about the floor, "for asking you how you are doing."

The pianist was distracted. After a moment's silence he spoke quickly and curtly. "It's not that; it's not the question. It's how you ask it."

"You mean, that I actually mean it? That I demand an honest response?"

A pause and the scratch of a pencil on paper. "Yes, Richard, exactly, because you mean it. And because you ask it so quickly, almost as soon as you've come through the door. It's like you're interrogating me. It's disconcerting and doesn't sit well with my nature. If I want to talk, I'll talk; you know that."

Ever so slowly, taking care not to step on a single sheet of discarded composition (an impossible task), the man called Richard reached the piano and rested his left hand upon its edge, leaning his weight on the same foot. He did not feel the awful pulsating life of the instrument, all the combined majesty of its parts, and the pianist knew and was aware of this. He continued scrawling notes on the page in front of him with his thin, spidery fingers.
"Look at you," said Richard. "How could I not ask? How could I think of anything else? You're practically wasted away. You're sick and you're taking less care of yourself now than ever before. How could I not ask? And you wouldn't talk, because you never do want to. When's the last time you've talked? How could I not ask?"

Large, glittering eyes looked up at Richard, prying themselves with great difficulty away from the bits of manuscript that they had been pouring over. The face within which these two glittering orbs had found their home was darkened by several days' growth of facial hair. He didn't blink; his eyelids drooped heavily, shrouding the electricity that crackled behind them. Although only several years older than Richard, the pianist appeared greatly aged. Strings of lifeless grey hair dangled down in front his eyes.

"Look at you," said Richard, furrowing his eyebrows. He shifted his weight to his other foot.

"Why do you keep coming here?"

"Because you're my friend!"

"Yes, yes…you've already said that."

"Well, what do you want from me then? If not that, then what?"

"I…I don't know. Look," the musician said, indicating the room with a gesture. Dirt encrusted the window that was the sole source of sunlight; the view into the courtyard outside was almost entirely obscured. Distorted shapes moved this way and that-people and cars and buses-but were largely indiscernible for what they were. Everything, including the copse of beech trees and the seething flowerbeds of petunias that adorned the island in the center of the yard seemed dirty and unpleasant through the window. The single shaft of light that pierced the gloom shot through a spot where a recent rainstorm had worked away at the filth. Within the room dozens of melted candle sticks protruded from the surface of the piano; and the light fixture on the roof presented naked sockets, gaping.

"Look around. How do you think I'm doing? Why ask the question when you already know the answer?"

Richard wanted to explain all the reasons why one might ask a question when the answer was already known. But he knew it would serve no purpose; he would only get worked up, and the whole thing would be spoiled. No, he couldn't begin to explain that; where would he begin anyway? But what he came up with instead made him cringe.

"I send you a check every two weeks. Where does the money go?" He stopped quickly, realizing that he was sounding indignant; if he allowed himself to be so he would spoil the thing. He stopped, thinking that perhaps it was too late; perhaps it was already spoiled. Even after all these years it was still so difficult to tell; when had he crossed the line?

The face of the composer revealed its first discernible emotion since the beginning of Richard's visit; he spoke no word. His eyelids uncovered his eyes and his jaw set itself, his teeth pressing together in something akin to contempt. He looked away and raised his pencil to the page.
Richard, unthinkingly, gripped him by the shoulder. The musician looked up; his face bore no trace of the momentary disturbance. "Victor," Richard began, "for the love of God, tell me! What have you been doing with them? You could be living well with what I send; you could be comfortable. We agreed years ago that I would do this so that you could compose, until…" He trailed off, discovering again that he was angry. He continued anyway. "I know. I know Victor. Don't bother lying. I know what you haven't done with them. My accountant tells me that you haven't cashed a single one for over three months. What have you been living on? What have you been eating?"

The composer paused, and then waved his hand, indicating the mess of paper on the floor.
Richard restrained himself. Such thanklessness was beyond him; but he was not surprised. He had suspected something of the sort. Yet, he wondered if he could continue, whether his purpose could be achieved that afternoon and whether he cared if it was or not.

He was accustomed to these thoughts; with the ease that habit imbues he crushed them. Returning to the chair, stepping over and on the papers with a tired step, he sank into it. From the pocket of his suit jacket he produced a pen, and began spinning it over and between his knuckles.

He thought it odd that for all the derision that the middle class reserved for the business world and its supposed carnivorous attitude towards other men, that it was in that world that men respected him and treated him well; in that world men knew what to expect of him, and he what to expect of others. Coming here was entering a world of gems; everything was harder and sharper-edged; it seemed that his skin was rawer, peeled back, the naked nerves revealed to be pressed at will. He had never become accustomed to the magnified significance of this microcosmic world.

For the third time, "Why do you keep coming back?"

"Because I am your friend."

Richard was silent. The pen clicked occasionally as it spun over a knuckle. The piano hesitantly sounded out the first few notes of the unfinished sonata. Richard's voice cut the music short. The pianist rested his hands on the piano in a final flourish of discord.

"What do you want from me Victor?"

"What do you want from me?"

"How many symphonies have you written?"

"I don't know."

"Play me one."

"No."

"I like them. Play me one."

"They're meant for an orchestra, not a piano. And I can't remember any of them anyway."

"Why?"

"I hate them."

Richard was overcome. The childishness of his friend's behaviour was no longer acceptable. He spoke but quickly wished that he hadn't. He merely whispered the words, but there was nowhere in the room them to lose themselves, to bury their hideous echo. "Twenty years," he said, "and nothing to show."

The piano bench toppled over and crashed to the floor. The face of the composer sprang up above the piano. His cheeks were pale and sunken. He appeared as a portent, a disturbed spirit risen from a violent grave.

"Get out!" he cried, pointing towards the door. "Get out!"

"No." Richard was unmoved.

"Get out!"

"Deny it! Prove me wrong," Richard rose from his seat. "I've never left you alone in twenty years, and if you can prove me wrong now, I won't leave. Besides, you can't bring yourself to throw me out; you wouldn't know what to do without me. You can't bring yourself to do it. You pretend to hate me, just as you pretend to question my motives; and yet you know that they're pure; you know it just as deeply as you know how to create harmonies and dissonance and consonance. It's self-evident to you, like breathing, like thinking; and yet you persist in denying both-my motives and your music. So, go ahead, prove me wrong now, and I won't leave. What do you have to show after all these years. This?" he queried, gesturing to the piles of discarded manuscripts papering the floor. "This den filled with the refuse of your pride? You think this is humility, to throw away everything for which you've worked? Dammit man, this is narcissism. Don't give me all that crock about perfection; I'm tired of perfection. Men aren't perfect and the art that will move them won't be perfect either. Give them perfect music and you'll be playing for a theatre of statues, not men. They won't understand it; it won't resonate! I'm not even an artist-I'm a business-man of all things-and even I know that."

The composer collapsed back onto the piano bench; his face was still set in the same unmoving expression, the same impenetrableness with which it had separated the man from the world for so many years.

"What do you want from me?" he begged weakly, unsure of himself now, in the face of the onslaught from his eternally patient friend. His typically monotonous voice was fraught with emotion. "What do you want me to do?"

Richard sat back into the chair. Something unthinkable had happened; he knew exactly how to answer the composer's question. What he had to do was as clear as the spot on the window, with the shaft of light piercing through, reflecting on the torn wooden floor panels. His purpose in visiting his friend that afternoon had been determinate, but how to accomplish it cast in doubt. For days he had thought of what to say, calculating and taking into account everything that he knew of his friend's character. Every method, every occasion of persistent begging that he had ever employed, every careful psychological manipulation that had ever proved successful, had run through his mind. And now, without thinking at all, he had deviated from them all, had tried something completely new; all he had to do now was ask, because if he didn't, he would leave, and wouldn't come back. He knew that now.

"Come with me."

"Where?"

"I've organized a charity performance at the theatre tonight. I want you to come. I want your suggestions."

"On what?"

"My orchestra."

"Your orchestra?"

"I own one, yes; a purely financial venture. Come with me. We'll get you something to eat and some air other than this recycled stuff you breathe. You'll enjoy yourself."

Victor shrank behind the piano. He wouldn't enjoy himself; why Richard would even bother to ask was beyond him. Richard knew that. A performance meant people. Accompanying Richard to a performance meant many people. Wherever Richard went he was recognized; and whenever Victor was with Richard he was introduced and forced to exercise rules of society which he had only a rudimentary grasp of. Inevitably he made an unfavorable impression on those to whom he was introduced; Victor could read it in their faces, but never could determine how to do better. Long ago he gave up caring and even the ever-stubborn Richard gave up trying to induct Victor into the higher spheres of society and allowed him to continue his work undisturbed.

"Come."

"But why?"

"Because I want you to, and because I need you. Your opinion is valuable to me; you're the greatest musician I know."

"You're mistaken."

"No. I'm not. Come."

"No."

"You're coming. I wasn't joking around before. I'll leave."

"You're giving me an ultimatum?"

"Yes."

"Alright. I'll come."

***

The conductor turned and bowed. Sweat beaded from the polished crown of his head and down and off his eyebrows; his fat lips curved into a smile. When the first wave of applause began to ebb he gestured to the soloist, who stood, breathing heavily and smiling; she bowed, her straight black hair falling down over her heaving bare shoulders. She seemed to glimmer and to fade in and out as she turned to the audience and the light played with her swirling satin dress. She smiled; her bow hand quivered. Broken horse hairs dangled from the bow, inclining towards her dress on account of static electricity. She was pleased and her unmistakable glow said so. The lights in the concert hall brightened. Mirrors and chandeliers caught and spun and refracted the light, casting it in a thousand different directions. And still the applause continued, unabated, like the sudden steady wind that heralds a violent storm. The conductor bowed once again, but this time with some hesitation, and so did the soloist, much the same. In the orchestra pit eighty pairs of excited eyes scanned the room. The conductor in a demonstration of his enthusiasm left the podium and holding her hand, bowed together with the soloist ; when they straightened they looked upwards and about, waiting.

In a private box on the second level, hidden behind crimson curtains, and sinking into a deep velvet chair, a man was quietly weeping. He seemed to be an older man, and a few uncombed strands of hair dangled in front of his eyes. He did not cover his face with his hands, but wept openly; in the privacy of the box he could be certain that he was unseen . The door at the rear of the box slowly opened and another younger man-tall, uncertain, excited, and dressed in a suit of a fashion that was so fashionable that few new it yet-entered. Taking a few steps forward the man placed his hands on the other's shoulder.

The composer looked up; the standing man smiled when he saw the other's expression. A momentary swell in applause prevented speech for a brief moment. Victor sat forward and made as if to stand up. But he sat down again.

"That...that was mine?" he finally asked of the standing man. "I wrote that?"

"Yes."

"But, how..."

"I stole it from you. You won't sue will you? I wouldn't recommend it. I have some very good lawyers."

"No. But...my God…

"What?"

The composer shrank back into the cushions. A turning prism on one of the chandeliers in the house threw a brief shard of rainbow light across the floor of the box; spinning still, it swiftly exited. For a few moments the composer stared straight ahead.

"What Victor?" his patron pursued.

"It...it was beautiful."

"I know."

In the theatre the applause swept over the orchestra, and eighty exuberant musicians and one composer smiled and bowed and waited.