early music By Jeffrey Eugenides
By JEFFREY EUGENIDES
As soon as he came in the front door, Rodney went straight to the music room. That was what he called it, wryly but not without some hope: the music room. It was a small, dogleg-shaped fourth bedroom that had been created when the building was cut up into apartments. It qualified as a music room because it contained his clavichord.
There it stood on the unswept floor: Rodney’s clavichord. It was apple-green with gold trim and bore a scene of geometric gardens on the inside of its lifted lid. Modelled on the Bodechtel clavichords built in the seventeen-nineties, Rodney’s had come from the Early Music Store, in Edinburgh, three years ago. Still, resting there majestically in the dim light—it was winter in Chicago—the clavichord looked as though it had been waiting for Rodney to play it not only for the nine and a half hours since he’d left for work but for a couple of centuries at least.
You didn’t need that big a room for a clavichord. A clavichord wasn’t a piano. Spinets, virginals, fortepianos, clavichords, and even harpsichords were relatively small instruments. The eighteenth-century musicians who’d played them were small. Rodney was big, however—six feet three. He sat down gently on the narrow bench. Carefully he slid his knees under the keyboard. With closed eyes he began to play from memory a Sweelinck prelude.
Early music is rational, mathematical, a little bit stiff, and so was Rodney. He’d been that way long before he’d ever seen a clavichord or written an (unfinished) doctoral dissertation on temperament systems during the German Reformation. But Rodney’s immersion in the work of Bach père et fils had only fortified his native inclinations. The other piece of furniture in the music room was a small teak desk. In its drawers and pigeonholes were the super-organized files Rodney kept: health-insurance records; alphabetized appliance manuals along with warranties; the twins’ immunization histories, birth certificates, and Social Security cards; plus three years’ worth of monthly budgets stipulating household expenses down to the maximum allowed for heating (Rodney kept the apartment a bracing fifty-eight degrees). A little cold weather was good for you. Cold weather was like Bach: it sorted the mind. On top of the desk was this month’s folder, marked “FEB ’05.” It contained three credit-card statements with horrendous running balances and the ongoing correspondence from the collection agency that was dunning Rodney for defaulting on his monthly payments to the Early Music Store.
His back was straight as he played; his face twitched. Behind closed eyelids, his eyeballs fluttered in time with the quick notes.
And then the door swung open and Imogene, who was six, shouted in her longshoreman’s voice:
Having completed this task, she slammed the door shut again. Rodney stopped. Looking at his watch, he saw that he’d been playing—practicing—for exactly four minutes.
The house Rodney grew up in had been neat and tidy. They used to do that in those days. They used to houseclean. They, of course, meant she: a mother. All those years of vacuumed carpets and spick-and-span kitchens, of shirts that miraculously picked themselves up off the floor only to reappear freshly laundered in the dresser drawer—the whole functioning efficiency that used to be a house was no more. Women had given all that up when they went to work.
Or even when they didn’t. Rebecca, Rodney’s wife, didn’t work outside the home. She worked in the apartment, in a back bedroom. She didn’t call it a bedroom. She called it an office. Rodney had a music room in which he played little music. Rebecca had an office in which she did little business. But she was in there a lot, all day, while Rodney was at work at a real office in the city.
As he came out of the sanctuary of the music room, Rodney stepped around the cardboard boxes and rolls of bubble wrap and stray toys crowding the hall. He turned sideways to squeeze by the squad of winter coats hanging on the wall above crusty boots and single mittens. Moving into the living room, he stepped on something that felt like a mitten. But it wasn’t. It was a stuffed mouse. Sighing, Rodney picked it up. A little bigger than a real mouse, this particular mouse was baby blue in color and wore a black beret. It appeared to have a cleft palate.
“You’re supposed to be cute,” Rodney said to the mouse. “Exert yourself.”
The mice were what Rebecca did. They were part of a line called Mice ’n’ Warmª, which included, at present, four “characters”: Modernist Mouse, Boho Mouse, Surfer-Realist Mouse, and Flower-Power Mouse. Each artistic rodent was filled with aromatic pellets and was irresistibly squeezable. The selling point (still mainly theoreti-cal) was that you could put these mice in the microwave and they would come out muffin-warm and smelling like potpourri.
Rodney carried the mouse in cupped hands, like an injured thing, into the kitchen.
“Escapee,” he said, by way of greeting.
Rebecca looked up from the sink, where she was straining pasta, and frowned. “Throw that in the trash,” she said. “It’s a reject.”
From the twins at the table came a cry of alarm. They didn’t like the mice to meet untimely ends. Springing up, they rushed their father with clutching hands.
Rodney held Boho Mouse higher.
Immy, who had Rebecca’s sharp chin along with her clear-eyed determination, climbed up on a chair. Tallulah, always the more instinctive and feral of the two, just grabbed Rodney’s arm and started walking up his leg.
While this assault was under way, Rodney said to Rebecca, “Let me guess. It’s the mouth.”
“It’s the mouth,” Rebecca said. “And the smell. Smell it.”
In order to do so, Rodney had to turn and pop the mouse into the microwave, hitting the warm-up button.
After twenty seconds, he took the warm mouse out and held it to his nose.
“It’s not that bad,” he said. “But I see what you mean. A little more armpit than would be ideal.”
“It’s supposed to be musk.”
“On the other hand,” said Rodney, “B.O. is perfect for a bohemian.”
“I’ve got five kilos of musk-scented pellets,” moaned Rebecca, “which are now useless.”
Rodney crossed the kitchen and stepped on the trash-can pedal, raising the lid. He tossed the mouse in and let the trash can close. It felt good to toss the mouse. He wanted to do it again.
It had probably not been a wise move to buy the clavichord. For one thing, it cost a small fortune. And they didn’t have a fortune of any size to spend. Also, Rodney had stopped playing professionally ten years earlier. After the twins were born, he’d stopped playing altogether. To drive all the way down to Hyde Park from Logan Square, and then to drive around and around looking for a place to park (Hyde Park, went the joke, you can’t hide and you can’t park), and then to unpeel his U. of Chicago I.D. from his wallet, holding a thumb over the ridiculously out-of-date photo while waving it at the security guard, in order to gain admittance to practice room 113, where for an hour, on the battered but not untuneful university clavichord, Rodney would work through a few bourrées and roundelays, just to keep a hand in—all that became too difficult after the kids were born. Back in the days when Rodney and Rebecca had both been pursuing Ph.D.s (back when they were childless and super-focussed and surviving on yogurt and brewer’s yeast), Rodney had spent three or four hours a day playing the department clavichord. The harpsichord next door had been in great demand. But the clavichord was always free. This was because it was a pedal clavichord, that rare beast, and no one liked to play it. It was a speculative replica of an early-eighteenth-century clavichord, and the pedal unit (which some lead-footed student had stomped on pretty thoroughly) was a little funky. But Rodney got used to it, and from then on the clavichord was like Rodney’s own personal instrument, until he dropped out of the program and became a father and took a job on the North Side giving piano lessons at the Old Town School of Folk Music.
The thing about early music was: nobody knew quite what it sounded like. Disputes about how to tune a harpsichord or clavichord constituted a good part of the discipline. The question was “How had Bach tuned his harpsichord?” And nobody knew. People argued about what Johann Sebastian had meant by “wohltemperirt.”They tuned their instruments in a historically likely manner and studied the hand-drawn schematics on the title pages of various of Bach’s compositions.
Rodney had intended to settle this question in his dissertation. He was going to figure out, once and for all, exactly how Bach had tuned his harpsichord, how his music had sounded at the time, and, therefore, how it should be played now. To do this, he would have to go to Germany. He would have to go, in fact, to East Germany (Leipzig) in order to examine the actual harpsichord on which Bach himself had composed and onto whose keyboard (so it was rumored) the Master had written his preferred markings. In the fall of 1987, with the help of a doctoral grant—and with Rebecca on a Stiftung at the Freie Universität—Rodney had set off for West Berlin. They lived in a two-room sublet near Savignyplatz featuring a sit-down shower and a toilet with a shelf. The leaseholder was a guy named Frank, from Montana, who’d come to Berlin to build sets for experimental theatre. A married professor had also used the place to entertain his girlfriends. In the flannel-sheeted bed where Rebecca and Rodney had sex, they encountered miscellaneous pubic hairs. The professor’s shaving equipment remained in the tiny, malodorous bathroom. On the toilet shelf their feces landed high and dry, ready for inspection. It would have been unbearable if they hadn’t been twenty-six and poor and in love. Rodney and Rebecca washed the sheets and hung them out to dry on the balcony. They got used to the dinky tub. They continued to complain about, and be entirely grossed out by, the shelf.
West Berlin wasn’t what Rodney had expected. It was nothing like early music. West Berlin was completely irrational and unmathematical, not stiff but loose. It was full of war widows, draft dodgers, squatters, anarchists. Rodney didn’t like the cigarette smoke. The beer made him feel bloated. So he escaped, going as often as he could to the Philharmonie or the Deutsche Oper.
Rebecca had fared better. She’d become friendly with the people in the Wohngemeinschaft one floor above them. Wearing soft-soled Maoist shoes or ankle bracelets or ironic monocles, the six young Germans pooled their money, swapped partners, and held deep-throated conversations about Kantian ethics as it applied to traffic disputes. Every few months, one or another of them disappeared to Tunisia or India or returned to Hamburg to enter the family export business. At Rebecca’s urging, Rodney politely attended their parties, but he always felt too scrubbed in their company, too apolitical, too blithely American.
In October, when he went to the East German Embassy to pick up his academic visa, Rodney was told that his request had been denied. The minor diplomat who relayed this news wasn’t an East Bloc functionary but a kind-looking, balding, nervous man, who seemed genuinely sorry. He himself was from Leipzig, he said, and as a child had attended the Thomaskirche, where Bach had been the director of choir and music. Rodney appealed to the American Embassy, but they were powerless to help. He made a frantic call to his adviser, Professor Breskin, back in Chicago, who was going through a divorce and was less than compassionate. In a sardonic voice he’d said, “Got any other dissertation ideas?”
The lindens along the Ku’damm lost their leaves. In Rodney’s opinion, the leaves had never turned orange enough, red enough, to die. But this was how autumn was handled in Prussia. Winter, too, never quite got to be winter: rain, gray skies, scant snow—just a dampness that worked its way into Rodney’s bones as he walked from church concert to church concert. He had six months left in Berlin and no idea how to fill them.
And then, in early spring, a wonderful thing had happened. Lisa Turner, the cultural attaché at the American Consulate, invited Rodney to tour Germany, playing Bach, as part of a Deutsche-Amerikanische Freundschaft Programm. For a month and a half, Rodney travelled through mostly small towns in Swabia, North Rhine-Westphalia, and Bavaria, putting on concerts in local halls. He stayed in dollhouse-size hotel rooms full of dollhouse knickknacks; he slept on single beds under wonderfully soft duvets. Lisa Turner accompanied him, seeing to Rodney’s every need and taking particular care of his travelling companion. This wasn’t Rebecca. Rebecca had stayed in Berlin to write the first draft of her thesis. Rodney’s companion was a clavichord, made by Hass in 1761 and, then and now, the single most beautiful, expressive, and finicky clavichord Rodney’s trembling, delighted hands had ever touched.
Rodney wasn’t famous. But the Hass clavichord was. In Munich, three separate newspaper photographers had shown up before the concert at the Rathaus to take a picture of the clavichord. Rodney stood behind it, a mere retainer.
That the audiences who came to see Rodney weren’t large, that the universally retired members of these audiences were permanently stone-faced from years and years of faithfully enduring high culture, that fifteen minutes into a piece by Schiedemann a third of the audience would be asleep, their mouths open as though singing along or sustaining one long complaint—none of that bothered Rodney. He was getting paid, which had never happened before. The halls that Lisa Turner optimistically rented were two- or three-hundred-seat places. With twenty-five or sixteen or (in Heidelberg) three people in attendance, Rodney had the feeling that he was alone, playing for himself. He tried to hear the notes the Master had played more than two hundred years earlier, to catch them on the wind of the moment and reproduce them. It was like bringing Bach back to life and going back in time simultaneously. This was what Rodney thought about as he played in those cavernous, echoing halls.
The Hass clavichord wasn’t as thrilled as Rodney. The clavichord complained a lot. It didn’t want to go back to 1761. It had done its work and wanted to rest, to retire, like the audience. The tangents broke and had to be repaired. A new key went dead every night.
Still, the early music rang out, prim and lurching and undeniably antique, and Rodney, its medium, like a man on a flying horse, maintained his balance on the stool. The keyboard rose and fell, thumped, and the music whirled on.
When he returned to Berlin in late May, Rodney found he had less enthusiasm for strict musicology. He wasn’t sure anymore if he even wanted to be an academic. Instead of getting a Ph.D., he toyed with the idea of enrolling at the Royal Academy of Music, in London, and pursuing a performing career.
West Berlin, meanwhile, had been undoing and remaking Rebecca. In that walled, subsidized half-city, no one seemed to have a job. The comrades in the Wohngemeinschaft spent their time nurturing the sad orange trees on their concrete balcony. Volunteering at the Schwarzfahrer Theatre, Rebecca played electrified accompaniment, half Kraftwerk, half Kurt Weill, for the antic, anti-nuclear goings on onstage. Up late at night, sleeping ever later in the morning, she made little progress on her examination of Johann Georg Sulzer’s “Allgemeine Theorie der Schönen Künste” as it related to theoretical concepts of musical listening in eighteenth-century Germany. To be specific, while Rodney was away Rebecca had managed to write five pages.
They had a wonderful year in Berlin, Rodney and Rebecca. But their doctoral research led them to the inescapable conclusion that they didn’t want to be doctors of anything.
They moved back to Chicago and drifted. Rodney joined an early-keyboard group that gave intermittent concerts. Rebecca took up painting. They moved to Bucktown and, a year later, to Logan Square. They lived on next to nothing. They lived like Boho Mouse.
Rodney’s fortieth birthday found him with the flu. He got out of bed with a fever of a hundred and three, called the school to cancel his lessons, then got back into bed.
In the afternoon, Rebecca and the girls brought in a weird-looking birthday cake. Through gummed-up eyelids, Rodney saw the lemon sponge cake of the soundboard, the marzipan of the keys, and the chocolate slab of the lid supported by a peppermint stick.
Rebecca’s gift was a plane ticket to Edinburgh and a down payment made out to the Early Music Store. “Do it,” she said. “Just do it. You need it. We’ll work it out. The mice are starting to sell.”
That was three years ago. Now they were gathered around the gimpy-legged secondhand kitchen table, and Rebecca warned Rodney, “Don’t answer the phone.”
The twins were eating their usual naked pasta. The grownups, those gourmands, pasta with sauce.
“They called six times today.”
“Who called?” asked Immy.
“Nobody,” said Rebecca.
“The woman?” Rodney asked. “Darlene?”
“No. Somebody new. A man.”
That didn’t sound good. Darlene was almost family at this point. Considering all the letters she had sent, in ever bolder typefaces, and all the phone calls she’d made, politely asking for money, then demanding money, and finally making threats—considering the persistent entitlement, Darlene was like an alcoholic sister or a cousin with a gambling addiction. Except that in this case she held the moral high ground. Darlene wasn’t the one who owed twenty-seven thousand dollars compounding at an interest rate of eighteen per cent.
Darlene, when she called, called from within the call-center honeycomb: in the background you could hear the buzz of numberless other worker bees. The job was to collect pollen. In that effort, they were beating their wings and, if need be, raising their stingers. Because he was a musician, Rodney heard all this acutely. Sometimes he drifted off and forgot all about the angry bee that was after him.
Darlene had ways of regaining his attention. Unlike a trolling telemarketer, she didn’t make mistakes. She didn’t mispronounce Rodney’s name or mess up his address: she knew these by heart. Since it was easier to resist a stranger, the first time Darlene had called she’d introduced herself. She’d stated her mission and made it clear that she wasn’t going away until she achieved it.
Now she had gone away.
“A man?” Rodney said.
Rebecca nodded. “A not very nice man.”
Immy brandished her fork. “You said nobody called. How can a man be nobody?”
“I meant nobody you know, honey. Nobody you have to worry about.”
Just then the cordless phone rang and Rebecca said, “Don’t answer it.”
Rodney took his napkin (which was in fact a paper towel) and folded it in his lap. In an elevated tone, he said for the girls’ benefit, “People shouldn’t call during dinner. It’s impolite.”
For the first two years, Rodney had kept up with the payments. But then he’d quit teaching at the Old Town School of Folk Music and had tried to go out on his own. Students came directly to his apartment, where he taught them on the clavichord (it was perfect preparation for the piano, he told their parents). For a while, Rodney made about twice as much as he’d been making before, but then the students began to drop out. No one liked the clavichord. It sounded weird, the kids said. Only a girl would play it, one boy said. In a panic, Rodney started renting a rehearsal room with a piano and holding lessons there, but soon he was making less than he’d made at Old Town. That was when he’d quit being a music teacher and taken his present job as a patients’ records associate at an H.M.O.
By then, however, he’d defaulted on his payments to the Early Music Store. The interest rate rose and then (fine print in the loan agreement) skyrocketed. After that, he could never catch up.
Darlene had threatened him with repossession, but so far it hadn’t happened. And so Rodney continued to play the clavichord fifteen minutes in the morning and fifteen minutes at night.
“Some good news, though,” Rebecca said, after the phone had stopped ringing. “I got a new client today.”
“Stationery store out in Des Plaines.”
“How many mice they want?”
“Twenty. To start.”
Rodney, who was capable of keeping straight the 1/6 comma fifths of Bach’s keyboard bearing (F-C-G-D-A-E) from the pure fifths (E-B-F#-C#) and the devilish 1/12 comma fifths (C#-G#-D#-A#), had no trouble performing the following calculation in his head: Each one of the Mice ’n’ Warm mice sold for $15. Rebecca’s take was forty per cent. That came to $6 per mouse. Since each mouse cost roughly $3.50 to make, the profit on one mouse was $2.50. Times twenty came to fifty bucks.
He did another calculation: $27,000 divided by $2.50 came to 10,800. The stationery store wanted twenty mice to start. Rebecca would have to sell more than ten thousand to pay off the clavichord.
With lustreless eyes Rodney looked across the table at his wife.
There were lots of women with actual jobs around. Rebecca just didn’t happen to be one of them. But whatever a woman did nowadays was called a job. A man sewing together stuffed mice was considered, at best, a poor provider, at worst, a loser. Whereas a woman with a master’s and near-Ph.D. in musicology who hand-stitched microwavable, sweet-smelling rodents was now considered (especially by her married female friends) an entrepreneur.
Of course, because of Rebecca’s “job,” she couldn’t take care of the twins full time. They were forced to hire a babysitter, whose weekly salary came to more than what Rebecca brought in by selling the Mice ’n’ Warm mice (which was why they could pay only the minimum amount on their credit cards, driving them even further into debt). Rebecca had offered many times to give up the mice and get a job that paid a steady salary. But Rodney, who knew what it was to love a useless thing, always said, “Give it another few years.”
Why was what Rodney did a job and what Rebecca did not a job? First of all, Rodney made money. Second, he had to warp his personality to suit his employer. Third, he disliked it. That was a sure sign that it was a job.
“Fifty dollars,” he said.
“That’s the profit on twenty mice. Before taxes.”
“Fifty dollars!” cried Tallulah. “That’s a lot!”
“It’s just one account,” Rebecca said.
Rodney felt like asking how many accounts she had total. He felt like asking for a monthly report showing liabilities and receivables. He was sure Rebecca had detailed financial information scrawled on the back of an envelope somewhere. But he didn’t say anything, because the girls were there. He just got up and started to clear the table. “I’ve got to do the dishes,” he said, as though it were news.
Rebecca herded the girls into the living room and sat them down before a rented DVD. Typically she used the half hour after dinner to phone her suppliers in China, where it was now tomorrow morning, or to call her mother, a sciatica sufferer. Alone at the kitchen sink, Rodney scraped plates and rinsed kefir-coated glasses. He fed the dragonlike disposal in its lair. A real musician would have had his hands insured. But what would it matter if Rodney stuck his fingers straight down the drain into the churning blades?
The smart thing to do would be to take out insurance first and then stick his hand down the disposal. That way he could pay off the clavichord and sit at it every night playing with his bandaged stump.
Maybe if he’d stayed in Berlin, if he’d gone to the Royal Academy, if he hadn’t got married and had kids, maybe Rodney would still be playing music. He might be an internationally known performer, like Menno van Delft or Pierre Goy.
Opening the dishwasher, Rodney saw that it was full of standing water. The outflow tube had been improperly installed; the landlord had promised to fix it but never did. Rodney stared at the rust-colored tide for a while, as though he were a plumber and knew what to do, but in the end he filled the soap container, shut the door, and turned the dishwasher on.
The living room was empty by the time he came out. The DVD control screen played on the television, the loop of theme music repeating itself over and over. Rodney switched it off. He went down the hallway toward the bedrooms. The water was running in the bathtub and he could hear Rebecca’s voice coaxing the twins in. He listened for his daughters’ voices. This was the new music and he wanted to hear it, just for a minute, but the water was too loud.
On nights when Rebecca gave the girls a bath, it fell to Rodney to read them their bedtime story. He was on his way down the hallway to their room when he reached Rebecca’s office. And here he did something he didn’t normally do: he stopped. In general, when passing by Rebecca’s office, Rodney made a habit of staring at the floor. It was better for his emotional equilibrium to let whatever went on in there go on without his seeing it. But tonight he turned and stared at the door. And then, raising his uninsured right hand, he pushed the door open.
From the back wall, massing around the long worktables and bumping up against the sewing machine, a huge raft of fabric bolts in pastel hues was making its way downstream across the floor. The logjam carried with it ribbon spools, leaking bags of perfumed pellets, stickpins, buttons. Balancing on the logs, some with the jaunty stance of lumberjacks, others terrified and clingy like flood victims, the four varieties of Mice ’n’ Warm mice rode toward the falls of the marketplace.
Rodney stared at their little faces looking up with pitiful appeal or savoir-faire. He stared for as long as he could bear it, which was about ten seconds. Then he turned and walked in hard shoes back down the hallway. He passed the bathroom without stopping to listen for Immy and Lula’s voices and he continued into the music room, where he shut the door behind him. After seating himself at the clavichord, he took a deep breath and began to play one part of a keyboard duet in E-flat by Müthel.
It was a difficult piece. Johann Gottfried Müthel, Bach’s last pupil, was a difficult composer. He’d studied with Bach for only three months. And then he’d gone off to Riga to disappear into the Baltic twilight of his genius. Hardly anybody knew who Müthel was anymore. Except for clavichordists. For clavichordists, playing Müthel was a supreme achievement.
Rodney got off to a good start.
Ten minutes into the duet, Rebecca stuck her head in the door.
“The girls are ready for their story,” she said.
Rodney kept playing.
Rebecca said it louder and Rodney stopped.
“You do it,” he said.
“I have to make some calls.”
With his right hand, Rodney played an E-flat scale. “I’m practicing,” he said. He stared at his hand, as though he were a student learning to play scales for the first time, and he didn’t stop staring until Rebecca had withdrawn her head from the doorway. Then Rodney got up and shut the door semi-violently. He came back to the clavichord and started the piece from the beginning.
Müthel hadn’t written much. He composed only when the spirit moved him. That was like Rodney. Rodney played only when the spirit moved him.
It moved him now, tonight. For the next two hours, Rodney played the Müthel piece over and over.
He was playing well, with a lot of feeling. But he was also making mistakes. He soldiered on. Then, to make himself feel better, he finished off with Bach’s French Suite in D minor, a piece he’d been playing for years and knew by heart.
Before long he was flushed and sweating. It felt good to play with such concentration and vigor again, and when he finally stopped, with the bell-like notes still ringing in his ears and off the low ceiling of the room, Rodney lowered his head and closed his eyes. He was remembering that month and a half, at twenty-six, when he’d played ecstatically and invisibly in empty West German concert halls. Behind him on the desk the phone rang, and Rodney swivelled and picked it up.
“Good evening, am I speaking with Rodney Webber?”
Rodney realized his mistake. But he said, “This is he.”
“My name is James Norris and I’m with Reeves Collection. I know you’re familiar with our organization.”
If you hung up, they called again. If you changed your phone number, they got the new one. The only hope was to make a deal, to stall, to make promises and buy some time.
“I’m afraid I’m well acquainted with your organization.” Rodney was trying for the right tone, light but not insouciant or disrespectful.
“Formerly I believe you’ve been dealing with Ms. Darlene Jackson. She’s been the person assigned to your case. Up until now. Now I’m in charge and I hope we can work something out.”
“I hope so, too,” said Rodney.
“Mr. Webber, I come in when things get complicated and I try to make them simple. Ms. Jackson offered you various payment plans, I see.”
“I sent a thousand dollars in December.”
“Yes, you did. And that was a start. But, according to our records, you had agreed to send two thousand.”
“I couldn’t get that much. It was Christmas.”
“Mr. Webber, let’s keep things simple. You stopped meeting your payments to our client, the Early Music Store, over a year ago. So Christmas doesn’t really have a whole lot to do with it, does it?”
Rodney hadn’t enjoyed his conversations with Darlene. But now he saw that Darlene had been reasonable, pliable, in a way that this guy James wasn’t. There was a quality in James’s voice that wasn’t so much menacing as obdurate: a stone wall of a voice.
“Your account is in arrears over payments for a musical instrument, is that right? What kind of instrument is it?”
“I’m not familiar with that instrument.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be.”
The man chuckled, taking no offense.
“Lucky for me, that’s not my job, knowing about ancient instruments.”
“A clavichord is a precursor to the piano,” Rodney said. “Except it’s played by tangents instead of hammers. My clavichord—”
“You see that right there, Mr. Webber? That’s incorrect. It’s not yours. The instrument still belongs to the Early Music Store, out of Edinburgh. You only have it on loan from them. Until you pay off that loan.”
“I thought you might like to know the provenance,” said Rodney. How had his diction got way up here, to these heights? Nothing complex: he just wanted to put James Norris of Reeves Collection in his place. Next Rodney heard himself say, “It’s a copy, by Verwolf, of a style of clavichord made by a man named Bodechtel in 1790.”
James said, “Let me get to my point.”
But Rodney didn’t let him. “This is what I do,” Rodney said, and his voice sounded tight and strained, overtuned. “This is what I do. I’m a clavichordist. I need the instrument to make my living. If you take it back, I’ll never be able to pay you back. Or pay the Early Music Store.”
“You can keep your clavichord. I’d be happy to let you keep it. All you have to do is pay for it, in full, by 5 P.M. tomorrow, with a certified check or wire transfer from your bank, and you can go on playing your clavichord for as long as you like.”
Rodney’s laugh was bitter. “Obviously I can’t do that.”
“Then by 5 P.M. tomorrow we’re going to unfortunately have to come out and repossess the instrument.”
“I can’t get that much by tomorrow.”
“This is the end of the line, Rodney.”
“There’s got to be some way—”
“Only one way, Rodney. Payment in full.”
Clumsily, furiously, his hand like a brick trying to throw a brick, Rodney slammed down the phone.
For a moment he didn’t move. Then he swivelled back around and placed his hands on the clavichord.
He might have been feeling for a heartbeat. He ran his fingers over the gold ornamentation and the tops of the frigid keys. It wasn’t the most beautiful or distinguished clavichord he’d ever played. It couldn’t compare to the Hass, but it was his, or it had been, and it was lovely and rapturous-sounding enough. Rodney would never have got it if Rebecca hadn’t sent him to Edinburgh. He would never have known how deeply depressed he’d been or how happy the clavichord, for a time, would make him.
His right hand was playing the Müthel again.
Rodney knew he’d never been a first-rate musicologist. At best, he was a mediocre, if sincere, performer. With fifteen minutes’ practice in the morning and fifteen in the evening, he wasn’t going to get any better.
There’d always been something a little pathetic about being a clavichordist. Rodney knew that. The Müthel he was playing, however, mistakes and all, still seemed beautiful, maybe more so for its obsolescence. He played for another minute. Then he placed his hands on the warm wood of the clavichord and, leaning forward, stared at the painted garden inside the lid.
It was after ten when he came out of the music room. The apartment was quiet and dark. Entering the bedroom, Rodney didn’t turn on the light, so as not to wake up Rebecca. He undressed in the dark, feeling in the closet for a hanger.
In his underwear he shuffled to his side of the bed and crawled in. On one elbow he leaned over to see if Rebecca was awake. But then he realized that her side of the bed was empty. She was still in her office, working.
Rodney collapsed onto his back. He lay immobile. There was a pillow underneath him, in the wrong spot, but he didn’t have the energy to roll over and tug it out.
His situation wasn’t really so different from anybody else’s. He’d only got to the end of the road a little earlier. But it was the same for the rock stars and for the jazz musicians, for the novelists and the poets (definitely for the poets); it was the same for the business executives, the biologists, the computer programmers, the accountants, the flower arrangers. Artist or non-artist, academic or non-academic, Menno van Delft or Rodney Webber, even for Darlene and James of the Reeves Collection Agency: it didn’t matter. No one knew what the original music sounded like. You had to make an educated guess and do the best you could. For whatever you played there was no indisputable tuning or handwritten schematic, and the visa you needed in order to see the Master’s keyboard was always denied. Sometimes you thought you heard the music, especially when you were young, and then you spent the rest of your life trying to reproduce the sound.
Everybody’s life was early music.
He was still awake a half hour later, when Rebecca came in.
“Can I turn on the light?” she asked.
“No,” said Rodney.
She paused and said, “You practiced a long time.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
“Who called? Someone called.”
Rodney said nothing.
“You didn’t answer, did you? They’ve been calling later and later.”
“I was practicing. I didn’t answer.”
Rebecca sat on the edge of the bed. She tossed something in Rodney’s direction. He picked it up and squinted at it. The beret, the cleft palate. Boho Mouse.
“I’m going to quit,” Rebecca said.
“The mice. I’m giving up.” She stood and began to undress, dropping clothes on the floor. “I should have finished my dissertation. I could have been a musicology professor. Now all I am is Mommy. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. A mommy who makes stuffed animals.” She went into the bathroom. Rodney heard her brushing her teeth, washing her face. She came out again and got into bed.
After a long silence, Rodney said, “You can’t give up.”
“Why not? You’ve always wanted me to.”
“I changed my mind.”
Rodney swallowed. “These mice are our only hope.”
“You know what I did tonight?” Rebecca said. “First I took the mouse out of the trash. Then I unpicked the stitches and took out the musk pellets. And then I filled it with cinnamon pellets and stitched it back up. That’s how I spent my evening.”
Rodney held the mouse to his nose.
“Smells good,” he said. “These mice are destined for greatness. You’re going to make us a million bucks.”
“If I make a million bucks,” Rebecca said, “I’ll pay off your clavichord.”
“Deal,” said Rodney.
“And you can quit your job and get back to playing music full time.” She rolled over and kissed his cheek, then rolled back and adjusted her pillows and blankets.
Rodney kept the stuffed mouse against his nose, inhaling its spicy aroma. He kept smelling the mouse even after Rebecca had fallen asleep. If the microwave had been nearby, Rodney would have fired up Boho Mouse to reconstitute its bouquet. But the microwave was down the hall, in the shabby kitchen, and so he just lay there, smelling the mouse, which by now was cold and almost scentless.
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