Quondam

The musty air of the marble lined corridor had a thickness, like a hardened old pillow, stiff with overuse – something I’d toss into a corner on a sleepless night. For some reassurance I reexamined the creased paper. Office 201 must be nearby. My formal shoes clicking on the veined marble were reflected as I continued walking down the hall to a frosted glass door: “Anacusis Press.”

There was no answer to my knock so I tried the corroded gold knob. Creaking hinges revealed an office unchanged in many decades, the metal shelves overburdened with sheaves of paper and bound volumes. At a wooden desk splattered with open envelopes, Clara Troubinger looked up.

She was dressed in loose faded floral patterns, worn black frame glasses and had her hair tied back over dried, almost yellow skin. I estimated her age to be in her late seventies but I’m often wrong about such things.

Careful not to topple the stacks of books and papers on the floor, I swallowed and approached the desk. “My name’s Randall Heast. I called last week about a piece.”

The woman smiled bitterly, squinting eyes gazing over her glasses “...to publish, yes?”

Clara recoiled in disgust. “I don’t use email.” She stroked a heavy black rotary phone on her desk as if a faithful pet and I wondered if it still functioned.

Clara shook her head “A friend did that a few years ago to try to help my business. I never check it though.”

“But there was a response.” I looked in vain for a chair not laden with papers. “It told me to come here today.”

"Right. Of course.” Clara gestured to a curved wooden seat near her desk. “Just put that stuff on the floor. It’s okay.”

After transferring the pile of magazines to the stained linoleum, I opened my briefcase on the chair. “The piece is something that took a long time to realize...ah to come up with." I pulled out a folder filled with loose music paper.

Troubinger glanced back to the open envelopes on her desk and added a stapled paper to a stack that threatened to topple. “To whom?”

I was suddenly puzzled as if not knowing what to do with the manuscript in my hands. “I don’t think that’s for me to say.”

She smiled and nodded her head condescendingly. She seemed extremely tired as she shut and massaged her closed eyes with her fingers. “Might I ask, what you do for a living?”

I placed the folder on Clara Troubinger’s desk and took a deep breath but the dusty room choked it off and against my will, I coughed. “I play music, ah, the accordion on cruise ships. In fact I’ve got a gig tomorrow.”

Troubinger pulled the score from the folder and, not bothering to clear a spot, spread out the music on top of the piles of bills.

As she studied the music, I looked away and walked softly to the wood paneled walls where small paintings of anatomical drawings were displayed. Extending from the drawings on tiny springs were internal organs in the illustrative style of a Victorian engraving. It was like some kind of collage. When I touched a large intestine, it responded by quivering which was oddly startling. Troubinger didn’t notice but was concentrating on the notation. She braced her forehead with the palm of her left hand. “This isn’t the kind of thing you’d hear on a cruise ship.”

I smiled to myself “Yes I know.” Near the bouncing intestine was another illustration of a brain with eyes and ears extended on springs. “Where did you get these...drawings?” I asked.

“Oh,” laughed Troubinger. “They belonged to a neighbor down the hall who published medical books. Went out of business two years ago. Noreen Falcrow. Guess she saw the future. She’s the one who set up the website for me, but I never learned how to get there.”

Wanting an instant appraisal, I walked over to Clara expectantly. “So, what do you think?”

Clara gathered up the loose music pages and put down her glasses. “I can appreciate your ambition, but you know there isn’t a market for this kind of piece anymore. Who’s going to play it, and on accordion no less? ... But the biggest thing is.... how can I say this?” Troubinger slid her seat back. “This piece has been written already.” She stood and made her way to a corner shelf holding stacks of bound music.

I backed up suddenly as if from impact with an invisible object. The old woman strained as she picked a slim volume from the shelf and blew the dust off.

“We published this about 15 years ago. Sold maybe 10 copies in all that time. Some of the notes and meters are a bit different but...” She opened the music book and laid it down on the desk “...essentially it’s the same. Written by a Harold Aslant.”

Clara shook her head in subtle disbelief and closed the manuscript, revealing the cover. “TEMPLATIVE - for accordion solo.”

Suddenly my chronic asthma kicked in. I clutched my pocket inhaler and inelegantly cupped it to my mouth while bracing myself on Clara’s desk. The walls around the room felt to be pressing forward, exuding a gust of mildew. The inhaler was empty. An old panic of suffocation took hold.

“Sorry, I’ve got to go. Can we talk about this later?” I groped for the door and quickly exited, knowing I had failed miserably to impress my potential publisher.

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A gauzy mist of medication swirled around my face as I huffed on an antique nebulizer, usually kept in a suitcase next to my accordion. I had the Byrd Machine from childhood, an air compressor joined to a regulated valve and long corrugated plastic hose terminating with a mouthpiece and green transparent cup that bubbled with saline and Albuterol - my drug of choice that day. I didn’t use it everyday, as was the case in my childhood. But the asthma attack at the publishers was a firm reminder of my chronic condition. My brother Jacque paced the living room, clearly upset at the direction of a basketball game displayed on his wall sized monitor. Jacque’s home team, the San Diego Trappers were in a tight contest with the Memphis Mumps.

As my lungs opened up, a laptop displayed through the mist the search results for Harold Aslant.

“55 year old composer. Professor at Juilliard who recently moved to San Diego. Author of the book “Musical Knots - Time and Structure in Modern Composition.”

I took another deep inhalation while contemplating all the composers I had not heard or whose pieces were on some long forgotten program thrown into a box years ago. Music fascinated me for its evanescence, how some pieces lingered for decades while others dissolved the instant of their hearing. And what compelled some composers to wrestle with concepts bordering on obsession would leave other listeners groping and lost. Why did moving airwaves of abstract patterns ignite such fierce passions, dividing or uniting friends, spawning torrents of words, opinions, and declamations.

“That thing is too fucking noisy!” Jacque broke my reverie. “I think you’d better move into that old cottage you were looking at. I can’t handle that machine any longer bro.”

I removed the clouded mouthpiece to speak. “I don’t use this to piss you off.”

“Shit!” Jacque kicked his easy chair as the Mumps made a basket. He turned back to me with a smirk. “I thought most people outgrow asthma when they become adults.”

This hurt. Even though my brother was seven years younger, he had all the trappings of an adult - a modest though decent sized ranch home, a wife and two boys. “You’re not an adult until you own real estate” was my late father’s subtle deference to Jacque’s achievements. My winning of serious accordion competitions was no match for Jacque’s solid business sense - a building contractor owning an office with the bronzed name “Heast” firmly mounted over the entrance.

Looking back to search results, I ticked off the list of Aslant’s many commissions and awards. He had written for large orchestra, for chorus, a string of piano pieces, a large body of organ pieces, forty or more recent eclectic chamber works. Here was my ideal composer; successful, influential, recognized - an adult.

Screams of young voices shot through the room as Jacque’s two sons bolted in. Tarvin, thick boned and wielding an outsized red plastic baseball bat, chased the year younger Rodney, whose torn clothing revealed a previous scuffle. Jacque tried his best to ignore them while fixated on a player for the Trappers penalized for “double dribbling” and surrendering his team’s possession of the ball.

Tarvin swung the bat while Rodney nimbly hopped a sofa. Frustrated, Tarvin turned but his bat caught the electric cord connected to an end table lamp, yanking it off its perch. Jacque reflexively grabbed the fixture in mid-fall, preventing yet another distraction. The boys surging energy spilled into the next room then out into the back yard.

I was astonished at the boys lack of discipline and their seeming control over the household. Tarvin who frequently bullied his brother was scarcely scolded while Rodney was admonished for not holding his own. Together they formed the terminals of a battery, powering an unstoppable chaotic toy that shook and bounced off walls every day of my stay.

Getting away from all this was an attractive fantasy. But meager income defeated pride and I needed some shelter from the chilly gusts of the season. At first Jacque was only too happy to take his poor brother in again, but after one year and the quiet distain of his wife Hervella, it was becoming more awkward. Not that I was freeloading; I usually paid my brother rent on a small guestroom, but lately I had to stretch out payments as calls for on-board accordionists were on the wane. So I was thrilled finally to hear from Carnival Cruise Lines that the Après Coup ship to Florida by way of the Panama Canal would be providing over a full month of employment. The stress of debt to my brother would be lifted and so, I hoped, would Hervella’s bitterness.

Clicking on the heading “Upcoming Performances,” I was pleased to see a local concert that very night: “Aslant’s DUALITY for Theremin and Musical Saw. Composer in attendance.”

Jacque was clearly displeased at the direction of the basketball game. He paced the floor nervously and took a gulp of beer. “Come on Trappers. Wake up, there’s a game happening!”

Suddenly a series of explosions from the back yard dominated the noise of televised crowds and the Byrd machine. I put down the mouthpiece and joined Jacque at the back window.

Out in the yard, under an olive tree, Rodney was sitting on the ground, hands behind his back and a dirty rag in his mouth. Tarvin was circling the tree, lighting firecrackers and tossing them at his hapless brother. Rodney’s eyes would clamp shut as the loud bangs were set off inches away, their flashes followed by wafting sulfur.

“Okay, that’s enough Tarvin,” Jacque yelled out, releasing his pent up frustration. “Your mom’s going to be home soon and your room is still a mess! Rodney, fight back. Hold your ground, stop wimping out!”

Tears welled up in Rodney’s eyes as he spat out the rag. “Tar, get these handcuffs off”

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“A knot in music is where a linear theme comes back upon itself so that the superimposition produces a new design,” read the opening lines of “Musical Knots,” Aslant’s thick hardcover book. I had stopped at a bookstore on my way to the concert and thought I might meet the composer by getting him to sign his tome. On the cover was a curious drawing of a knot that resembled a ball, it’s ends tucked away in the design, producing a self-sealed beauty. The inside jacket indicated that the drawing was of a “Turk’s Head knot - sometimes used to illustrate the story of the Gordian Knot.”

This left me trying to remember the old story and the common use of the term “Gordian Knot” to indicate an intractable problem that can only be solved by taking drastic action -- “cutting the Gordian Knot.” But why would you want to compose a knot? Was music something to be untied, or sliced open?

Pondering these questions, I made my way through the sparsely populated store to the cashier who examined the volume. “Hey, another musician. Glad we kept the theory books around. Manager wanted to clear them out. I told him, we’re right down the street from the concert hall. We need to tap into that crowd.”

The young bearded cashier in a purple vest leaned toward me and spoke in a hushed tone. “See, I’m a composer and push this stuff to the buyer. But, you know, people really don’t know how to listen anymore. Every one’s listening to dreck and they think dragging pre-made loops around in a computer program is composing.”

“Saturn, it’s in demand on Saturn,” the cashier joked. “It’s not played. Just sits in my drawer.”

I drew back, my smile fading as I recognized myself in this young man’s plight. I just nodded knowingly and lifted the bagged book from the counter.

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Flackluster Hall was an elaborate leftover from the nineteen twenties, it’s baroque plaster ornamentation betraying a certain cheapness of execution in the city’s hurried attempt to transplant European culture in those days. Now noticeable cracks crossed the golden leafy curlicues and the stage drapes were a bit sagging and torn. Still, major works had their premieres here and I preferred the quaintness of the decay to the icy glass boxed theaters downtown. The acoustics were still superb and my ears were pleased by the many sonorous adventures I attended. Surviving members of the Flackluster family occasionally made their appearance for some of the fundraising “war horse” concerts featuring the likes of Mozart, Bach and Beethoven. Certainly they would not be seen tonight in the midst of modernism.

My thoughts drifted to Via, the souvenir seller I looked forward to seeing again on the upcoming cruise. Despite my encouragements, Via always found these modern music concerts too formal and intimidating. I could imagine her cringing at the hall’s threshold – beguiled but with clear aversion.

The nearby music school provided Flackluster with a ready crowd, out on assignment to take in the latest assemblage of composers that director Torrence McClaine would schedule for the season. I may have scanned Aslant’s name in programs past, but it didn’t hold in my memory. McClaine crossed the entrance hall, greeting guests but he was uncharacteristically glum. I hadn’t formally met the man but admired his line up of new music pieces that graced the old place.

Alone, as usual, I made my way to a center seat. One advantage of going alone to shows was my ability to nearly always get a good seat amid the throng of couples. And here it was again, a perfect listening spot in the center section, flanked by fresh faced young women from the music school. I just hoped they wouldn’t be a distraction as they giggled when I squirmed my way to the beckoning empty cushion, clutching both the program and Aslant’s hefty text.

“Hey, we had to read that,” said a flaxen haired beauty as I squeezed past her bare knees. “It’s hard to get through, pretty tough.”

“As much as most modern theory books. All this over-thinking can get in the way of your ears I think. Do you like the book?” the girl earnestly inquired.

“Don’t expect it to be easy. It’s the kind of book I read to take the test and then forget right away.” She smiled with a hint of shame “Guess it’s over my head.”

“Well you know, some of these modern composers can be obsessive to the point where no one else can follow them.” I sought to ease the girl’s self doubts. “Believe me, I struggle with a lot of this myself.”

“Are you a composer?” the woman queried until her female friend sitting adjacent nudged her playfully.

The performance featured works for various chamber ensembles including a couple of duets in which Aslant’s piece was the concluding one. All the players had impeccable musicianship and poise, as might be expected from the stage of Flackluster. Though the works may be “thorny” and difficult, their handling was always polished and well executed with polite decorum and pleasant restrained bows to the appreciative crowd who nearly filled tonights seating capacity.

So far, so good. All the works were well thought out and well suited to their respective ensembles. I was happy and felt my tickets were worth the price.

At intermission I tried again to continue a conversation with the young woman who had sat next to me but wasn’t able to distract her from a group of her friends that she ran to immediately after rising for the break.

It struck me that many of the adults in the crowd had familiar faces that I must’ve seen here many times before, yet did not know them. It was a sub-sub-culture of the mainstream music scene - much smaller than the classical lovers and certainly those who frequented amplified clubs for their musical nourishment.

Since Harold Aslant was said to be in attendance, I wondered which of those gathered might be the celebrated composer himself. Remembering the photo from the laptop search, I could not see Aslant’s face among them. Or was it a photo from years before, as many do for press releases?

I often skirted the question “do you play an instrument?” with “yes, a keyboard.” In fact, the accordion is a wind instrument; it’s phrasing and accents much more at one with a clarinet or oboe than a piano. An organ came close but aside from the grand sound swells of a full pipe organ, the accordion had an advantage in being able to accent each note using the bellows and was much more portable. I was possessed the first time the bellows opened across my chest. It breathed against my body. This was MY instrument. It became a part of me – another set of lungs without the limitations of my own. But others just saw an accordion. “Hey, play Lady of Spain!” they continued to plead.

In the United States, the accordion had been relegated to folk tradition with many sophisticated ears unable to hear its steel reeds apart from the dance hall or street corner buskers. So I politely smiled at these concerts, occasionally commenting on one of the works as I meandered from group to group, always feeling a gulf between myself and the familiar phantoms I never really connected with. I had grown old with them yet had never shared anything more than the span of time when our ears were massaged by sound. It was alarming that the crowd was aging and the only younger ones were the music students. Even in this technical world of instant access to any musical expression, the expanse of contemporary “classical” was often not included in a list of genres. Sure, there was classical - but that usually meant music written from the early 1600s through Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring.” If you looked over most schedules for the downtown orchestras, only a token smattering of “new music” pieces would be included. So, it was in places such as Flackluster that a truly active composer venue existed at all. It was here that a non-commercial pursuit of sound for its own sake could flourish in all its cryptic glory.

Back in my seat after another walk around the lobby, an excited girl to my other side gazed longingly at her smartly dressed companion, who had played french horn during the first half. The girl to my left was nowhere to be seen, her program having slid off onto the floor. I picked it up and carefully replaced it upon the empty seat cushion, supposing she had no interest in Aslant’s work after trudging through his text for school. The lights dimmed as were the hopes that I could continue our conversation.

“Duality” had an immediate theatrical flare when the two performers made their appearance. The saw player wore a broad brimmed ragged straw hat and coveralls. Instead of a chair, she sat on an upturned wooden crate. Then from stage right, a spaceman decked out in silver mylar topped by a wrap around bubble visored helmet emerged. He approached a device that resembled an antique wooden cased radio receiver with two antennae prominently extending - one vertical, the other in a loop, right angled to the wooden box. He raised his arms near the antennae, his right hand curved, poised like a cobra ready to strike. The saw player bent the tool between her knees and readied a handmade bow to the non-serrated side.

I knew a bit about the strange electronic instrument. The Theremin was named after its inventor, Leon Theremin, back in the 1920s. It was a historic breakthrough in sound - an entirely new instrument whose fame was enhanced by the notion that the player executes music by not touching the apparatus but instead moving the hands near the antenna. One hand controlled the pitch and the other the volume. By skillful movements, the player could create a vibrato in approximation of a singer. Critics of the instrument suggested that the result was like “an operatic mosquito.” Because of its use in science fiction movie soundtracks, the Theremin often evoked otherworldly associations.

Though the saw appeared to be a common shed tool re-appropriated for music, most these days were especially made for use as an instrument - their shape widened for greater range and various thicknesses for richer tones. However, according to the program notes, this particular “sawist” used a traditional wood cutting tool.

Aslant’s piece began softly with both players on the same pitch, emphasizing their similar timbre but then launched into contrasting passages, the saw quoting barnyard tunes while the Theremin doing it’s eerie swooping glissandos. Both instruments however, were more alike than different. I felt the piece could’ve been written for two saws or two Theremins with essentially the same sonic effect. With my eyes open however, the visual associations of the two performers completely changed how I heard the sound.

The piece was in one long movement and provided each player a chance to solo against gentle support from the other. It ended with a densely packed cannon, the two weaving against each other with the same material at different times. Was this climactic effect what Aslant meant by a musical knot?

Another question that haunted me throughout was whether I would’ve written the same piece. I appreciated the themes and the lively interchange between the players, but the general effect was too ironic, too impersonal. And the notion of writing for these odd instruments would’ve never occurred to me. The accordion was paramount, my solid anchor in a sea of aural possibilities. I was on a mission to legitimize the accordion, to make it more than a vehicle for nostalgia.

After a final descending glissando with both the Theremin and the saw, the players froze in position then nodded to each other. The audience knew the piece was over and applauded vigorously. As the lights came up, I looked expectantly around the room.

Head bowed, Torrence McClaine walked out onto the stage and motioned the audience to silence.

“Thank you.” McClaine waited for the crowd to quiet. “ I have an announcement. I know your program indicated Harrold Aslant would be here, but I have some bad news. Word’s come in that the composer could not attend.” Torrence stopped awkwardly and cleared his throat as he scanned the puzzled faces. “In fact, Mr. Aslant has passed away today.”

There was audible gasping from the audience. I was struck by the grief that crossed McClaine’s face as he slowly continued.
“We are grateful that he has left us so many masterful works for so many unique instruments and we hope to have many future performances of his music but today is indeed a time for morning one of our great modern masters.” Torrence turned abruptly and swiftly left the stage

The jubilant bubble created by the lively piece was punctured. Awkward glances prevailed. Some got up to leave, others sat with eyes closed. I made my way to the center aisle and up toward the stage. From the corner of my eye, I caught Torrence pushing out through the side exit and followed before the door closed completely.

It was an oddly humid night. The grass surrounding the concert hall was lit in pools of orange light from lampposts boarding the main promenade to the hall’s front entrance. The crowd exited slowly as if in a trance. Only Torrence was rushing ahead to the street and I ran to catch up.

“I’m so sorry to hear about the death.” I spoke as Torrence suddenly stopped and turned. “What happened?” I continued, “He wasn’t that old.”

Torrence swallowed with head bowed. “I didn’t want to tell the crowd because I personally knew Harold.” He looked up into my eyes. “In fact he supervised the rehearsals of this piece. I just saw him last night.”

I tucked the program into Aslant’s book. “So, what happened, an accident? Heart attack?” I felt suddenly apologetic for my insistence.

Torrence nervously ran a hand through his hair and clutched the back of his neck. “Harold had...periods of depression. Very successful guy; lots of good press, students and commissions.” His hand dropped while he shook his head, obviously puzzled. “but, that didn’t save him.”

Torrence nodded. “Prescription meds. An overdose. That’s what I was told tonight.”

I reached out to Torrence and touched his shoulder. At that same moment Torrence turned abruptly to leave. “I can’t talk anymore. Sorry.”

McClaine again headed toward the street. I was stunned but continued to run after Torrence. “Wait,” I called. “You’re familiar with Aslant’s works?”

Torrence shook his head negatively then paused. “That was a solo piece, right?”

Torrence reflected. “Right. Yeah, Harold used to play accordion as a kid but never wrote for it. I don’t think I ever heard that one. It was another of his “outsider” pieces. He mentioned something about the main theme coming to him in a dream. I’m not certain it was ever performed.”

“Probably,” Torrence shrugged his shoulders. “Most of his works were. You’re a musician then?” He quizzically stared at me as I nodded. Torrence continued, “I’ll be working on the organ at Ascension Cathedral at noon tomorrow. Drop by. We can talk then.” He turned away again without looking back. “Thanks for attending” he spoke offhandedly, leaving me stupefied.

Suddenly the heaviness of Aslant’s text was felt and I lifted the unsigned copy to my eyes, the cover drawing of the knot barely visible in the dim orange light.

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A product of early 1960s modernism, the Basilica of the Ascension stretched upward in a stark white enveloping spiral rising to a slender abstract cross. Theoretically the spiral would continue on a molecular level and the cross was just a convenient exclamation point to the ascent. Though I had admired the stunning building from the outside, I had never ventured in, as had been the case with most churches since my childhood. Though controversial to the locals, the Basilica always struck me as an inspired gesture, even if the beckoning heavens proved to be merely an exit from consciousness.

The entrance peeled organically back like a crack in rolled pages of a scroll. Once inside, I was struck by the futuristic embellishments - like those conceptions of humanity’s role in the space age. Entry columns suggesting upturned rocket fuselages pointed high into the spiral pattern that was outlined by stained glass portholes along the side. Gone were the gothic encroachments from the past. This was an untainted, purified, optimistic future world with God as the supreme pilot. Even the traditional wooden pews were replaced by individual white plastic seats arranged as semi-circular radiant rows from the central altar in the nave that extended out into the congregation like a sleek pier. But even with this welcoming abundance of space, not a single human was visible.

“Mr. McClaine?” I called out, only to be answered with my own voice reverberating. I walked slowly toward the alter. Though originally built as a Roman Catholic cathedral, it had since become Unitarian. Even still, not many attended the Sunday services and upkeep of the colossal structure was in jeopardy.

A sharp knocking was heard up in the ranks of organ pipes that swirled along with the spiral design. I again called out “Torrence?”

From behind vertical louvered wooden slats fronted by tall shining pipes, Torrence McClaine’s head, barely visible, peered down. “Yes?”

“Remember me from last night?” I responded, careful not to yell in the church. “You suggested we might talk about Harold.”

There was an extended silence. Then McClaine’s face reappeared. “Could you play a slow chromatic scale on the second manual from the bottom? It would be a big help. The console is to the left of the altar.”

Making my way past the curved altar to the organ controls, I placed my right hand on the second of four terraced keyboards and slowly played each note to the top key. The tone was of a sweet flute-like sound, quite mellower than my accordion.

I held the requested note. From within the forest of pipes, a tapping joined in and the pitch rose slightly. “Okay.” Shouted Torrence and I removed pressure from the key. “That one just needed a little adjustment. Come up here if you’d like.”

Glancing around, I saw a tiny open door in the wall. The opening was about a foot off the floor. I walked toward it and craned my head through. A series of wooden platforms and ladders extended upward. “Ever been inside one of these before?” asked Torrence. “It’s a fantastic world.”

I pulled myself through the doorway. “Never. I had no idea there were so many more pipes hidden away.”

“Be careful, but come on up. I’m just doing some small adjustments until my assistant gets back from lunch.”

A garden of pipes spread out and up on all sides. Some were tiny, others like trumpets, some like elongated wooden boxes set on end. Torrence, dressed in a work apron, was cross-legged on a platform two levels above. He held a solid bar with which he tapped on a curled bit of metal on the side of a medium sized pipe. “I’m a voicer,” he said.

I climbed up the ladder and onto the platform next to Torrence. “Voicer? You mean a tuner?”

“Well, yes some tuning but also adapting the sound to the room. It can get pretty finicky, especially with over three thousand pipes.” Torrence looked into my eyes. “You like organ music?”

Torrence grinned “The instrument of the devil, huh?” He paused. “You’d know that joke if you’re an accordionist.”

“Well,” Torrence looked around the chamber. “These pipe organs are called heavenly instruments but they still need work. Acoustic plumbing. The pipes get bent, misaligned or go out when the temperature changes. Like all of us, it’s very physical.” Torrence suddenly glanced away as if overtaken. He sat silent.

Torrence sniffed and closed his eyes. “This organ developed an air leak. After weeks of searching, I finally found the problem. Did you notice when you entered that there were individual seats instead of regular church pews? Those seats were modeled on Disneyland’s Flight to the Moon, which opened in the late 50s, a couple of years before this church was built. In that ride, to simulate weightlessness on a moon voyage, the center of the seats would push up, making you feel lighter as if you were floating. Well, the seats in this place do the same thing when the priest makes a dramatic sermon. He has a control at his alter that will push air under the seats to create that uplifting feeling. Well, the air comes from the same blower that powers the organ and gaskets under the seats were old and leaking. So instead of those magnificent organ chords with all the stops pulled out, the loss of air made the whole thing go out of tune the longer you held a chord, and the parishioners would feel a sinking sensation.” Torrence forced a chuckle.

I wanted to steer the conversation toward Harold Aslant but was aware of McClaine’s sensitivity at the moment. Finally, after another awkward silence, Torrence spoke as if reading my mind. “Sorry, It’s just hard to deal with Harold not being here” It was clear that Torrence had been crying through his closed eyelids. “We were close.”

“He was a mentor and more.” Torrence looked at me with red swollen eyes.
“Wish I could’ve helped him, or said something that day.”

“Well, he was at the rehearsal for the piece you heard. He kept mumbling that he felt more of a musical clown than a real composer. He for some time had been tagged by the press as a prankster.”

“That was one in a series of pieces for “outsider” instruments - like the saw and theremin. The critics felt that the only reason he was writing those was to get attention.”

Torrence paused and looked away. “Truthfully, I had mixed feelings. The outsider pieces weren’t my favorites. But still, Herald was a great composer and managed to work wonders - even with wind machines and jews harps. I always treated those pieces with respect. When we met, he was a very earnest composer and wrote some very accomplished pieces. He grew more jaded over the years – more emotional ups and downs. I still loved him, though he was drifting away, to some other world. Maybe it was drugs, maybe just bitterness.”

“I don’t know. It didn’t seem out of the ordinary.” McClaine’s voice dropped to a whisper. “ I mean ... Mike the theremin player arrived late and was making some lewd comments about having to wear the spacesuit and I had to say “It’s in the score, fuckhead” I was annoyed he was so late. I don’t know if that exchange threw Harold over the edge. Who would guess?”

“He was very immune to criticism so I just let it slide off.” Torrence took a gulp of air. “Didn’t even call later. And ... that’s when it happened.”

A shocking piercing chord erupted from the surrounding pipes. Torrence and I put our hands to our ears in pain. Dissonant chords and a rumbling deep bass punctuated a fast run.

“Jay must’ve gotten back from lunch,” called Torrence over the din. “Bastard! He should know better.”

We made our way down the ladders while still trying to plug our ears. “Normally you wouldn’t hear it this loud.” yelled Torrence. “We’re in the swell box.”

Near ground level the sound suddenly ceased. Torrence jumped down the remaining few steps and made for the tiny door to the Chancel. “Jay, you could’ve deafened us!”

An extremely slender formal young man in his early twenties, strode up the aisle holding a bag. “Hey, brought you some take out.”

“Cut the shenanigans,” scolded McClaine. “You know how loud it can get in there with the stops out.”

I pulled himself back inside the church and shut the hatch. Jay, handing Torrence the bag, appeared puzzled. “What are you saying?”

Angrily, Torrence returned the bag to Jay and swiftly faced the organ console. “Let’s finish this thing.” He pressed a calling card into my palm as he moved past toward the keyboards. “Call me some other time,” he spoke under his breath.

I pocketed the car and looked back at Jay who seemed baffled. “What were you two doing in there?” asked Jay with a hint of a smirk as he extended his hand “Jay Falcrow.”

My ears still ringing, I shook Jay’s hand. “Randal Heast.” Jay’s grip was barely noticeable as he pulled his long figures away through my palm like a squid jetting from an enemy.

“I remember you.” Said Jay, cocking his head like a curious dog. “That cruise I took with my mom a year ago. You’re a decent player.”

“Thanks” I muttered, a bit embarrassed to be recognized. “It’s a living you know.”

Jay erupted with an exaggerated smile that levitated his pencil thin mustache. “Good. Glad to hear it.”

Jay’s pressed beige suit seemed overly formal for the task of a laborer, a backstage “voicer.” It certainly was in contrast to Torrence who wore a faded denim apron with tools in it’s pleated pockets. I assumed Jay never set foot inside the organ’s interior.

McClaine glanced back at Jay with a sour expression. “Remember what we’re here for.”

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Another round of “O Sole Mio” swelled from my accordion as I worked on the climactic chorus. My “fake book” of Italian standards was opened and marked and though I yawned with eyes half closed, I plowed ahead, milking the song for all its sentimental power. Then, right before the concluding four bars, a sharp knock on the bedroom door derailed the tune.

“You realize it’s one in the morning,” Jacque reminded from behind the door.

“Oh, sorry,” I let the box slide off my shoulders onto the nearby bed. Jacque opened the door gruffly and I attempted an apology. “The ship leaves tomorrow and I had to get my luggage to the dock. I hate practicing this stuff so I put it off until the last moment.”

“Hervella, wanted me to tell you that...,” Jacque sat near me on the soft mattress. “I’m afraid you can’t stay with us anymore.”

I lifted the accordion into its open case, not looking at Jacque.. “Maybe you can give me another chance. When I get back...”

Jacque slapped me on the back playfully “Hey, I’ve heard that before. Bro, you know I love to help you...but you’re the older one. You should’ve had it together by now. Staying here isn’t helping matters. You’ve got to find some way to get by without leaning on my family. I’m sorry.”

Looking at my own hands closing the accordion case, I noticed they appeared withered and dry as fragile old leaves. Jacque quietly exited as I pulled the case off the bed. Hervella should’ve told me, I mused, if she’d only been more forward... but then I pulled back, realizing the sensitivity of the predicament. Here I was for the third time needing a respite between steady pay, expecting my reliable brother to extend family ties yet again.
Has it come to this? A once ambitious music student, I just assumed my compositional talents would be recognized by the time I turned 50. It was obvious, just keep working, it’s only a matter of time. But time did matter, and as the accordion fell from stature in the pop world, so too it’s fleeting forays into jazz and chamber music. And here I was, practicing the very thing that I sought to elevate myself from.

Like a sulking teenager I collapsed on the narrow bed; wells of self-pity threatening like a crosscurrent riptide. Pulling my velveteen sleep mask, like a diver’s goggles, down over my eyes, I drifted into that half-conscious state before sleep, my restless mind churning. Images of the run-down shack I’d been eyeing earlier in the week, its patinated rotting windowsills creaking in the breeze, beckoned with a crumbling call. It was cheap and quiet. It was here I could work on future pieces. Reasonable enough. Never mind the sagging roof, the omnipresent smell of decay. And night set in, darkening this already dark apparition.

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The back seat jostled me awake as I was thrown against the inside door of the cab. Lack of quality sleep meant frequent micro-naps at inopportune moments. Not watching the road under the dominion of a taxi driver was one of these times. A car horn behind startled me to even more alertness.

“Sorry about the bump” apologized the cabbie whose swollen body occupied most of the front bench seat. “...but I couldn’t stand that jam anymore. I’m going to try a short cut.”

Straining to recognize something familiar, I studied the alley street. It seemed we must be close to the docks, what with all the life preserver and fish motifs on the buildings. In front of a souvenir shop, a bedraggled man around my age pulled a scraped up button accordion over his shoulders, a sailor’s cap upturned on the sidewalk for coins. He caught my gaze and knowingly saluted - a gesture that shocked. I pulled back and turned toward the cabbie, wondering if the salute was for him. The driver’s eyes were only on the road ahead. A placard of numbers was displayed on the dash - apparently the driver’s license. A photograph on the card depicted the back of the driver’s head instead of the face.

I turned back toward the side window as they we to a stop sign. Standing on the curb, a homeless man raised a brown cardboard placard, which read in scrawled felt marker: “I have a cardboard allergy. Please help”

How long had I been dozing? On the front dash, the meter’s red LEDs displayed $130. I tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Hey, there must be something wrong with the fare. The dock isn’t that far from where you picked me up.”

“But that is ridiculous.” My shoes seemed stuck to the floorboard. Glancing down, I tried lifting my left foot, only to find a black tar-like substance on the floorboard creating a stringy adhesion to my polished leather oxfords. Didn’t they ever clean these cabs?

“We should be there in a moment,” stated the driver with a resigned monotone.

A tiredness mingled with nervous anxiety as the cab emerged from the shaded alley and darted toward the waterfront. The colossal terraced wall of the “Après Coup” loomed over the arched buildings on the pier, upper decks bursting with excited faces. Among them, my thoughts went out to Via who was surely among the throng. She carried a souvenir tray in the old manner of classic cigarette girls, her wares of trinkets and post cards as if on a stage framing her willowy physique. We had flirted for years though I had resigned that any intimate interaction would only exist in ruminated fantasy. Via was at least 20 years younger, her camaraderie more a result of youthful exuberance than serious romance. Still I always looked forward to that teasing banter when we happened to share the same ship. And now after 3 months of layovers and missed opportunities, that time had come.

The taxi tires squealed to the curb and I struggled with my accordion case that shared the backseat. Pulling the heavy case behind, I exited and heard the ship’s horn sounding. The front passenger window rolled down with the portly driver awaiting his pay. My wallet was lost. Earlier, I had transferred the billfold to my coat pocket in order to make it easily assessable but now all I touched within were cheap souvenirs of varying destinations. I pulled out plastic ships, figurines of sailors, collapsible drinking cups. They overwhelmed my ability to hold them all and in frustration, I tossed them to the pavement. Another air horn blast from the ship caused a panic to skewer my nerves. The cab driver, in serene detachment, was playing solitaire with dog-eared cards on the front seat. Finally, reaching into the inner eyeglass pocket of my jacket, I found my wallet and quickly ejected the credit card – nearly flicking it at the driver.

While the cabbie processed the plastic, I studied the empty dock. The hulk of the liner began to move. I hoped it was merely a large wave heaving the vessel. After signing the receipt, I lugged my accordion toward the gangway. It was clear now that the ship was underway as the gleaming white gangway was pulled from the hull. I searched the tiny faces for a glimpse of Via. From a balcony over the bow, I may have glimpsed her and her tray, but she was too far away to be certain. The mammoth floating city was now clearly underway; it’s corridors of extravagance and escapism ripe with anticipation of the masses.

Sitting down the accordion case, I ran to the employee ticket booth where a tall gaunt man in a sweat stained sailors cap was closing cabinets. Hearing my approach, the man looked back through the thick window and pressed a button.

“Hey Heast, you’re late,” the man gave a snide grin as his raspy voice was amplified by the tinny speaker over the window. “Guess accordion players have so many gigs they can’t pull themselves away.”

I was frantic. “Can’t you stop the ship? Radio them? Take me out on a motorboat?”

“You know this business. Once she’s underway, there’s no turning back. Sorry. The man locked a cash drawer and grabbed his jacket. “The Après Coup won’t be back for another month. Plenty of time to practice.”

“You know these cruises. They always return.” The man shrugged and turned from the window. “See you then.”

It was as if a rotting hole formed on the pier, swallowing me into the cold depths below. I stumbled back to my accordion with a jagged hesitance, my eyes fixed vacantly on the withdrawing ship – its size betraying its distance

There wasn’t a back up plan. After a year of playing cruise ships, I had gotten used to the mediocre repertoire and regular pay check from the effluent elderly who heard a distant beguiling charm in reedy tones from my nicely tuned box, its bellows breathing life into the old standards. I had learned two hundred or so requests and perfected a self-deprecating patter of the modern accordionist.

“Hey what did people say when the ship loaded with accordions sank in the ocean?” I’d ask, taking a mock concerned glance around the interior of the ship’s restaurant. “Well, it’s a start.”

Of course I knew that the accordion held immense power that couldn’t be reined in by kitsch and sentimentality. I struggled to harness this intensity, and over the last year had written “Quondam,” in which every subtle and overt expression the accordion could make was timed and introduced within a dramatic context. I felt this work so original, so revolutionary. But now what? It’s a copy? Yeah, it’s just a rip off of this guy Aslant.

The new territory of time and poverty before me seemed a tidal wave of unease as I thought about facing my brother. I looked around the docks for a diversion, anything. It seemed at the moment that I felt the butt of all the jokes I told.

On an adjacent older dock was what looked to be a penny arcade; clowns with peeling paint beckoned to a dark interior where I could make out the silhouettes of pinball machines and other garish contraptions.

Lifting my burden, I approached the arcade. Carnival attractions always held a fascination as an awkward artificial mask of dreams. How the sublime intrusions into routine every night could only be realized as blinking lights behind absurd fantasies of the waking world. It was obviously counterfeit but celebrated it’s unreal dimension behind painted faces, costumes and calculated trickery.

From a hundred feet away it was obviously not a standard penny arcade but instead some kind of carnival museum. The ballyhoo was not only for what was but of what once was — a nostalgia. In a moment I became not only a tourist but also an attraction, as I felt oddly self-conscious walking through the entrance.

A young boy held by his father looked away from an animated buffalo in a glass box and followed me as I walked in.

A young pubescent girl, preening her deliberate sexuality and wearing tight denim shorts, played pinball by pushing in on the table as her rear bounced from side to side, like the silver ball ricocheting off thumper bumpers. She took her intense gaze from the machine and latched on to me with a cool pout. Did she see me as a threat or a target? I was exceedingly uncomfortable.

There was a nearby door with a sign “Freaks of Nature,” and I quickly went through that door. On the other side was a small corridor lined with exhibits – manikins representing the actual freaks who toured with circuses and carnivals in years past. There was an employee of the museum who welcomed me into the room. Slender and in his early twenties with neatly trimmed goatee and bowler hat, he was seemingly as amused at his own presence in this place as with the clashing colors he wore. “Just a job” or something more I wondered, trying to read through the practiced smirk.

“I know what’s in there,” said the man, pointing to the accordion case. Now why would this fellow who I’d just met be able to distinguish my instrument from an average suitcase? Of course it was the “Dangerous, Contains Accordion” sticker on the side.

“Why don’t you play something, this place needs some atmospheric music right now?”

I returned the question with a vindictive wince. “What, you hiring me or what?”

“Well I haven’t heard anything yet.” responded the garish fellow who crossed his arms. Some children pushed past him anxious to get from one room to another with only scant awareness of the manikins as they moved through.

Now that the ship had left, I really didn’t have anywhere to go. The untrammeled time had taken me by surprise. Okay, so he asked for it. I snapped open the case, and hoisted the mammoth black glossy beast to my shoulders.
“But you’re not going to hear the standard fair. I hope you don’t mind.”

I glanced around the room again. The celebration of deformity glaringly exposed. “Okay, you’re about to hear the first public performance of “Quondam.”

“Something before, a former... “ I gestured, my right hand scooping the air like a lecturing teacher. “like the “quondam senator” or “quondam friend” or anything that was before but is no more.” My self-consciousness caught me in flush-faced embarrassment.

Darnell gazed away, equally self-aware. “Okay, let’s go back “before” I asked that question.” His gesturing of quotes with fingers on both hands exhibited a glibness that annoyed me as I unsnapped the bellows and hesitated for a moment. Was my audience just an employee or did he have control or the hiring? There was a fumbling impatience as if the man would turn and leave the room at any moment.

I decided it didn’t matter. Whatever I gave was from some unconscious reservoir and even if the bright dandy were to turn away, I would continue to give. The first loud chords were shocking, even to myself, after the quiet of this confined space. I started a precipitous run across the keys, an ascending arc with a spiky trajectory.

The music swallowed me up and I shut my eyes. If this had been predetermined, a retracing of old steps, it felt wondrously present and immediate.

A swirling miasma of fluid forces seemed to coalesce around a node, an unmoving thick mass. It formed a knot of hefty rope like the kind that anchors boats to a dock, but ancient and rotted, the entanglement now seemingly permanent. The rope was bound tightly, attaining an independence suggesting a dead animal washed up on a beach or a stray neuron in the mind, cut off and abandoned by the hive of swarming thoughts. The opening blatant barrage of chords now gave way to a lyrical theme. At this point something new happened – a first in my life. I was transported by the sound, as if it was the work of another and I was just listening, fascinated by where it might go. The accordion, the carnival room, Darnel – all these lost their physicality. As if on autopilot, the playing continued but I the performer and I the listener separated.

Feeling a tug on my arm – one then another – teasing tiny hands were pulling at me. Must be children, I thought as laughter and giggles ensued. But I couldn’t see them. It was either night or I was blindfolded. The smells and the distant birds convinced that I was outdoors. Suddenly one of the children pushed me over backwards and, off balance, I fell onto a wooden bench. The laughter withdrew, scattering into the distance.

Yes, it was a blindfold, or rather my sleep mask. I pulled it down, unhooking it from the back to uncover my eyes. I was sitting in an empty child’s playground at sunset – the dimming light, angled through leafless branches of surrounding Maple trees, stung at first glance. There were only three items in the sandy circle before me: a jungle gym, a small slide and a swing set. I couldn’t place the playground or the surrounding park. It looked remotely familiar but then all such places do. I studied the sleep mask in my hands. The inside, the part that was against my eyes, held an embroidered musical staff, the sewn notes upon it spelling out the opening theme of Quandom which I had nicknamed “Love and Loss.” But this couldn’t be my own sleep mask as the inside of my familiar one was only lined with black velour.

Looking up, I saw her; a woman in a long formal dress as if from another age, with a dark blue Victorian frilled bustle that gave an appearance of levitating over land. Her face was turned away as she retreated slowly from the playground, into the park. Her elbows and legs were covered and I had no idea of her age. Her hair was bound up under a brimmed mauve hat and lacy ribbon. Then one of the swings, the one closest to me, slowly began to move, as if pumped into motion by a phantom child. I tried clearing my throat to speak out to the lady but that impulse only unleashed a flood of uncontrollable sobbing. It caught me by total surprise and my vision clouded, the pendulum movement of the swing now just a blur. The woman stopped and slowly turned, her face hidden by something dark and textured.

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I dried my eyes with my sleeve. Darnell was nowhere to be seen. Though this was merely the opening, I missed the exit of my only audience. Still, the music completely drained me, surprising with the vivid scene that opened up in my mind. In writing the piece, I had never had images flood in like that. Something about performing it live had possessed my senses, though it was obvious that my experience wasn’t shared. It was embarrassing that the vision was so sentimental; with an emotional state I sought to avoid submitting to. Alone now in the room, I slipped the accordion from my shoulders and set it on the closed case. How many rambling rooms were in this place? Through the walls, there were voices, mainly of chattering and screaming children along with a muffled rhythmic thumping.

Past a curved funhouse mirror that turned my feet into pencil points under elastic legs, I approached an Egyptian mummy case in gold leaf or at least gold paint, standing upright against an obviously fake rock wall. The deep beats were coming from that direction. I wondered toward the sound.

A sign “Dark Mystery” was lit in red neon, incongruously placed on the arched entrance of mock gothic stonework topped by a hooded skull. Just another cheap carnival exhibit, I thought and was about to resume my search for Darnell but the mechanistic bass throbbing from within the black interior drew my curiosity. Popping my head through the arched opening, there was a small table a velvet rope and a man wearing a half visor mask covered in white fleece.

The masked man smiled. “This way in. The Sheep Suit Serenader is spinning today.”

“DJ talk you know,” The man clarified. It was clear that this person was Darnel in another costume, the smirking lips and chiseled nasal voice making the mask a poor disguise. “No cover yet. A good time to go in.” He raised a rubber stamp from the table. “Wrist please.”

“So, you’re a sideshow barker” I commented as the stamp came down on the inside of my wrist. The mark was of a cartoonish semblance of a sheep with puffed out fleece ending in sharp points as if the creature was being electrocuted.

“I know you’ll want to come back later,” said the man in fleece as he gestured into the black painted hall that funneled out the processed sound like a factory making widgets.

I recoiled. “I can’t leave my instrument behind,” and turned to retrace my steps.

The masked man quickly clutched my shoulder. “We’ll take good care of it. It will be waiting right where you left it. Besides, no one inside would want to be seen dead with an accordion.”

Taking a resigning breath, I felt my way along as the passage turned a few corners and grew narrower. Then the room opened out, though how far was hard to tell as the colored swirling light show in the dark disoriented.

A thumping beat pounded on my chest, it’s metronomic precision decorated with high pitch cymbals and whaling synthetic pulses. I was not alone here, there were shadowy forms occasionally illuminated by the constant movement of rotating lights. Over against the far wall, a manic fellow, lit pale blue by a computer screen bobbed and swayed while ceaselessly pressing buttons and sliding levers on several consoles before him. I made my way over, while brushing up against soft wool and puffy furry outfits worn by the bobbing dancers.

“Hey, it’s my break.” The DJ threw a switch and his system reverted to autopilot without missing a beat. Closer now, I could make out the identical fleece covered half mask that the DJ wore as he ducked back into another room behind him. I followed. With the door closed, walls muffled the high-powered speakers, providing some sonic relief.

“A lot of lambs out there today” muttered the DJ, half-recognizing that he shared the room with me. “Too young I think but hard to tell in those sparkles. Are you their chaperone?”

The DJ flung himself onto a cushioned booth-like chair such as would be found in some restaurants and threw his booted feet up onto a low coffee table in the dim dingy room. Though slender to the point of skinniness, the man was hardly a youth – the creases and folds beneath his chin indicated a person well past middle age. He sweated profusely, his open vest of sheep fleece revealed a clearly defined ribcage through his loose thin skin.

“Wonder how those lambs got in. Now, that’s some young stuff.” He pointed at me in a quick impulsive gesture. All his movements were jumpy. “You’re here to bust me – right?”

“Not me.” I brushed off the pointing with a dismissive wave. “Why is this club in a carnival museum?”

“Hey, I’ve played in a fucking desert during a dust storm! I don’t pick the places, I don’t ask questions, just go where the action is.” The DJ leaned forward and fumbled on the table for a glass pipe amid an assortment of dirty paper plates, half empty beer bottles and potato chips spilling from a bag’s gaping split.

“What were you playing out there?” I asked while slowly wondering the room. Old chrome trimmed round tables were stacked in one corner. It seemed the place was a diner at one time.

“Owing to the joint, it was mainly darkcore sprinkled with acid trance.” The DJ responded, while gesturing with the unlit pipe. “You like music?”

The DJ interrupted, his relentless nervous rumble like a headlong breakless train. “It’s Dub maybe but less is being done that way today.”

The DJ laughed “Compose? That’s such an old school word. Why, I mix it of course. Everything’s already out there.” He extended quivering fingers. “Like, my hands work the magic. All it takes is a little twist here and there - suddenly it’s a new thing. There’s already fucking too much music in the world – like, you know what I mean? We need to recycle it.”

When the DJ smiled, I noticed a few missing teeth. Those that remained were yellowed and chipped. “Hey sorry to brush you off but old Sheep Suit needs a break – know what I mean?” He indicated the door and I nodded to leave, upset at my inability to argue his point.

Back in the dance room with my eyes now adjusted to the dim light, it was clear that among the crowd, actual live sheep were grazing. Like the rest, they were festooned in blinking LED lights and fluorescent accessories as they slowly roamed through the crowd, chewing their cud while completely ignoring the dancers. I presumed this to be a marketing gimmick for the club and pondered the cost of maintaining these animals.

A faintly glowing EXIT sign had been crudely altered to read EXIST – the “s” sandwiched in but it was clear this alteration was an intentional attempt at cleverness – like car license plate frames at a gift shop. I made my way toward that feeble glow.

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The entrance was carelessly unattended. “No wonder young kids were getting in,” I thought. Looking at my wrist, I studied the electrocuted sheep. A coterie of kids hurried past me, excited by the lack of a gatekeeper. They each used the stamp to mark their wrists before going inside.

A chubby boy of around nine pointed further into the hall, past the mummy case. “Over there.”

Next to a line of antique kinetoscopes, I found the Men’s room. Inside, at the sink, I hurriedly stuck my right hand under hot running water, trying in vain to wash off the sheep picture, which suddenly felt repulsive – as if I were a branded animal being led to the slaughter. An irrational panic set in as no quantity of soap would fade the design. Scrubbing with a wet towel, I only succeeded in reddening my skin.

Then, a familiar reedy call met my ears; my accordion, badly played, its piercing wail heard even to this far room. I ran from the sink and back down the hall.

Reflected in the fun house mirror, I saw the player, with a ballooned head and the accordion like a shrunken toy. It was a boy puzzling over the bass buttons, the instrument’s steel reeds grunting with the haphazard movement.

“Hey, that’s mine,” I yelled with an unduly stern tone that I instantly regretted.

The boy, frightened, nearly dropped the heavy box and I grabbed the toppling instrument by its back straps. The boy ran past a preteen girl whose gaze suggested that she knew the fleeing culprit.

“He probably thought it was a part of the museum,” said the girl, defending the action.

I searched for damage. “You can’t just throw this around. It’s expensive.”

In an effort to lighten the mood, the girl made a smiling request, “play something.”

I was fuming at Darnell for breaking his promise. “Have you seen a guy with a moustache and hat?” I inquired of the girl.

There was a certain passage in Quondam that suggested a circus or carnival, especially the pneumatic orchestra machines that used to grace all carousels. It was an unusual section in the piece, due to its repetitive rhythm – something I often avoided but seemed to fit my memory of moving mechanical artificial horses.

As I launched into the section, with its alternating off-kilter meters, I saw a teenage girl enter the room and walk sternly toward the younger one, grabbing the listener’s shoulders. It was the same girl I had seen when entering the museum, who had gazed at him accusingly.

The younger one ignored the older’s command and concentrated again on the music.

“Come oon!!” the teenager nudged with her knee and spoke so loudly that I lost my concentration and nearly dropped the rhythm. The teen, hands on hips, had no reserve. “Hey, I play piano. I won a piano competition. Why do you play that thing instead of a piano?”

Continuing to play, I looked up at the girl scornfully. This “thing” had only occupied most of my life.

“Thought so,” said the teenager in self-appreciation as she grabbed the younger girl and pulled her away toward the door. “Let’s go!”

As the two girls departed, a gaggle of other children flooded in. They wore pointy party hats and blew on whistles. I could hardly hear my instrument over the racket. It was obviously a private party that the museum was hosting. Suddenly three or four of them shot “party poppers” into the air, caps shot bursting streamers gliding down over everything, including me.

I imagined the falling streamers becoming steel chains, crisscrossing and binding me to this chair, becoming a permanent exhibit in the freak museum. I yearned to have a real audience, one that concentrated and cared about the music. Instead I was an embellishment of the background, but felt a prisoner to this role, kept in my place by the expectations of others. In the face of such overwhelming noise, I stopped playing and let the kids have their way. They marveled at the pickled babies, the “spider woman,” the distended “atomic fish,” the two headed rabbit. And then, no longer fascinated, they hurried past the curved mirror, searching out more fleeting ephemera and leaving me alone again.

I skipped to a slow section of “Quondam,” with a theme that reminded of aristocratic baroque entertainments, with the combination of skillful counterpoint and an even duration to the notes.

Again, images imposed themselves as I shut my eyes. Dressed formally in a black and white suit with bow tie, I was sitting in an opulent wood paneled drawing room playing the accordion for what appeared to be a large private dinner. Guests surrounded a buffet table as a silver tray was sat down in the center. The dome over the tray was lifted by a white-aproned caterer and, underneath, steaming on a bed of salad was a large knot. It appeared to be made of thick old sisal rope, its braided strands forming a massive ball. One of the guests held a long steak knife and, with the assistance of a hefty fork, tried sawing into the knot. The others looked on expectantly. I was sitting at some distance against the wall and kept my formally structured piece going. A lone woman entered the room. She wore a stately dark gown with long gloves. But her face was concealed by something – a bumpy texture that gave no hint of human features. She wondered closer to me, taking a seat on a plushly cushioned chair nearby. Now, I could see some detail and was startled. Her face was entirely covered in barnacles, like those around pier pilings or tide pools.

Back at the table the knife made no progress through the thick entrée. The guests grew impatient, their voices rose. The man with the knife and fork put down his utensils in disgust. He was obviously the host of the party and his displeasure was palpable. He led the guests down a hall toward a bright room at the end, the guests joining in what might resemble a mutiny or revolution, their fists batting the air.

The host breached the open door and a second later, the slender chef was hauled out, waving his hands in protest, his tall hat toppling to the floor. He pleaded with the others. I recognized the face. Even at this distance, the features were unmistakable. It was none other than Harold Aslant. He was the chef.

The formal crowd, now boiling over with pent up violence pushed the hapless Aslant out of the house. The rest followed, leaving the hall suddenly silent behind the slamming door.

Continuing to play, I looked back at the seated woman who remained rigid and attentive, yet not conveying the slightest reaction – either to the music or the raucous events that just transpired. Was she even listening and was she even human?

Turning my head toward the banquet table, I studied the intact knot. Though it should have occurred earlier, the recognition shocked me. This was the same as Aslant’s book cover – the Turk’s Head, the Gordian, the unsolvable dilemma.

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Illumination in the “Freaks” room was dimmer now. I finished playing only to hear a mechanical recorded laugh from a distant exhibit. The child’s voices were gone. Then the laughter suddenly stopped – nipped in mid guffaw. Someone was approaching as the lights were switching off, throwing shadows across the floor.

It was Darnell, again dressed in coat and bowler. However the practiced grin was gone and he could very well have been a laborer, with utilitarian gait.

I struggled to restrain annoyance. “Was hoping you’d stick around to hear the piece.”

Darnell exhaled and turned out the lamps in the “Cabinet of Oddities.” From the hall, the DJ in padded fleece coat and still wearing the sheep mask, stepped through the room carrying a laptop case. He recognized me and pointed in jest.

The DJ pushed his way out the door after a curt wave, and Darnell turned back as I was putting away the accordion. He pointed to an embossed chart on the wall pictorially depicting the personal history of various “freaks.”

“I heard enough to know what you’re up to,” said Darnell. “Look, we’re not here to wallow in misery. You think most people want more misery than they already have? Look at these folks.” He pointed to the chart. “They had a severe disadvantage, don’t ya think? They didn’t milk their misery. They decided to be entertainers and became legendary.”

I was confounded. This guy didn’t listen to anything but the opening measures. He missed it entirely. “I’m not wallowing in misery. The piece goes through many changes. And I’m not merely being an entertainer.”

As I knelt to snap the catches on my accordion case, Darnel bent over and made a mock theatrical whisper into my ear. “I understand. But the tide is against you. And we’re all being swept away. Can’t you feel it? It’s closing time.”

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I pulled up to the overgrown front patch of land walling the cottage from the potholed road. My Mirage was filled to the brim and I dug into my pocket for the front door key. In this area of town, the notion of renting a separate unit was a nearly impossible task. Even so, this had been a cliffhanger of last minute haggling. But I just didn’t want to face my brother after the conversation the night before. I took the lease though I knew not how I would make the second payment.

Finding the key, I walked over cracked concrete through the brambly hedge and into the tiny cottage. Peeling paint was more obvious now than the late dusk of first survey. The door creaked as expected but now a smell of mold greeted me. During my first visit, the realtor had the windows open but the place had been sitting closed up since then. They called it “furnished” though the word was stretched to mean, “some furniture included.” The bed was forbidding – it’s paltry mattress lumpy even at a distance. I sat on its edge, resting before the big unload.

My life was now a bitter game of “catch up.” I needed money and fast. Going through my wallet for calling cards, the one from Torrence McClaine took center stage. The word “Voicer” was integrated into a stylized depiction of symmetrically arranged organ pipes. I considered McClaine vaguely sympathetic if only to assuage his own grief. But first, after unpacking, I must again visit Anacusis Press. Arming myself with a full asthma inhaler, I was prepared.

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The door was wide open, its lit interior spilling out into the hall with an effulgent fog of dust. I entered cautiously, my lungs and airways tightening.

Even more piles than before pillared the old office. Lit from sunlight through bent venetian blinds, Clara Troubinger was packing boxes, moving intently with full hands among the open containers, parsing her lifelong business into categories while whispering to herself. So caught up in the sorting, she nearly toppled when a sideward glance revealed me. Mistaking my raised inhaler for a gun, she lunged for the rotary phone.

“I’m so sorry,” yelled Clara, picking up the heavy receiver and fumbling with the dial. “I had no idea this would happen.”

“I see your moving,” I forced an upbeat attempt at small talk while gesturing with open arms.

Clara was frozen, her trembling hands cupping the black receiver to her pallored face. She murmured “so sorry” recurrently as if a mantra.

I shook my head. “Hey, I knew it was a long shot. But the piece meant so much to me, I thought I’d give it a try.”

As I moved toward Clara, my right foot cracked a pencil, spurring her to redial. But I could hear a “disconnection” notice from the tinny speaker.

Tears began to well up in Clara’s eyes. “It was just meant to be a joke, that publication.” Her phone seemed more now a pacifier than a tool of communication.

I was utterly confused. “I just wanted to see “Templative” again. That’s why I’m here.”

Clara kept her nervous distance while slowly lowering the phone. “Sure.” answered Clara with suspicious reserve. “But you know it’s phony don’t you. Isn’t that why you’re back here?”

Clara, hearing no reply from me as I was dumbfounded, went to an open box marked “garbage” and pulled out the manuscript. “There’s really only one copy. We made it up a day before your visit.” She passed it to me.

Clara slumped into her wooden swivel chair and looked out through the parted window blinds behind her. “Look, I’m not internet savvy. My friend’s son contacted me saying Aslant wanted to play a prank on a composer for a change. He gave me that score and asked me to pretend that we had published it. I went along because I knew Harold Aslant was often called a prankster. It didn’t matter at the time because we hadn’t published any new music in over a year. As you can see, I’m calling it quits. Should have retired when Noreen did.”

“I know, it’s embarrassing isn’t it? We have published other legitimate Aslant works in the past and my ex-husband knew him well. So I felt an obligation to play along.” Clara, turned toward me, tears now clearly visible. “I had no idea Harold was going to die.”

I studied the forged score and noticed that a mistake I made in notating a sharp on the second page was carried through here. It had been printed on different paper in another style of notation but the error was virtually unchanged from my own work.

“Did you talk to Harold personally about this?” I asked, while leafing through more pages.

“No. Just Jay, my friend’s son.” Clara stared at her overflowing desk with a vacant gaze.

“I’m taking this with me. Okay.” Without waiting for permission, I hurried from the room, score in hand.

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The Hillcrest district was a buzzing hive that night. The June heat had given way to a warm calm dusk and much street exhibitionism was at hand. Leather chaps, bare bottoms and fishnet pullovers graced the honed male bodies in front of “The White Swallow.” Carrying a closed portfolio, I pushed my way past the cuddling muscular forms and into the dark interior, my plain plaid sweater catching the curious eyes of those lining the entry. I tried to picture Torrence in my mind and assumed he’d look very different here. But Torrence had been waiting and walked to greet me, dressed in a common casual shirt though unbuttoned more than expected.

“Hey. Good to see you.” Torrence patted me on the back. “Let’s go into the back room. Quieter there.”

I had never hung out in the Hillcrest district and was clearly nervous following this man through a black-carpeted tunnel, with lights alternating red and blue, into a far recess of an openly gay bar.

The back room was noticeably quieter, it’s padded walls apparently designed to insulate the establishment from it’s neighbors. A musky odor was apparent but the room was scantly populated.

“It’s fine in here this time of day,” remarked Torrence. “After nine, you probably wouldn’t want to see what happens in this place – but who knows.” Torrence winked while escorting me to a couple of chairs. On a small round table between them, rubber prophylactics were arranged in a vase like a bouquet of orchids.

“Torrence, Mister McClaine; I need to find some answers.” I crossed his arms.

“Did you know anything about the fake score?” I had thought out my inquisition and watched Torrence closely.

“Now, come on. Aslant was an artist of the highest caliber.” Torrence recoiled, his smile dissolved. “I said critics often called him a prankster. I sure didn’t.”

I opened my portfolio and removed the score to “Templative.” “This…” I tossed the manuscript to the table, “…is my work. It’s my accordion piece. But look at the cover.”

“I was told by the publisher that Harold wanted to prank a composer this time.”

Torrence shook his head in disbelief. “Can’t be true. He wasn’t mean spirited, except toward himself. Look, none of this makes sense. Why would Harold do this and then kill himself?”

“I knew Harold very well. We were lovers, so I can speak with some authority. He would ramble on about things. Stopped respecting the modern music scene, sometimes mocked my running the concerts at Flackluster. He had this odd fantasy. Crazy, I couldn’t believe it. Anyway, he started talking about becoming a DJ and just disappearing as a composer. He would walk around his bedroom ranting that we didn’t need any more music. Composition was dead.”

“I know his cousin,” Torrence mused slack-jawed. “He wouldn’t kid about something like that. And my assistant Jay Falcrow, he knew Torrence pretty well and confirmed his death. It was clear Harold had taken an overdose of pharmaceuticals – no question. There’s a memorial next week. It’s no prank.”

Torrence slid his chair back. “Jay is my associate – and sometimes lover. You know, he’s young and hung – real enthusiastic about music.”

“Yeah, well…you know. I was seeing Harold. Harold and I go back a long time.”

I caught a wave of thought and rode it. “The publisher said Jay was Harold’s contact. Suppose Jay wanted a fall guy…”

Torrence interrupted. “You’re crazy. Sorry. I’m going to have to break off this conversation if you continue like this. Jay is a nice guy. Overly emotional sure, but he wouldn’t kill Harold. No way.”

A small flame appeared on the table to be instantly swatted by Torrence like a pesky mosquito. I looked around the room. Other people, lost in discussion, were also swatting out tiny fires that flickered between them. The flames did not alarm anyone and did not spread to consume the tables, they just modestly erupted and were swatted out.

“Look,” implored Torrence. “I know you feel like the butt of some joke or some nefarious scheme but I can assure you there it’s all in your mind. Harold was depressed. He had a history of depression. I knew him very, very well. I haven’t told this to anyone else but it wasn’t a surprise that Harold killed himself.” Torrence winced, visibly pained. “Please, leave Jay out of this. He’s just a mixed up music student. Maybe he wanted to play a prank for some reason. I don’t know. He’s not a bad guy. Fastidious and strange but not bad.”

Another fire erupted, this time on Torrence’s nose. He quickly extinguished it.

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Yearning to take a full breath, I fired another blast of Albuterol into my lungs. Sitting on my upturned accordion case, I leaned forward, then back, attempting a deep breath, daring not to spray my inhaler again for its effects diminished with over use. The air was still warm and in this variegated prelude to sunset I could see quite clearly the old pier and it’s surroundings. The lengthening shadows on the deck’s uneven surface exposed years of degradation. The pier had been slowly collapsing for the last three decades and large sections of it already had – leaving gaping holes punctuated by bare stunted pilings below. Close to my left, a wide extension had succumbed to fire, only blackened serrated edges remained. Even fishermen had abandoned this outpost to its dismal destiny. But I was sitting on a more solid section or at least it seemed so at the time. In the distance, a mammoth cruise ship moved slowly away toward the bay entrance where the Pacific Ocean beckoned with possibilities. The water’s still surface in the bay was curiously unbroken by other boats and seagulls circled above, sometimes swooping to perch on the pilings – the upper sections whitened with droppings from the birds.

Behind me, the pier’s deck was warped and disconnected from the land, it’s splintered boards curving down into the froth. About one hundred feet separated my pier from the rock, grass and sand of the nearby beach. Mine was an island, perilous and uninviting with an acrid smell of salt soaked wood. I had forgotten how I came to be here, how the waiting became a lifelong occupation that suspended and sustained my ambition to useless ends. It was all too familiar; the isolation with age was less a resistance to the mainstream than a habitual staking out of territory. Would I wait until another ship arrived? The thought had a brief bright light that immediately fell to darkness. The pier was too dangerous, too prone to collapse, too guarded by splintered pilings to warrant a docking.

The medicine was working. My faintness lifted and life returned to my limbs. I stood and wondered the platform. On the beach, table rounds were being rolled onto the sandy grass, arranged by uniformed attendants in double breasted jackets and archaic white pillbox hats. Then chairs were wagoned into position, their folded forms being opened and passed to the tables. But I could not return to the beach, the pier was twelve feet or so above the surf. Any passage down would involve jumping and abandoning my accordion.

I walked to the burned section and peered into the water where the broken supports ringed a vacant area directly below. Several bottles of unknown medicines floated, their labels faded by water and sun. They still contained unused pills and capsules, the contents protected by the closed caps. I assumed they had been discarded by someone in the nearby nursing home whose roofline peeked over the sloping hills on the shore. How did I know this? Somehow, the place was very familiar. The lazy waters of the bay beneath me, the small rocks lining the sandy shore and the distant waiting rooms housing the infirm – abiding until the exit door opened.

The burnt splintered planking bent under my weight and I backed away from the blackened hole. The gargantuan cruise liner was now a tiny smudge on
The horizon after departing San Diego Bay and moving out into the wide expanse. I walked to the buckled edge where the connection to land collapsed. It was as if the pier had pulled itself away from shore, ripping its tether to human purpose, making itself an inaccessible outpost, like a stage in the abyss.

On shore, more activity commenced. Several elderly folks, many with canes and walkers, hobbled slowly into view; sometimes assisted by the young caterers who had set up earlier. These seniors settled cautiously into the folding chairs and were served drinks at the tables. It was some grand occasion for these people. I presumed they had come from the nursing homes or nearby retirement communities. Then, it was clear, Clara Troubinger was among them, taking a luxuriant seat on a padded chase longue next to a small circular table. She was chatting with another lady, slightly taller, chubbier and dressed gaudier than Clara with an orange Hawaiian print muumuu. She pulled up a chair next to Clara.

I waved but Clara hadn’t looked my way, being deep in conversation with the other woman. And then a familiar tone rang out – the cutting sound of a steel reed. Among the assembled casual crowd strolled an accordionist. I didn’t recognize the player although there was a familiar manner about him, as if I’d seen him on the street. Despite his being of similar age, the man had a bounce in his step as he skimmed through the popular repertoire I only knew too well. The marches, waltzes and polkas glided effortlessly from one to another while the man grinned broadly, whirling his small red rhinestoned box around as if a dancing partner. Smiles lit up the crowd as the accordion passed through, with some flinging their arms about in a wild parody of conducting. Though I thought Clara above this kind of thing, she was bobbing her head with the rest and even bestowed a tip when the player glided by.

I studied the scene, and then, my asthma subsiding, returned to my accordion case. My own instrument was quite heavy as it was full sized and “serious” – equipped with all the reed banks needed for complex phrasing and shades of intensity. It was an effort to play standing with such a model. On ships I stayed sitting, balancing the left hand side with my knee to give the bellows full extension when needed. World virtuosos played this way as it afforded more subtle control

I lifted my black glossy instrument from its case and, with a grunt, threw the straps over my shoulders as I stood. It had been years since attempting to play while standing and it felt awkward as the bass side sagged when I extended the bellows, making it harder to make certain chord jumps. Still, I was determined to join in as I knew “Beer Barrel Polka” very well as it was such a typical accordion tune. I turned to face the beach and started playing an accompaniment figure to the melody as it wafted by, creating an echo effect due to the lag in sound over the distance. Clara looked toward me and cocked her head as if puzzled. Energy surged through me as the volume increased and I even started to dance, lifting legs to the beat – a pretty silly sight I’m sure but didn’t care. The asthma medicine had given me an adrenaline boost and, encouraged by my rival at the party, I sprung higher off the old deck as if animated by a younger, brash vitality. I had never learned the proper dances for this music and so my wanton display of enthusiasm was decidedly graceless. Nearly tripping on a sprung plank, I had to recover my balance with an awkward reflex, throwing me a few steps back. The thirty-two pounds of wood, celluloid and steel was more like a wrestling partner than a dancer and I marveled at how the strolling player on shore so melded with his box. I tried some of the moves but was clearly off equilibrium. With an almost angry determination to claim my command over the clichéd repertoire I had slaved for years reproducing, I jumped high as the second theme returned to “we’ll have a barrel of fun”. The wood gave way as my feet touched the deck. A splintering crack prevailed over the steel reeds and I broke through, the aged burned boards refusing support.

Beneath the pier, before hitting the water in the broken ring of pilings, I saw a woman awaiting, her head and shoulders just breaking the surface. She was enshrouded in barnacles. Upon her head was an ornate structure, a spiral headdress – it’s tightening curves also encrusted with barnacles and moss. She was keeping vigil and welcomed this plummeting musician. The pill bottles bobbed around her like tiny buoys. Time had slowed but I finally and inevitably hit – close enough to feel her rough embrace.

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When I regained consciousness, I was on my back, being wheeled on a gurney through a fluorescent lit corridor. The accordion was draped over my chest, bellows fully extended. High pitch children’s voices and laughter surrounded me and I strained to turn my neck. Beside the gurney, wearing surgeons scrubs, were four diminutive attendants. I recognized the one to my right as Tarvin, my brother’s oldest son.

“Hey,” I spoke with a hoarse tone that surprised him. “Tarv, hey, what’s going on?”

The boy looked at me, “You’re awake. Good thing. Just relax.” There was no indication that the boy understood my question.

“We can get you right in. You’re lucky.” Said a child’s familiar voice to my left. I glanced to the other side of the gurney. It was Rodney.

“Where’s your dad?” I asked as my wheeled transport entered a room full of equipment. High intensity circular lamps beamed down upon me like alien saucers. Several other children who had been bouncing a rubber ball in the far corner ran over to help push me onto the operating table.

Though I was weak and groggy, I still resisted the pushing and pulling but with strain the kids slid my body onto the narrow cold metal table. Several blue garbed “surgeons” brought over a rolling IV therapy dispenser and a ventilator was cupped over my nose and mouth. Tarvin’s gleeful face beamed down at me as he pulled up a mask to hide the smile. I struggled but Tarvin and two others in surgeons masks raised my left wrist. Still plainly visible was the rubber stamped sheep that refused removal. An intravenous needle plunged into the middle of the sheep’s body and soon after, an unwanted wave of numbness.

A blurry slur of voices and indistinct shapes caught me up in a lazy whirlwind. Tarvin whispered into my ear but the words formed indictments against my refusal to become a parent and how he was denied potential playfriends through my selfishness. Awash in blame, I felt the child surgeons now appeared a cunning mob bent on retribution. I couldn’t argue with these kids, they would hear none of it, even if it were possible to speak, and it was this horror, this inability to reason with such young minds that produced an alarm, squelched the instant of its impulse by the anesthetic tsunami.

More blue gowned children entered the operating room, encircling the table. This procedure would become a lesson for the tiny interns. Here was an adult who had spurned his biological imperative … and for what?; a few awards, honorable mentions and all the indifference he could eat. Of course Tarvin couldn’t be accused of saying these words, I couldn’t even hear the words, my head clouded with presumption.

The accordion still formed a pleated fan over my body as the treble and bass sections drooped down to either side of the narrow table. Tarvin motioned to Rodney who, with gloved hands, provided Tarvin with an outsized scalpel. It was an exaggerated thing, a cartoon creation as if designed by the same person as the rubber sheep stamp. It was waved over the accordion bellows in deliberate emphatic gestures while Tarvin spoke in a garbled muffle.

The slicing was sudden and swift. From the parted bellows a tornado of smoke rushed out. It was like a lanced wound that had festered for too long and had a stench of putrid sulphur. The child interns couldn’t hold back their disgust and broke their restrained attention to scatter toward the entry hall. But then the pressure of the smoke eased, with only a few dark wisps floating from the gaping hole.

Even though my numbed awareness was far removed from the action; my eyes, sluggish and leaden, managed to crack open. From the silhouetted accordion bellows, backlit from the operating lights, Tarvin lifted a lumpy mass dripping in red ooze from the sliced hole. It was the size of a giant fist, a malignant growth held suspended by Tarvin with forceps over the sliced open bellows like a dead trophy pheasant. Through the gelatinous surface, I could clearly make out –– the knot, caught in a dire entrapment, a refusal to untie.

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From a turbulent sleep, I stirred, more than a little anxious about attending Harold Aslant’s memorial, an event nearly pushed from my mind due to a new nightly restaurant gig at “Mangiare il Vertice” which had provided a meager but daily income for the last week. My usual round of Italian standards furnished the proper atmosphere for plush red furnishings and murals of gondolas barely visible in the darkened interior. I had sat on a stylized stage ringed by a gold baroque proscenium in the main room. Very few actually listened intently so at times my laziness would creep in, my attention stalled in a trance while the plates of steak and pasta circulated before me.

I hadn’t spoken to Torrence for the last two weeks but the night before he called to remind me of today’s ceremony – a performance actually. Jay Falcrow had promised a premiere of an as yet unperformed Aslant piece for pipe organ and had learned to play it. Torrence would speak as would other colleagues. It would take place at the Basilica of the Ascension as the organ was made available at no cost as long as the occasion took place on a weekday.

I began to put on the formal attire I’d habitually wear on a cruise but decided against it. In the spirit of this quixotic composer being honored, I went to a chest of shut away costumes not worn in years – some never. I had acquired them from a sale at the local opera house, but arriving late, many of the complete costumes had been claimed so only remnants remained and for a tiny fee, I made off with whatever struck my fancy, an improvised grab bag – thrown together as the back doors of the theater were closing.

Though I had no desire to upstage the dead but still smarting from the publisher’s trick, I wanted to give a sly gesture. I would wear black, of course, but surround it with bright clashing colors, reminiscent of Darnel at the museum whom I at first felt such revulsion. Placing a red velvet jacket around my shoulders, I was struck by the wardrobe mirror’s reflection. For a moment, I returned to that place: colorful facades and hallways, and I having now assumed the role of smiling guide – waiting for bemused explorers, to push them just so far and then leave with a taste of the inexplicable.

Suddenly guilty with my attitude of mockery and deceit, I dropped my smile and slumped to a chair. The assembled would be grieving and most likely not in the mood for ironic commentary. After all, Aslant had been a tortured soul, the essence of his misery missed by hoards of admirers, devoted students and critics. Or perhaps slavish admiration itself, placed Aslant in the snare of reputation – of meeting by defeating expectations – a hallway of double-edged swords. Even after completing his text “Musical Knots: Time and Structure in Modern Composition” I was left with only the bare and lifeless rudiments of a system pretending to be absolute – a sham of commitment to no obvious ends. The knot was extoled, cherished for its tightness, its refusal to untie. All pitches, all rhythms, all harmonies connected, overlapped, entwined – nothing more, nothing less.

But, in practice, I could hear none of it. Aslant’s music appeared to lampoon these lofty aspirations. Perhaps the book was a smokescreen to blind the critics to what was really going on – an inspired mischievous whim. Confused, I took off the opera jacket and dressed down to conservative subdued coloring – an inoffensive shadow. However I shredded a formal red necktie, the wool interlining exposed, and decided that this, combined with the standard knot –the knot of habit and decorum – was enough statement for the occasion.

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It had been overcast earlier but now streaming light paraded color along the spiraled windows in the crowded Basilica. I recognized a few notable composers and performers in the assembly and there were a surprising number of video cameras lined up on raised risers that gave the occasion the air of a sports cast or political rally. The subdued conversation of hundreds formed a hushed murmured river that ebbed and flowed as I searched for a seat.

Torrence McClaine waved his hands to catch my eyes. He had a seat near the altar and it looked as though he had saved a place for me.

“Good to see you,” greeted Torrence. “I’m supposed to give the main eulogy and it’s really been an ordeal to get this together even though Jay’s been doing most of the planning. Why don’t you sit here?”

I sat on the firm white seat, one of the original built into the building, and wondered if any air “levitations” were planned.

“Well you know, yes for a contemporary composer he was well known but so many here are just putting in their obligatory appearance. These things have a social function.”

“It was Harold actually. He had a bad influence on me in that regard. It seemed, toward the end, that he had lost any respect for social ritual.”

I nodded and scanned the chamber. Clara Troubinger, dressed in a loose muti-hued chiffon gown, utterly unlike her business attire, was talking with another woman her age. Clara gestured to me and the other woman followed the gesture in my direction. Jay Falcrow, scurrying attentively around the alter, walked over to the woman and whispered. Clara stood and approached me.

“Hey there. I hope you don’t have any bad feelings about the other day. I was so embarrassed.” The other woman joined her. “This is Noreen, my good friend.”

“Right. She’s the one who convinced me to give up the business and enjoy life.”

Noreen smiled but I assumed she was in on the publishers trick with her son Jay.

Noreen pointed to my gut. “There’s so much to life that escapes us. For example –your anatomy. Do you really know what’s happening in there?”

Suddenly I felt a rumble in my bowels and recalled the illustrations on Clara’s wall with bouncing intestines on springs. Noreen nodded knowingly.

“Let us begin.” Jay Falcrow was standing at the altar, his grey pressed suit creases cutting through the turbulent sea of muttering. He paused and studied the crowd as they abruptly ended their conversation.

“I’m sure each of us has been touched by Harold Aslant in a different way – some musically, some as friends, some closer. Harold was often an enigma. As student I saw him as a kindly sage who gave me a fresh way of hearing. A quick wit underlined all our exchanges. In a little while I will play a piece that he started when I was a new pupil and as we stayed in touch, the piece grew and began to introduce new themes. And just before his death, he sent me the finished score. But, before you hear it, I’d like to bring up Harold’s closest companion and well known for hosting many concert programs of new music; Torrence McClaine.”

Torrence looked back at me, swallowed and made his way up the shallow polished steps to the pulpit. For someone who had spoken before countless audiences he looked nervous and unsure, his previous striding gait full of hiccups, as if he was testing his balance. I was startled by this awkwardness in someone I had placed such high regard. Jay laid his hand on McClaine’s back and patted it, then took a seat to the left of the pulpit. Torrence breathed in deeply but refused to look up. He unfolded a written eulogy.

“The life of a modern composer isn’t easy,” Torrence began – appearing to count more on his memory than the text. “It is often a solitary pursuit with little reward. I’m sure many in this room understand the heroic pleasures of this pursuit, some as listeners, some as writers. At some point in our lives we discovered this rich vein of art and heedless of others with more mainstream tastes, continued to seek out uniqueness in the world of sound. Harold Aslant was as unique as they come. I’ve had the supreme pleasure of ushering many of his works to the stage and the experience on collaborating with Harold, bringing such music to life was utterly...utterly...”

Torrence faltered as tears welled up and an anger surfaced. His speech changed track, spurred on by a deep irritation: “Some might say we saw this coming, that Harold’s penchant for irony at all costs was a cover for an insecure man, a man who craved attention for its own sake, someone who had lost his spark years before. Well, I’m hear to tell you: Harold was genuine, a loving human being.” Torrence caught himself from pounding his fist on the pulpit. “…and every expression he made, every musical gesture, was done with craft and sincerity, of true commitment!” He paused and eyed the crowd for the first time. Then, his voiced dropped back into the familiar commanding tone of the announcer. “I’m sure this will be abundantly evident now in this piece that Jay will perform titled “Rousation.” Torrence turned away abruptly and rejoined his seat next to me and I held back a sudden urge to squeeze McClaine’s arm. But by this time Torrence was stolid and raised folded arms across his chest, waiting for the music.

Jay nodded and approached the organ console. He stopped before sitting at it and turned back toward the crowd. “Harold wasn’t sure about the title actually. For the longest time, it didn’t have one or it was a stupid one like “That’s Life” or something silly like that. But when the final score arrived, it had the title “Rousation” which apparently is a word he made up. Anyway, so now it has an official title. Here goes.”

Sitting at the organ console with its battery of knobs and keyboards, Jay bowed his head and there was an extended pause. Then suddenly the church was shaken with earsplitting chords. I sprang alert, watching Jay’s hands and feet furiously moving as if an epileptic or possessed voodoo priest. Then, as suddenly as the sonic storm hit, it dissipated, leaving traces of mysterious muted colors as a different bank of pipes sounded. Jay’s hands gracefully floated over the lower keyboard, their watery movement reminded me of squid jetting between undersea rocks. But the reflective pause was short-lived and another series of crashing percussive chords shattered through the temple – as if the deep bass were rockets at liftoff, the Bascilica literally ascending off its launching pad into the mighty vacuum of space.

Then, there was only a faint deep rumble, pedals leading only the longest of pipes through a weightless condition. The seats throughout the church began to receive air from hidden channels and the multitudes were pushed upward. I myself felt the lightness, my burdened body lessoned from gravity. Of course, I was wise to the trick, yet even in this context the gimmick felt profound as the music carried me up. Then into the empty frame conjured from this extravagant apparatus came a tone so familiar so intimate as to bring a blush to my face. But where was this coming from? Due to the curved spiral building, sound direction was deceptive, it’s omnipresent generality obscuring origin. Unmistakably an accordion, the slender reedy tone played a halting melody, like a tune filtered through graceless stuttering recollection. But then, having regained its footing, the melody became groomed and colored, dressed in exotic harmonies. Throughout this passage, Jay Falcrow, only pedaled faint deep accompaniment. He craned his neck toward the distant radiant ceiling, listening as the accordion tones wafted, held aloft over the rumbling rich harmonics.

I was as impressed at this duet as I was puzzled. The exchanges between the organ and accordion became animated and capricious – even teasing and mocking at times. Was this a somber serious piece or a rollicking carnival? Then a propulsive rhythm joined both toward a frantic finale – the accordion doing its best cliché, a bellows shake, over chromatically descending thunderous blasts in the organ. And then abruptly, the piece was over, leaving only a faint echo in the cavernous space.

Jay quickly stood as if expecting thunderous applause but was instead greeted with hushed bemusement. I instantly clapped, as it was an impressive performance, but then realized I was alone and stopped. Jay wasn’t fazed as he strode toward the altar. He had a broad smile, utterly at odds with the occasion.

“This piece, “Rousation”, originally written as an organ solo for me was amended to become a duet. And what a lovely duet it is wouldn’t you say?”

Jay continued: “It’s almost a celebration, a rowdy party wouldn’t you say? Well yes, because I have an announcement for all of you. Our guest of honor is very much alive. It is my rapturous pleasure to introduce my fiancé Harold Aslant!”

Still strapped to his accordion, Harold emerged from behind a side curtain. He slid his instrument off and onto the altar between two electric candelabras before approaching Jay at the pulpit.

There was a flurried disturbance in the crowd, some expressing open disgust while others motioning for silence. I, having been tricked once before, felt a coursing rush of resentment as I watched Harold and Jay embrace. Jay then left Harold alone at the pulpit to raise his arms as if blessing the crowd. He then leaned to the microphone to be heard over the increasing commotion.

“I’ve long wondered if music, serious music, is dead.” Harold’s booming words hushed the crowd. “After all, look at concert attendance, record sales, etcetera. You’ve heard the statistics. And look at each other – we’re getting old. How many young people do you see at modern music concerts who aren’t music students? How many new music composers are interviewed on cultural radio programs? Rock musicians, rap musicians, yes. But experimental music or modern classical – nothing.” Harold paced the floor a bit before returning to the pulpit. “Hey, I played the game all my life. I wrote a highly regarded book about knots. Yes sir; that sure greased those intellectual wheels. All that somber talk about tight structure.” Harold spread a wide grin. “Hey, bet I fooled you. Actually, hold on.” Harold waved his hands. “There are a few out there who are dedicated and sincere and who aren’t out to storm the academy. We have one in our presence right now. And though so many of you are disappointed this isn’t a funeral, perhaps some might understand that this is the first Harold Aslant award for composition excellence. And the award goes to accordionist Randall Heast for his solo “Quandom!” Randall, come on up.”

It was a swirl of confusion as I stood reluctantly but could go no further. I was rooted in the spot, paralyzed by conflicting feelings. Jay Falcrow grabbed my arm and nearly pulled me to join Harold at the pulpit.

From a concealed shelf within the pulpit, Harold removed a trophy – a golden bronze colored “Turk’s Head” knot mounted on a polished walnut base with an engraved plaque spelling “Randall Heast” and signed on the bottom by Harold Aslant. Compelled by ceremonial obligation, I took the prize and looked out dazed over the turbulent din. Here I was, recognized yet only part of a hoax; and speechless and deeply embarrassed, I nervously clutched the award.

“Hey there fans” Harold hogged the microphone, pushing me to the side of the pulpit. “We can love composers for working against all odds, to pour over every little pitch and get the intentions and inflections perfect. But I’ve made a discovery. There’s just too much damn music out there. We just need to remix what we have.” Harold pulled a fleece half mask from his pocket. “This is au revoir to serious music, hello to the Sheep Suit Serenader! After our honeymoon, Jay and I might catch you on the dance floor!” Harold slid the mask over his face, leaving me to awkwardly fumble his prize. Falling from my fingers, the knot trophy crashed to the white marble floor and shattered – revealing itself to be made of cheap painted plaster.

“This is insulting and demeaning to all your friends and those who championed your achievements! How dare you try to make a sincere occasion into a big “SCREW YOU!”

Torrence’s words seemed to stir the assembled. My anger at being tricked twice began to surface and I kicked the shattered trophy, giving way to directed revulsion.

Jay and Harold had already moved back from the pulpit, waving to the congregation, and, as if boarding a bus or airliner, disappeared through the organ loft hatch in the side wall. In pursuit, Torrence lunged forward and flung open the closed hatch. Spurred on by Torrence’s righteous wrath, I followed into the interior of the organ.

By the time I made it through the hatch, Harold and Jay were pulling up a secreted ladder, blocking Torrence from easy pursuit. They had obviously prepared to make a speedy escape and pulled pink earplugs from their pockets and inserted them.

Torrence, who knew the massive organ well, climbed up a wooden wall ladder to his left. I was right behind and could see that Torrence wanted to make the catwalk which led to where Harold and Jay had climbed. The dense forest of pipes made seeing their path difficult.

“They’re headed to the fire escape,” shouted Torrence as he pulled himself onto the metal catwalk.

As I reached out to grab the catwalk, a shrieking dissonant chord cut through the chamber from the highest pitch of conical bell shaped trumpet pipes. In pain, I clamped hands to my ears and, forfeiting my grasp, fell to the boards below.

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Randall was putting the final chapter into his diary. A generous interest from a major magazine that never before had the slightest attention in modern classical had offered to pay handsomely for his memoir and he had tried to be as descriptive as possible, even to including concurrent dreams and visions. Though tinnitus was now a constant presence, a piercing shrill wail over the muffled outside world, he managed to hear the phone ring.

“You’ll have to speak up and maybe repeat yourself. My hearing isn’t too good anymore.” Randall warned the caller. It was a woman’s voice on the phone. He turned up the volume to maximum. His third week in an arm sling was still riddled with random painful shocks but he managed to cup the phone solidly to his ears.

Randall heard enough to recognize the voice “Missed you too.” He struggled for comfort on the lumpy mattress. “Glad you made it back safe.”

“So what’s this about a murder?” Via inquired. “At the dock, I heard your name mentioned and last night read some news reports.”

The word shot through Randall’s stifled ears. “No, no. I didn’t murder anyone. There was a guy I knew who fell off a catwalk inside a pipe organ. He landed on a conical pipe and was impaled through his heart. He might’ve been pushed, I don’t know. No proof. I was there too but got lucky on landing – just a broken collarbone. Hurt like hell though and my ears paid the price. Didn’t see the man fall.”

Randall halted and wondered that himself. After the lengthy spate of writing, he wanted a break from rehash. He knew Via had her own stories to tell about the voyage, the passengers, the scenery, the weather. He needed her and her stories more than she needed his travails, so he withheld the details of how Harold and Jay were released after being captured escaping through storm drains beneath the cathedral. Randall had some luck too, what with his part in the scandal, which had been video documented at the cathedral and made international news. His “Quondam” piece was set for several performances with the world’s leading accordionists. Advance income from these performances and the magazine meant he could take a break from the restaurant and cruise liner gigs. He could even pay back his brother.

And yet, a deep isolation gripped Randall – that he had been merely a passive pawn in the deadly hoax and that these fleeting attentions were unwarranted. The late Torrence McClaine’s grief stricken face continued to haunt him. McClaine’s trust and commitment was his downfall. Aslant had become something deceitful and foul. He and Jay were now underground celebrities of course, their all night dance parties were packed with stoned rollers who now had an intellectual excuse for their pastime. After all, Aslant had been a highly regarded academic who now spurned his scholarly past. What better person to lead the trance addicts into swaddled oblivion. But all this was just too much for a phone conversation. She could read all about it later if she hadn’t already.

“You know, I felt rejected when you didn’t come aboard, and no calls.” Via feigned anger. “I had been counting on some banter to pass the time, and some good accordion music of course.”

“Well, I liked it. Didn’t you know?” Via was effusive. “You always played with panache. Now what’s this about a dream?”

There was a pause. Did Randall imagine her voice having more affection than ever before, that the expanding pause was actually an intimate approach? He had never expected anything more than a kind flirtatious smile from her. After a length, Randall decided to break the awkward spell and report the vision that woke him in a cold sweat.

“I had this sense that the cruise ship had sunk because last night I dreamt it. There was the hulk of the ship, listing a bit, it’s lights shimmering over dark still water. It had hit some massive sunken object. There were many lifeboats of different sizes floating silently. The boats were small and there was just one person in each boat – very peculiar. I was also in a lifeboat, alone. Everyone was quiet and expectant though no one was coming to rescue us. Intuitively, it seemed I knew many of the people but most were indistinct in the night. But there was this composer, Harold Aslant, who was also by himself floating nearby in a small lifeboat. He had opened a briefcase and out of it he slowly poured piles of sheet music into the ocean. When the papers hit the water, they glowed and slowly sunk. This was followed by strange music, like a celestial orchestra, no individual notes but more of a blurred harmonic halo. I was searching for you as I thought you must be there but it was so dark and the others so shadowy. In the dream, it didn’t occur to me that Harold and I were not on that voyage but we somehow had got caught up in the shipwreck. Responding to the music, there were these women, or beings, who appeared in the water with barnacle covered faces and odd headdresses like spiral shells, lit with candles that burned even when wet. These barnacle women, their heads peering from the water, were studying the boats. They noticed me and silently came over and started rocking my dinghy. I still remember the insistent rhythm of the lapping water against the hull as the boat rocked. Some of it splashed inside and I realized I was naked as the icy cold water stung my skin. Then they tipped the boat over.”

“And that’s when you woke up?” asked Via. “And that’s when you woke up?” she slowly repeated, louder and clearer – unanswered.