| How still the land is, and the air. The glowering sun, obscured
by overcast as smothering as a blanket, seems fixed halfway up the sky.
Walking along the beach, Zack sees a man, familiar yet unrecognizable, wading
knee-deep in a tide pool. Out along the forereef, the sea moves and waves
break in a monotonous pattern; in the rock-bound tide pool, the water is
clear and still save whenever the man shifts position. His sweat-darkened
tee-shirt clings like a second skin, and a ragged baseball cap is pushed
far back on his glistening bald pate; he holds a net and carries an assortment
of small receptacles and strange tools on a belt. The man makes a darting,
scooping movement, and the net comes out of the water heavy with something
dark and wiggling. He turns, sees Zack, grins in triumph as he holds up
his prize.
Zack recognizes him now, even recognizes the tee-shirt adorned with Beethoven's faded but still formidable-looking visage, and says, Granddad. The same, Granddad says. He detaches several items from his belt and hands them over. You'll probably be needing this. Zack assembles the pieces into a clarinet. I could do this in my sleep, he says, and his grandfather laughs hugely. Zack draws a deep breath, lets it go, draws another, and this time he barely exhales into the instrument, barely enough to set the reed vibrating. Ah, says the old man, lovely subtone mode, don't stop. Zack plays very softly, and strange sea creatures poke their heads above the surface of the lagoon to listen. Taken aback, he stops playing and looks at his grandfather. The old man laughs. There is, he intones, no one knows what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath. He grins happily, reassuringly. Love that Melville! The water's fine, boy, go on in! With a clarinet? # He arrived late. His parents' car and his sister's seemed to reproach him as he pulled into the driveway; the front of the big house was full of that silence of impatience which he knew so well, and the confidence he had brought away from Doctor Weiss' office in the science building began to ebb. There came a lowing sound, like the utterance of a perplexed cow: Melissa at her viola. Everyone looked up as he entered the music room. Father occupied his usual seat in the center of the room, facing Mother and Melissa. Mother sat at the piano; behind her viola, his sister looked gratified, or perhaps only relieved, that paternal wrath was not now directed at her. Father glared at Zack and said, "This afternoon we are rehearsing Mozart's Trio in E flat for piano, viola, and, if memory serves, but correct me if I'm wrong, clarinet." "Heavy traffic, Zack?" his mother asked calmly. Zack stammered an apology. "I came straight from campus. Doctor Weiss and I were talking after class, and I lost track of the time." Should I drop the bombshell now? he wondered, and wished that he had prepared a statement instead of merely anticipating a need to have one prepared. He avoided looking at anyone as he opened his instrument case and began fitting the wooden sections of the clarinet together. In spite of everything, the lacquered wood felt good in his hands. He smiled fleetingly at Mother, took the clarinet in his mouth, and ran through an arpeggio. Something occurred to him, the thought came from somewhere, I could do this in my sleep. He began to play the melody of an old romantic song. He did not remember the lyrics or even if he had ever known them, but he seemed to have known the melody all his life, and he understood that words had to have been written to go with it and that, whatever they were exactly, they must be filled with melancholy and longing. He played softly, and after a moment Mother picked it up and played along with equal delicacy. Melissa sat as one besieged behind her instrument, watching them with unconcealed resentment. She had virtually no conception of popular music, old or new, she did not approve of improvisation, and she had always been jealous of her brother's rapport with their mother. Father sat glowering, but he let them finish a chorus before he said, "And now can we move along to Mozart?" Mother gave him a mock-contrite look, Zack stammered an apology. Mother said, "Dear, we're all just foaming at the mouth to get at that Kegelstatt," and punctuated the remark with a crashing chord. Maybe I should say something before we begin, Zack thought. Mother smiled tranquilly back at him over the top of the piano. Melissa had her bow in position and an expression of intense concentration on her face. He did not say anything, and they began. Father sat staring dourly at the ceiling as though awaiting answers to unvoiced questions. They all knew the questions: What have I done to deserve this? Why am I being punished? His expression's progress from dour to sour kept pace with their progress into the andante. Abruptly, he stood up, walked around Melissa, behind Zack. Zack knew from long experience what to expect. Nevertheless, he started when his father's hand shot past his ear and stabbed a bursitis-stiffened finger at a particular spot on the sheet music. "There," Father snapped, "right there is where your mind started to wander!" Yes, thought Zack. Father tapped the sheet music two or three times, then moved to stand before Zack. His scowl had become truly Beethovenian. "Your clarinet isn't going to play itself. You cannot set it going and then trust it to find its own way through the piece. It requires your presence. It requires your full attention from the beginning through the middle to the end." Zack stammered an apology. "Now," said Father, returning to his seat, "again." They began afresh. It was worse than before. Zack exhaled in resignation and laid his instrument across his lap. Somehow, he met his father's eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, "I can't concentrate. I've got something on my mind, something important to tell you and Mother. Please try to understand." And he dropped his bombshell. |
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