Conceived Without Sin (29 page)

"I've never heard charity being so closely associated with discipline," Sam observed. "Interesting. It's like the discipline required to be unselfish on the court, to hit the open man instead of hogging all the shots."

"Exactly," Buzz agreed. "You're catching on. I'm not proud of how
I learned the truth about this next fact, but sometimes violins seek other violinists because, in part, the original violinist was selfish. Violins are not machines. They're works of art. And the music they make is a sublime art, too, that both violin and violinist enjoy in different ways.

"I'm stretching a metaphor, here, but let's just say that the violinist enjoys different aspects of the music.
He enjoys
what he sees.
He enjoys
the reactions
of the violin to the manipulations of his hands."

Buzz paused to clear his throat yet again. "Tell me something, Sam. You're an artsy-fartsy type–"

"No I'm not," Sam protested.

"Your dad is, though," Buzz countered.

Sam looked up. "I guess you've got a point."

"Well it's not a put down. I shouldn't have said 'artsy fartsy.' I should have said that
you and your dad appreciate high culture. Anyway, tell me why you can take two different violinists, one a master and the other a technically proficient player, and give them both a Stradivarius and the same sheet music, and it sounds different. Why does Itzhak Perlman fill concert halls downtown while some other guy with a normal name sits in the back row of the orchestra in Kalamazoo?"

"Talent?"

"Yeah, that's a good answer. But
what
is the talent the master has? I say it's creativity. It's putting life into it. Isn't badly played music often described as lifeless? Itzhak Perlman can make your mouth drop open because his music is vital–even the word
vital
means full of life. It's the difference between Babe Ruth and all the others. The Babe was creative, larger than life. He was the Sultan
of Swat.

"I think that most guys think that this part of marriage comes naturally. They're wrong. It comes naturally to dogs, pigs, and monkeys. The difference is that man is rational. We're not animals, though we can act like them. Animals, on the other hand, can't act like men. Man applies his reason to his work, and to his art. Itzhak had to practice; he spent years perfecting technique before
he could even let his creativity come through.

"To use a baseball example again, Ted Williams was not only the most talented hitter of all time, but he was also the hardest-working, hardest-practicing hitter of all time. He even wrote the best theoretical book on hitting ever printed, appropriately called Hitting."

"This is also where the analogy breaks down. The violin is also rational in our
analogy. The violin has a mind, a heart, a soul. The needs of the heart must be met by the violinist, also."

Sam was sitting back now, sipping his wine, satisfied that he had asked Buzz for advice. Sure, the crazy logic–if that's what it was–was coming fast and furious. But it was fascinating. It was the best.

Why try to keep Buzz on track?
Besides, some of the tangents were more interesting.
Sam felt grateful for having a friend like Buzz–it was like owning a priceless piece of art.

Grateful to whom?
a little voice asked.

"So your task, maestro," Buzz rolled on, "is to apply your mind and heart to the violin. Remember, it's different for the violin. Not that she doesn't apply her powers of reason, but it's different for girls, like Joe Jackson sings. The violin, when things are going
just right, is getting caught up in powerful tides, in oceans of music that literally carry it away. I'm mixing metaphors. Sorry."

"No, keep mixing," Sam said happily. "I'm taking mental notes."

"Sure. Yeah. The violin," Buzz continued, looking Sam in the eye. "I feel strongly about the needs of the violin. That the master should concern himself with what makes the violin sound spectacular; another
way of putting it is to say that the enjoyment of the violin comes from within, while the enjoyment of
the violinist
comes from seeing and hearing and feeling the music coming from the violin. His pleasure is basically on the outside. Outside things move his heart. Inside things move her heart. It's in the design of things. The violin can't play the violinist, really. Well, sort of. The metaphor
isn't perfect. But I'm sure of what I'm saying."

"I see," Sam said.
I wonder how many men think of it this way?

"And finally, if you concern yourself with making the violin happy, you'll find the violin very willing to make you happy in return. Curiosity does not kill the cat in this case. The violinist should be curious, seeking and exploring. He should know every inch of his violin as well as
he knows himself. He can play a million different tunes on a few simple strings, if you follow me. That doesn't come naturally. That takes years. That takes patience. That takes charity.

"On a completely unrelated subject, I was reading census figures in the Almanac last week."

"You're kidding me. You actually read the Almanac?"

"I kid you not, Sam," Buzz replied with dignity. "There's a lot of
interesting stuff in the Almanac. I'm serious. There's history. Lists of things. You just have to know how to sort through the dang thing–skip over the boring stuff. It helps for watching Jeopardy, too."

"Okay. Point well taken. Jeopardy is important," Sam apologized kiddingly.

"So I was reading about the, uh, habits of happily married violinists and violins in the census. Did you know that the
ones who report the most satisfaction average a music session once or twice a week?"

"You amaze me with this stuff. Where do you get it?" Sam asked.

"I just told you; in the Almanac," Buzz answered.

"Hmmn," Sam answered.

"When you first start, uh, taking music lessons, you might practice every day for months. For a year. Then, and this might sound strange, the novelty wears off. The pressures
and distractions of everyday life–the job, the kids, whatever–pull at you. Indeed, violin playing becomes one of those things that is just there every day, along with those other things. That's when the violinist is most susceptible to taking the violin for granted. Especially if he's let a few bad habits form.

"Look, that reminds me of one more thing. There's a sure and certain way to ruin the
relationship between the violinist and the violin."

"Tell me."

"The violinist must never, ever, think about another violin while playing the one violin he has given himself to. Ever."

"Really?" Sam asked. "Why not?"
Where is this going?

"Really. Take my word for it. It's wrong. It goes against good violin playing. Not that you would do such a thing. The violin might not know it. But over time,
it will destroy the music."

"Why?"

"Because what you and I are really talking about, to me, is a sacrament. It's an avenue of grace. For me, it's a way of communicating with God. It has to do with the heart. You're going to make a vow with Ellie. You're going to give your whole self to her. That includes your mind, and your heart. Like I said before, you don't want to simply be a technically adept
violin player. When violin playing loses the communication, the mystical aspect, it grows stale.

"Violins are not playthings. They are not for recreation, like basketballs. The violins we are really talking about are not
things.
We
play
with things. We don't
play
with people, or their hearts. The violinist is communicating with the violin, making music that drifts up through the clouds, into space,
into eternity.

"You don't believe in God. I don't know why and I don't know why not. You're a mystery to me, Sam, as much as I love you, but we're talking about the way people come into existence. We're talking about a mystical union between a man and a woman, and a kind of communication that won't occur between you and any other person in the world.

"I believe that people are immortal. They live
forever. They transcend time. Their souls are more definite and concrete than the earth itself. You can't take this part of your marriage lightly."

Buzz paused to look Sam directly in the eye. Sam nodded somberly.

Buzz lowered his voice to just above the level of the mild din in the restaurant. "The music you're going to play is singular, unique, and beautiful beyond belief if it's pure of heart.
That's all I can say. Well, maybe I can say more. I can say that this kind of music simply cannot be played by one violinist with more than one violin and remain pure, graceful. I learned that the hard way. When I played other violins, the music was stale. I played the right notes, sure, but the music was hollow. It didn't ascend to heaven.

"I could go on and on, but I won't. I'm not sure if you
want to really hear it…"

"Don't presume, best man. I asked you. I remember our talk on the beach that night. I take all of this very seriously. I really do."

"You are a serious person, Sam. Sorry," Buzz said.

"No need to be sorry."

There was a long pause. Buzz looked away from Sam's strong gaze. A heavy cloud of depression descended on Buzz after the brief respite during the conversation.

"Look,"
Buzz said. "Our food is cold."

"I know," Sam agreed. "Buzz, are you okay? Is something bothering you?"

"No, I'm fine. Let's eat," Buzz lied.
Why ruin his dinner?

Buzz managed a fake but convincing smile.

"So how's your business going?" Buzz asked.

"Still growing. Still spinning out of control. I had no idea how hard it was going to be."

"What do you mean?" Buzz asked, curious, looking to move
out from beneath the cloud above him.

"I didn't realize how difficult success can be. It reminds me of the time I got straight As when I was a sophomore at the University of Chicago. The pressure to stay on top, to get more As was immense. To keep the standard up. Running a company is worse. When I got to Cleveland, we had few competitors. Our success and the success of a couple of other companies
has brought in a dozen competitors. The new guys go to my customers with lower quotes. Signing up clients for long term contracts is practically impossible now. That makes it harder for me to plan for the future. I've borrowed a lot of money. But Johnny keeps bringing in business. Expand, or fall behind."

"I thought you were making a ton of money…"

"I pay myself well," Sam smiled. "And it's a
good thing, too. You should see the house Ellie has picked out for us. We put an offer in two days ago."

"Let me guess–Beachwood?" Buzz asked.

"No. Shaker Heights."

Buzz whistled.
I should've known.

"Can't you just tell her no, get a simpler house?"

"Saying no to Ellie is not easy. I don't mind. I like the house. She wants this particular house. And it's a good investment. But the taxes are unbelievable.
We can afford it, though, I guess. I'm putting a lot of money down if the bid is accepted–I've got savings. And we will be able to afford the mortgage if Ellie ever quits her job. And it's right up the corridor from Bucky. She wants to be close to Bucky."

"You can't blame her. Do me a favor, Sam, if you get this house. Get one of those big screen televisions with a surround-sound system for Wednesday
night videos."

Sam laughed. "Sure, Buzz. No problem."

"And get a popcorn maker. Not a cheap one. One that makes real movie popcorn. You know, the kind that uses that coconut oil which can give a marathon runner a heart attack."

"I'll look into it," Sam replied. He took a bite of his food. "This catfish is burnt."

"That's the new thing. Cajun cooking. Cajun is French for 'burned to a crisp,'" Buzz
deadpanned.

"I see," Sam said, then laughed. He flagged the waitress, who came over. He ordered another glass of wine.

Violins,
Sam thought, looking forward to his date with the music in the autumn.

2

Buzz was sitting at a computer in the offices of Edwards & Associates. He was trying but failing to teach himself how to use a Lotus spreadsheet. He was frustrated. He had gotten into the habit of
keeping Sam company on Saturdays before they played basketball. Buzz had mastered the word processing programs quickly over the summer. Yet his mind simply did not conform to Lotus.

Sam came out of his private office, sat down next to Buzz, and began tightening the laces of his basketball sneakers.

"How'd it go today?" Buzz asked.

"Better than it went for you with Lotus, from the looks of your
screen."

"I just don't get it," Buzz replied.

"You want me to show you next weekend?"

"Naw. It's a waste of time."

Sam laughed. "Probably is."

Buzz stood up and stretched. He was already wearing his basketball shorts and shirt.
Tabasco Sauce
was screened on the front of his shirt.

Sam spied the Miraculous Medal hanging off the side of the brown scapular around Buzz's neck.

"Buzz, can we have the
Jesus conversation once and for all?"

"Huh?"

"You heard me," Sam said without a trace of nastiness.

"I'm sorry, but aren't you Sam Fisk, the dyed-in-the-wool agnostic? I must be losing my hearing. For a minute there, I thought I heard you ask me to talk about Jesus."

Buzz put a finger in his ear, and made a twisted pantomime of cleaning it.

"I did."

"Oh," Buzz said. Then he clapped his hands together.
"Okay, where do you want to start?"

"Who was he? How do you know he's God? What proof do you have of God's existence? Even if God exists, how can you prove that Jesus was God's son?"

"Jesus said He was God. He wasn't lying," Buzz replied simply. "Was He lying, Sam?"

"How do we know he even said he was God? Can't someone say that the apostles were making that up?"

"So they could be crucified like
Jesus? For a lie? Come on, now, Sam, nobody dies for a lie."

"So they believed he was God, but they were mistaken…" Sam said confidently.