Middle C (30 page)

In Joseph’s own mind, music, like Orpheus, looked back, then looked back again, just as every composer wrote with ancestral harmonies in his head; so the contemporary period that was his subject could only be comprehended if the changes brought about by the invention of musical notation were clearly recognized, even though that revolution was centuries ago; and only if the consequences of Music’s First Freedom—won in its dim beginnings—were understood: namely when the dominance of voice and dance was replaced by the rule of the instrument in both composition and performance; for that was when pure music came with pain and exhilaration into being. After all, he would explain, contemporary electronic music was stagnant because it hadn’t discovered how to represent on nicely ruled paper what it was doing. He had read that symbolic logic had been in the same fix, whatever symbolic logic was.

Joseph could accept the overthrow of the voice without a qualm because it was a benevolent coup. He would make his students understand that a music freed from song, like a son who has sailed away a seaman and returned at the head of a fleet, will give back to that most human of all instruments such songs as had hitherto been inaudible: there would be mournful lieder beyond number, bloody operas galore, even majestic masses from devout atheists. Oh, Miss Ankle Jingle, who sits in the first row and widens her thighs to disconcert her teacher, the long line of
Les Nuit d’Été
will run ardently up your spine; ah,
Mr. Moonfaced Boy with the smile you’ve had painted on your head to disconcert your teacher, Heitor Villa-Lobos’s sublime hum will cause your ears to flower; hey there, Mr. Notebook whose cover opens and closes with the measured rhythm of a feeding butterfly so as to disconcert the teacher, the melancholy beauty of
Das Lied von der Erde
will make your eyes water with relief, and
Vier letzte Lieder
, a summa without a sum, close them on a heavy sigh.

The entire class will be happy to realize that the music they fill arenas to hear now—the wail, the stomp, the pounded drum, the rhythmic clap, the frantic strum—could be fit company for an ending, as it was in the beginning, even of the world.

Joseph realized, as he faced his task, that he had no mentors to whom he might turn, for he had never taken a course in music much less one allegedly this up-to-date. How others might have taught it—managed this material, ordered its presentation, emphasized Varèse rather than Antheil—was a mystery. What did he know about his teachers anyway? only that he had been greeted by one in a provocative dress amid pillows and the smell of pot. Or was it in a dirndl with a stein of beer? His own history was learning to be hazy.

In the short time since he’d left Augsburg, the Whittlebauer semester had been shortened by a bad barber. A week of reading had been installed just before exams, during which time louts, like the one Joseph had been, might chase the tale of an entire semester and—worn out by all-nighters and cramming—recite it while asleep. Finals swallowed another opportunity. Add the three hourly exams that usually dotted the semester and one more week was gone. Good heavens—he had but thirteen left in which to expose his unfitness. Panic followed him like a jackal waiting for a show of weakness—a slowing limp in his Anton Webern or an out-of-breath Alban Berg.

Students tend to slink to the rear of a classroom and will advance toward the front only when threatened, but the Boy took a first-row seat on the first day, looked at Joseph as if listening to him, not vacant-faced as most were, not nervous like the impassive young woman whose left leg nevertheless wagged rhythmically, jingling her ankle bracelet, and certainly not wearily like the girl who bore to class a backpack bigger than a camel’s hump, or morosely as the guy who was staring down at the closed covers of a notebook embossed with the school’s insignia as
if he had been asked to memorize the medallion. How about the sallow fellow who Joseph feared might bite through the temples of his eyeglasses and made his teacher anxious with the expectation? By the time he had become, in truth, Professor Skizzen, he had learned not to look at his students directly. Rather he allowed his gaze to pass swiftly over the tops of their heads, unless, of course, the heavens fell, and someone asked him a question. Then he would fix the presumptuous fellow (as the fellow usually was) with an attention so intense the student often stammered. However, Skizzen also knew how important it was to treat every query with polite and devoted concern, to let his look rise eventually, as if it were seeking a solution in the skies. This upward gaze was not entirely for show, since his answers were often made up and he might well have found them there—immersed in cloud.

My name is Joseph Skizzen. I have written my office hours on the board. He looked at the board. I should say I’ve printed. He smiled into a silence wholly empty of affect. I mean I’ve lettered my name there where you see it. I encourage you to come to me about any relevant concerns. If you can’t speak to me after class, make an appointment. He stood in a puddle of silence as though he had wet his pants. Oh my, that was an additional worry. By now everybody should have a copy of the syllabus. There is one at just those seats I want you to occupy. Up front. I shall wait while you resettle yourselves … The game is called “musical chairs.” In … He had made another big mistake. They were not used to this. It also defeated the democracy of the classroom.

[Pause whilst everyone repositions.]

During this semester we shall be following the course of contemporary music, by which I mean those composers who flourished from, roughly, the turn of the century to this one’s belly-button, which, if you haven’t forgotten, is halfway.

Someone tittered. Good. Who? it wasn’t the youngster with the pageboy haircut; it wasn’t the medallion examiner; and ankle bracelet hadn’t missed a jink. He had committed a stupid bit of high school humor. It was a measure of his nervousness.

He suddenly recalled a ramshackle London classroom where everyone sat in all kinds of chairs the teacher had collected, each with a name pasted on it. Why had he not remembered this experience earlier, when he was contemplating the installation of a similar kindergarten regimen?

Those who like to christen schools of literature, art, and music often overlook differences in order to hang their chosen clothes in the same closet, but we shall pay particular attention to them. To differences, I mean. Not only do many streams feed our river, it, in turn, forks as often as you do at dinner. From the Boy a smile—beatific. Joseph was so lacking in confidence by this time, small gratuities were gratefully received.

Where had the clothes and the closet come from? Joseph thought he had worried about every eventuality, but lecturing had dangers he had not anticipated. You might fail for words or lose the thread or express yourself poorly. Now he knew that you might also run on, revealing yourself not your subject as you rambled. Because, when a house had been found for Miriam and Deborah, he had wanted his clothes to hang in the same closet as his sister’s and had a tantrum when his wish was laughingly denied.

He proceeded to explain the mechanics of the course and hand out a sheet on which texts and assignments, as well as points of examination, were listed. Then he realized that he had already placed one on each chair’s swollen arm. To signify where he wanted them to sit. So he waved his extras as if at a gnat. Of particular concern were the pieces he expected the students to listen (even attend) to. These were listed beneath each reading and were starred: essential, three, suggested, two, additional, one. By asterisks. Find them? … the asterisks? His tongue was as furry as a sheep is … furry. Okay.

Occasionally, a particular recording was insisted upon, though he could not guarantee its availability. Did they find that information? Also asterisked … Okay. His hands were trembling, so he placed them on the lectern from which his own copy of the assignment sheet was … flackering to the floor near the ankle bracelet. Thus irretrievable.

He saw it. He tried not to see it. He moved. He tried not to move. Never clear your throat at any time that can be given significance. Miss Jangle knew what to do. She crossed her legs.

When Joseph had the second interview for his present position, he had shocked the committee by insisting that a satisfactory selection of contemporary compositions should be available for individual student or classroom listening. The committee didn’t know the state the record library was in (nor did he), but they assured him funds would be
forthcoming to remedy gaps as he discovered them. Once on the scene, Joseph saw more holes than cheese, so he made his requests, along with those promises politely remembered. Money was no more forthcoming than the committee, which failed to take the problem up, forgot its former assurances, and neglected to reply when opportuned. Nevertheless, its members had been impressed in spite of themselves by his demands and even more by his forceful follow-ups (rare in this atmosphere), so his little bit of youthful arrogance had helped his case to begin with, and his diligence brought to his otherwise out-of-joint nose a whiff of esteem.

Thank God this rinky-dink college behaved like a high school: classes were ended through the din of a buzzer, books were gathered up by eager arms in the single unified deed of the day, and bottoms began to rise before ears could rid themselves of the bell. So Joseph never had to hunt for an ending. Still he would always want to add a word … just a word … only one. But the annoyance that crossed those faces as their rumps reluctantly returned to zero convinced him of the unwisdom of any additions, and he learned to snap his jaw shut like a parsimonious purse. Let them wonder what that word would have been. Though they wouldn’t. Wonder. Ever. When the room was empty of them, he picked up the errant assignment sheet. One corner had a gray shoeprint on it.

20

The First Baptist Church had an upright in its basement that Joseph might be allowed to use if he would play for a few social occasions. This opportunity had come about through Marjorie’s intervention, but how his benefactress had managed it he did not know, because the congregation was mostly black as was the minister. The basement walls were cinder block painted a kind of cream, and the floor was covered with
shiny haphazardly dented linoleum. One wall gave way to a windowlike opening through which the rudiments of a kitchen could be seen. There were paper-covered trestle tables and folding chairs sitting about in creative confusion. None was friendly to his sounds. Joseph tried to avoid busy times, but occasionally he’d be practicing when the sound of a rehearsal or a service would sink down the stairs. Then he would cease his own feeble plunks to listen to dozens of deep voices singing something he couldn’t make out except that it was wildly rhythmic and sounded ecstatic. He’d hear clapping, too, and, good heavens, “amens” made as though they meant something. Ultimately a contralto would break through the sunshine like wanted rain. Her voice, and the interfering floor and ceiling pipes, reminded him of Mr. Hirk’s pitiful Victrola and its statically clouded recordings.

Finally, during one such interruption, Joseph sidled quietly up the basement stairs until, from its landing, he heard a single voice singing in dark supple hues:

One more valiant soul right here,

One more valiant soul,

One more valiant soul right here,

To help me bear this cross.

Then ten or twelve voices joined for the chorus:

O hail, Mary, hail!

Hail, Mary, hail!

Hail, Mary, hail!

To help me bear this cross.

Joseph strained to catch complexities. He’d never heard what he presumed was gospel before. The music could make a sewing circle out of a howling mob. He could hear it knitting the singers together the way a hallelujah did. Soon the chanting and the clapping and the singing stopped. Joseph interpreted footsteps and murmured talk as an approach, so he retreated to his piano and pretended his fingers were busy.

Indeed, in a moment, a large red figure rocked her bulk down the steps and emerged from the darkness of the hall. To Joseph’s astonishment it was Miss Spiky who threw up her arms to see him at the piano, actually striking keys with his fingers as he had hurried to do. You, boy? Glory. What you doin here, Mr. Rambler? You realize we kin hear you down here? I can hear you, too, Joseph said before he realized that he was the guest. I’m sorry. I try to keep out of the way. You weren’t in no way. We could hear you, but we dint mind cause we sing loud. You do, Joseph said, and nicely, too. And nicely, too, yes, Miss Spiky agreed. You play better than you drive? A bit. Anyway down here you dont endanger folks. Joseph ruefully touched a key. What you were singing sounded Catholic, he said. What did? Hail … you know … the Hail Marys. Thas Catholic? Miss Spiky’s great red storefront shook its signs. Well, we aint particlar. A hymn to him—Adam man—is a hymn to him, and thas what we’re about. Adam man? Joseph wondered, who’s that? Sumbuddy dont know the score, Miss Spiky said with a laugh. There is religion, Joseph thought, and then there is religion.

Who was the contralto? She has a wonderful voice.

I sure am sprized to see you.

Ditto. Ah … me too. I work at the library. I catalog books. And oversee purchases. So … Marjorie Bruss—she’s the head of the library—persuaded your church to let me practice on this piano since I … since my piano is home in Woodbine where my mother is.