Categories
Miscellaneous writing

Waste Land

On Jan. 6, during the certification of the Presidential election, a mob stormed the Capitol building. Later, President Trump was accused of inciting the riot. On Jan. 13, the House of Representatives voted for his impeachment, while the transition of power to President-elect Joseph R. Biden Jr. continues.

The impeachment vote set the stage for the second Senate trial of Mr. Trump, which began on Tuesday, Feb. 9. He was acquitted on Saturday, Feb. 13, by a vote of 57 guilty to 43 not guilty, falling short of the 67 votes needed for a conviction.

Source: https://www.nytimes.com/news-event/trump-impeachment

Categories
Miscellaneous writing

Sailing to Byzantium

‘That is no country for old men. The young/ In one another’s arms, birds in the trees/ – Those dying generations – at their song./ The salmon-falls, the macerel-crowded seas,/ Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long/ Whatever is begotten, born, and dies./ Caught in that sensual music all neglect/ Monuments of unageing intellect.’

first stanza.

WB Yeats from The Collected Poems [1973], Macmillan, London, p.217.

Categories
Miscellaneous writing

America is back

And now to his own charioteer each man gave orders to hold his horses in place, in good order, there by the ditch, while they themselves, on foot, arrayed in their battle gear, charged. An unquenchable clamor filled the early morning as they got in line by the ditch ahead of their charioteers, who advanced a little behind them. This fearsome uproar was stirred up amongst them by Kronos’s son: from the heights of the airy sky he sent down raindrops dripping with blood, a sign of all the brave heads he’d soon dispatch to Hades.

The Iliad, Book 11, 47-55 [translated Peter Green, UCP, 2015]. Chosen at random.

Categories
Miscellaneous writing

Dante

In conversation with Dante Alighieri, the Florentine

He is older looking than I expect, more 70 I’d say than mid-50s. I hold my silence especially as he has travelled far and clearly tired after the journey. I guide him to a seat, careful not to be seen to be holding him too firmly, suggest a drink (Soave naturally) before instructing the waitress to leave us be. We are in no rush to order even if she darts glances at her wristwatch, her shift to end when the last lunch customers (us) have left. She lingers. Why won’t she let us be? Then I notice: he is admiring her. She smiles. He nods. She giggles. She isn’t older than 17, I guess, with a sensuousness that is palpable and plain.

– She likes you, I suggest when she has gone.

He smiles with the gravity of one who sidesteps centuries.

– There have been few, a very few, he utters. Yet she is pretty, of that there is no question. She is a child.

– But I fear not as innocent.

He sips his wine.

– You speak only of one sort of innocence. To me she is unviolated.

Now it is my turn to smile.

– No, I mean it. He examines the sleeve of his jacket. It is early summer in England and he is wearing Tweed. Perhaps he expected a different season. Perhaps he expected Scotland. The way he pinches the fabric between thumb and finger suggests he is surprised by the choice also.

-You assume she has been violated, he continues, fixing me with his eyes. Of course you do. Every man believes that, hopes too it is not true, that it may be their right. Whatever. She is a child in spirit as much as you.

He shifts his gaze, looks out across the beach that stretches below and far ahead of us, the tide at its lowest.

– Your English beaches have always been disappointing yet I like them for their modesty. They match the people.

I sense he expects a riposte, a challenge, for me to defend my own as he was wont to go into battle to defend his own. In other circumstances, with other people, I would launch my argument, kindly and without malice, building a case as skillfully the poet his canto. But today I do not have the inclination for our time is short.

– Where is that girl? He stares towards the bar, snaps his fingers impatiently. I offer to go find her, though in truth I need a cigarette.

*

We met quite by chance. I had been in town a few days, keeping myself to myself, purposely avoiding those places where I might bump into someone who knew me from before, someone who’d insist on a drink or two that would lead to heading off to a party and more drink and then a cone or two and before I knew I’d be flat out in some stranger’s bed, a woman, or worse a girl of indeterminate age but barely if at all legal, who’d smell of fags and bourbon and have tattoos on the nape of her neck, a red rose maybe with an italicised love inscribed like it was part of a petal or, and I remember this vividly still, a skull and the word hate etched inside. (I wonder what happened to her, though I have my suspicion she did not last long in that work.)

By day three I was getting disenchanted with this hiding away, this looking over my shoulder, the constant worry that when I turned a corner I’d spot an acquaintance or be spotted. What was I afraid of? I wasn’t a criminal; I’d done nothing wrong, at least nothing of which I could be ashamed. Then it dawned on me. I was scuttling about like this, hiding in dark corners, because she’d made me believe I was in the wrong, that I’d hurt her feelings when in fact it was she who had started the affair. She no longer lived here but many of our friends still did and it was as though her presence remained. I was afraid by association. I decided to abandon my caution and step once again into the daylight, though it was in fact a grey dawn.

That’s when I met Dante or, I should say, saw him. He was walking on the beach, studying the shingle with avid attention as if he had dropped a coin and was trying to distinguish it amid the stones, wearing a plum-coloured beret that matched plum-coloured leather shoes. For the rest he was dressed, that time, in black. From the promenade where I watched (I was some 200 metres distant) I observed him crouch, I could almost hear his bones creak in this uneasy action and, once settled, a finger meticulously pick over the stones. A seagull landed near, then another and another, while others slowly and deliberately circled overhead. He stopped his investigation to examine the birds while they stood still examining him and this is how all remained, locked in study until one of the gulls circling cried out, whether to its own or the man I could not know. Next he lifted his head but not to the source of the sound. Our eyes locked. At that moment I became still as if the waves themselves had frozen, their motion back and forth across the beach arrested. Held thus I smiled which, returned, drew me from my spot to join him. So we met, arranging to meet again the next day.  

*

I do not know if he will keep the appointment, then there’s this gentle tap on my shoulder. He lets me guide him to a table . . . . . and that’s where he still is when I return from my smoke. He is not alone. He is in conversation with the young waitress who has drawn my seat close to his, her legs crossed, the fingers of her right hand caressing her left ankle, her eyes meanwhile fixed on his. He watches her closely as he talks, absorbing the graceful flex of her body as she sits upright, tidies a lock of dark blonde hair that strays across her face behind an ear. She laughs, head thrown back, hands clasped at her bosom. He takes from his jacket pocket a pebble and puts it on the table in front of her. It is smooth and grey, about the size of a quail’s egg whose shape it resembles, but not exactly, with a white quartz band running through the middle. I am too far away to hear what he is saying (I have deliberately kept my distance) yet, as if drawn by an invisible thread that binds us, I move closer.

– What do you want of me? he asks directly.

 At first I think it the waitress he is addressing.

– See, I have flummoxed him, he adds.

Now it is her eyes that meet mine. They are not friendly.

– You must go with the flow, he continues, this to her like I’m invisible.

I note this unexpected phrase. It jolts me, makes me ask myself: Is this man really who he says he is or am I mistaken, have I been deceived or, more honestly, am I deceiving myself?

– Do not determine the day. Let the day determine you. Go with the flow.

– Cool, she says.

She takes hold of his hand. He squeezes gently, lets it go and I stand immobile, watching as he walks away, walks away, walks away and is gone.

*

Two days pass. I’m not that busy and the time drags. I keep watch for him, returning to the café, retreating quickly when the waitress notices me.

– You friends with that guy? she yells. Well, he owes me big time. You tell him…

She raises an arm, bends it at the elbow as if about to throw. I’m running now, hear something hit the road, half-turn and see a pebble the size of a small egg roll into a drain. I dart down a side-turning, pause, gather breath and head back to the beach. Perhaps he will be there, searching among the stones but there’s only a woman flying a red kite with a snaking tail that dips and darts enough to alarm the seagulls until a sudden gust sends it crashing nose first to earth. A small child nearby screams with delight before collecting the shattered toy and running to her mother in expectation of another wild flight. I turn my back and head to the harbour in need of lunch. Fish and chips is on my mind and I know just the place. Fortunately it is still early and I take a seat near the window where I can observe the comings and goings, hopeful I will spot him still.  

– I was wondering where you were, he says. I’m hungry.

He sits and examines the menu carefully. I haven’t seen him enter but my surprise is smothered by my admiration for the cut and fabric of his suit. Not Tweed, nor black, more appropriate to the climate or even anticipating warmer temperature: jacket and trousers of a cream coloured, lightweight material.

– A friend of the family, he remarks. The finest Milanese cloth.

– An old friend?

– Old enough for a tailor. The best cuts never go out of fashion.

– And those shoes, I noticed them when I first saw you. Such a distinctive colour.

– Same cobbler who makes footwear for the curia.

There’s also a scent about him, a sweetness reminiscent of the juice of passionfruit.

– It too is specially prepared, he answers my unasked question.

-Another family friend?

– More of a neighbour.

– Have your days, and nights, been fruitful? I ask.

– She was a slut, he spits. There is a pause. It annoys me but you were right.

He picks at my chips, licks his fingers, such delicate, slender fingers: loving fingers, a touch from which arouses echoes of aching passion. They glue time to a sticking point as I think of women he has loved and of Beatrice who I sense is nearby.

– I fancy some fish, he says petulantly.

– You can share mine.

He tears a portion free, nibbles, the hollows in his checks accentuated. He pulls off another, larger, piece and flicks it to the floor beside his chair where it is pounced upon by the owner’s ginger cat. He takes another, then another (I have hardly any flesh left on my plate), letting the cat eat from his hand, before he bends and scoops the animal under its belly and places it on his lap.

– Wine, he snaps.

– Excuse me?

– A glass of wine with the meal.

– This is unlicensed.

He grunts, returns his attention to the cat and tickles it vigorously under the chin. I hear the cat’s murmur of satisfaction in contrast to Dante’s unsettled mood.

– Coffee then. Double shot.

– This is a fish and chip shop not a restaurant. They have cans, Coke, Fanta. Or water. Tap water. It’s free and very cold.

– Psush…

The cat leaps nimbly to one side as he stands and strides off. By the time I have paid and followed outside he is already far distant, the plum-coloured beret barely visible as he glides through the holidaymakers promenading. He stops, looks around, descends to the beach where he remains, arms crossed, starring out to sea. There I join him, my coming guided by the sharp crunch of stones underfoot.

– What do you want of me? he says. Why do you follow me?

– I thought it you who were following me.

– Ha!

The exclamation startles some gulls nearby as if a pistol has been discharged. They rise squawking like nervous schoolchildren alarmed by their teacher’s outburst.

– Even the seabirds detest me now.

He picks a pebble and tosses it underarm with such feebleness the stone drops a few metres away.  I go and fetch it and when I look back he has gone, gone completely, gone away, and I holding in the palm of my hand a stone, smooth and grey about the size of a quail’s egg.

Categories
Miscellaneous writing

Another history

From The Odyssey, Book 8 [235-255]

The crowd was silent, but Alcinous said: “Sir, you have expressed, with fine good manners, your wish to show your talents, and your anger at that man who stood up in this arena and mocked you, as no one who understands how to speak properly would ever do. Now listen carefully, so you may tell your own fine friends at home when you are feasting beside your wife and children, and remember our skill in all the deeds we have accomplished from our forefathers’ time till now. We are not brilliant at wrestling or boxing, but we are quick at sprinting, and with ships we are the best. We love the feast, the lyre, dancing and varied clothes, hot baths and bed. But now let the best dancers of Phaecia perform, so that our guest may tell his friends when he gets home, how excellent we are at seafaring, at running, and at dancing and song. Let someone bring the well-tuned lyre from inside for Demodocus – go quickly!”

translated Wilson, M [2018] Norton, NY.

Note: Chosen at random.

Categories
Miscellaneous writing Newspapers

Newspaper life in the 1980s

When I began at the Financial Times in 1987 the typewriter was the standard tool. As a sub-editor you were meant, indeed expected, to re-write copy, though front page re-writes were the priority of the chief sub. Re-writing could also be done by hand, using a biro or pencil, cutting out words, rephrasing a sentence, while also putting the typesetting instructions at the head of each page. There was a code to what was called ‘marking up’ so that the Linotype operators would know what to enter on the machine: bold type, italics and so on. The art of subbing in the time of hot metal was to ensure, as far as was possible, that the copy – the story – would physically fit into its allocated space on the stone. (Actually the metal slab on which the type was assembled within the forme, a bit like the frame of a painting, and the same size as the printed page.) Subs who went down into the composing area were called Stone Subs and, by established tradition, were never allowed to ‘touch’ the metal type, having to point out to the compositor where mistakes were, changes needed.

There were also Readers, sitting in a room somewhere in the labyrinth of the building, employed to ‘read’ every galley [page proof] and, of course, the editions as they came off the presses. These Readers not only checked for accuracy, so duplicating the work done by the sub-editors, but also sense and House Style. Every national newspaper had its own Style Manual, rules for punctuation, spelling and, in our case, most importantly the financial markets. I still have my copy [each sub-editor was given a copy on appointment], with its thundering introduction: ‘The FT’s reputation rests on the accuracy of the information in its pages, the depth of its reporting, the perception of its analysis and the clarity of its writing’.

The FT had many quirks, just one being the banned use of the word ‘plane’. As the Style Guide notes: ‘plane is used to shave wood; what you fly in is an aircraft, jet, airliner, helicopter, etc’. However, humour was not lacking in its pages: ‘Remember that a rise in the mortgage rate from 11 per cent to 12 per cent is not a 1 per cent rise but a 1 percentage point rise or a 1 point rise. It is important to get this right. Failure to do so is a barrier to promotion’; and ‘expletives the FT has no strict policy…Four letter expletives will usually be confined to infrequent use in the review pages. The word wanker has appeared only once in the FT; it was a misprint for banker’.

Another now redundant item was the ‘spike’, a pointed metal stake about 30cm tall, secured in a circular wood base, on which ‘dead’ copy [an unused news story] was literally pierced through the middle. The spike has no place in today’s world, policed by health and safety. First edition was around 9pm, Bracken House shaking as the presses started, and about an hour later the freshly-minted salmon-pink newspapers were brought up from the works below. A pile would be dropped on the subs desk and we would devour them from cover to cover, still hot with the nutty smell of damp ink. We were reading for mistakes, literals, and sections would be torn from the page with errors marked, while new stories for the second edition would already be subbed, the page editors re-designing their pages to fit the new copy, and to work out the nightly ritual of how to squeeze more into less. Some of the first edition stories would be ‘spiked’ and since the first edition went, in the UK, to far flung outposts like Scotland and Ireland no one would be the wiser. All that really mattered was when London got its ‘late’ edition (any time after 2am) for this contained all the ‘news fit to print’. The FT was a newspaper where, it was said, editorials were written for the few, not many; meaning those who were influential, politicians, leaders of industry, financiers and stockbrokers, and might be influenced. There was also the phone call from The Editor, the first edition having been couried to his London home, and who would tell the Night Editor changes to be made before the ‘London’ edition.

Claud Cockburn wrote of his time at The Times in the 1930s in a book titled In Time of Trouble [published the year I was born, 1957]. By my time gentlemen sub-editors did not go to their clubs [we, and women, went to the pub]; we had no Proustian debates; did not spar on the news floor translating from the Greek. Yet we had sub-editors writing monographs before deadline; and the then editor did the same trick as Dawson at The Times. I was summoned into his presence on learning I’d been given a full-time position in September 1987 [paid the near equivalent of a Cabinet Minister] and ushered out a side door without speaking a word.

Categories
Miscellaneous writing

did you ever think

did you ever think life would be such a party

with bright lights

beating

warming your skin with abandon

abandoned to delights

far from knowing

where they lead

yet secure in

excitement

mushy with heady intoxicants


did you ever think that?


Categories
Humour Miscellaneous writing

Strange encounter on London Bridge

I met Connie in London on a cold, bright November afternoon. I was there on business, or, more precisely, on commission, my job to sell and service photocopiers. He was there grieving. Only the day before his sister, he told me the details later, had been crushed beneath a bus, dying of horrendous injuries and in great pain, probably, both legs amputated above the knee in a hopeless effort by surgeons to save her.

I can still, after all these years, recollect the moment we met. It was on London Bridge. I was looking down at the river boats when I realised this striking figure by my side. Though short he expressed a dignified strength sourced of suffering. I was attracted at once.

– Are you staring at me? he asked.

– At the view, I replied.

– I thought you were staring at me. I’ve just lost my sister.  She fell under a bus.

– My deepest condolences. Was it an accident?

– Are you a detective?

– No. But it might help with the insurance.

– How thoughtful mate. I’ll bear that in mind.

– My pleasure. May I be of any further assistance?

– Are you an undertaker? he asked.

– Do I look like one? I replied, somewhat insulted by the suggestion.

– No, your hands are far too dirty. What’s that on them?’

– Ink.

– Are you a writer? he speculated and I saw no reason to challenge this, though the truth was it was grime from an old machine I’d been trying to fix earlier at an office in Tottenham Court Road. I felt I could tell him anything and he’d go along for the ride.

– Yes, I ventured, Crime novels.

(Though I had never read one in my life. I hoped he was not a fan.)

– Trash! He looked disappointed. I prefer history or the old classics. There’s grist in them. Something to chew on.

– I quite agree. I write only for the money.

– Does it pay well?

– Enough so I can travel.

– Where are you from mate?

– Australia.

            He beamed.

– A great country. Wonderful people.

            He came forward, embraced me. We exchanged names. He hugged me again tightly.

– I love Australia. Kangaroos. Koalas. The Melbourne Cup.

– Have you been?

– I’ve friends there, he answered. Many friends. One in particular. She’s famous.

            He looked worried.

– What is it?

– My sister.

– The one who just died?

– We weren’t close to be honest.

– I’m sorry.

– No worries mate. It’s a blessing she’s gone to tell the truth, and I know that’s blasphemy, save me God.

At this he crossed himself extravagantly. Too extravagantly I thought, like someone who mimics in order to make clear their contempt.

– I was hoping to leave this awful country tomorrow, he continued.  But I suppose there will have to be an inquest?

– I’m sure you can slip away, leave a note behind, I suggested. The police will be in touch if they need to.

– Are you sure? You sound like you have experience?

– I lost a sister too.

– Beneath a bus?

– That would have been quicker I fancy. No. She slipped in the kitchen, impaling herself on a carving knife left point up in the dishwasher. I happened to be out at the time buying a joint of meat.

– How bizarre.

– Yes. And the joint was quite rotten by the time I was ready to eat again. Stunk the fridge out for months.

Connie started to laugh. A rolling laugh that made passers-by stare, resume their walk eyes cast back revealing either amusement or disdain.

I joined in with his laughter, sealing our friendship, equalled by my joy in what, then, I innocently took to be his delight in buffoonery. It took longer before I understood his urgent need for comfort and recognition. In that he was no different from any of us. Except he bore no hypocrisy. He came at you full chat and needed certainty as he chased death.

Unrecognised he may be. But in my estimation Connie [C.H.] Constantine can hold his head high. How often does a person come along so unreformed?

These stories are his memoir.

[To be continued.]

Categories
Miscellaneous writing

Observations on a short journey

This afternoon I take a different route to the train station in Sydney. As I walk up the high street I notice a man in a trilby sitting at a small desk typing. There’s some cardboard on the front of the desk scrawled with the word writer. I’m about to move on but the sound of typing stops me and I turn.

I need something to write about, the man says.

He’s about mid-thirties, wearing a pale linen jacket with a tie, plus the trilby.

What’s happened to you today that’s interesting? he asks.

I tell him about the lunch I’ve had at a Japanese restaurant, how I had salmon that was the best I’ve had, literally melting in the mouth.

I like that, he says. I’ll make a note of that.

I ask if he’s always here.

No, he says, and hands me a slip of paper announcing a cultural week in the suburb.

I thank him and step back into the moving line of people heading for the station.

At the station I go and buy a copy of Big Issue, handing the vendor $10 when it costs $9 and saying to keep the change. After my encounter with the writer I feel positive and full of good intent. On the train opposite is an elderly man, perhaps my age but more care worn. He’s got his shoes and socks off and is slouching across two seats. Perhaps he’s tired. He doesn’t look like he’s drunk. There’s a newspaper at his toes in a foreign language I can’t make out. After one stop he shuffles and picks up the paper. I see the masthead: it’s Turkish paper for those living in Australia. To his left at the far end of the bench seat sits a well-dressed woman, perhaps late twenties. She’s also reading a book. I glance at the title The Boy who was raised as a dog. Is she a psychologist? She gets off at the station before mine so I’ll never know.

Some four hours later, at 9.30pm, I’m getting the taxi home from my local airport. The taxi driver speaks about how wonderful the countryside is around these parts, although we can see none, washed out by bright street lights.  He has only just taken up driving.

Savings were getting eaten away, he says. I do this a couple of nights a week. Gets me out of the house!

I speak about a nearby town that has an art gallery. He brightens. Says when he was living in Melbourne he used to collect art, and his sister is an artist and she’s visiting at Christmas. Within 30 seconds he’s told me his sister’s life: how she was in corporate, decided she wanted to do art, was poohoo’d by family and others but stuck to her dreams.

When she comes out here she doesn’t go to the beach but to the bush to find things to paint, he says.

Take her to the gallery, I say.

He has an accent I can’t place and when I’m settling up I ask where he’s from.

South Africa, he says. How good to speak to some intelligentsia, he says, as he hands me the receipt.

I laugh and wish him well.

Nice to have met you, he says as I leave.

Categories
Miscellaneous writing

Piano sonata: first movement

The piano stands upright and proud in a corner of a spare room. The keys have not been touched for a generation.  Many are the colour of bad teeth. The name Bluthner is inscribed in gold leaf on the dark wood, a name so foreign sounding Jessica imagines it might have come from Africa, a place she has been reading about in an old encyclopaedia her Aunt Lydia has given her. A dark and sinful country, it would be sure to have tribes of Bluthners she thinks.

One afternoon she walks up to the instrument purposefully. She knows what she must do. The house is quiet, her aunt is in the kitchen happily occupied baking a cake. She sits herself on the stool with its faded crimson cushion, places her feet gently on the pedals (she has been reading up on Piano in the encyclopaedia), spreads her fingers and counts slowly and deliberately from left to right until she identifies middle C. She pushes it down with her thumb. But there’s no sound. The piano is mute. She tries again. Still nothing. The key sticks and does not rise. She pushes the key to the right, which she has read is called D, and this time there is a response. She does it again, listens intently, is dissatisfied and moves to the next and the next and the next until she reaches the end of the keyboard. She goes the other way and does the same. She remembers how many keys have stuck, closes the lid, tucks the stool under and runs to the kitchen.

– The piano does not sing, she tells her aunt.

– It has lost its voice, Lydia replies, offering Jessica a spoon covered in a sweet creamy mix. We will have to bring it back to life.

*

The piano tuner is booked for late morning when Lydia knows her husband will be absent. He is an old man, unshaven smelling of drink. The truck he drives is battered, belching grey smoke. He strips the instrument of its outer skin, revealing the massive upright ironwork frame inside, takes some tools from a blue canvas bag and sets to work. He shakes his head a lot, mutters incoherently under his breath, closes his eyes to assist concentration, or because he is tired, and after an hour tells Lydia: It’s not worth the trouble, nor the money. It’s too far gone. Only value is firewood.

            Jessica is upset when told the news.

– It has a soul, she says, surprising her aunt. There must be someone else, someone who will understand?

            Lydia contacts another firm who send two young men driving a shiny white van, the company name in black copperplate on the sides, underneath the statement: Piano Surgeons. She feels more confident this time and is thrilled when they tell her after their preliminary examination that the Bluthner is worth restoration, that it is: A marvellous instrument, one of the finest of its age we have ever seen. Sure, it is rather sad at the moment after decades of neglect. But the soundboard is in excellent condition. We will restore its spirit for you, young lady.

– Are you the pianist in the family? The other asks as they prepare to manoeuvre it into the van.

– I will be one day, she says.

*

Lydia engages a piano teacher. Her name, appropriate for a piano teacher, is Ethel, Ethel Jonkins, and she is, it will come as no surprise, a spinster. Jessica is delighted and can barely wait for the first lesson with the thought of meeting a real spinster. She hopes she is friendly.

            She is bitterly disappointed.

            The lessons go badly from the start, Jessica complaining that Miss Jonkins must be a witch because she stinks of something awful, foul smelling. Mothballs, Lydia can tell, very strong ones too.

            She asks around and is directed to a Jonathan Swift. She visits his house on the edge of town and is impressed by the two grand pianos in what he describes grandiloquently as his music room. She examines the framed certificates hanging on the wall, the most impressive from the London College of Music, 1947. She likes the fact he is the namesake of a famous writer. It adds another dimension and he is pleased also she has made the connection. Few in this town are as well read as you, he says.

– Is he a spinster? Jessica asks.

– He is a bachelor, she answers, adding, It’s the same as a spinster, but for men.

– Does he smell?

            Lydia says no, while recalling there was a dampness about the room.

            Jessica is happy and the lessons proceed well for a few weeks, if made more difficult by the lack of the Bluthner at home. Mr Swift says she is welcome to drop by any afternoon to practice, an offer Lydia accepts with enthusiasm, discreetly leaving a few dollars on a table in the hallway as a gratuity, though the teacher insists he is doing this for free because Jessica is such a delight to have around.

– I have few visitors, he says.

            Jessica listens to his stories about Mozart, the child prodigy he calls him.

– The greatest musician who ever lived bar one: the incomparable Bach.

He turns his back on her, breathes deeply. She watches his shoulders relax, his long hands rest on the black and white keys and, though she cannot see them, knows his eyes are closed. Only then, settled in a space far removed from this, does he begin the sublime aria from the Goldberg Variations.

            On the dusty drive home Jessica tells her aunt she is going to learn that piece. Lydia is thrilled. It is one of her favourites. She still has a treasured vinyl recording of Glenn Gould’s interpretation, something she has revealed to no one. Nor this. That when she was young she too wanted to play the piano but her parents could never afford lessons, let alone the price of an instrument. Instead, she listened to the radio and, when she was old enough to work at weekends, saved hard to buy a record player.

She remembers sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the magic box, entranced, marvelling at how a needle trapped in a spiralling grove can reproduce this polyphony of sounds. She watches it bobbing this way and that, waiting for the moment at the end when it rises, moves back across the surface of the glistening black disk and, with a sharp click, comes to rest from where it started. Decades pass, she marries, moves to the property and there, in a room, is the Bluthner, left by the last owner, or perhaps the one before. Who knows. Her husband wants to get rid of it but she talks him round.

– Maybe when we have children they might show an interest, she ends.

He acquiesces and soon forgets about it as work takes him criss-crossing the country, leaving him exhausted on his return, the last thing on his mind a battered piano. Finding it unplayable Lydia forgets about it too. Until the day Jessica sits on the faded crimson cushion.

*

Bach now occupies Jessica’s thoughts. In her encyclopaedia she reads the entry about him over and over.  Though there are lots of words she does not understand – cantata, counterpoint, fugue – she believes she has found a soul mate, even if he is an old and dead German composer. That night an electrical storm breaks the silence, igniting the sky with jabs of white, filling clouds with bursts of light. In bed, restless and agitated she finds comfort humming the Goldberg aria.

To be continued….