La Musica

by CHRIS TOLIAN

My legs crossed, I stare at the loose weave of the kilim rug beneath me. The design follows the contours of the hardwood floor. Circles within circles looping together, spinning into knots cutting across each other and rows of uneven lines.

Old Dog lays curled next to the cracked baseboard where there is always a cool draft. Old rain glistens an ancient constellation in his shaggy coat. I pick up a mug half full of cold coffee and move toward the faded red linen couch. For a moment I stare at the blank screen of the computer sitting on the pine desk across the room. The screen saver suddenly begins its endless procession of stars, chiding me for inaction.

My tiny wandering brings me to arched floor length window streaked with rain blossoms. The gray brown wetness of the city cowers beneath a fading thunderstorm. Absently I stroke the guitar in its rosewood hanger. Set against the whitewashed walls, the wood is so beautiful. Deep lacquer pulling low candlelight along its curved body.
Modern Dance ©2004 Ingrid Swillens
Old Dog moves under my hand, seeking attention. His damp fur smells of dirt and gasoline from his walk. Dog eyes reflect a face painted by weariness. Dark smudges around green brown eyes.  Slightly open mouth drawing breath through moist lips. Black streaks along cheekbone and jaw.

Suddenly angry, I carry the guitar back to my rug. The music pours forth, notes springing to life beneath my fingers only to die quickly.  Hollow, gray music from my head. The sounds flat. Elements missing that I can’t name.

Old Dog’s ears go up.  Far off an odd cadence begins.  A swirling, off kilter beat overlaid by a jangly rhythm. It is a strange mix of instruments and voices, growing roll of a crowd. The sounds grow closer. I grab a crumpled pack of Winstons and head for the street. Old Dog wanders back to his baseboard as I close the door.

* * * * *

The street is a great mass of people. I take up residence in a doorway with an old black man smoking a pipe. Sweet vanilla clashes with my harsh, stale tobacco. He smiles and shrugs his shoulders, nodding his head toward the carnival taking shape.

Great clowns with giant papier-mâché smiles. Huge monsters with reaching, ripping claws. Horrible effigies of people – sainted beings, caricature politicians, religious icons. Cheap, blatant shabbiness on such a grand scale. The crowd laughs and cheers as these grotesque horrors amble down the narrow street. Candy and beads fly from the hands of gaudy riders. The bands and clowns and dancers weave in and out of this motile, terrifying canyon of nightmares.

I press back against the building. The floats pass. The black man’s liquid yellowed eyes smile from behind his pipe. Heavy Louisiana accent sounding so genteel and soft compared to the speech normally heard here. "Lord. So scare'o them I was as a chile'.”  He laughs and my tension melts to embarrassment. The floats and their death cadence fade into the distance.

Stilted creatures with gypsy riders glide by. Huge bird beings tower above the crowd. Brightly dressed men seem to sit astride, reigns tied around a bit in their bizarre mounts’ golden beaks. Flowing crimson cloak and hoods mask their faces. Dodging their legs to cross the street, I glimpse their reality. The cloaks and feathered bodies hide the riders’ legs where they are strapped to stilts. Man and creature are truly one. The serpentine necks controlled by the swaying of the riders and light pulls of the reigns. The wide eyed stares and hypnotized smiles around me attest to the effectiveness of the ruse and man’s ability to suspend disbelief.

I hear the music again, drawing me onto the glistening bricks of the road. Soft rain catches in my lashes. On the corner a crowd is gathering around the musicians. Faded amber glow from the dying streetlights show on their ragged costumes. A guitarist sits, looking for all the world like Jesus with legs crossed, rocking back and forth behind a violinist and a woman playing tambourine. A large, dark man slowly circles the other players, adding the soft whisper of his wood flute. The music is so sad, a reflection of the rain misting over us all. Timid notes caress and mingle in the steaming air. I press in closer.

This is the music I wish I could play. The guitar rhythms ebb and flow like water around the violin’s timid, minor runs. Tambourine sways in and out of time, changing the tempo yet seeming to hold the tapestry together. The wood flute plays muted counterpoint to the violin’s plaintive murmurs.

The crowd begins to sway with the tambourine. People slow, stopping to listen to this magic. More than the music, it is the performers that enthrall me. I am fascinated by the way they feel the music, the way they perform. They seem to be without regard for the people gaping, wide eyed. Each doing a little private dance.  Rocking.  Slowly spinning and circling.

I catch the violinist’s eye. Her dark hair half hides her face. She smiles and winks. Holding her gaze, I hear a voice, seeming from far off. A sarcastic whisper. Wild sublime intensity streaming in a beautiful purring accent:

Ah, they come! As if I were famed pied piper. In twos, threes and singly they come. A little closer to better hear the music. You there! Drift this way, see what the crowd find so interesting. Come, come! A circle. There we are. Everyone must have chance. Yes! Stare. Whisper about the clothes, odd song. Begin to sway with the music as I do. Yes! Now. Now there are close to a hundred of you. Before you begin to fade away let play something for to dance! Who needs stage? Who needs a spotlight? This street of brick and dirt suits me and the stars and moon the only illumination I need! Come! Play this music, vato.

My head reels as the connection breaks, the music becoming primal. Music I’ve never heard before. Notes strung together in circles, turning in upon themselves. Building and beginning again. Tones seem colors: brown and green and red like the earth itself. Chords are soft ash through which the violin and flute dance.

Music stops with a shout. The huge black flute player turns and bows, deep voice booming. “Thank you. Please feel free to leave a little something for this ragged crew, so that we may survive for another night.” A smile, white teeth gleaming. A little girl comes forward and is the first to toss a crumpled bill into an upturned drum at his feet. Others follow as I stand and watch, lighting another cigarette.

The parade is a massive presence at my back. I feel the pressure of the floats and marching bands and the crowd flowing loudly. Horns and drums. Stomping and shouts. Latin passion, Caribbean carnival juxtaposed on the dirty bricks under dim streetlights. The lake shimmers through the northern heat in the distance. A misting, sticky rain begins, adding surreal patina to the whole crazy affair. The musicians melt through a doorway in the shadows. I follow.

                                * * * * *

Before my eyes can adjust to the darkness, something is pressed into my groping hands. Hollow weight. I feel silk smooth ebony fingerboard, warm steel. I stand beneath a stained glass ceiling. Muted light filters down in a Picasso rainbow as I take in the empty, candlelit stage. Wrought iron sparkles black. A lone stool sits slightly off center. Stained wood stage surrounded by an arc of tiny votive flames.

A low laugh and gentle hand prod me forward. I mount the low stage and take the stool, facing the shadowed crowd. No spotlight, no silence falls as the woman glides to the center of the stage.

Ah, you came.  Good.  Now play.

Her loose, white dress set against dark skin. Bare feet make no noise. Only a low, drawn out moan as the bow touches the strings. I play a slow minor arpeggio to give her a canvas upon which to paint.

The tone of vibrating strings is so pure. So much more expressive than breath or valves. There is a quality that is almost human, yet embodying something more. It is ethereal voice.

The violinist moves closer to me, sits cross-legged in front of my low stool. Tears run down her face, tiny cuts where her fingertips have been lashed by the strings. Her shoulder brushes my knee. Tiny shivers run through my body. Almost erotic, pain bites at my fingers as I sketch the accompaniment. Sweat drips from my face, blood from my fingers. Glistening, it falls upon the strings.

Miniature rubies and diamonds splash across the deep varnish of our instruments as we begin to sway on the edge of violence. Our borrowed voices mingle even as our fluids. Circles within circles with too many focal points spin off each other. Chords a wild dance, forced into two or three note sketches by her carnal lunges. Exquisite eloquence. Tones tumble into one another, cascading through exotic scales and arpeggios only to come together in a brief moment of melody and then blur into fierce passion. One blazing channel for a muse that is almost the Devil. Divine savagery bursts forth to be swallowed by such beauty.

The notes begin to slow, swollen with emotion. Weeping song draws upon our very essence. Blood staining tattooed arms, white dress. Blood and sweat caress her face, my face. I realize the blood is as much mine as hers. The instruments’ voices grow sad. The music weeps. A single note is held for eternity.

The note fades. I am alone on the blood stained stage. Silence broken by quivering breath. I stagger, spent, into the stifling heat of the summer night.

Outside in the dark, mosquitoes swarm but do not bite. In the distance I see a collection of fires. Red-orange stars reflected a million times in the stillness of the lake’s water. The city’s vast canyons of steel and concrete and glass hidden. Rain forming a cleansing curtain. Tiny droplets coat the skin but do not cool. Nothing cools on a night like this. All suffering and wet. Drained from the strange performance, I clutch the neck of the guitar and head for the fires.

* * * * *

The thin guitarist only snorts when I try to hand over the instrument. He stands, firelight reflected in crazy eyes. Eyes that seem never to blink. Mouth eternally slack. His voice begins as an unintelligible growl, quickly becoming the bellow of an insane, terrorist drill sergeant.  Crazed messiah screaming from his burning pulpit.

“It’s the lights, isn’t it? To be seen by so many. To be loved and wanted! It’s all there… I see it in your face.” He presses close, sweat filling my nostrils. Spittle adding to the dampness on my cheek as his words again become a growl.

Is that it?  Is that what I want?  I plead with my saints and my God.

“I have no choice,” he whispers. "I heard the music once long ago. So far down in my soul did it take hold that I have been slowly torn and ripped and bled for seeming an eternity!” He holds up scarred hands. My own tingle from the remembered pain, moist with fresh blood. “Is this what you want, boy?!”

Do I?  What would I give for the music?

"Now you have life.  Something... something to express with your playing.  But, if you do this... if you give yourself to this music, there is no life.  Only this thing.  Yeah, you felt its touch already.  It will use you.  It will not love you though you will love it.  You will die for it."  He pauses.  Shrugs.  "If this is what you want, boy, then take it."

The flute player interrupts. Sweat glistens on his huge, dark features, ”You have a calling, but no one makes the decision for you. Accept your calling as something you desire above all else. A need that cannot be satiated any other way.”

I sit on the wet ground. These prophets and messiahs… always seeming so far removed on their brightly lit stage. They hold these secrets at the edge of civilization as they always have. Making them appear wild, sexy… everything I want to be.  Yes.  Let it consume me.  This is what I want.

"Ack."  The guitarist spits, wiping his face with shaking hands.  "Do it then.  Give your life to the music, boy."  He softly curses in the same velvet tones as the violinist.

From among the thundering voices, the clamor of the other groups around us, a murmur in my ear. Take the guitar and play! You have the need. There is no other… I hear the purr smile. Come play with me, gypsy boy. Play your flamenco and jazz. Let us dance together under the lights! I turn and see the violinist grin. Long lashes meet in a slow, private wink.

There is always a price for virtuosity. Usually it is madness. But, this is not madness. It is something else entirely. A symbiosis.  Some ethereal, parasitic relationship. The music, a nonbeing, pure nothing feeds on our bodies… our soul. That is the muse, the savagery. The violence. This is the release and abandon I seek. God help me. It will devour me.  I close my eyes.  Slowly open them.  Yes.

The messiah is quiet. Raises his eyes to meet mine, “I’m done.” Guitar is snatched from my grasp. I watch his retreating back until he disappears into the night. The flute player and the tambourine player are also gone.
                                                                               Muzen ©2004 Ingrid Swillens
Guess it is just us, vato. We got same kind of magic in the blood. Stay. Come with me.  

“Go,” a whisper from the violinist. The first actual words I’ve heard from her lips. “Go, get you guitar.”

* * * * *

In a daze I manage to find my apartment once again. Old Dog grins dog grin. I grab a fresh pack of Winstons and look out the window. The gray ugliness leaves me empty, longing to get back to the lake and the fire. The music. I sling the guitar across my back.  Fingers sing little shudders.  I smile and head for the door. I have found my voice. I whistle and Old Dog follows me out. I drop the keys and neglect to close the door. Light a cigarette as we head through the sleeping, sweating streets. Night winning out over the dim glow of the streetlights. Bright paper and bits of food litter the pavement and bricks. The silence shivers, waiting for the music to begin again. Circles within circles with too many focal points.  Earthtone blue jazz flamenco.

Come, gypsy boy. Old Dog barks and hurries ahead.

I hear the carnival far off.  Pass the old man.  Those sage eyes close as he shakes his head.  Pipe dropping to his side, he turns away.  I laugh the Devil's laugh and walk faster, the guitar slapping my back with each step.

Come, vato!  La musica! 

The lake. Among the stars and campfires and misting rain I am still. To feel the faint heat of all these glittering lights.