I have to be free when my life is full and rich and complete?
Let me complicate the skein you've been commissioned to unravel by telling you that I fly gliders as well. No, not the gliders you sail into the air from a hilltop, watching as the currents take them. But gliders that you pilot up in the air, towed by a plane and released to find those same currents yourself.
My father finds this a particularly horrifying hobby. Indeed, it's become a subject so sore that we no longer discuss it. When he finally realised that I'd moved beyond his ability to influence me with regard to what few leisure hours I actually have, he shouted, “I wash my hands of you, Gideon!” and the topic became taboo between us.
It seems dangerous, you tell me.
No more than life, I reply.
And then you ask, What is it you like about gliding? The silence? The technical mastery of something so different to your chosen profession? Or is it the escape that you're seeking, Gideon? Or perhaps the inherent risks?
And I say that there is danger in digging too deeply for meaning when something can be so simply explained: As a child and once my talent became apparent, I was not allowed a single activity that might injure my hands. Designing and creating kites, flying gliders … My hands are quite safe from harm.
But you do see the relevance of activities associated with the sky, don't you, Gideon? you ask me.
I see only that the sky is blue. Blue like the door. That blue blue door.
GIDEON
28 August
I did what you suggested, Dr. Rose, and I've nothing to report apart from the fact that I felt a real fool. Perhaps the experiment would have turned out differently had I cooperated and done it in your office as you asked, but I couldn't get my mind round what you were talking about, and it seemed absurd. More absurd, even, than spending hours at this notebook when I could be practising my instrument as I used to. As I want to.
But I still haven't touched it.
Why?
Don't ask the obvious, Dr. Rose. It's gone. Can't you see that and what it means? The music is gone.
Dad was here this morning. He's only just left. He came round to see if I'd improved at all—for that you can read Have I tried to play again?—although he was good enough not to ask the question directly. But then, he didn't actually need to ask it since the Guarneri was in the position he'd left it when he brought me home from Wigmore Hall. I haven't even had the nerve to touch the case.
Why? you ask.
You know the answer. Because at the moment I lack the courage: If I can't play, if the gift, the ear, the talent, the genius, or whatever else you wish to call it is moribund or gone from me entirely, how do I exist? Not how do I go on, Dr. Rose, but how do I exist? How do I exist when the sum and substance of who I am and who I have been for the last twenty-five years is contained in and defined by my music?
Then let's look at the music itself, you say. If each person in your life is indeed associated in some way with your music, perhaps we need to examine your music much more carefully for the key to unlock what's troubling you.
I laugh and say, Did you intend that pun?
And you gaze at me with those penetrating eyes. You refuse to engage in levity. You say, So that final Bartók you were writing about, the solo sonata … Is that what you associate with Libby?
Yes, I associate the sonata with Libby. But Libby's nothing to do with my present problem. I assure you of that.
My father found this notebook, by the way. When he came round to check on me, he found it on the window seat. And before you ask, he wasn't nosy-parkering. My dad might be an insufferably single-minded bastard, but he isn't a spy. He's merely given the last twenty-five years of his life to supporting his only child's career, and he'd like to see that career stay afloat and not go swimming down the toilet.
His only child not for long, though. I'd forgotten all about that in these last few weeks. There's Jill to consider. I can't imagine
Let me complicate the skein you've been commissioned to unravel by telling you that I fly gliders as well. No, not the gliders you sail into the air from a hilltop, watching as the currents take them. But gliders that you pilot up in the air, towed by a plane and released to find those same currents yourself.
My father finds this a particularly horrifying hobby. Indeed, it's become a subject so sore that we no longer discuss it. When he finally realised that I'd moved beyond his ability to influence me with regard to what few leisure hours I actually have, he shouted, “I wash my hands of you, Gideon!” and the topic became taboo between us.
It seems dangerous, you tell me.
No more than life, I reply.
And then you ask, What is it you like about gliding? The silence? The technical mastery of something so different to your chosen profession? Or is it the escape that you're seeking, Gideon? Or perhaps the inherent risks?
And I say that there is danger in digging too deeply for meaning when something can be so simply explained: As a child and once my talent became apparent, I was not allowed a single activity that might injure my hands. Designing and creating kites, flying gliders … My hands are quite safe from harm.
But you do see the relevance of activities associated with the sky, don't you, Gideon? you ask me.
I see only that the sky is blue. Blue like the door. That blue blue door.
GIDEON
28 August
I did what you suggested, Dr. Rose, and I've nothing to report apart from the fact that I felt a real fool. Perhaps the experiment would have turned out differently had I cooperated and done it in your office as you asked, but I couldn't get my mind round what you were talking about, and it seemed absurd. More absurd, even, than spending hours at this notebook when I could be practising my instrument as I used to. As I want to.
But I still haven't touched it.
Why?
Don't ask the obvious, Dr. Rose. It's gone. Can't you see that and what it means? The music is gone.
Dad was here this morning. He's only just left. He came round to see if I'd improved at all—for that you can read Have I tried to play again?—although he was good enough not to ask the question directly. But then, he didn't actually need to ask it since the Guarneri was in the position he'd left it when he brought me home from Wigmore Hall. I haven't even had the nerve to touch the case.
Why? you ask.
You know the answer. Because at the moment I lack the courage: If I can't play, if the gift, the ear, the talent, the genius, or whatever else you wish to call it is moribund or gone from me entirely, how do I exist? Not how do I go on, Dr. Rose, but how do I exist? How do I exist when the sum and substance of who I am and who I have been for the last twenty-five years is contained in and defined by my music?
Then let's look at the music itself, you say. If each person in your life is indeed associated in some way with your music, perhaps we need to examine your music much more carefully for the key to unlock what's troubling you.
I laugh and say, Did you intend that pun?
And you gaze at me with those penetrating eyes. You refuse to engage in levity. You say, So that final Bartók you were writing about, the solo sonata … Is that what you associate with Libby?
Yes, I associate the sonata with Libby. But Libby's nothing to do with my present problem. I assure you of that.
My father found this notebook, by the way. When he came round to check on me, he found it on the window seat. And before you ask, he wasn't nosy-parkering. My dad might be an insufferably single-minded bastard, but he isn't a spy. He's merely given the last twenty-five years of his life to supporting his only child's career, and he'd like to see that career stay afloat and not go swimming down the toilet.
His only child not for long, though. I'd forgotten all about that in these last few weeks. There's Jill to consider. I can't imagine
Similar Books
