Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch by Henry Miller

off the track….
    The music!
One night, about two in the morning,
     the door of our shack was thrown open with a bang and, before I knew what was happening, I
     felt a hand gripping my throat, squeezing it viciously. I knew damned well I wasn’t dreaming.
     Then a voice, a boozy voice which I recognized instantly, and which sounded maudlin and
     terrifying, shouted in my ear: “Where’s that damned gadget?”
    “What gadget?” I gurgled, struggling to release the grip around my throat.
    “The radio! Where are you hiding it?”
    With this he let go his grip and began dismantling the place. I sprang out of
     bed and tried to pacify him.
    “You know I have no radio,” I shouted. “What’s the matter with you? What’s
     eating you?”
    He ignored me, went on pushing things aside, tearing at the walls with furious
     talons, upsetting chinaware and pots and pans. Finding nothing, he soon relented, though still
     furious, still cursing and swearing. I thought he had gone out of his mind.
    “What is it, Gilbert? What’s happened?” I was holding him by the arm.
    “What is it?”
he yelled, and I could feel his glare even through the
     darkness.
“What is it?
Come on out here!” He grabbed my arm and started dragging
     me.
    After we had gone a few yards in the direction of his house he stopped
     suddenly, and gripping me like a demon, he shouted:
“Now!
Now do you hear?”
    “Hear what?” I said innocently.
    “The music!
It’s the same tune all the time. “Its driving me
     crazy.”
    “Maybe it’s coming from
your
place,” said I, though I knew damned
     well it was coming from inside him.
    “So you know where it is,” said Gilbert, accelerating his pace and dragging me
     along like a dead horse. Under his breath he mumbled something about my “cunning” ways.
    When we got to his house he dropped to his knees and begansniffing around, just like a dog, in the bushes and under the porch. To humor him, I also
     got down on all fours, to search for the concealed gadget that was giving out Beethoven’s
Fifth
. After we had crawled around the house and under it as far as we could, we
     lay on our backs and looked up at the stars.
    “It’s stopped,” said Gilbert. “Did you notice?”
    “You’re crazy,” I said. “It never stops.”
    “Tell me honestly,” he said, in a conciliating tone of voice, “where did you
     hide it?”
    “I never hid anything,” I said. “It’s there … in the stream. Can’t you hear
     it?”
    He turned over on one side, cupped his ear, straining every nerve to hear.
    “I don’t hear a thing,” he said.
    “That’s strange,” said I.
“Listen!
It’s Smetana now. You know the one
     …
Out of My Life
. It’s as clear as can be, every note.”
    He turned over on the other side and again he cupped his ear. He held this
     position for a few moments then rolled over on his back, smiling the smile of an angel. He
     gave a little laugh, then said:
    “I know now … I was dreaming. I was dreaming that I was the conductor of an
     orchestra….”
    I cut him short. “But how do you explain the other times?”
    “Drink,” he said. “I drink too much.”
    “No you don’t,” I replied, “I hear it just the same as you. Only I know where
     it comes from.”
    “Where?” said Gilbert.
    “I told you … from the stream.”
    “You mean someone has hidden it in the creek?”
    “Exactly,” I said.
    I allowed a due pause, then added: “Do you know who?”
    “No,” he said.
    “God!”
    He began to laugh like a madman.
    “God!” he yelled
“God!”
Then louder and louder.
     “God, God, God, God, God! Can you beat that?”
    He was now convulsed with laughter. I had to shake him to make him listen to
     me.
    “Gilbert,” I said, just as gently as could be, “if you don’t mind, I’m going
     back to bed. You go down by the creek and look for it. It’s under a mossy rock on the left
     hand side near the bridge. Don’t tell anybody, will you?”
    I stood up and