Winterreise

Dad decided to die on a Friday so the rest of the family had the entire weekend to grieve. It was a grotesque arrangement, if not considerate in his own personal and brutal way. Though saying that it was his decision may have been a stretch. He thought he had enough, and told us to remember him, but to forget the parts when he was drunk and mean. And then he died. The funeral was short and intimate; I had to leave early for a rehearsal. I knew Dad wouldn’t have minded.

I recently cut my hair short so mornings would be easier. I had never been a morning person, and I hated going to rehearsals or meetings with my face and hair looking so frazzled, as if I could never get my shit together. It was a common trend with us musicians, but of course I didn’t want to confine myself to that image. I played piano and composed. I wrote mostly piano music, sometimes for various chamber ensembles, occasionally arranging for orchestra. I played in clubs and accompanied soloists for money. People told me that I should teach, but I could never do that, at least not now. I didn’t dream of fame, or playing in front of large crowds with world-renowned orchestras. I only wanted to create art—channeling myself through music. I’ve always been an idealist. I stopped caring that the world was against people like me.

I came over to my parent’s house the following weekend to see Mom, and to take some of Dad’s possessions that were no longer wanted there. I didn’t have the key to the house, so I rang the doorbell and waited outside for five minutes, and rang the doorbell two more times before my older brother Adrian opened up with a look of surprise.

“Oh hey, I didn’t know you were coming. Mom—”

I walked in and felt like I was in my early twenties again. Like I was a former self in this old familiar space, and simultaneously a stranger, feeling strange in a inscrutable environment. I didn’t want to go into my room and break the nostalgia. I went straight to the upright piano in the living room and sat down on the bench. I let my hands hover over the keys for a second, before returning them onto my lap. Adrian came over next to me and smiled and glanced behind him.

“How are you?” he asked in a small voice.

“I’m alright,” I said. I looked down at the piano keys. I absentmindedly played the right hand of the first two bars of Schubert’s “Der Lindenbaum.”

“I don’t think it’s been tuned since you graduated,” Adrian said.

I shrugged. The dissonance wavered in the air. I played the three lowest octaves of C, and it sounded like a ship sinking. Once the sound died out, the room felt awfully quiet. Adrian had gone and sat down on the living room couch, looking at his phone.

“When did you get here?” I asked with bland curiosity.

He raised his head and lowered his phone with minimal effort. “I’ve been here since Wednesday,” he said as if it were obvious. But I didn’t know that. My mind was on music, as always. Schubert’s Winterreise had been circling in my head constantly since Dad died. I imagined the piano timbre creating a snow cover as the tenor trudged barely above with the melody. I could see the frosty black notes dissolving into chilling sound, wrapping around my body. Without realizing until several seconds later, Mom was in front of me and had finished asking a question and was staring at me with hazy eyes.

I woke up the next morning and realized I was unable to play tonal music. It was the oddest thing, but when I sat down at the piano my fingers shifted into positions and keys that pierced together, resisting—and perhaps fearing—resolution. I had no choice but to write it down. I spent the next three hours jotting down this jagged landscape: the staves were almost crooked, like the pencil marks had a ragged madness to them that translated directly into the sound. I went back and forth between moving my hands across the keyboard and scribbling on the pages with a panicked ferocity, as if I was going to die any moment then. And when I had finished, with a sparse, airy chord wisping up to the ceiling as I kept the pedal down, I felt completely empty, but strangely not alone.

When I was young, Dad would sit me down at the piano and made me drill scales and etudes until I cried, and then after I finished crying, he would make me play for at least an hour longer, and then he’d get me ice cream and tell me that I was going to be the best pianist in the country, that it was okay to be frustrated as long as I persisted. He talked endlessly about how music was like painting that went directly to your soul (he was an art teacher), and made comparisons between artists and composers that made no sense to me until one day when I was a high school senior I finally began to understand and I started to feel like I was doing something more than playing an instrument. He was driving me back from a lesson, and we were initially talking about auditions for conservatories.

“Just two contrasting pieces, huh?” he said.

“Yeah. I was thinking the Bach g minor and the Prokofiev.”

“But they’re so similar.”

“What do you mean? One of them’s Baroque, the other is Modern.”

“That’s true,” he said in slow deliberate tones. “But they have similar colors. Like—like a dark maroon against navy blue, I think. Do you see that?”

“I guess?” I said hesitantly, unsure but not wanting to dismiss his bizarre claim.

Looking back, Dad probably had synesthesia, which made him associate colors with certain pitches. He always thought middle C was black, but that was probably just him.

I lived in a small apartment in the Mission District, so I could walk over to the Conservatory and Symphony Hall if I needed to. I lived by myself, but I was surrounded by artists of all sorts, free spirit types that didn’t mind me practicing late into the night. The Sunday afternoon was chilly but not cold, the January coastline wind brushing through. I was walking up and down the streets with Walter, a late-twenties actor/video editor/waiter who lived below me, who probably liked me but was too shy to do anything. He had a rough, uneven beard, more to create a mature disposition than to keep warm in a mild San Francisco winter.

“I wrote something this morning,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. For piano. Maybe you could tell me what you think.”

“Absolutely. Of course.”

“I think it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever written.”

“I’m sorry—I mean, is that even a bad thing?”

“I don’t know. It just is,” I said.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he said.

Mom called in the evening. Did I pick up? Yes, I did. Did she ask me if I was ok? Indeed. Did I return the question? Only phrased differently. Did I pay attention as she disintegrated into choked tears, slowly, painfully, as her lungs and soul drained out through the phone line, a lifetime of hurt transmitted through her gasping voice, while she asked me if I was happy, that she would be happy if I was happy, and that she felt sorry for everything but nothing in particular, just a general sense of guilt, of loss, of something missing, a hole of silence upon the polluted skies? No. But I told her everything would be ok, and she seemed to be placated, and then I hung up.

Later on, close to midnight, I pulled out the three sheets of paper that I had written the music on. It was wrinkled, close to illegible, like the work of an old arthritic man’s last words, rushed against death. I could still read it though, the sounds were still in my ears; I placed the music gingerly in front of the piano and danced my hands across the keyboard. I could hear the entire piece in my head; I dared not play a note out loud, lest it ruin the perfect sound in my head. The silence rang throughout the dark room, undercut only sporadically by gusts of cars going by in the streets below. I took a pencil and scrawled on the top of the piece, “for Dad,” and I continued to sit there until I couldn’t tell if my eyes were closed, and the harmonies in my heart sang involuntarily.

The following weeks I kept up my schedule of gigs and rehearsals and concerts, but I did not write a single note more. The spaces between my playing Bach, jazz, and cheap and easy accompanying pieces were filled with the same atonal, haunted soundscape that I had written on that peculiar morning. The only thing that varied was the tempo: sometimes fast enough that it sounded like a violent, churning ocean; sometimes so slow that each chord could string together all the stars in the sky.

My brother Adrian called one morning to ask how I was doing, something that he never did. I said I was doing just fine. That’s not what people are telling me, he said. What people? I demanded. He wouldn’t say, and remained silent over the line without hanging up. The question lingered until he said it didn’t matter, to call him if I needed anything, and he said good luck with everything and then hung up.

That night, my mind finally once again turned to Schubert’s Winterreise—Winter Journey. A song cycle for piano and tenor, set by 24 poems. I found myself fixated on the last song in the cycle, “Der Leiermann”: The Hurdy-Gurdy Man. The song opens with with a pair of deep ominous 5ths in the piano, with a grace note, like funeral bells, like trudging through deep snow alone. The right hand enters with a whispering, troubled melody, shifting between questions and laments. The tenor sings his verses between the pianist’s interjections, melancholy but matter of fact, as if totally resigned to travel forever in the cold. The song ends with a question in forte, full of pain, before dying out into a soft, fading minor chord.

There, behind the village,
stands a hurdy-gurdy-man,
And with numb fingers
he plays the best he can.

Barefoot on the ice,
he staggers back and forth,
And his little plate
remains ever empty.

No one wants to hear him,
no one looks at him,
And the hounds snarl
at the old man.

And he lets it all go by,
everything as it will,
He plays, and his hurdy-gurdy
is never still.

Strange old man,
shall I go with you?
Will you play your hurdy-gurdy
to my songs?

I couldn’t find a venue to play my new piece. I didn’t think clubs would want something so modern—and personal, for lack of a better word. I thought of contacting some of my composer friends to try and put together a new music concert, or asking to play at a chamber music recital. But I didn’t do any of those things. I thought it was vain, and despicably so, to market my piece like that. As if to sell off my grief with a performance.

Once on a Sunday afternoon, I was sitting with Walter on a grassy hill at Dolores Park. The place was swarming with people. We were drinking beer and breathing in the weak sunlight. We talked about nothing in particular, just letting odd thoughts roll off our tongues.

“I’m working on a TV show now,” he said.

“Hm. About what?” I was watching the white clouds drift over downtown San Francisco.

“It’s pretty stupid, really. It’s another one of those dysfunctional family comedies: the dad’s like a depressed, morose professor and the mom’s this semi-naive schoolteacher, and the kids are all over the place.”

“Wow.”

“But it pays well, and—I mean, I need the money, and the work isn’t all bad.” He took a large gulp of beer. “What have you been up to? You have that piano piece, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. It hasn’t been performed yet though. Probably sometime soon though.”

“That’s good.”

“Other than that, things have been the same really, for the most part.”

“So you’re doing alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, why?” I probably sounded more accusatory than I meant to be.

“I don’t know, I believe you. You’re just a little more quiet than usual, I guess.”

I was unsure of what to say, even though I knew that I was just confirming his observation. I put my beer down and stood up.

“Are you going?” he asked. He sounded surprised, and perhaps a little disappointed.

“I don’t know, maybe,” I said without looking at him, my eyes fixed on the clouds.

The next day, I drove back down to the South Bay to have dinner with Mom at a dimly lit Thai restaurant. She seemed absolutely unable to ask me anything specific, as if she didn’t want to disturb the imaginary life she created for me, afraid of finding out how I was really spending my time. Instead she kept on reminding me—probably three or four times within a half hour—that she was always feeling cold at home, and ate out a lot more now.

“Is that a waste of money? I mean, I think that—” She sounded genuinely concerned.

I took a few seconds to swallow. “I don’t know, Mom. If it makes you happy.” I knew that I was being curt with my replies. My eyes were lowered on my plate.

“Oh things just seem so—I’m not sure—just so blurry. So confusing.” Her food was barely touched. Her words sounded hazy too. I wanted to reach over the table and squeeze her hand, but I just leaned forward a little, folded my arms, and smiled sympathetically.

I was accompanying a few violin students for a recital. It was exactly two months after Dad died. After it was over, their teacher came up to me and thanked me. I said it was no problem, and she walked away slowly. I stayed by the piano, watching parents and shy kids filter out of the hall. Once the last person was gone, I leaned over to my bag and carefully pulled out three pieces of paper, now mangled and stained, and laid it on the stand. I looked at the notes, the lacerated emotions behind them. I thought of the hurdy-gurdy man and his empty plate. I breathed in the silence. Then I played.

My last conversation with Dad ventured onto the topic of love. It seemed only natural. He said he barely loved anymore. He figured it was the only way he could die well, if he stopped loving. I sat by his bedside silently. He reflected on what he just said, and then reached for me with playful urgency. I only meant that theoretically, he said. I mean, how could anyone live without loving something? Anything? He laughed, amused by his own philosophical musings. Minutes passed without a word.

“Do you want anything?” I asked.

“I’ll be fine,” he said contently. “I wish you could play me something on the piano again. Maybe some Bach, or some Schubert. Something simple.” But he was in the hospital, and there was virtually no way to get a piano, or even a keyboard in there.

“Maybe I could write a piece for you,” I said. His eyes brightened for a moment before he slackened back into a familiar, tired smile.

“I would say you shouldn’t. But I can already hear it.” The conversation seemed to end then, and he laid back deep into his pillow and closed his eyes to sleep. I remained still, and listened to the fan hovering above chopping the air, the lights buzzing, the dampened hospital noises outside.

The sound stretched wistfully to the dark walls of the hall, unencumbered by people. My heart melted into the melody, a singular soul enclosed. No one was there to applaud at the end. There was only the empty silence of desolate peace. I sat in front of the piano and wondered if I should just play it again. An encore for the dead. But I didn’t. No one was there to listen, I knew that. But of course music was still music if no one listened. I had no need for people to sit out there like statues. I was playing to something beyond those walls. Of course music was still music if no one listened. Of course it was.

I Met a Narcissist

Let’s say it’s sunny today, one of those days where there’s not a single cloud in the sky, so once you pass the skyline, the horizon, it’s just this beautiful, gentle gradation of generic blue, up into sky blue, baby blue, and once your neck is stretched all the way back, approaching white. Maybe the sun is in the way, and it makes the sky gleam and blind. That can happen too. Let’s say the sun is behind us though. Its rays soaking through your shirt, warming your hair, the back of your neck. An urge to get into the shade, under a tall, old tree. Converse. We talk about weather, about the single thing that binds us as human beings, about the inexpressible emptiness that can only occur with an income that puts you into the 75th percentile and enough leisure time for you to have strolled past without a thought of time. We say all this without saying a word, though.

         Let’s say you have curly hair, the kind that seems to the unaccustomed eyes untamed, uncontrolled. It is, but you don’t say. It is beautiful. Black. It shines in the sunlight. Excuse me, I begin. And then your eyes come up, brown, large, and engaging. I—

            Let’s say I pause for a moment, because courage has little foresight, and in the moment of overcoming, I am stunned, perhaps, at your happy gaze. Because it is happy: a smile, an unwrinkled smile, and truthful eyes.

I paused, and collected an extra breath. What did you think I said next?

We sit, and I ask if she wants anything to drink. Just water, she says meekly. I nod and smile, and get up to go over to the kitchen to fix her (and my) drink. Wait, she says. It’s ok. Are you sure? I ask. She nods. I’m fine, she says, unconvincingly. I’m standing, halfway lunged, on the threshold of motion. Then I come back and sit.

       So she sits there, eyes lowered, not out of spite or unwillingness to speak, but out of the simple recognition that the kind words that should be pouring out right now are not coming, and her easy embarrassment because of it. I scoot forward in my seat. How about this, I say:

I met a narcissist. He was the type of person that always had something more to add, comments that sometimes lived up to his enthusiasm, but for the most part fell flat in its mundaneness, repetition, absolute incongruity with its delivery. Yet he dressed well, and when we first met, approached me in a manner that was unassuming, even timid. A nervous smile. His eyebrows were raised, as if he were waiting for me to say the first word. I would not. After several morbid, silent seconds, he finally chuckled a little bit and asked me what my name was. But even as I told him, he seemed not to understand, or did not really care. Not intentionally though, since his gaze suggested that he was paying attention, and was hearing me; but it just seemed as if my words never deeply interested him.

            He began talking about himself. About how he was the eldest of three boys, raised by a single mother that was never around much working odd jobs. About how he was a rising football star in high school before a knee injury, and how college he was almost cast in a leading role in a Hollywood film. He looked on the verge of tears. Still I said nothing. He heaved a great sigh, and kind of slouched forward and gave a melancholy smile, shaking his head to himself. I waited, and then said so what are you up to now? And without looking up, he said that he was looking for something, someone to worship, other than himself.

            “What do you mean, exactly?”

            “I once vacationed in the Caribbean once, sailing off the coast of some tropical island in a big yacht. The water was blue, really blue, and it was warm but not hot. I was there with some friends, and we were drinking and watching the waves, like, caress the boat—like a baby. By midnight we were still out there, absolutely drunk, and one of my friends, he was throwing up over the side and he fell overboard. We saw him go over. I stumbled forward, and I started to laugh. He was gasping for air and flailing his arms, yelling up at us when his mouth wasn’t being muzzled by seawater. A hopeless scene, really. And I really did laugh, and then I threw up too. I was wondering how it would feel to be in the warm water right then and there, to be really caressed by the ocean…”

“What happened to your friend then?”

“This was eight years ago. Early August. I got a concussion when I fell and hit my head on the railing.”

“Is he…dead?”

“Sooner or later.”

She clears her throat and asks me if she can have some water after all. Yes, of course, and I quickly grab her a glass. She thanks me. I like your dress, she says. I have to smile.

“So what happened next?”

“I remember seeing the reflection of the moon in the ocean, all wavy and distorted. I felt terribly ill. My friend—I can’t remember exactly when, but the splashing and choked pleas faded, and the night was disgustingly quiet. Just the soothing sound of waves against the side of the boat, occasional footsteps. And when morning came, I was lying on the deck, smelling the salty hardwood, the sun in my face.

“See this on my neck? That was from sometime that night. I can’t remember exactly, but this mark—it serves a better reminder than any real memory.”

“But—”

My living room is mostly white; one wall is dominated by a clean, minimalist bookshelf that rises to the ceiling, filled with novels with broken spines. A small fake potted plant on there: a single orange tulip. It’s late in the afternoon, and I can hear the rush hour traffic honking beneath my apartment only slightly. She has her legs crossed, and is looking at the bookshelf. She points: I see you’ve…

The narcissist stood and began walking away. I followed. Soon we were outside, nighttime and chilly. He did not turn back until I called after him. And then he smiled, even gloating a little, as if amused that he had managed to lure me out to him.

            “Well what are you up to then?” He was feigning ignorance. He was still smiling

            “Everything you expected, it seems.”

            “I’d like that very much.”

There is a coffee shop at the corner, two blocks from where I live. The space is cramped, smelling of old wood and burnt coffee; the service is friendly but slow. I stopped by last week on a Friday. A nice young man approached me and offered to buy my coffee. I declined politely. He nodded a little and said, ok, that’s fine, but what’s your name. It’s the least I could ask for from someone as pretty as you. He stood up straighter and tried a glowing, confident smile. I’m sure it’ll be all right to keep some mystery in your life, I replied.

            “Where are you headed now?” he asked.

            “Oh, just home.”

            “May I walk you back?”

            “Depends on where you’re headed.”

            “Death, ultimately, but to wherever seems enticing in the meantime.”

I put my hands in my pocket and glanced at him. Why did they always seem so happy? I adjusted my purse strap and brushed my hair back. Above me, the streetlight’s luminescence shone on only half of the narcissist’s face.

“I know you probably don’t think much of me,” he said. “But I promise, I’m no worse than anyone else trying to be happy.”

“Perhaps you should try in a different way.”

He laughed. His shoes were shiny black leather. Without another word, he nodded his head as if conceding, and turned and walked away.

She stands up now. Her face is silent and expressionless. I’m staring at the dent in the couch that she had made. Do you have any dinner plans, she asks. No, not yet, I say. Would you like to join me and my husband then? He just got into town this morning. That would be lovely, I reply.

            So at around 7, we arrive at the restaurant. Her husband is seated already, and as we approach the table, he stands and turns around. It is the narcissist. What did you expect? We shake hands and sit down. The food is lovely. Hardly a word is spoken. Afterwards, as we are preparing to leave, he gives a quizzical look and asks if we’ve ever met before. Grinning, I say I’m not sure, maybe, but the world is small enough already.

Let’s say that happened.