Song of the Silent Snow Read online

  After dinner they continued chatting as they drank coffee. Eventually Helen asked Harold if he was ready. Yes, I think so.

  Good.

  O good. The table was cleared and the dishes set to soak while they went to the parlor. Harold sat at the piano and rubbed his hands for a few minutes, played a few scales, then turned to his sisters, shall I play the Appassionata?

  O yes, do.

  That would be wonderful, Harold.

  He turned to the piano, straightened his back and looked at the keyboard for a moment, then started playing. With the first contact of his fingers with the keys he felt transformed and transported. It was not just that he was no longer Harold Livingston age 53, bachelor, lawyer, living with his two unmarried sisters; or that he transcended his daily life and was now a concert pianist. He transcended even that. He simply became a part of the music. But not a part of the music he played, but the music Beethoven wrote. Many times, through the many years, Harold tried to believe he was hearing something other than what he was playing, but his ear was too keen. There certainly was passion in his playing. And power. And the arpeggios were clear and distinct. He knew his playing was inspired and he had great respect for the music, but he also knew that there was a slight stiffness and imperfection of technique. But what he did not hear was of even greater importance than what he did, for he did not hear the brilliance of imagination, that rush of genius that made for greatness which was the only flaw that practice could not erase… not now. But Harold had long since stopped hearing the notes coming from the piano and listened instead to the music that came from his heart, the music that was in the soul of the notes. This is what Harold heard as he watched his fingers moving across the keyboard, and what flowed through his being…

  When he finished he sat still for a moment, still experiencing the music, then smiled and turned and looked at his applauding sisters who were thrilled beyond words, having heard the greatest rendition of the Appassionata ever performed. He stood and bowed and walked over to his sisters. Thank you. Thank you.

  O it was marvellous, Harold, simply marvellous.

  O yes, it was the finest I have ever heard.

  I'll go make some hot chocolate for us to have with our cake. O, how I love Monday nights.

  Before retiring Harold played the Sviatoslav Richter recording of the Appassionata, his eyes closed, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, hands in front of his face, fingertips touching slightly. He heard the music… From time to time he smiled and nodded his head in approval, feeling a sensation of wholeness as the music within him matched the music without. When the music stopped he continued sitting for many minutes with his eyes closed until the flashing lights vanished. He got up and put the record carefully in its jacket. Virginia is quite right about Monday, though it is not just the night that is wonderful.

  He undressed and hung everything in its proper place, put on his pajamas and robe and went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then rinsed his mouth. He looked in the mirror, then turned off the light and went back to his bedroom. He lay on his back for a few moments feeling the silence, then thought that perhaps he would not have boiled eggs for breakfast… but he did not have to make that decision now. He turned on his side, closed his eyes, and slept.

  Of Whales and Dreams

  Many, many years ago a man told me that to deny my dream was to sell my soul. I was young and did not know that the words were finding their own particular place within me so they would be mine forever, but I do remember blinking my eyes and nodding my head as if the very motion was forcing the truth in what he said deeper within me.

  And I was full of dreams. Dreams, dreams, dreams. And I dream still.

  And the whale is a dream.

  When I was a child and landlocked, playing ships was my game. A stick in water was fine. I did not need sails or steam, only imagination, and my ships sailed through mirror-like waters or weathered the most treacherous of storms. And the suns reflection looked up at me from the south sea lagoons, or, as a breeze rippled the water, the reflection became a broken moon in the Atlantic. And sea-walls and jetties were my playgrounds and I would spend endless days on the shore or pier watching the various vessels of every description and flag sail in and out of the harbor, or drop their anchor and rest while small launches brought men ashore. I was aware the pilots knew just where each ship should be, and how much room to leave, yet still I constantly marvelled at how a harbor filled with anchored ships could be so free of problems. And I would sit for hours watching the tide slowly change the positions of the ships as they tugged at their anchor chains. I watched and dreamed.

  And then, as the years went so slowly by, I would stand at the head of a pier and wait for a tug to tie up, hoping the captain would see me and yell down for me to come aboard, that they needed a messboy, and I would leap on her deck and the mooring lines would be let go immediately and we would be off on our adventure.

  And at night I would lie in my bed and allow my imagination to take me any-which-where and I would sail to the places I had seen in pictures, and see our tug battling the seas of Cape Hatteras, or sailing thru the Keys, the very words sounding distant and romantic.

  And one day I did leap on a tug and crossed the harbor and back. I was living in a dream. An old deckhand chuckled at me and told me about his days at sea and all the countries he had seen and all the oceans he had crossed, and told me of the time he shipped on a whaler and how the whales looked as they flowed through the sea, and of the sudden bursting forth when they breached and the banging roar of the huge flukes cracking the surface of the water. And he even imitated the voice of a whale. The captain let me in the wheel house, and allowed me to take the wheel for a minute, but I spent almost all of those few hours with the old deckhand listening to more and more stories about whales. For days and nights I relived that day, dreaming always of teaching the whales to dance.

  While still in my mid-teens I finally went to sea. A lifetime spent dreaming of the sea died and now a new life of living the dream had begun. And still I pursued my dream even though it was now my life. I never did ship on a whaler, but manys the time Ive seen them break the surface of the sea, barely causing a ripple, looking so gentle and strong and indomitable, and, as I stood at the gunnel watching them, in my head I would be playing a song on a concertina and pipe, teaching them to dance, and they honked their glee as they whirled and twirled through the water waving their flukes in time and merriment to the music

  And when it came time to stop they sang a final note and waved and continued on their inevitable way, and me on mine, leaning against the gunnel, staring at the disappearing ripples, feeling a part of them was still with me and a part of me with them. They somehow became a part of my dream, in some strange way as important a part of the dream as me. It took the two of us to make the dream. And it does still.

  And still I dream though Ive been on the beach now for some years, in Snug Harbor. We’re all ex-sailors here and talk of the many ports we’ve been to, of the endless countries and people we’ve seen, so many of which have changed names a dozen times over. But I spend as much time alone as possible, looking down at the harbor, a harbor that was once filled with vessels of every type, a harbor that is now spotted with an occasional ship. As with all things its changed.

  But my dreams the same. And I pursue it still.

  Ive sailed so long and sewn so much canvas that the tips of my fingers are blunted and hard, and hauled so many ropes my hands are as rough as manilla hemp; Ive scampered up ratlins in heavy seas and sat on the hatch of a brand new freighter feeling the thump of her engine. Memories… all memories. Images to help pass a day. But only for a short time. I chase them with my dream… my vision. I close my eyes and hear the music and they come, all about me, dancing and singing and O how lovely it is to see the sea rolling from their backs that shine and glisten and though theyre monstrous in size they barely send out a ripple as they go through endless seas. And I call to them, through cupped hands, w
ith a loud and happy, HELLO MY FRIENDS… and they wave their flukes at me and we dance and laugh and this thing called death no longer exists, being dissolved in our oneness, and I know that so long as my heart, and that timeless, ageless leviathan part of me, is filled with my dream… my vision of dancing with my friends… that here is only life, life as large and strong and beautiful and full of gentleness and joy as my friends, and where they go I go also, and we are inseparable, and my life is theirs and theirs mine, and we are all part of the same dream.

  Song of the Silent Snow

  He tried to judge the weather by the light easing through his eyelids, a gray bordering on black. Perhaps he was wrong, maybe it wasnt almost time for the alarm to go off. Maybe the pills affected his sense of time too—no, that wasnt it, he could definitely sense that it was close to 7. Must be cloudy and overcast, or maybe it even snowed like predicted. Could be. Might even be snowing now. He felt his face wrinkle into a squint as he strained to hear the snow… or rain if it had gotten suddenly warmer… but heard nothing. Not even a hint of wind. He concentrated on the tip of his nose, but it didnt feel so cold. That didnt necessarily mean anything. There were many mornings when he awoke and his nose wasnt cold. Actually, now that he thought about it, it very seldom was in the morning. It was in the middle of the night that it got cold and sometimes kept him awake. I guess thats one good thing about those pills, dont have to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Thats what used to start it off, getting up and by the time he was back under the covers his nose was cold and he just could not seem to get back to sleep and would lie there, half awake and half asleep, never knowing if he was dreaming or thinking, knowing the alarm would be ringing sooner or later and dreading it, wishing he could get back to sleep but his nose was so cold it hurt, and he would fight hard against the coldness, and his sleeplessness, and lay there anticipating the alarms sudden clanging, but never totally prepared for its attack, and when it finally did thrust itself upon him, his body shaking in reaction, he felt he could sleep forever if he just shut his eyes… and so he would lie there fighting to relax and sleep, think of the hour he went to bed and the approximate time he fell asleep, calculating how much sleep he had, and how much he might get, total, and how much he should get in order to do a good days work. Above all he wanted… no, it was imperative that he be more than sufficient for the demands of his work… especially now that they had moved to the suburbs and assumed the responsibility of owning a house. It brought with it advantages, but also many changes. It used to be a 15 minute ride to work, and then a short walk. But now it was almost that long to get to the station, and then it was another hour to Grand Central, providing there werent any delays, and thank God there usually werent. Thats one of the reasons they decided on Connecticut rather than Long Island. All in all he had to get up almost 2 hours earlier than when they lived in New York City. But that had been anticipated. What was unexpected was his lying awake counting those hours, trying desperately to get more rest, but the harder he tried the more firmly he remained entrapped in that strange area between sleep and wakefulness, from time to time falling fitfully into one then the other, literally feeling himself bouncing off their unseen walls until he dragged himself out of the bed and forced himself into another day.

  But time was only one element of the night that twisted itself into his consciousness. When he tried to clear his mind and just relax he thought of the sudden, and huge, drop in their bank balance when they made the down-payment on the house. He had carefully reviewed the entire matter with his accountant, before buying the house, and the purchase price was not only well within their means, but because of the tax writeoffs his net cost would not be more than when he was paying rent, and with no equity. Yes, that was the phrase he latched on to during those mornings, he was building an equity and in these days of uncertainty that was vitally important. He had gone over it many times and there was never the slightest doubt about the money, except when he lay awake in the middle of the night trying desperately to get back to sleep and get the proper rest before the alarm went off.

  And so he would think of the house, the house that gave them so much more room and allowed the kids to run and jump without worrying about disturbing anyone under them. And Alice had the kitchen she wanted, with ample room for hanging pots and pans and whatever else she wanted to hang from a rack or nail. And, of course, there was the joy of decorating your own home, feeling completely free to make any changes you want, and ten thousand other advantages, and so he thought of all those things and the financial concerns would dissipate, and eventually he would feel himself sliding into sleep, but for some reason a part of him seemed to cling, ever so lightly, to a thin thread of wakefulness and so when the alarm suddenly startled him he was not dragged from a deep state of rest, but more or less jolted from its nearest edge with a sharp twist of exhaustive nausea and a foul thickness in his mouth.

  But since coming home from the hospital the tranquillizers and the sleeping pill prevented his being awakened and so all those thoughts, worries and concerns no longer assaulted him during the night. He still awoke shortly before the alarm went off, but it went off much later now that he wasnt going to the office, and though his body was sluggish from the drugs, and his mouth thick and foul tasting, he did not have to battle that nervous exhaustion that the doctors said was resposible for his breakdown. But there was still this time of anticipation and dread.

  He lay as still as possible, breathing quietly, listening intently to see if there had been any noticeable change, but there wasnt. He still heard nothing and it wasnt any brighter. He sensed Alice was awake too, but said nothing, though he wanted to turn over and just touch her gently and thank her for being there, for loving him, but the inertia from the drugs was impossible to overcome and so he lay still, breathing quietly, and trying not to think about the fact that there was another day to face…

  But it was not just the drugs that made it impossible for him to turn and touch his wife and reassure her and tell her that he loved her and appreciated everything; it was the responsibility that accompanies such a gesture. If it were possible to just touch her in that way that she understood so well, if he were to place his hand gently on her cheek and let his feeling of love flow to her as he had so often in the past, she would turn and smile and hold his hand and kiss it and he knew he was now unable to contend with that, that he would be forced to hunt for words or expressions and none were available to him. He was suddenly so overwhelmed by the responsiblity of love… the responsibility of living. And so he lay on his side facing away from his wife, breathing quietly, eyes closed against the day, waiting for the alarm to ring and when it did he knew Alice would stop it immediately, not wanting it to awaken him, and get out of bed as gently as possible so she would not disturb him. If only he could let her know that she did not have to leap at the clock and then slide from the bed and tiptoe into the bathroom, quietly closing the door, turning the water on to a bare trickle, splashing the sleep from her eyes, not bathing until he was awake and up… he listening to her almost inaudible movements, wishing he could say its alright, that she could take her shower now, and that she did not have to keep the kids so quiet while they ate and got ready for school… but he shuddered at the thought.

  Maybe soon he could stop taking those pills. Maybe soon he could just get up and go downstairs and have breakfast with his family. Maybe soon he would be going to his office like he used to. Maybe soon he could just put his arms around his wife and simply say, I love you, without fear or guilt or worrying about what he would say after. The major problem was simply that he could not find anything positive or healthy to focus his mind on. If he thought about his work he only experienced worry and concern: was he still capable of performing effectively? will he have a job when he got well? or should he say, if he got well? No, no, he had to get well. But what was wrong with him? He did not really know. He had talked with the people in the hospital and spent time with Dr. Richter, but he still did
not know what was wrong with him. What the hell did nervous exhaustion mean?

  What did rest mean? Was this rest? Was this going to get him well? Well from what???? O God! He had to get away from that. But if he thought about his wife and children such a sadness flowed through him that he wanted to cry and yet he did not know why. What was there to cry about? He loved them. They loved him. No one was dying, so why cry? Or was he dying? Were there certain types of death he knew nothing about? Was it possible to stay like this forever? Locked into these thoughts in a futile attempt to avoid his feelings? But even if the lock is opened where could he go? When he battled his way free he always ended up in the same place, engulfed by those feelings that literally froze his body and made him shudder with unknown fears and dread, that made the misery of the previous thoughts almost seem like a pleasure. And so he went from a painful level to one that was unbearable, unable to free himself from the process, listening to the sound of another morning as the children scuttled around, continually being hushed by Alice, dressing, eating, gathering books, suddenly remembering something important and eventually rushing from the house.