Chiang

A short story, but a bit weird.

John knew enough about music, and some of it somehow landed him first chair. It was a clerical error when it happened, or it must have been; Chiang's father was the conductor, and wasn't about handing the first chair spot down to his son.

Beside him, Chiang's syncopated eigths were curt and methodical, a peculiar recipe for sounds of such fuzzy grandeur. Somehow Chiang did that. He was like a romance machine, taking neat litle arrays of tonal information through the machinery and emitted a musical emotion. But John knew the emotion was canned. The notes sang but his face didn't. He played it better than Tchaikovsky ever could have asked for, but it never occured to Chiang to muse what the notes wanted to say. Never asked why.

John picked out a few eyeballs from the audience. Even they got the picture. Hell, it's damn impossible to hear Tchaikovsky and not envision something exploding. John played fireworks, impossibly staccato burts of light over a playground or a battlefield or young lovers.  And more importantly, he played it right. Complete with squeaks and buzzes, flats and twangs, generally every novice discord one can emit from a violin.

His section sometimes got mad when he did this. It seemed they expected him to be something of a better role model for proper execution of a violin. But fortunately for the quick fireburts and John's quicker smile, this was the concert and there was nothing they could do about it. Besides, if the audience wanted to hear music done wrong, they could download it. John played a few wrong notes.

The blackened audience appreciated Tchaikovsky, probably because they all know the tune from explosions of their own past. With all the vivid mental explosions, the room felt charged.

Bar 264 passed, and so the violins were to rest until 298, solo time. John's violin had a scratch to prove his surprise when Chiang volunteered for it. Chiang never asked his father for anything more than he had to. John didn't care and neither did the audience. They were in for another perfect solo, ersatz emotion before the famous finisher chorus.

So when Chiang's time finally came, John sat back and listened. It really was flawless. Good enough to warrant closed eyes and a nap next to someone he loves. Still explosions, but different kinds. Exploding in slow motion, forever. Kinda. Like explosion lite. Great taste and less filling. Loving completely without understanding. Choosing fate and happiness. Leading the world onwards, up the mountains.

Chiang didn't feel what he was playing, but John did. He picked it apart, let the explosion explode through him. And when it passed through, it was colder than the warmth it endorsed. It was lonlier than the march it entailed. Suddenly Chiang might have been fiddling in a Siberian blizzard, but it was only John who felt the chill.

He wondered if this tundra was Chiang's world, with rationalism so cold that it was freezing. With the winds of change that never change direction. Chiang was there, though, soloing his solo to nothing but ice.

But John knew that it couldn't have been Chiang's world; if it was, his father would be there, conducting over him with narrow eyes. No, John knew this was his world. It felt familiar. But it was just ice and wind and sky. And Chiang. Nothing else.

Chiang was playing the epic solo with such rehearsed ease. His father might even be proud of him after show. It didn't matter if this was Tchaikovsky or any of the other hundreds of epic romances the orchestra had attempted; Chiang was going to nail it any cost. John felt a small frozen desire to see if he couldn't arrange his own demotion a chair or two. It just made sense that way.

He thought it was a problem, that people better at playing music ought to be ranked higher than people better at feeling music. Especially if the rest of the world thought so. He thought it was a problem that he was first chair and didn't even like to play the right notes.

And as Chiang played the highest C possible, John knew the greatest problem. All these songs, he thought, are about things I don't got. Love, religion, responsiblity ... And as Chiang plated the lowest E possible, John knew that the tundra in his head was his life on earth, cold and empty and alone. Chiang played through it so hollowly. He didn't even know what he was playing about.

On the ice, John fell to his knees. It wasn't any colder than the air. Chiang didn't seem to notice. John was weeping. Yes, he'd get Chiang the chair he deserves. Yes, he'd play the right notes from now on. Yes, he'd volunteer for a solo, and he'd make it a beautiful message too.

Chiang hit the last note, and in the last measure before the chorus resumed its united explosion of the last movement, John sighed out loud.

He knew what he had to do.
 

Reviews

[G Garcia]

As a musician (albeit a rock guitarist) I completely understand what you've said with this story. You told t perfectly, and with a subtlety that gave me chills. Excellent work!