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sympathetic pipes vibrating, built up the texture of sound. He had not played the Ninth for two years. Vienna. How long is two years? It seemed hours ago. He still heard the reverberations. And duplicated them exactly; this performance differed from the last one no more than one playing of a recording differs from another. An image sprang into his mind: a glistening sonic cube sitting at the console in place of a man. Why do they need me, when they could put a cube in the slot and have the same thing at less expense? And I could rest. And I could rest. There. Keying in the subsonics. This wonderful instrument! What if Bach had known it? Beethoven? To hold a whole world in your fingertips. The entire spectrum of sound, and the colors, too, and more: hitting the audience in a dozen senses at once. Of course, the music is what matters. The frozen, unchanging music. The pattern of sounds emerging now as always, now as he had played it at the premiere in 19. Timijian s last work. Decibel by decibel, a reconstruction of my own performance. And look at them out there. Awed. Loving. Bekh felt tremors in his elbows; too tense, the nerves betraying him. He made the necessary compensations. Hearing the thunder reverberating Page 139 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html from the fourth balcony. What is this music all about? Do I in fact understand any of it? Does the sonic cube comprehend the B Minor Mass that is recorded within itself? Does the amplifier understand the symphony it amplifies? Bekh smiled. Closed his eyes. The shoulders surging, the wrists supple. Two hours to go. Then they let me sleep again. Is it fifteen years, now? Awaken, perform, sleep. And the adoring public cooing at me. The women who would love to give themselves to me. Necrophiliacs? How could they even want to touch me? The dryness of the tomb on my skin. Once there were women, yes, Lord, yes! Once. Once there was life, too. Bekh leaned back and swept forward. The old virtuoso swoop; brings down the house. The chill in their spines. Now the sound builds toward the end of the first movement. Yes, yes, so. Bekh opened the topmost bank of outputs and heard the audience respond, everyone sitting up suddenly as the new smash of sound cracked across the air. Good old Timi: a wonderful sense of the theatrical. Up. Up. Knock them back in their seats. He smiled with satisfaction at his own effects. And then the sense of emptiness. Sound for its own sake. Is this what music means? Is this a masterpiece? I know nothing any more. How tired I am of playing for them. Will they applaud? Yes, and stamp their feet and congratulate one another on having been lucky enough to hear me tonight. And what do they know? What do I know. I am dead. I am nothing. I am nothing. With a demonic two-handed plunge he hammered out the final fugal screams of the first movement. Weatherex had programmed mist, and somehow it fit Rhoda s mood. They stood on the glass landscape that swept down from the Music Center, and Jirasek offered her the pipe. She shook her head absently, thinking of other things. I have a pastille, she said. What do you say we look up Inez and Treat, see if they want to get something to eat? She didn t answer. Rhoda. Will you excuse me, Laddy? I think I want to be all by myself for a while. He slipped the pipe into his pocket and turned to her. She was looking through him as if he were no less glass than the scene surrounding them. Taking her hands in his own, he said, Rhoda, I just don t understand. You won t even give me time to find the words. Laddy-- No. This time I ll have my say. Don t pull away. Don t retreat into that little world of yours, with your half- smiles and your faraway looks. I want to think about the music. There s more to life than music, Rhoda. There has to be. I ve spent as many years as you working inside my head, working to create something. You re better than I am, you re maybe better than anyone I ve ever heard, maybe even better than Bekh some day. Fine: you re a great artist. But is that all? There s something more. It s idiocy to make your art your religion, your whole existence. Why are you doing this to me? Because I love you. That s an explanation, not an excuse. Let me go. Laddy. Please. Rhoda, art doesn t mean a damn thing if it s just craft, if it s just rote and technique and formulas. It doesn t mean anything if there isn t love behind it, and caring, and commitment to life. You deny all that. You split yourself and smother the part that fires the art... He stopped abruptly. It was not the sort of speech a man could deliver without realizing, quickly, crushingly, how sententious and treacly it sounded. He dropped her hands. I ll be at Treat s, if you want to see me later. He turned and walk away into the shivering reflective night. Rhoda watched him go. She suspected there were things she should have said. Page 140 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html But she hadn t said them. He disappeared. Turning, she stared up at the overwhelming bulk of the Music Center, and began slowly to walk toward it. Maestro, you were exquisite tonight, the pekinese woman said in the Green Room. Golden, added the bullfrog sycophant. A joy. I cried, really cried, trilled the birds. Nutrients bubbled in his chest. He could feel valves flapping. He dipped his head, moved his hands, whispered thankyous. Staleness settled grittily behind his forehead. Superb. Unforgettable. Incredible. Then they went away and he was left, as always, with the keepers. The man from the corporation that owned him, the stage manager, the packers, the electrician. Perhaps it s time, said the corporation man, smoothing his mustache lightly. He had learned to be delicate with the zombie. Bekh sighed and nodded. They turned him off. Want to get something to eat first? the electrician said. He yawned. It had been a long tour, late nights, meals in jetports, steep angles of ascent and rapid re-entries. The corporation man nodded. All right. We can leave him here for a while. I ll put him on standby. He touched a switch. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |
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