“People were trying to tell him he was…”
A genius, Jean whispered, finishing the sentence before any other could.
A brilliant soul of gift.
What more embellishments would be necessary to add to the well-established image of his? Jean had once thought as he watched August under the blinding spotlights of Wiener Konzerthaus with wide eyes. Jean questioned; what may possibly be so different about this young man? Out of all the other cellists he knew, why him? Why was it that he, out of all the musicians Jean knew, had to be the first to perform on such a glorious stage?
Jean couldn’t stare away from the stage. His fingers curled in deep, his short nails digging into his poorly bandaged hand. The stinging of his fingers could bother him no more.
From the playful tease of the quickening tempo to the effortless yet flamboyant motion of his dancing fingers–compared to a genius like he, Jean had to admit in silent wrath that he was nothing but a mere mimic of brilliance. A mirror reflecting the tiniest spark of the most radiant of lights–that was all Jean ever was.
That was all he ever would be. Jean Perrault’s petit name would forever be written beneath the cursive letters of August Auer.
At least that’s what he had thought all those years.
Jean smiled bitterly at the distant memory as he walked down the unfamiliar street of Rosshain, Vorarlberg. It had taken him a couple of hours by train to reach this isolated town that lay on the exact border of Switzerland and Austria. Unlike the bustling streets of Vienna, Rosshain welcomed the newcomer in silence. The dying autumn leaves swept the cracks of building walls, and the cold breeze danced under the dimming lights of the vine-covered street lamps. Jean clutched his trenchcoat tighter, tucking his hands away from the chilly wind of late October. He quickened his pace, the clicking and clacking of his shoes echoing against the cobblestones of the empty street. His hands were shivering from the cold, but also from the growing anticipation.
And finally, he reached an old house. Above the wooden door weathering away with age, a fading sign read August’s Cello Lessons. A single instrument by heart. Jean pushed the creaking door and stepped inside. The room held a faint scent of wood and rosin that eased his slight anxiety. His gaze briefly fluttered around the room and fell upon two people sitting in the corner. A young child, holding a cello as big as himself, grasped the bow with trembling hands.
“Now, now,” whispered a soft, familiar voice. “You mustn’t tense your fingers. Rest your fingers around the bow as if tending to a bird. There.”
August leaned in, murmuring in a low voice as his hands hovered over the child’s hesitant fingers. When the child carefully drew his bows across the strings, the instrument responded with a long, wavering note. The sound rippled through the air as August let out a small chuckle of amusement. The child stared down in amazement as though he couldn’t believe such magic had come from his own hands. Jean patiently stood in the doorway, unnoticed, until the excited child packed away the cello and left the room to rush home, ready to tell his parents about the magical moment he had shared with the cello at the dinner table.
Only then did August his gaze on Jean to address his presence.
“Greetings, old friend,” August rasped with a warm smile. “I must say that I have not expected you to arrive this early.”
“I took the quickest train I could find,” said Jean, his voice calm as he held August’s gaze with mixed emotions. “I simply couldn’t quite understand.”
“I am terribly sorry,” murmured August. He looked away, glancing at the yellowed pages of sheet music he had pasted against the creased wallpapers. “I believe my disappearance to have been quite necessary.”
“Necessary?” Jean repeated August’s words in disbelief. “You disappeared without a single word, August.”
August Auer. He who had been at the height of his own career, who had been presented in the spotlight of fame, who could have been praised not only in all of Austria but all over the world had to make such a foolish, impulsive decision? Jean gritted his teeth as he remembered the day he was informed of the sudden disappearance of his acquaintance. The rise of a young maestro. The blazing talent of a new cellist. The resonant echo of Bach. A breath of life enchanting the dusting lungs of ancient masterpieces. August Auer. Vanished. Who else would ever be able to replace his music?
And the painful fact that angered Jean the most was that, whoever the replacements may be, they would never be enough. The public and patrons, once fuelled by the taste of August’s nectar, would never be able to satisfy their thirst through bland plainness. And Jean was right. He, no matter how strenuous his very efforts were, no matter how calloused and bandaged his hand became over the tiresome hours of practice, no matter how many times he had replayed the image of August’s performance, he was never able to reach the very title he longed for.
August sighed as he looked down at his cello that lay next to him. He traced the strings with the tips of his fingers as he spoke,
“It wasn’t a sudden choice.” Hesitation choked August’s throat as he continued, “It was never the flickering of the moment. I had been lost for quite a while. The fame, indeed, brought many opportunities and experiences that were worth cherishing. However, the well-known concertos meant for meaningless events and audiences made me notice that it was not myself performing on stage but an empty shell. I no longer recognized these hands, Jean. I could no longer hear the voice of my own instrument. I, as if blind, found myself staring blankly at the sheet placed before me and moving finger after finger and bow after bow and acquiring the skill of piece after piece in my head–what am I, Jean?”
“You are a genius,” replied Jean. “I wouldn’t dare be so ungrateful if only I were you.”
“I am no genius.”
“You must be one,” cried Jean, frustrating scratching at his throat. “Surely there are many who agree with this. I would have torn my own heart out just to have stood in your place. How dare someone as brilliant as you reject such praise?”
“Then you must not have seen true brilliance,” said August. “Brilliance. Talent. Value. It all comes from passion. The empty shell of August Auer did not have a soul. You were imitating the skills of nothing but a dead body and yet, you have placed the blame upon me. Yes, indeed, I chose to leave my title and fame, but it was worth the cost.
“I left Vienna with a heavy heart and nothing but some cash in my half-empty pocket and a cello in my arm. I thought I’d never find myself again. I felt like I had breached and severed the bond between me and my dear wooden friend with my own hands. My early years of love for this very instrument, to think that those moments would never return truly ached.
“And so I arrived in Rosshain. I played near clear lakes and small trails in the forest and hidden corners of this tranquil town and in nature where the wind would carry my song along its journey to places I have never travelled before. And one day, I realized I felt joy. The familiar warmth of passion and love. Tingling in the tips of my fingers, it was there. I was there. My soul was there, Jean.”
Jean listened to August, unable to speak. August spoke no more. Instead, he gently took his bow and cradled his cello upon his pounding heart. Jean held his breath as the fading lights of the night lamps streamed in through the stained curtains. The light veiled August and his cello, and Jean clearly witnessed, without a doubt, that it was a spotlight, illuminating the soul of August Auer.
August took in a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut as he drew his bow across the strings. The first note shuddered into the air like a relieving sigh from the cello’s core. Then came the wave of the second, then the third, and soon, August’s fingers weaved through the strings that sang the song of August, the haze of nostalgia, yearning, ache–all entirely intertwined with love. Each vibrato and accent etched upon each note was like a sob, the cry of a musician’s heart. August was there, yet not quite there, his soul floating and existing solely for music and nothing more. His softened face then crumpled in seriousness, the small wrinkle of thought sitting between his brows as the flow of the music intensified in crescendo. The sway of the wise cellist and his companion rocking back and forth was a pleasing moment in sight, as they became music itself.
Tears welled up in Jean’s eyes, inexplicable tangled webs of emotion rising up in his throat. It was nothing like he had ever heard before. It definitely was not grand or intricate in skill, and yet each note held more significance, every drop of desperate tears and sorrows, and each moment of brief despair and refound joy. This, thought Jean, is what you called a genius.
The music soon began to fade, the beautiful journey drawing closer and closer to its glorious end. The music slows, the notes slipping away from August’s grasp one by one, like the raspy voice of a sage old man. Slower. Then, slower. And even slower.
Then comes the final, prolonged note.
The long sigh of cello–the last story August wished to tell.
Fermata.
“You truly are a genius,” whispered Jean.
August looked up and smiled at Jean, a single teardrop flowing down his left cheek.
“And now, so are you.”
November 22, 2024 at 8:31 am
This is a very touching and magnificent story. The changing mind and motive of a genius musician lightens the theme of the story, which is following the inner mind and trying not to form a husk which do nothing but endlessly playing the music. The context and diction of the story is literally very intense and appropriate. It is a good story.