Read Online The Life and Loves of Lena Gaunt by Tracy Farr - Free Book Online
Authors: Tracy Farr
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just imagine it, the lightning and rain smell of it, impossibly damp and dry at once.
I adopt a playing stance: address the machine, face it, raise my hands, take a breath and bring my hands in to draw a note. Yes; there . I play a note, a trill, a run. I play a scale, C major, legato , then D major, pizzicato , pinching each note off from its predecessor and its successor. The sound is fine, good; no damage has been done in the shipping to and from Transformer, and I feel my shoulders relax with the knowledge. I should have known that it would take more than a ninety-minute journey by truck and two silly boys with a crowbar to cause damage. It’s lived a long time, this machine, travelled well in its long life; followed me in mine.
I test the instrument and my fingers, my memory: I play Shostakovich, the first concerto for cello, the allegretto movement. I feel my head nod and drop away.
Over my soaring playing I just barely hear a banging, a knock, and realise it is sounding from my front door. I drop my hands mid-bar, the resultant discord hanging in the air as I turn away from the machine.
Through the screen door I see the filmmaker is holding the same shoulder bag, wearing the same sunglasses as last week when we first met. I open the door. She smells of the same cool citrus perfume.
‘I’m so sorry. I’ve interrupted you, haven’t I? I heard you playing,’ she says. ‘As I came down the path, it got louder, and I realised what it was. I couldn’t tell whether it was a recording though, or if it was you playing. Actually playing.’
‘It was me. It’s just been delivered home from the festival. I wanted to test it, make sure it hadn’t been damaged in transit.’ I wave her in, usher her with my hands into the dark hallway.
‘And?’
‘Oh’– I make a dismissive noise with my lips, a dismissive wave with my hands – ‘it’s fine. I suspect it’s indestructible.’
‘Do you have someone who can, I dunno, repair it for you? Is it like a car; does it need regular servicing to keep it running?’
‘The man who made it for me – it would have been, I think, 1930 this one – always said I didn’t need to know how it worked, but I should be able to maintain it. There are things I do, to keep it running. Routines. Yes, I suppose, a little like oiling and fuelling a car, like replacing spark plugs.’
‘Could I see it, do you think?’
‘Of course.’
In the room, she stands slightly to the side of the instrument, and too far away to touch it. The ozone smell and the warm, dry hum of the instrument fill the room.She moves closer, takes a step, puts her hand out, but not in any systematic way, not as a thereminist would approach the instrument. As her hand nears the pitch aerial, I reach past her and, as my own hand trills up the straight metal rod, a series of notes sound, wobbly and incomplete, poorly formed from my awkward position.
‘God, it’s – strange. Strangely beautiful. The sound; it’s warm, isn’t it?’
‘It’s the valves. Old-fashioned glass and solidity. Here, let me.’
I move in front of the machine, into the playing position. She moves away to the side, far enough that she won’t affect the sound. I reprise the Shostakovich she heard me play as she arrived.
The filmmaker watches me, prowling the room as I play. I notice her looking at her hands, looking down. I hear a heavy click and mechanical wind; she is looking down into the viewing lens of an old-fashioned camera, held low at her belly.
I finish playing, trail off just shy of the lead-up to the movement’s ending. I turn to face her. She stands, leaning against the wall in what I know to be the room’s sweet spot, where the sound from the speaker is pure and as perfect as it gets in this little wooden shack. If she has found that spot from five minutes listening, then she has a fine ear, a very fine ear. If she is there by chance, well, she is there by chance. These things happen.
I reach out and touch
I adopt a playing stance: address the machine, face it, raise my hands, take a breath and bring my hands in to draw a note. Yes; there . I play a note, a trill, a run. I play a scale, C major, legato , then D major, pizzicato , pinching each note off from its predecessor and its successor. The sound is fine, good; no damage has been done in the shipping to and from Transformer, and I feel my shoulders relax with the knowledge. I should have known that it would take more than a ninety-minute journey by truck and two silly boys with a crowbar to cause damage. It’s lived a long time, this machine, travelled well in its long life; followed me in mine.
I test the instrument and my fingers, my memory: I play Shostakovich, the first concerto for cello, the allegretto movement. I feel my head nod and drop away.
Over my soaring playing I just barely hear a banging, a knock, and realise it is sounding from my front door. I drop my hands mid-bar, the resultant discord hanging in the air as I turn away from the machine.
Through the screen door I see the filmmaker is holding the same shoulder bag, wearing the same sunglasses as last week when we first met. I open the door. She smells of the same cool citrus perfume.
‘I’m so sorry. I’ve interrupted you, haven’t I? I heard you playing,’ she says. ‘As I came down the path, it got louder, and I realised what it was. I couldn’t tell whether it was a recording though, or if it was you playing. Actually playing.’
‘It was me. It’s just been delivered home from the festival. I wanted to test it, make sure it hadn’t been damaged in transit.’ I wave her in, usher her with my hands into the dark hallway.
‘And?’
‘Oh’– I make a dismissive noise with my lips, a dismissive wave with my hands – ‘it’s fine. I suspect it’s indestructible.’
‘Do you have someone who can, I dunno, repair it for you? Is it like a car; does it need regular servicing to keep it running?’
‘The man who made it for me – it would have been, I think, 1930 this one – always said I didn’t need to know how it worked, but I should be able to maintain it. There are things I do, to keep it running. Routines. Yes, I suppose, a little like oiling and fuelling a car, like replacing spark plugs.’
‘Could I see it, do you think?’
‘Of course.’
In the room, she stands slightly to the side of the instrument, and too far away to touch it. The ozone smell and the warm, dry hum of the instrument fill the room.She moves closer, takes a step, puts her hand out, but not in any systematic way, not as a thereminist would approach the instrument. As her hand nears the pitch aerial, I reach past her and, as my own hand trills up the straight metal rod, a series of notes sound, wobbly and incomplete, poorly formed from my awkward position.
‘God, it’s – strange. Strangely beautiful. The sound; it’s warm, isn’t it?’
‘It’s the valves. Old-fashioned glass and solidity. Here, let me.’
I move in front of the machine, into the playing position. She moves away to the side, far enough that she won’t affect the sound. I reprise the Shostakovich she heard me play as she arrived.
The filmmaker watches me, prowling the room as I play. I notice her looking at her hands, looking down. I hear a heavy click and mechanical wind; she is looking down into the viewing lens of an old-fashioned camera, held low at her belly.
I finish playing, trail off just shy of the lead-up to the movement’s ending. I turn to face her. She stands, leaning against the wall in what I know to be the room’s sweet spot, where the sound from the speaker is pure and as perfect as it gets in this little wooden shack. If she has found that spot from five minutes listening, then she has a fine ear, a very fine ear. If she is there by chance, well, she is there by chance. These things happen.
I reach out and touch
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