Read Online The Tenor Wore Tapshoes by Mark Schweizer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Schweizer
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only reason I bought the cabin, but it was a good story—and I always liked a good story. I found the cabin in eastern Kentucky and had the logs taken down, numbered, trucked down to my two hundred acres, and reassembled before building the rest of my house around the old structure. The den was two stories with a loft. Twenty feet by twenty feet was about average for a cabin in those days. A census report from 1880 shows eight people were living in it.
I settled into my writing chair and flipped on the banker's light, the only illumination save for the fire. I had the evening to myself—Megan was home with her mother in St. Germaine—and as I lit one of my Romeo y Julietta Cubans, I pondered briefly whether I'd want to give all this up and tie the knot. It was something I'd have to approach carefully.
I sat back, punched the button on the Wave remote and heard the first strains of Gorecki's Symphony Number 3. Gorecki's symphony had become immensely popular when it was first recorded in 1993, selling well over a million copies. In the classical world that's almost unheard of, especially for a contemporary composer. I had the recording—it was one of the "features-of-the-month" from the record company I subscribe to—but I was enough of a musical snob not to listen to it. Even though Meg recommended it highly, I certainly was not going to be drawn into listening to something so trendy. I had filed it away, unopened and forgotten, until this evening. I had been flipping through the CDs, looking for something mystical and Catholic, both to suit my mood and recent events. A recording of Gregorian Chant just would not do. It was too early in the year for Christmas music. A requiem was out of the question. So I settled on Gorecki— The Symphony of Sorrowful Songs, for soprano and orchestra . This evening seemed a good time to hear it. It was dark and cold outside. I would be listening to it simply out of professional curiosity. And besides, I thought, it would be a good time to knock out a couple of exceedingly bad chapters of my latest opus.
* * *
I heard the tap, tap, tap coming down the hall toward my office, tiny rhythmic clicks synchronized to elephantine footfalls like the castanets of a Sumo Flamenco dancer. Then I saw him. He filled the doorway like banana pudding forced into a crème-filled donut, all the way to the edges and oozing though the keyhole. He was bigger than the last time I had seen him, but then I remembered that Toby Taps had a lifetime pass to the Hungry Hippo All-You-Can-Eat Buffet courtesy of a little problem he had taken care of for the owner. A little problem called an ex-wife. Not that she had been "ex" when Toby had been hired. But she certainly was "ex" now. Ex-tinguished, that is.
"Ise hoid youse was lookin' for me."
"Youse hoid correctly," I said.
Three things about Toby. First, he was always dressed in a black sharkskin suit, black shirt, black silk tie, a red carnation in the lapel and a black top hat sitting on his head. He was stylish. Second, he always wore tapshoes. It was his trademark. When you heard the tapshoes, you knew you were in trouble. Toby never wanted to sneak up on anyone. He wanted you to know he was coming. And third--Toby Taps had a beautiful tenor voice, small and crystalline. I had heard him sing "Dies Bildniss ist bezaubernd schoen" from The Magic Flute on more than one occasion. It was his favorite aria--the only one he knew--and he sang it at the funeral of every one of his assignments. Toby thought it was a grand gesture and although neither he nor anyone else knew what the words meant, no one said "no" to Toby Taps.
* * *
I clicked the return lever on the old typewriter and re-read what I had just written. Genius! I swung my chair around and picked up my sandwich. Then, in spite of myself, I started paying attention to the music. It's an occupational hazard. Usually I can put on some Leon Redbone or Elvis Costello or even Lyle Lovett and type away to my
I settled into my writing chair and flipped on the banker's light, the only illumination save for the fire. I had the evening to myself—Megan was home with her mother in St. Germaine—and as I lit one of my Romeo y Julietta Cubans, I pondered briefly whether I'd want to give all this up and tie the knot. It was something I'd have to approach carefully.
I sat back, punched the button on the Wave remote and heard the first strains of Gorecki's Symphony Number 3. Gorecki's symphony had become immensely popular when it was first recorded in 1993, selling well over a million copies. In the classical world that's almost unheard of, especially for a contemporary composer. I had the recording—it was one of the "features-of-the-month" from the record company I subscribe to—but I was enough of a musical snob not to listen to it. Even though Meg recommended it highly, I certainly was not going to be drawn into listening to something so trendy. I had filed it away, unopened and forgotten, until this evening. I had been flipping through the CDs, looking for something mystical and Catholic, both to suit my mood and recent events. A recording of Gregorian Chant just would not do. It was too early in the year for Christmas music. A requiem was out of the question. So I settled on Gorecki— The Symphony of Sorrowful Songs, for soprano and orchestra . This evening seemed a good time to hear it. It was dark and cold outside. I would be listening to it simply out of professional curiosity. And besides, I thought, it would be a good time to knock out a couple of exceedingly bad chapters of my latest opus.
* * *
I heard the tap, tap, tap coming down the hall toward my office, tiny rhythmic clicks synchronized to elephantine footfalls like the castanets of a Sumo Flamenco dancer. Then I saw him. He filled the doorway like banana pudding forced into a crème-filled donut, all the way to the edges and oozing though the keyhole. He was bigger than the last time I had seen him, but then I remembered that Toby Taps had a lifetime pass to the Hungry Hippo All-You-Can-Eat Buffet courtesy of a little problem he had taken care of for the owner. A little problem called an ex-wife. Not that she had been "ex" when Toby had been hired. But she certainly was "ex" now. Ex-tinguished, that is.
"Ise hoid youse was lookin' for me."
"Youse hoid correctly," I said.
Three things about Toby. First, he was always dressed in a black sharkskin suit, black shirt, black silk tie, a red carnation in the lapel and a black top hat sitting on his head. He was stylish. Second, he always wore tapshoes. It was his trademark. When you heard the tapshoes, you knew you were in trouble. Toby never wanted to sneak up on anyone. He wanted you to know he was coming. And third--Toby Taps had a beautiful tenor voice, small and crystalline. I had heard him sing "Dies Bildniss ist bezaubernd schoen" from The Magic Flute on more than one occasion. It was his favorite aria--the only one he knew--and he sang it at the funeral of every one of his assignments. Toby thought it was a grand gesture and although neither he nor anyone else knew what the words meant, no one said "no" to Toby Taps.
* * *
I clicked the return lever on the old typewriter and re-read what I had just written. Genius! I swung my chair around and picked up my sandwich. Then, in spite of myself, I started paying attention to the music. It's an occupational hazard. Usually I can put on some Leon Redbone or Elvis Costello or even Lyle Lovett and type away to my
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