Read Online Whale Music by Paul Quarrington - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Quarrington
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Wait, though. This is not the “Song of Flight”, this is something I’ve not heard before. A sound akin to giggling, an idiotic marching drum thud. Chords float throughout, juicy major sevenths. The soles of my fat feet start to itch. Then there is a voice
—“Claire, the way the sunlight bounces in your hair.”
Good voice, whoever it is. Lush harmonies, the high voice gliding up to the ninthwhenever it gets a chance, which, to my way of thinking, is as close as you can get to Heaven and still keep the change in your pocket. Pretty as this might be, it is not the “Song of Flight”, featuring Mooky Saunders. I’m about to press STOP when I catch a glimpse of my mother. She is smiling. She is smiling the way she used to smile when Danny made a joke. Or when I made a joke for that matter. My mother is twisting her body back and forth, too, her hips connected to the heavy bass drum. I allow the music to continue. A trumpet solo now, savage and hawklike, keening through the soft clouds. This is all right, this music, whoever it is. The chorus. My mother joins in, finding the only available harmony, fitting her voice into the music like she fits her small hand into a satin glove. A tear rolls down her cheek, tumbles into her lemon gin. Just the single tear. The music ends, that is to say, it disappears forever to journey in the cosmos.
“Desmond,” says my mother.
“Yes?” I speak into a microphone, amplify my voice twentyfold so that it echoes in the recording chamber.
“Desmond. You still got it.”
“Did you think that was me?”
“Of course it was you.”
“Son of a gun.” Even I’m impressed.
“And you wrote it about me?”
“Claire,” I point out, “is your name.”
“Has anyone from Galaxy Records heard this?”
“Well, no. I’ve a policy of not allowing record executives in the house, except for purposes of committing ritual suicide.”
“You won’t even allow Kenny into the house?”
“Especially Kenny. He alarms me.”
“I’m the first person to ever hear this?”
“As far as I know.”
“It is very beautiful, Desmond. I’m proud of you.”
“Do you want to hear the ‘Song of Flight’?”
“I should be getting back. Maurice needs me.”
“If there’s anything I can do, you know.”
“Could I have a copy of that tape?”
“Mommy, you can have the tape. It’s not Whale Music.” I rewind, hand her the inch master. My mother kisses me on the cheek. “I’m sorry I was rude to your little friend.”
“It must be ghastly up on Toronto. She has something painful in her, Mom. She seems to be happy, but inside I think she’s very sad.”
“We could start a club.”
“She likes the Whale Music.”
“Goodbye, Desmond.”
“Toodle-oo.”
My mother disappears. I feel strangely energized. I think it is time to begin work on the last movement of the Whale Music, the “Song of Congregation”.
Do you know what I find strange, besides most everything? Motherhood is biological, correct? God concocted this scheme, He thought it was mighty clever, a little egg monthly shoots down the pipe, if some male-making matter is at the same time going up, you get babies. (Well, most of the time. Fay, astoundingly, could not conceive, even though her whole body seemed to swell and burst with the full moon.) But here in the War Zone, this process becomes unbelievably complex.
Much better to be as whales. Momma calves, the child weighs a mere tonne, it swims beside mother and for a few days swigs at the teats. Before long, it’s
tata, mater, I’m off to Kuchino Shima, me and the gang are having a little get-together
. And the mother simply bellows goodbye, perhaps cautions her lad to be careful in those Japanese waters, and that’s it. They may pass each other in a decade or so. They will surface, blow off a delighted hail, and then go their separate ways.
Yowzer
, that stings! I’ve been playing tuba for the past little while (long while?) and it has torn hell out of
—“Claire, the way the sunlight bounces in your hair.”
Good voice, whoever it is. Lush harmonies, the high voice gliding up to the ninthwhenever it gets a chance, which, to my way of thinking, is as close as you can get to Heaven and still keep the change in your pocket. Pretty as this might be, it is not the “Song of Flight”, featuring Mooky Saunders. I’m about to press STOP when I catch a glimpse of my mother. She is smiling. She is smiling the way she used to smile when Danny made a joke. Or when I made a joke for that matter. My mother is twisting her body back and forth, too, her hips connected to the heavy bass drum. I allow the music to continue. A trumpet solo now, savage and hawklike, keening through the soft clouds. This is all right, this music, whoever it is. The chorus. My mother joins in, finding the only available harmony, fitting her voice into the music like she fits her small hand into a satin glove. A tear rolls down her cheek, tumbles into her lemon gin. Just the single tear. The music ends, that is to say, it disappears forever to journey in the cosmos.
“Desmond,” says my mother.
“Yes?” I speak into a microphone, amplify my voice twentyfold so that it echoes in the recording chamber.
“Desmond. You still got it.”
“Did you think that was me?”
“Of course it was you.”
“Son of a gun.” Even I’m impressed.
“And you wrote it about me?”
“Claire,” I point out, “is your name.”
“Has anyone from Galaxy Records heard this?”
“Well, no. I’ve a policy of not allowing record executives in the house, except for purposes of committing ritual suicide.”
“You won’t even allow Kenny into the house?”
“Especially Kenny. He alarms me.”
“I’m the first person to ever hear this?”
“As far as I know.”
“It is very beautiful, Desmond. I’m proud of you.”
“Do you want to hear the ‘Song of Flight’?”
“I should be getting back. Maurice needs me.”
“If there’s anything I can do, you know.”
“Could I have a copy of that tape?”
“Mommy, you can have the tape. It’s not Whale Music.” I rewind, hand her the inch master. My mother kisses me on the cheek. “I’m sorry I was rude to your little friend.”
“It must be ghastly up on Toronto. She has something painful in her, Mom. She seems to be happy, but inside I think she’s very sad.”
“We could start a club.”
“She likes the Whale Music.”
“Goodbye, Desmond.”
“Toodle-oo.”
My mother disappears. I feel strangely energized. I think it is time to begin work on the last movement of the Whale Music, the “Song of Congregation”.
Do you know what I find strange, besides most everything? Motherhood is biological, correct? God concocted this scheme, He thought it was mighty clever, a little egg monthly shoots down the pipe, if some male-making matter is at the same time going up, you get babies. (Well, most of the time. Fay, astoundingly, could not conceive, even though her whole body seemed to swell and burst with the full moon.) But here in the War Zone, this process becomes unbelievably complex.
Much better to be as whales. Momma calves, the child weighs a mere tonne, it swims beside mother and for a few days swigs at the teats. Before long, it’s
tata, mater, I’m off to Kuchino Shima, me and the gang are having a little get-together
. And the mother simply bellows goodbye, perhaps cautions her lad to be careful in those Japanese waters, and that’s it. They may pass each other in a decade or so. They will surface, blow off a delighted hail, and then go their separate ways.
Yowzer
, that stings! I’ve been playing tuba for the past little while (long while?) and it has torn hell out of
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