Opus #1

Note: This story may contain mature themes and adult language.
If you are offended by such material, you might want to turn back.

It might never have happened if Christian's cousin Peter Quodmire, whom Christian secretly called Peequod, didn't play the cello. And if Christian had not been sent to Peequod's house for a week while his parents flew to Paris to speak on aneurysms at the International Conference on Losing Your Mind, or some such gathering. And if Peequod had not awakened Christian three mornings in a row with his groaning and screeching attempts to practice. But all these conditions were met, and so, with Peequod emitting a hissing snore on the fourth morning, Christian took the cello out of its black vinyl case and prepared to return the favor. If someone who has taken lessons for three years can make unendurable noises, he thought, then Christian Moore, who has never played a note on any instrument in his life, should be able to do the same. Such was not the case.

What happened as Christian eased into a ladderback chair behind the cello and raised bow to strings was Bach's Solo Cello Concerto Number 1 in G major. Christian had never heard Bach. The cello had a full magical feel in his hands as the notes seeped out almost as if by accident, a soft repeating cadence. The sound was not, at first, enough to disturb Peequod from his sleep, though his breathing eased and his snoring faded. Christian watched the bow and the strings and his hands first in puzzlement as the soft vibrations washed over him, then in amazement as he travelled each time back to the base G and then built more and more upon it. Finally, he closed his eyes, leaned back ever so slightly in his chair, relaxed the arms that had clutched the cello, and began to play with vigor, hitting the first sustained high D with a pure and even, yet driving and breathless vibrato. Peequod woke up.

"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing. Leggo of my cello!" Peequod's words bounced off the music, only slightly disturbing the ripples of sound Christian was creating.

"Mom, Dad, Christian's messing with my cello!" Peequod approached Christian, but not too close, circling him with curious repugnance, as he might a dead body found in the woods. By the time Aunt Attila and Uncle Stalin marched into the room, Christian had reached the lilting third movement, and a smile played over his lips.

"Well, make him stop," said Peequod. But Attila and Stalin, which were not their real names of course, only the well-earned titles Christian had bestowed upon them, stood, for once, silent and still. When he reached the end of the movement, Christian laid down the bow, leaned the cello against Peequod's unmade bed, and headed towards the bathroom.

"I think I'll take a shower now," he said, leaving Bach reverberating in the perfect silence behind him.

Attila and Stalin began taking Peequod to the symphony when he was six. At home, they played him records of Pablo Casals and Isaac Stern. Piano lessons started at age eight and the cello was undertaken at twelve, as soon as Peter's slow growing legs could accommodate the instrument. Money, the Quodmires found, could buy Peter the finest instruction. Christian marvelled at how unconcerned they seemed with the fact that it could not guarantee results.

"The important thing," Stalin said, "is to expose him to good music."

"Good" meant Baroque, Classical, and Romantic, with an occasional twentieth-century composer thrown in to "broaden Peter's horizons." What the Quodmires called "good music," Christian though of as K-Mart music, never having heard it anywhere but over the PA systems of discount stores. He made no distinction between a Mozart String Quartet and Montovani playing Lennon and McCartney.

"Idiot savant," said Peequod, undeterred by Christian's presence at the breakfast table.

"He can't be an idiot savant," said Stalin, "he's not an idiot."

"He could be an idiot," said Peequod. "Has he been tested? I'll bet he's never been tested."

"Shut up, Peter," said Attila. "Obviously Chris has been taking lessons."

"Why can't you play like that," said Stalin. "The amount of money we spend on lessons, you should be able to play like that."

"Oh, come on, Stalin," said Peter. "Did you hear him? Yoyo fucking Ma can't play like that."

"What did you call me?"

"Peter! Your language!"

"Screw you, mom."


Attila had dabbled in child psychiatry in between the year she dabbled in oil paintings and the year she dabbled in auto repair. In a box in the basement, she uncovered a book of IQ tests that should settle the question of Christian's idiocy once and for all. For his part, Christian insisted that he had never taken lessons on an instrument of any kind, though under pressure he did admit to playing a kazoo once at a birthday party.

"His IQ's one hundred and sixteen," said Attila after an afternoon of testing. "It keeps coming up the same."

"So he's no idiot," said Stalin.

"Yeah, but he's no genius, either."

"He can just play the shit out of the cello."

"Peter!"

Peequod spent an hour trying to teach Christian something about the piano. By suppertime, Christian could play most of "Chopsticks" without making too many mistakes. The next day, when Stalin took him to Karmalaski's Music Barn and forced him to try everything from a saxophone to a viola, Christian finally produced the noises he had been trying for when he picked up the cello-screeches, scratches, that sort of thing.

"You gave him what?" yelled Christian's father into the pay phone at Orly.

"Peter's cello. We gave him Peter's cello. You see he can play," said Stalin.

"Look, I don't know what's going on over there, Stanley, but would you please just meet us at the airport at three thirty?"

"Of course, Gavin. We'll see you there. I'll explain everything."

"I have no doubt," murmured Gavin under his breath as he hung up the phone.

But of course Stanley could not explain everything. He could not explain anything, and that fact galled him intensely, for he was a man who thrived on explanations. He reveled in those years when Peter constantly asked "why," giving him the opportunity to explain everything from bridge construction to llama breeding. Christian could imagine the explanation for his absence that Stalin would give when he met the Moores outside customs. "He's playing the cello," would be an explanation something akin to answering "Daddy, how did that bridge get there?" with "It grew there."

When they stopped by the Quodmire's house to retrieve Christian, the Moores were met at the door by a pulse of music. A low throb like the heartbeat of a dying man. In the living room Christian sat playing with eyes closed while Peequod looked on sulkily. A line of music would be followed by a pause of several seconds, then a few scant notes would precede another silence.

"This is cello playing?" asked Gavin.

"Oh my God," said Alicia, "he's only ever played solo pieces up to now."

"You don't recognize this?" said Stanley. "It's the cello part from the Dissonant Quartet." Gavin and Suzanne looked on dumbly. "Mozart's String Quartet number 18?"

"Uncle Gavin, you're not really going to let Chris take my cello away are you?" Peeqod's plea went unnoticed as Gavin approached his son the way he might a patient. He knew no more about Mozart than he did about interior decorating. What Gavin Moore, M.D., Ph.D., knew was medicine. He was qualified to practice both psychiatry and brain surgery. He knew why people did what they did and how to change their behavior. He stared intently at his son's face from a few inches away as the music became livelier, the chattering of a summer brook, while still keeping its underlying foreboding, the thunderheads building in the distance. If he stared long enough, he thought, he could make a diagnosis. He always did. Didn't his son call him Dr. God? He put his fingertips on Christian's neck and felt his pulse. To his revulsion he found that it was following the beat of the music precisely. He jerked back and before he could stop them, the words were out of his mouth.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Gavin," said his wife with an audible sniffle, "don't you know? You always know."

"I think," said Stanley, "you would do better to ask what's right with him."

"I just want my cello back," moaned Peequod.

"Shut up, Peequod," said Gavin.

"What did you call my son?" asked Alicia in horror.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" said Suzanne, now sobbing openly.

Dr. God sat down on the edge of the sofa and put his head in his hands. "I don't know, darling. I just don't know." And then the silence was broken only by the music and Suzanne's sobs, until the movement ended.

"That's a string quartet, huh?" said Christian. "I wonder what the other parts sound like."


Christian always knew where to find his parents, though he rarely went looking for them. Tuesday afternoon, for instance, he knew that his father sat in his office at the hospital, probably poring over medical books for references to "Spontaneous talent." In the Classical room of the compact disc store Christian's mother was undoubtedly listening to every cello piece they would play for her, trying to identify what Christian had played after breakfast. Her mind would not be able to reproduce the gentle grace of Barber's "Adagio for Strings." As for Peequod, no doubt he sat sullenly at the piano, benched, as it were, from cello playing. And the cello, which Christian had christened Damien, stood in the corner of his bathroom, spots forming on its finish where he had dripped on it after his morning shower. Christian stood in the kitchen, listening to the answering machine tape.

"Dr. Moore, this is Archie at the Journal of the Cerebellum. I just wanted you to know we received the corrected galleys of your article and everything looks fine."

BEEP

"Suzanne, this is Dr. Furniss' office. You had called earlier wanting some information about behavior modification through hypnotherapy. If you can call back between three and four this afternoon, Dr. Furniss will be happy to talk with you."

BEEP

"This is Don Krause at WIDH talk radio. I received a phone call about a Christian Moore who plays the cello. I'd be very interested in doing a piece on you Mr. Moore if you could call me back."

"OK, Don, human interest, what have you got?" Lucifer's voice filled the production room. "The producer from hell," Don had whispered to Christian, so finding his name had been easy.

"Great story. Listen to this." Don pressed a button as Christian' tried to decide what to christen this human interest hound. He paid no attention to his cello playing which issued from a dozen speakers. The music began in a military rhythm, firm long notes broken first by quarter notes, then later by eighth notes before returning to the drawn out tone that everyone in the room could feel in his sternum. The simplicity was deceiving, though. Christian's first cello line from Brahms Sextet in B-flat became more complex and virtuosic as the conversation progressed.

"This is my new friend Christian Moore," said Sherlock, laying a hand on Christian's shoulder. "This boy wakes up one morning last week and out of the blue he knows how to play the cello."

"He plays the cello? That's it?"

"Right. Never had a lesson in his life. Kid plays incredible. I got him on tape here in the studio, and I can get interviews with the aunt and uncle who were there when it happened."

"When he woke up and started playing the cello?"

"Right."

"Tell me something Don, how is it you know this kid never had a lesson?" 

"He told me so."

"He told you so? And you believe him."

"Well, yeah. I don't know he just seemed . . ."

"Exactly. You don't know. What you got is some pimple-faced nerd playing K-Mart music on the cello. People want to hear that they can listen to goddam NPR. Next." The push of a button and the merging of Christian, cello, Brahms, and God snapped into silence.

Stalin, Attila, and Peequod arrived at Christian's house in the mini-van. Stalin had called during dinner the night before, interrupting the circulation of the folded white boxes of Chinese food around the table.

"I arranged a try-out for you with the symphony," he told Christian. "I have connections."
Christian and Peequod sat on the back seat with the cello between them.

"Can you turn up the air-conditioning?" said Peequod. "The cello will be impossible to tune if we don't keep it cool."

"How do you tune it?" asked Christian.

"You should be carrying it in the case, you know. You should always carry it in the case."

"Had you thought what you might play for the audition, Christian?" asked Attila.

"What does that mean, anyway, 'tune it'?"

The Quodmire family, the estranged cello, and cousin Christian cascaded out of the van and into the back door of the arts center where the symphony practiced. Berlioz seeped through the double doors that led backstage.

"We're a few minutes early," said Stalin. "It always pays to be prompt. Shows people you're serious about what you're doing."

"A half hour early, really," said Attila.

Christian settled in behind the cello and the Quodmires faded away. After a moment of listening to the strange sounds of the symphony, he turned his bow around backwards and began to play.

"You see that," whispered Stalin, "he's playing right along with them. Can't even see the conductor, never played col legno before, and he's banging out Symphonie Fantastique."

"Shit," said Peequod, "how's he do that?"

Stalin peered out into the dark, trying to find a face to look into. He hoped for the face of Maestro Brodinsky, the brooding conductor imported from eastern Europe whose visage glared down from the posters back stage and whom Christian had dubbed "The Brow," after the single black eyebrow that streaked across his forehead like a Franz Kline brushstroke. "Um, we're here to audition for the opening in the cello section."

A voice from the void snarled, "All of you?"

"No, this is my family. I'm Stanley Quodmire . . ."

"The name I have is Christian Moore," said The Brow.

"That's right. This is Christian. He's my nephew."

"And you are authorized to represent him?"

"Well, yes, I suppose."

"Who is his teacher?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Who is his teacher?"

"Well, you see he doesn't have a teacher, actually. He's more or less self taught."

"Susan! Susan! What is going on here? I have no time for this. Do I not have better things to do than to sit here and to listen to some, some punk with no teacher. I am sorry, sir, but he must have a teacher. I must have recommendations. How do these people get in here? Susan!" Sounds of whispering from the dark.

"Well you see, sir, I happen to be a close friend of . . ."

"All right. Let us get this over with. What will he play?"

"I don't know . . ."

"You don't know. Wonderful. He does not know. He comes here with no teacher, he is playing a cheap student cello-Susan can we not get him a decent instrument?" Whispers. "Yes, yes. Never mind. OK. I give you thirty seconds. Play."

Christian cracked the air, hammering his bow into the first jarring notes of Elgar's Cello Concerto. Then, as the melody seemed about to emerge, he slowed almost to a stop, like a train that doesn't have the steam to get out of the station, until he landed on the low E with a burst of dynamic power. Then silence as the absent orchestra played one, two, three measures before Christian re-entered the search for melody, sawing harder with each downbeat that took him higher and higher in the quest. When he raised his bow a moment later, a note hung in the air unresolved, holding the room frozen in anticipation until Christian snatched at it and plucked the full melody from it, diving slowly down to the depths of the instrument, then up and up, building his power and intensity, further up until his whole body poured into the notes that finally exploded into a brilliant and unexpected arpeggio landing octaves above where it had all started, on the high E. Then he stopped.

Whispers.

"That was nice Mr., what did you say your name was?"

"Christian."

"Very nice, Mr. Christian. You have an expressive style. And you do get marvelous tones out of that student instrument. Have you ever played in a group before?"

"No, sir."

"I thought not. You see, Mr. Christian, you play like a soloist-with passion and individuality. You interpret the music. You make it speak. But if you wish to join the cello section of a symphony orchestra, you must play like every other cello on your row. So, let us try again. This time just play the music you saw on the page. And remember, this movement is Adagio, so please make it adagio, OK?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Adagio."

"What's that?"

"Mr. Christian, I do assume you are familiar with the basic terms of music. Certainly you cannot expect to play in a symphony orchestra if you do not speak the language we speak."

Silence.

"Do you not know the meaning of the word adagio?"

"No."

"Andante? Allegro? Vivace? Piano? Fortissimo?" This last in booming fury.

"I know what a piano is."

"Mr. Christian, do you even know how to read music?"

"I don't understand the question, sir. I play music. I read books. How can you read music?"

"Mr. Christian, perhaps you are amused by useless endeavors that waste your valuable time. I am not. This interview is ended." Silence. The slamming of a door. Silence. Then Peequod.

"So can I have my cello back?"

Late that night, Christian sat in his room watching TV with the sound turned down and playing. A sharp melodic pizzicato built to a driving rapid fire climax before melting into a sustained A of such fullness and richness that Christian could close his eyes and feel the solidity of the music pressing against him. Then the bow began its delightful flight over the strings, echoing the melody of the opening pizzicato, but exploring it, developing it, and suddenly dropping it from A major to E minor and delving into its dark side with intense and desperate runs of sixteenth notes.

It wasn't late Mozart or early Beethoven which was borne out of Christian's window onto the night wind. It wasn't the work of some fin de siècle neo-classicist. In the hour since he closed his door to the world, Christian had become a composer. If he had known that, he might have thought to turn on his tape recorder. Instead, he sat in the glow of late night TV possessed by bow and strings, while his music flew out into the world, and was lost.

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