Middle C

by Gass, William H

  An hour passed. One-half more. A quarter. Minutes at the last. Skizzen patrolled the yard briskly to keep warm, reaching miserable conclusions about himself before turning around like a sentry to repeat the excoriation. Now and then a car would appear with dimmers lit. He might have to repair to Lowell, poor sanctuary that it doubtless was, because he was beginning to feel the cold change in his pocket. Also true: he was a mite scared. And he felt utterly out of place, lost, disowned, discolored, used up by misuse: just what he had been told would be the fate of the Bumbler if he continued to ride the clutch.

  Oh hell he’d have to go. Why hide? Pretend you are in Paris. Skizzen stepped nimbly across the short drive into the junkyard and darted behind the trailer where he peed copiously and in a worthy stream. You are excused, he said aloud to the place where the propane was once attached. The return to his station was leisurely. Perhaps his anxiety had been nothing more than a bladder problem.

  More cars had their eyes lit. He felt seen.

  Then the bus was upon him. Now numb, he had stared at it without recognition. It was not gracious about pulling over, but the bus stopped. Its door opened with an exaggerated sigh. He slowly climbed the steps toward the driver, his fingers familiar with the rituals of the fare. He thought it would be pleasant to sit awhile before a nice fire. But none of his chimneys drew. There were no Miss Spikys among the passengers who were few: two asleep, one a-chew. There would be no place to spit. Please God, make it gum. Joseph sat in the rear near a high school kid with a book bag and immediately closed his eyes. He wanted that Greyhound to drive him away from his past, but his past had assumed the shape and function of the bus.

  40

  He was about to be denounced. Joey Joseph Skizzen, Associate Professor of Music, was certain of it. He would walk to the college as he always walked. He would try to stroll, to regulate his breathing. His briefcase would hang from his left hand. So would all afterthoughts. For this tribunal, he should be dressed in his imposture. Why not wear the golfing knickers that made him seem so Viennese, with his little goatee combed and his cap firmly settled upon his head. He’d bring with him an occasional verb at the end of a sentence to attach, and a soft guttural sound to release from his throat as quickly as a cat from its carrier, so that his inquisitors would have before them the complete creature and object of their suspicions.

  He had pulled the brown envelope out of his postbox at the college; saw that it was one of those reserved for interdepartmental use, with lines along one side where multiple senders and receivers could be scribbled in—discipline here, name and rank there, office box the only address, day’s date no longer the day’s date—and where old routings waited for reuse; so he stuffed it calmly in his case, as he stuffed every bit of academic business, to wait its time—banality in a velope—and enjoyed his calm and measured walk home where he could untrouble himself at leisure with a few wedges of apple and the perusal of one of his beloved newspapers. Yes, by this time in his researches, he realized he relished bad news. The world grew every day more obscene, more cruel, more painful to endure. Now and then a leaf went to pieces beneath his shoe. It had been a dry autumn. Most trees were still green, though a few had grown somber. Somber had been the daily news, but Skizzen had found the normal climate of his life quite temperate these recent years, now that he had reduced his courses to a habit, had respect from every eye he thought counted, and administered his health in happy doses.

  In the early years of his tenure he had regularly stood himself up against the wall; he had imagined the day of denunciation; he had rehearsed again and again his defense; he had hidden himself in one of secrecy’s smaller closets. He began to realize that repetition was a principal element in his nature. He was constantly revising the habits of his life, his thinking. It was like learning to play the piano. Anfang … Beginning is difficult, but practice makes perfect. Turning doorknobs, climbing stairs, tossing upon the table before every class his little hat, setting down his briefcase, rolling his big toy dice—always working the room for laughs. Before he began … Anfang ist … hard. Practice … Then when the time came … and it would come … he would be ready; he would be indomitable. He would polish the expected until it disappeared. Yet …

  He was unprepared for the message he withdrew. Its tone was rather preemptory, even for a dean, and now that he had taken the message’s first blow, he thought that its address was very formal, “impersonal” might be the most accurate word, and its brevity—one that left its occasioning as dark as a locket snapped shut upon a once-loved face—in the neighborhood of rude. In a matter of extreme academic urgency and concern, his presence was requested at the office of the dean on … the call was only a day from his receipt of the paper he had in his hand … short notice indeed … for a party … even for … a demand; yet it said—what was it? was its form the form for a note? its shape the shape of a routine letter? its brevity the brevity of a memo?—it said—let’s see—it said that his presence was requested, not required; it described its subject as one of academic urgency, not criminal misrepresentation; it was a matter that needed no preparation; its subject was to be kept, indeed, from any possibility of private pondering or public gossip until the topic sprang from the dean’s agenda, which was probably not written down—anywhere—off in the air like an arrow from its bow. It was he it was aimed at. He was sure of that. The shadow of his fingers showed through the paper. Yet now he could see that its contents had multiple addresses, and these might account for the impersonal tone. Morton Rinse. Mort was there. Why? The dean, Franklyn Funk, whose name should have been on a five-dollar bill—was said to be the author, but why should he address himself?—good God! Hazel Hazlet, the librarian! whose formidable face had incited many a schoolboy jest—Andrew “Kit” Carson from history, with his heavy mane of white hair—and Steve Smullion from biology—a group chosen to travel quite across the board—but no coach—was that significant?—no college president; well, the dean wouldn’t, would he? address his boss as he might a subordinate. Palfrey could be present. Palfrey might have used the dean as a cover. That would explain the strange address. Why else would you include yourself? though it might be the way Joey wrote imaginary notes to Joseph. Skizzen felt Palfrey would be Palfrey, and when the president entered the seminar room, his jowls sagging still farther toward his throat because of the sadness and concern they bore, Joey would know the final score.

  What were these happy doses, these swigs of happy times, he would prescribe for the healing of his soul? Joey would sit at the piano in the downside of afternoon and play what he loved—pieces he could skip through without effort or mistake—and whose words he would robustly sing as he went along: “Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, / Which I gaze on so fondly today, / Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms, / Like fairy wings fading away …” When he sang he imagined Professor Skizzen to be assuming the voice of Fate, so Joey had to possess the boyish charms referred to. But Fate’s firm boast of fidelity was futile. Although the sunflower, as the song said, turned its face to the twilight wearing the same devoted look it gave the dawn, when Skizzen was seen to be other than he had been, the expression would be anger and scorn.

  As for Miriam, who already suspected something, and might not be terribly surprised by a little misrepresentation, the situation would nevertheless be as disastrous as could be imagined, because Miriam would have no more friends, could count the trials of her life as having accomplished less than nothing, and now would be compelled to face winter without hope or happiness or funds, hence to live on ingratitude as well as she could, since that was all there seemed to be an abundance of.

  Upon his confession, Joey could hear her speak like this, as an outraged victim to a judge, not facing him, rather addressing the world or some god who had been brought in to preside at the catastrophe. Joey could only stand there: mute, helpless, enraged on his own behalf, ashamed, a destitute. Her manner of life, as well as his, would go up in such smoke as their suttee co
uld summon: a bonfire of house, furniture, and garden, a consummation devoted to nothing: no degrees, no licenses, no number for a name, no father, no background, no learning, no love.

  No guilt.

  That would be his defense, and his explanation. Joey was innocent. He had not stolen the diamond-pointed needle from Mr. Kazan’s store.

  He had not given Professor Ludens the least encouragement. He had not had evil intentions when he accepted Madame Mieux’s invitation, or succumbed in any way to intoxicating smoke in Mieux’s nest of cozy pillows. He had not made sinful overtures to the Major or taken advantage of Portho’s poverty. He had not conspired to defame or overthrow the Lutheran church whatever Rector Gunter Luthardt might say. He had returned all his borrowed books to the library. He had persuaded the college to feed the school’s emaciated collection of recordings until it was plump, if not fat.

  But you stole garden seeds from the school’s shed.

  And he had paid in cash for his car. He had not struck any human being with it either.

  You stole garden seeds from the school’s shed.

  I was poor and needy. It was a gesture worthy of Dickens. It was my poor mother’s birthday. They were cheap seeds.

  You had no license allowing you to drive. You have never paid a penny in taxes.

  I was … I was a misregistered alien, a victim of violence and dislocation; surely that must be seen as a plus, for it meant that I had never supported one of America’s wars or failed to carry out the duties, like voting, expected from the ordinary citizen, since I wasn’t one and was under no obligation.

  But you lied to President Palfrey about your age, education, and academic qualifications.

  Is it my fault if I had no training and had been denied by circumstances the tutorial skills of the great Gerhardt Rolfe? or that arthritis had slowed my fingers so that I could no longer perform my favorite Chopin? I drove my mother to see her daughter when Debbie was in labor. And again when the little pebble was born.

  You got rid of the car so that you wouldn’t have to do this favor for your mother.

  I rarely eat her food anymore. I rarely see her through so many doors. She gardens as regularly as a tap drips. Debbie drives in from the farm now and then. She even brought the baby with her once. How loud it was in the walls of that house.

  You spent hours of your lying life obsessively rearranging the words in that sentence you wished to pronounce upon humanity.

  No, no. Not a life. It cannot have been an obsession because I finally got it right.

  First Skizzen felt mankind must perish, then he feared it might survive.

  First Skizzen felt mankind must perish

  then he feared it might survive

  Twelve tones, twelve words, twelve hours from twilight to dawn.

  I furthermore collected evidence for my fears by establishing the Inhumanity Museum. One day the library will give over one or two of its rooms to my achievement. Perhaps the very authorities that accuse me now will establish in my honor the Twelve-Tone Chair or fix upon a bronze plaque the sacred words: FIRST SKIZZEN FELT MANKIND MUST PERISH, THEN HE FEARED IT MIGHT SURVIVE. At Augsburg College, Luther had his door of wood or block of stone, why can’t I have mine?

  Luther said you couldn’t buy your way into God’s good graces. It would come, if it came, free in the mail. You are the soul that needs reformation; right now you are made of nothing better than ballyhoo. For instance, wasn’t the museum designed to the specifications of your pleasure, and your pleasure alone?

  Did I not establish a yearlong course in the history of music? Was I not mentioned—twice—for most distinguished teacher? My students may have, but I never skipped class, was never late, and rarely ill. My oddities helped sustain the dignities of my subject. Compare me then with my compatriots. Pull them from the line! Send them to the rear! So I had no pretty papers to make my existence authentic, and—yes—I had to learn my trade by pursuing it. So what! Compare me. Compare me. Then fire us all. Our crimes vary, but our guilt defies dry-cleaning.

  There is a system of certification, designed to protect students from incompetence and misinformation, whose rules you have broken irreparably. Even if you have done all you say, you do not merit special treatment. Serious students must learn many things they do not wish to learn, but you have learned only what you liked to know. You licked the chocolate from a candy wrapper. You are a clown, a pratfaller fellow. Selling snake oil from a pregreased bottle.

  Joey did not dare to explain to the president of his college or his colleagues or his dean that he had an aim in life they might not understand but one that their suspicions were defeating: it was to pass through life still reasonably clean of complicity in human affairs, affairs that are always and inevitably … envious, mean, murderous, jealous, greedy, treacherous, miserly, self-serving, vengeful, pitiless, stupid, and otherwise pointless. My father fled the Nazis before they were the Nazis, because he knew our nature. He tried to remove himself from blame, from complicity. Had he not done so, would he not have been, in some small way, responsible for the behavior of the Austrian state, greeting their cheapjack little Führer as if he arrived with lunch? Nor do I belong to America. I am without number. My money, meager as it is, cannot be spent nefariously. I have not contributed to the tricks of high finance. I live simply, out of the reach of ambition or conspiracy. You see, Professor Skizzen is not me. I send him forth to represent me, you might say, to be the man who has to do the business with the devil that must be done.

  Then why is—

  Then why is his face still floating about the base of the dish, though it’s been emptied of soup and every other info?

  … puff and bray … puff and bray … puff and bray …

  Professor Skizzen is only a memory. He is a disguise. His nose, his cheeks, his eyes, are made of a broth that others spoon into themselves. Hear that sound as they suck in bits of carrot and some peas. So I pass into their lives. I become them. I contrive what they shall see: me me not I, no not I. I guess you have the right to devour me, because you have made me possible: you picked me out of a basket, a mere folder, a sheaf of assertions; you saw fit to believe each lying page; you gave me a contract; you seasoned me like a stew; and you gobbled up much time in my life—committees, classes, study, civic service; you ate with your eyes closed. If I am a fake, so are you. If I am ignorant of some things, you are unaware of more. To you, a counterfeit is more acceptable than a real bill, the shade of a shade more important than the tree.

  … smirk … bluff … heat … wash …

  You never liked Schoenberg. You play the piano as if your fingers were broken. You live with your mother. You read the wrong books.

  Think of the hours I devoted to my other selves: how often I had to dodge dangerous questions; commit to memory enlargements of one myth or other, rehearse sequences, qualities, effects; practice timing as though I were playing a concert, disguise my incompetence in that regard; pick a professorial wardrobe, choose a cap, grow a goatee; keep calm in the face of disclosure, which I cannot say I am doing very well right now …

  … cheat and bleat … bow and scrape … preen and prate …

  Okay, fire Professor Skizzen, for he has deceived you; erase Joseph from your memory since he has surprised you; Joey will teach the class, meet alumni, attend meetings, earn the livelihood. I have no more “me.” I have my mother I must care for. You won’t find a trustworthier chap. She is the only M left in my life. When asked, I recommended to the Woodbine Literary Club the best books about opera, even though one of my colleagues, whose name I will protect better than he will mine, warned me that the club was but a coven of old hags. I talked to little clouds of high school students about coming to Whittlebauer College even though they would very likely be better off elsewhere. At committee meetings I nodded when it was hoped I would. I didn’t steal coffee cups from departmental offices, and I showed up for the stuffy lectures of dreary invitees; I made my bow before other notables and attended the performa
nces of safely out-of-date plays. Oh, yes, and to chapel went I now and then, sober as the hymnal.

  This is the way we smirk and sigh, lurk and spy, favor buy

  this is the way we smile and lie

  to prepare for the faculty meeting.

  Oh dear, no, I can’t beg Palfrey to be kind. Joey must not soil himself with the academy’s hypocrisies. Your face, Prez, is not otherwise fat, but you have the jowls of a hound dog. Your handshake is an impersonation of a spit rag. You play with the emotions of widows. You constantly pretend to be concerned for the welfare of one, the forlorn status of another, and continually broadcast your love of the Lord, because that’s what you are paid to do. Why should I be singled out for scorn? I lie small-time. No door squeaks when I slide by. Whose life was damaged by my subterfuges? What harm did I do teaching music? Just a little art and less craft to enable my girls to pass a leisure moment of the day: such as a bit of knitting, threading a needle, brushing watercolor flowers into bloom, rendering a dear old tune. Yes … yes … I taught mostly future’s ladies. Ditto your classes in French. It’s said you love sinners. My small sins were made for forgiveness. Like forgiving a twenty-nine-cent debt.