Fall Love

by Anne Whitehouse

  It was late afternoon when he left the loft. He felt both soothed and alerted by the chilly, humid breeze against his skin. The city of Boston lay before him in gloom and mist. He heard the bellow of a foghorn coming from the channel or from the harbor. He felt his weariness sloughing off from him like the shedding skin of a snake, and he began to walk away from the sound, into the city.

  The Common opened before him in the mist, the gold dome of the Statehouse hovering over it like a setting sun. He entered the open ground. Pigeons flocked on the paths that crisscrossed each other, scattering at his approach.

  He thought of how he had wandered alone in cities before. He walked towards Beacon Hill and began to climb it. He passed neat brick houses with wrought-iron gates on steep, narrow streets. The lamps at the doors cast smoky lights into the fog. Cars edged by carefully. The outlines and corners of buildings softened and disappeared.

  Paul found himself on a street where the houses seemed more dilapidated. Above his head, a breeze blew steadily, thinning the upper atmosphere and contrasting with the denseness and obscurity that he sensed around him.

  As the street dropped away from him at the top of the hill, he noticed a woman descending before him. Her figure was outlined against the dark tones of the street. Her light hair fell back from her tall, full shoulders. She was wearing an ordinary trenchcoat. Her step looked familiar, and Paul almost called out, "Althea!" but stopped himself.

  At a distance, he followed her. Her hair blew out behind her. He tried and failed to catch a glimpse of her face as she paused at a stop sign at the bottom of the hill. Then she began to climb up the other side.

  He waited in the valley, watching her. He thought he must be mistaken: she wasn't Althea. Halfway to the top, she hardly seemed to pause under a lamppost, when a man came to join her. Paul was too far away to make out their features in the gloom. He saw only that the man had wavy, dark hair and was wearing an overcoat. He observed as they met and embraced.

  Witness to strangers' intimacy, he was aware of his own isolation. Absorbed in dance—in performances and, now, in his creation—he had hardly been thinking of anything or anyone else since the performance tour began. Nor had he missed such thoughts. Now, for the first time, he felt lonely.

  The couple's kiss ended, and he saw them go on ahead together. Then a delivery truck pulled up in front of him, obscuring his view, and when he had gotten around it, he discovered that the man and the woman had vanished.

  The mist was blowing away, and night was coming on. He began to walk, quickening his pace. As he reached the crest of the hill, he glimpsed a figure turn into a narrow alley. A flutter of movement, an impression of a tan coat were all that he could recall a moment later, yet he was convinced that it was the woman he'd first taken for Althea.

  He followed her. Just as he turned the corner, he thought he saw her disappear into a house at the end of the short cul-de sac. There was no one else in the alley. Under the sounds of traffic on neighboring streets, distant and remote, he heard a sound of music carried on the air, lovely and elusive, and he stopped to listen. It was like a vibration of the atmosphere, not made by a human voice or on any instrument that he could recognize. Perhaps I've been listening to whales' songs too long, he thought.

  As if in accompaniment to his curiosity, a rush of musical tones compounded and then resolved into a single, soft, sighing sound. It seemed to him that a mysterious, unknown agency was alerting him, and that he was about to be given a gift—or a prophecy. He walked in the direction of the music, toward the house the woman had entered. Yet, as he continued, the music began to ebb. Then it grew faint until he no longer could hear it.

  The house was brick, painted gray, and rather plainer than the others on the street. At the level of the walk was a door, and next to it was attached a small sign. "Musical Instruments-Antique and Rare," it read, and underneath, in smaller letters, "By appointment only." Paul rang the bell.

  He waited, no one answered. He rang again. "Just a minute, just a minute," he heard an annoyed voice saying. After a pause, the door was opened.

  In the entrance was an elderly man in a mechanized wheelchair, a plaid shawl draped over his knees. "Do you have an appointment?" he demanded.

  "I'm afraid I don't," replied Paul, looking over the man's head for a glimpse of the woman.

  "Are you interested in the collection?"

  Paul's gaze returned to his interlocutor, who stared back. The man seemed to be in earnest.

  "Can you interest me in it?" Paul asked.

  "You haven't come to see it then?"

  "Not expressly. I thought I saw a lady… "

  "There is no lady. I have an assistant, of course." Interrupting Paul, the man spoke sternly, with authority. "Close the door and turn the bolt," he continued, clicking on the motor of his wheelchair. "Then go ahead of me and get the light. It's on the left, at the end of the passage."

  Paul found himself obeying. In the chiaroscuro, he saw their spectral shadows looming on the walls. Behind him he heard the slight purr of the wheelchair motor. He found the switch on the wall and pressed it. "Go on in," he was told.

  His impression was of clutter, but not of chaos. He was in a room filled with musical instruments of many descriptions- arranged in cases mounted on the walls, placed on long tables, and filling glass-doored cabinets. He had never seen so many instruments at once, and all silent. Fifes and flutes, pipes and drums and horns, lutes, dulcimers, mandolins, and guitars, all neatly labelled, lay closely together on the tables. Scanning them, Paul felt slightly anxious, as if he ought to be searching for something, but he wasn't sure what that was.

  Because the woman on the street had reminded him of Althea, he had followed her. He had continued trailing her even when he felt she probably wasn't Althea. As he perused the mute instruments, he wondered if one of them had made the music he'd heard—soft, swelling harmoniously, then subsiding into silence. While the proprietor's eyes were on him, Paul didn't feel like handling his objects. Stationary in his wheelchair, the man kept up a running commentary. "Some of these are contemporary replicas, and others have their histories. Most, but not all, can be played. I buy and sell instruments and make small repairs. This is my sideline. I retired from my main line years ago. My name is Keith MacDonald, but everyone calls me 'Don.'"

  Don was garrulous, and Paul was his audience, captive for these moments at least, but incompletely attentive. He looked up to see a young man entering the room, behind the wheelchair. He was holding what looked like a long wooden box. Paul saw him before Don did. He reminded Paul of himself as a teenager, his hair long and loose, but brown, not blond. He was wearing faded jeans and a flannel shirt.

  Approaching, he addressed Don, "I found a small crack on the bottom. I'd like to show it to you."

  "Put it here," said Don. He rolled up to the edge of the nearest table and lifted a guitar to make room for the box, which was narrow and long, made of pine, with strings over two soundholes. Paul studied the youth as he obeyed Don, observing his smooth, almost veinless hands, his curling lip, olive complexion, and almond-shaped eyes. His skin wore a sheen, like a light coating of oil. He hadn't glanced at Paul.

  "What is it?" Paul asked.

  At last the youth looked up, taking Paul in in a brief, dark regard. "Ask him," he said, jerking his chin to indicate Don.

  "This is my assistant," said Don. "Christopher, meet Mr… .I didn't catch your name."

  "Carmichael."

  "Yes, indeed. Mr. Carmichael, this is an Aeolian harp. Named for the god of the winds. A wooden top rests over the harp, leaving the sides open. The harp is made with dimensions that fit inside a regular sash window, like the ones here. When the wind blows, it plays the harp, making a music that doesn't repeat itself."

  "I know," said Paul, "I heard it."

  "Oh, you have one yourself, or know someone who does?" inquired Don with sudden interest.

  "No, I heard it just now, wafting up and down the street."

 
"That's impossible," said Don. "The harp wasn't in the window. Besides, you'd only hear it thirty paces away at the most, and then under ideal conditions. Not like this evening. I was in my office, and I didn't hear it." Don's tone dismissed Paul. He turned to his assistant. "Where is the crack you wanted to show me?"

  "Underneath." Christopher raised the harp on one side. "It's about three inches long." He paused, then advised Don, "But you know, he might have heard it. I had it in the window for a little while just now."

  "I thought you had gone out."

  "No, I was here."

  "Hmmm. Never around when I want you. I called you twice. Still, you're not a bad sort."

  "Thanks," Christopher drawled.

  A slight flush spread over the old man's face. He bent to his task brusquely. Christopher was all respectful attention. To Paul, they made a tableau, the old man and the youth. Don examined the crack with a blunt but careful finger. The light fell unevenly over the two of them, casting them in partial shadow.

  "How much is it?" Paul asked.

  When Don didn't answer, Paul considered that he might be hard of hearing, at least when it suited him to be. In the ensuing pause, the idea of the harp appealed to Paul all the more.

  Yet Don had just hesitated with his answer. "I don't think it would pay to repair this, unless it affected the sound, and then you'd have to replace the whole board."

  "I'll take it anyway, depending on the price." Paul was picturing the harp in a window in the penthouse on a gusty day with the sound pouring in. He thought, The music can't be possessed, but the instrument can. However, Don was unwilling to sell.

  "I'll tell you what," he said, with an attitude of doing Paul a favor. "There's a company I do business with, in California. They make many instruments, including Aeolian harps. You can order from them, if you like, through me. I'll show you the catalogue. Christopher," he continued, without waiting for Paul's answer, "will you get it? It's on top of the file cabinet, next to the desk."

  "I don't want to make a big deal of this," Paul said.

  "Nonsense," said Don. "I do it all the time. This way you'll have an Aeolian harp in prime condition. And the prices are reasonable. What's the difference to you if it's an antique or not?"

  "No difference, I guess."

  Christopher returned with the catalogue. Don spread it out and turned the pages. "Here we are. 'Aeolian harp, window model. Rectangular sound box of Colombian mahogany, with an inclined soundboard of Sitka spruce. Two hundred twenty-five dollars.'"

  Paul was intrigued enough by the Aeolian harp to order a modern copy to be sent directly to New York. He wrote a check for the sale and shipping, and the name he put above the address was Bryce's, not his own.

  This, too, was an impulse, like the purchase itself. It was as if, for Paul, the instrument was an instrument of fate, which could announce a return or welcome one. Absent from home again, Paul wondered anew if Bryce might not have come back to New York before him. Imagining Bryce's presence in their house, Paul could believe he had done so. In which case, the harp might seem a message to compensate for the message he had never sent, a symbolic precursor of his impending arrival.

  He believed that he was ready to resume their old life together, and he was determined to claim his stake in it without explanations or excuses. Yet he dreaded the initial confrontation with Bryce; he imagined that Bryce would act aggrieved at first and standoffish. Paul's apprehension made him obstinate—he would not phone first, he decided, uncertain of Bryce's welcome as he was. Rather than risk Bryce's complaints in a phone call, he would simply appear, trusting in the influence of his charm to bring Bryce around.

  Exactly how that would happen he didn't try to predict. In his heart of hearts he nourished a hope that Bryce would be so glad to see him that his anger would simply be a sign of his love, easily exploded, and followed by an immense relief. As for himself, he had forgiven Bryce months ago, when he betrayed him.

  He was impatient to go on to the next phase in his life, whatever it was. In fact, he believed that he had already gone on, in a sense, for now that he was dancing and creating a dance, these current absorptions had crowded out the old ones. He felt like a new man, regenerated.

  * * *

  True to his word, Paul arranged to show Savage Landscape to the company the following week after his conversation with Kurt. Clad only in a pair of black tights that ended below the knee, he was waiting, all keyed-up, on the afternoon of November 6th, when the other dancers and Kurt filed into their rehearsal studio in Hartford. Hector let out a wolf whistle when he saw Paul. "Get a load of this!" They were all laughing; they were at ease. Paul smiled feebly. He was so nervous that his palms were sweating. He wondered if it showed and hoped it didn't.

  The dancers sat together on the floor. A hush came over the room. Still Paul waited. "Hey man, strut your stuff!" Eric said.

  "I ought to tell you something about it first," said Paul. "It's about transformation, and so it begins with a birth. I try to become, or at least represent, creatures and elements of a landscape. I wonder if you'll be able to tell what they are. The score is underwater recordings of whales' songs. Okay, hit the tape player when I say so. No, not yet. The curtain opens. I'm on stage, curled up in a fetal position, crouching on the soles of my feet. My face and chest are hidden."

  He suited his actions to his words and then ceased to speak. Behind the darkness of his folded arms, he breathed slowly, deeply, concentrating his energy. "Now," he said.

  He listened for the first, haunting cries of the songs. Vibrating waves of sound washed over him. He was poised, utterly still. Then he began to rock back and forth on his heels, gradually gathering force, flexing his feet, rising on his toes.

  He was a creature breaking out of a shell. He intended those who watched to visualize the smooth, curved walls of the shell cracking from within, as he struggled to be born. And as he emerged, open-eyed, to enact his self-discovery, he did not allow himself to look at his audience ranged before him, but instead cast his gaze beyond them, afraid of interrupting the flow of his motions by trying to second-guess their reactions.

  As he danced, it occurred to him that the whales' songs sounded mournful and yet somehow ecstatic, as if weeping and laughing had been merged ambiguously together. He danced the bird part of the dance, followed by the cricket, which made them laugh, and the rock and the waterfall, where they grew silent. Then he was the tree, with its motionless trunk and its trembling leaves. As he moved to the rhythmic pulses of the whales' songs and then to silence, he understood for the first time the personal sources of his dance. He realized that distilled in it were his long weeks of loneliness and malaise. The illumination came to him in a flash, and he knew it was the truth. This was the private meaning, not explicit, intended only for himself. It wasn't his inspiration—no, that he could accurately pinpoint in an autumn sunset—but it was what had prepared him to receive that inspiration.

  This he knew as he danced: that the sources of creation are often hidden from the creator in the act of making and only recognized afterwards. All the stored energy must go into the creation, like the nourishment within the bulb whose achievement is the flower.

  He became still and gnarled as wood, and then his dance ended. He stood before them, his head bowed, unable to speak. He didn't know what they thought, but he was moved by his efforts- almost to tears.

  He struggled to get hold of himself before he faced them. They were clapping for him. Was the applause dutiful or meant? He couldn't tell. He raised his head and stood before them, awaiting their judgment.

  "Well?" he said.

  With frozen smiles they met his gaze. "It's unusual," said Pam, who was hardly ever at a loss for words.

  Hector said, "It's really different;" Eric used the word "interesting." Paul's bubble burst to hear them. A moment ago he had been full of himself; now he was limp and deflated

  "Was it that bad?" he asked, his voice low, chastened, but with a tinge of resentment.

/>   "There are some amazing sequences, but I'm not sure how it all comes together. It's not dramatic," said Jane, her brow wrinkled with the effort of explaining herself.

  "I don't know, I like it," dissented Michiko. "It seems Japanese."

  Paul glanced at her gratefully. They all looked to Kurt, their mentor and leader, and Paul realized that he had been waiting for this moment, when they turned to him for the definitive answer that would embody their reactions or overrule them. A performer still, if no longer on the stage, Kurt couldn't resist teasing their anticipation. To Paul he looked handsome, durable, as he stroked his beard, and then folded his arms across his chest and cleared his throat.

  He addressed them all. "At the risk of angering Paul with what he'll assume are euphemisms, I'll agree that the dance is 'interesting,' 'unusual,' 'different.' I'll go so far and say it's original. Where it came from, I can't say, certainly not from me"—here he glanced at Paul curiously—"but there are parts of it—the first part, for instance—that are very effective. Only the effects tend to get a little lost. I agree with Jane that it could use some shaping. I'll tell you what," he proclaimed, turning to Paul directly, "cut it in half, and I'll consider adding it to the repertoire."

  "What?"

  Coming after all the criticism, Kurt's offer astonished Paul. Until now all the dances the company performed were of Kurt's devising. He worked with his dancers and learned from them, but he called the shots. "You must really like it then," Paul said, speaking directly to Kurt, as if the two of them were alone in the room.

  "I wouldn't say I really like it yet," Kurt replied, continuing the dialogue, "but I like what it could be. In fact, parts of it plain annoy me, but I recognize that my resistance may in fact be a sign of the dance's worth. In my experience a strong mixed reaction is often the best. What I admire most is your willingness to risk gracelessness, and that you succeed is a kind of grace."