Oberon's Gift

by Richard Dante

  Several prominent architects were contacted and each submitted sketches. The mansion was to be built on a piece of property high on a hill in Marin County. Construction, landscaping and decorating would take two years.

  As George turned the car up California Street he found himself tapping out a rythm on the steering wheel. Musical thoughts had been bugging him for weeks, as tunes buzzed in his head. Driving up the circular drive of their high rise apartment building, he wondered about this new obsession. Not exactly annoying, it had begun to distract him from his primary goal, a doctorate in Political Science; it was such a distraction in fact, he’d brought books home to study over the weekend.

  The doorman helped him gather his materials, and load them into the elevator. George thanked the man and assured him he could handle everything at the top.

  In their tenth floor apartment, he stashed the books behind one of the potted palms. He’d dive into them later. He was about to put the guitar there also, but thought better of it. Lydia, George Two and Liza Cooper were out shopping so he had the apartment all to himself. In the living room, his eyes caught his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace and he moved toward the image. He studied himself. Not much change. His beard and hair were neatly trimmed a little closer and he clothes were of better quality, but the same George Potter still stared back at him. He smiled at his reflection and could feel the laughter welling up inside.

  “Hello, Monsieur Nouveau Riche!” he said with a chuckle.

  He still held the battered guitar case. He looked around for a place to hide it. Amazed how their living quarters had improved in just a year. The scarred old case really looked out of place among the elegant furnishings. He started to set it down on the coffee tale, then held it up in front of him as a memory suddenly flickered through his mind. So many miracles had happened he’d almost forgotten.

  “Musical Talent!” the little man had told him at their wedding reception. “The second wish is Musical Talent.” George looked again at the old case and shook his head. No--ridiculous!,

  But he had wished for wealth and look at this apartment. He most certainly was rich. Maybe...

  just maybe the red bearded Oberon fellow hadn’t been a champagne fantasy.

  George hadn’t touched the guitar since his wedding day. The case he held was a bit dusty and he felt like he was defiling this beautiful room with the ancient dust of his past. Hesitantly he opened the battered, dilapidated case. One of the hinges was broken and the other looked like it was about to give way. The instrument itself wasn’t in much better condition. It was a gift from his father on his sixteenth birthday. It was used merchandise even then and George had hauled it around from one pad to another for years. He’d taken a couple of lessons when he was in high school. They hadn’t helped much. He could still barely accompany himself if the tunes were in the key of C--or at the most in F. Any more flats or sharps were out of his territory. He gently lifted the old instrument out of its case. He wavered for a moment and almost put it back. He had a lot to do and there really wasn’t much time to mess around. He looked down at his fingers. He couldn’t even see his calluses. Soft as the hands of baby George, he thought to himself. If he could still play at all, it was going to be a painful experience. He left the metal strings open and gave them a twang.

  “Oh man--bad vibes,” he said aloud, cringing at the sound. The old box was way out of tune. He fumbled with it for a few minutes and at least got it in tune with itself. He was surprised that he could define the pitches so well. Usually it sounded to him as if it was a bit sharp or flat, but he could never tell which. He struck a G chord--the sure test. For the first time in his life it actually rang true.

  George reached down into the old case and drew out a tattered song book. There were only a few songs in it he could play. He turned to one of his old favorites and began playing the accompanying chords. They were simple and basic, but at first he felt unsure and awkward. He stuck with it and soon it all started to come back to him. He tried a good ol’ reliable strum: Down-down-up-down-up-down.

  “Hey! Not bad!”

  Like riding a bicycle, you never forget how. That also seemed true with his old guitar. He flipped through the dog-eared old book, picking out a few phrases from this song and that. He’d never been able to play some of them before. Now, although he hit a few clinkers, his playing was one hell of an improvement.

  He decided to try a song. George picked one he knew and liked. He smiled ruefully to himself for a moment, remembering the last time he’d performed it. How he’d butchered it at the wedding reception. He wondered what was going to come out as he fixed an eyed on the open book, took a deep breath and stuck the opening chord. He started to sing the first line of the chorus, but before he could finish the opening phrase, he stopped. Something was wrong. This wasn’t his voice. For one thing, the notes were normally almost too high for his meager range, yet now the sound came out clear and right on key. He didn’t slide up to the first note or almost crack as he sang. His voice was stronger, too. He started over and sang the whole verse. Goose bumps broke out on his arms. Maybe resting his voice all these months had been the reason, or, and he hardly dared think about it...what had really happened at their wedding reception?

  He sang the song all the way through. By the time he finished his heart was pounding and the hair on his neck felt like it was standing on end. He couldn’t go on after that. He felt too good. George put the old guitar back in it’s case and stood looking out the picture window at the city. He simply couldn’t get over the feeling of warmth that had surged through him while he sang.

  “Well, well, Georgie Porgie. Isn’t daddy in fine voice today?

  George turned to see Lydia standing in the doorway with Liza who was holding George Two. There was a strange look in their eyes. He walked over and put his arms around his family. A great feeling of love flowed through him as he looked down at them, and though he struggled to keep them back, he could feel tears well up in his eyes as he bent to kiss them.

  ****

  The next morning, George crept into the living room and took out the old guitar case again. This time he withdrew and held the instrument almost reverently. Would it still be there? The ability--the feeling he’d had the day before? He began to play and found new strength and dexterity in his fingers. He sang the song again and could feel every nuance in the meaning of the lyric poetry.

  As he finished the song, he heard a sound behind him and turned to see Lydia standing in the doorway. She was smiling, but tears were running down her cheeks.

  “George,” she breathed. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

  George set the guitar back in the case and she came running to him, put her arms around him and held him close.

  “George, what is it? What does it mean?” she asked as she kissed him.

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve certainly never felt anything like it before. Whatever it is,

  I want to know more.”

  TEN

  In the weeks that followed, George and Lydia made several decisions about the future. They found themselves with time on their hands, and the wealthy young couple agreed, that to continue to grow, they must continue to learn. So when the fall semester rolled around, they left Liza to watch over George Two and returned to Berkeley.

  Lydia want on with her journalism studies and George took a couple of graduate courses in Poli-Sci while he researched a subject for his doctor’s thesis. He wanted to do something different; something profound and of use to future generations, and would not be filed away to gather dust in the university archives. Also he wanted to create a basis for a political career. As he delved into the areas of sociology, psychology and economics, the glimmering of an idea touched his mind, but it seemed to come to him from a long way off.

  He was also very involved with his new found talent. In order to do both his
research, and follow his musical bent, he was forced to organize every minute. He drove himself to study and do research for his thesis, yet nearly all his waking hours found his fingers itching to pick up his guitar and play--a new guitar now, the finest money could buy.

  He was ravenous for more knowledge about music, singing and songs. He studied for a few months with a renowned San Francisco guitarist. His technique grew by leaps and bounds until he was playing in the league with Chet Atkins, Roy Clark and Lorendo Almieda. Finally his teacher advised him to keep his money; he could teach the young man no more.

  George auditioned for a famous voice coach, but the woman told him his natural talent exceeded anything she could teach him. George took his natural talent home and practiced by himself, or for his biggest fans, Lydia and Liza.

  ****

  During class breaks he and Lydia met under their favorite lunch tree, and while she leaned against his shoulder or lay with her head in his lap, he would play and sing for her. She never tired of this and never could quite believe the wonderful sounds were coming from her ol’ George.

  Of course the campus abounded with folk singers holding forth to small groups of groupies under nearly every tree. Once in a while one of them would come by and squat down to listen to George.

  “It really moves me, man,” they’d say, and there was a look of awe in their eyes as they went away.

  George played and sang quietly for Lydia alone and few people stopped to disturb them. The other students could see they were very much in love, and though the passersby would like to stop, they felt like they might be intruding.

  As George finished each song, Lydia would sigh or touch his lips with her fingertips or even be moved to kiss him lightly.

  Yet George wanted to write his own songs. He seemed to be driven to it. In the back of his mind, words and pictures began to plague him, as well as the ever present notes of music. Often he would pause in his studies to jot down the moving thoughts that came rushing through his mind in a great torrent. He filled one notebook after another with the word-thought-images. He even studied a little about poetic form, iambs and pentameters and such, so he could

  write down his poetry--poems he planned to use as lyrics for his songs.

  On a dare from Lydia, George took his notebooks to the dean of the literature department, an irascible little old man who had written several respected books on the field of poetic criticism and had published reams of poetry.

  At first, the old man was impatient with the young man. He didn’t want to be bothered with the amateur scribbling of some struggling student. George thrust his notebooks on the old gentleman with such determination, the dean finally consented to look at them when he had time.

  ****

  One evening when George and Lydia were deep in a game of chess, George’s mind wandered off the into the realm of music, and Lydia took advantage of his preoccupation to put him in check. Just then the phone rang. Liza answered and informed George there was someone on the line, but the man was babbling so incoherently, she couldn’t make out the name. It did sound urgent, however.

  George took the phone and was finally able to make out that he was talking to the venerable old poetry critic. The professor was so excited, George wasn’t sure what he was talking about. At last he asked the old gentleman to calm down, only to learn that his own poetry was the reason for the caller’s excitement.

  “Some of the finest imagery...such emotion. A bit rough, but I’ve never read anything like it. Magnificent! Must get together and polish the form.”

  The old man raved on and on while George beamed and nodded. Lydia sat fascinated, watching her husband’s reactions to the one-sided conversation, until George finally got in a promise to see the professor the next day and said “Good night.”

  When George told her what the old man had said about his writing, Lydia was jubilant.

  “I told you, George. I told you! I knew you had something--something wonderful! Oh

  George, I’m so proud!”

  She hurried around to his side of the game table and gave him a big hug and a kiss. Then she looked over and studied the chess board for a moment before she moved her queen.

  “Checkmate!” she said with a laugh.

  ELEVEN

  With the immediate problem of writing down his extraordinary lyric poetry solved, George next set about learning how to write down the music that filled his head. Pulsating rhythms and unusual melodies poured through his brain. Often, He would sit and listen to the recordings he’d made by humming the tunes into a tiny cassette recorder he always carried with him. If only he could put the melodies down on paper. This would not only give him a permanent, tangible record, but would make it easier to purge his mind of the obsessive sounds that distracted him from more academic studies.

  The next Spring he found and opening in his schedule and added a basic class in composition and counterpoint. He’d already discovered he possessed perfect pitch. This helped him to quickly absorb the the principles of notation, and within weeks he was actually able to write down the music as well as the words of his songs. Lydia and Liza enthused over them, but George suspected they were a bit biased. He was proud of his works, but knowing that one has a distorted view of ones own creations, he wasn’t sure of anything until his mid-term in the composition class.

  ****

  The brightly lit room was arranged like an arena. Curving rows of student desks, about seventy of them, formed concentric arcs that where set upon risers, so the spectators could all have a clear view of the performing area below. The room was sparsely populated with students this morning. There were only about twenty scattered across the expanse of seats. Eight o’clock classes were not popular and most of the students sat slumped, bored and sleepy as they tried only halfheartedly to concentrate on what was happening below.

  The performing area contained only a piano, a stool and the instructor’s desk. Behind it sat a discouraged Dr. James Lawrence Ph.D. He looked almost as dejected as the class. this was the first time he’d required them to perform their own works. It was a sort of mid-term examination and he could see the grading curve was being destroyed by the poor work presented so far. One feeble art song had been sung in a quavering soprano by Miss Twitchel in rather bad French. His head still rang with the contemporary piano sonata that sounded like jackhammers on pavement. And those were the best of a pot pourri of nearly a dozen numbers to which these hallowed Berkeley halls had been subjected this morning. Thank God the hour was almost over. Time for just one more. Well, this was just basic composition. Hopefully things would improve as the semester moved along. He picked up the next piece of music.

  Ah, George Potter, he said to himself as he looked at the neatly hand printed manuscript. Now, here was a student to watch! The young man’s stuff was almost too good to be true. Some pretty inspired music combined with extraordinary poetry. He’d almost suspected plagiarism, but as he glanced over to where the young man sat, he was impressed by the smiling, alert face in the otherwise disinterested sea of dozing students.

  “Mr. Potter will you please entertain us?” he demanded aloud. there was considerable irony in his request to be entertained. This morning had been a bust so far and he’d hoped for better.

  George nodded, removed his guitar from its case and descended the two rows from his seat to take his place near the stool. He glanced at the empty music stand and then up at the drowsy faces before him. He could see nothing but terminal disinterest.

  “Won’t you need your music, Mr. Potter?” asked the professor, extending the piece of notation paper toward the student.

  “Thank you, sir, but I wrote it. I should be able to get though it without any help.” That was refreshing, actually knew his music; the words too! thought the music instructor.

  George began to play. His fingers flew over the fret board in an intoxicating new rhythm that made the
students sit bolt upright in their seats. Hey! Here was something worth listening to.

  Then George began to sing. It was a joyous song that struck them and rocked them with it’s happiness and optimism. They loved it and began to clap. Dr. Lawrence wanted to dance!

  At last, a student worthy of my teaching! he shouted to himself.

  There were several verses, but the song was so exciting and the words so intelligent and inspiring, when George finished, his audience just sat there for a moment, dazed and then disappointed the celebration was over. Next they were up and hurrying toward him. The period buzzer sounded, but they didn’t even hear it. They clapped him on the back and congratulated him. Though some were envious, they all admired his talent. This George Potter had something. Now they could all see it.

  At last the instructor reminded them that the bell had rung, and they reluctantly hurried from the room. George was putting his guitar away as the instructor spoke to him.

  “George Potter, this is a red letter day for the music world! I can sense it!” He was almost rubbing his hands together with delight as he approached the young man. “Do you happen to have any more songs like that, Mr. Potter...may I call you George?”

  “Of course, sir. And yes, I try to write one song every day or so. I have about fifty. Your class has been a great help to me. The tunes and words were there in my head, but you showed me how to write them down.” George snapped the latches on the guitar case and turned to leave.

  “George, I just remembered something,” Dr Lawrence added eagerly, as if he was afraid to part with his new discovery. “There’s a rally next Tuesday at two. The student council asked the music department to furnish some entertainment. I think you’re ready for something like that. You’ll have to go through the audition process, but in your case that’s just a formality. Would you help us out? Just one or two songs?”

  George hesitated for a moment. Performing before this small class was one thing, but thousands of university students!? That was something else entirely.