by Johnny Mains
Now he would swiftly draw this spectacle to a close. And in the favourite way: theirs. His.
He said, very coldly, (was he aware how cold?) ‘We will finish.’
No one any more made a noise. Sobered and puzzled, they hung there before him, all their ridiculous tiers of plush seats, like bits of rubbish, he thought, piled up in rows along gilded and curving shelves, in the Godforsaken fucking cupboard of this mindless arena.
He must have hesitated a fraction too long.
Then, only then, a scatter of feeble voices called out for the auction.
Folscyvio smiled, ‘wintry and fastidious’ as it was later described by a hysterical critic. ‘No. We will not bother with the auction. Not tonight. Fate is already decided. We will go directly to the sacrifice.’ For once some of them – a handful among the masses there – set up loud howls for mercy. But he was adamantine, not even looking towards them. When the wailing left off, he said, ‘She has had her night. That is enough. Who should aim for more.’
And after this, knowing the cue, the stadium operatives crushed the lights down to a repulsive redness. And on to the stage ran the automatic trolley which, when all this had begun those years ago, had been designed for the Maestro by his subordinates.
Again, afterwards, so much would be recalled, accurately or incorrectly, of what came next. All was examined minutely. But it did no good, of course.
They had, the bulk of this audience, witnessed ‘The Sacrifice’ before. The sacrifice, if unfailingly previously coming after an auction, when invariably the majority of the crowd bayed for death, and put in bids for it, (the cash from which Folscyvio would later accommodate) was well known. It had been detailed endlessly in journals, on electronic sites, in poems, paintings and recreated photo-imagery. Even those who had never attended a Folscyvio concert, let alone a sacrifice, knew the method, its execution and inevitable result. The Maestro burned his instruments. Sometimes after years of service. Now and then, as on this night, following a single performance.
Pianos and chitarras, such larger pieces, would tend to sing, to shriek, to call out in apparent voices, and to drum like exploding hearts in the torment of the fires. But the vio-sirenalino – what sound could she make, that miniature Thing, that doll-mermaid of glass, enamel and burnished wood and hair?
Despite everything, many of them were on the seats’ edges to find out.
She leaned now, again upright in the supporting rays of the magnetic beams. When he poured the gasoline, like a rare and treacly wine, in a broad circle all about her, saturating the green cushion, but not splashing her once, a sort of rumbling rose in the auditorium. Then died away.
Folscyvio moved back to a prudent distance. He looked steadily at the mermaid violin, and offered to her a solitary mockery of a salute. And struck the tinder-trigger on the elongate metal match.
Without a doubt there was a flaw in the apparatus. Either that, or some jealous villain had rigged the heavily security-provided podium. Or else – could it be – too fast somehow for any of them to work out what he did – did he, Folscyvio, somehow reverse the action? As if, maybe, perceiving that never in his life after that hour would he play again in that way, like a god, he wished to vacate the stage forever.
The flame burst out like a crimson ribbon from the end of the mechanical match. But the mermaid violin did not catch fire. No, no. It was Folscyvio who did that. Up in a tower of gold and scarlet, blue and black, taller even than he had been – or seemed – when alive, the Maestro flared, and was lost at once to view. He gave no sound either, as perhaps the violin would not have done. Was there just no space for him to scream?
Or was it that, being himself very small, and cramped and hollow and empty, there was no proper crying possible to him?
In a litter of streaming and luminous instants he was obliterated, to dust, a shatter of black bones, a column of stinking smoke. And yet – had any been able to see it? – last of all to be incinerated were his eyes. Narrow, long-lashed, gray-mauve, and – for the final and first time in Folscyvio’s existence – full of fire.
Laudate Dominum
D.P. WATT
(for many voices)
‘How things are in the world is a matter of complete indifference for what is higher.
God does not reveal himself in the world.’
LUDWIG WITTGENSTEIN, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
Sitting on a bench, on the outer harbour wall, wrapped in a wintery coat – despite the encouraging sun of a late March afternoon – we find Stephen Walker. He is eating an egg mayonnaise sandwich and drinking from a flask of tea, both prepared that morning in his holiday cottage in the seaside village of Polperro. He has just returned from today’s walk, this time along the nine miles of coastal path to Fowey, and back again. Holidaying, for Stephen Walker, was less a relaxation than a demonstration of vitality.
His demeanour might once have been termed – some years ago now – curmudgeonly. Today he might, more straightforwardly, be described as a ‘grumpy old man’, now that such nomenclature is popular, and always assigned with mocking affection. Of course the fault for this miserable attitude lay not with him, but rather with everyone else. As he was fond of telling anyone who would listen, the problem with today’s youth was the lack of military service. Despite having served only three months in the Ordnance corps, before being invalided out (a detail always omitted in the retelling), it had, apparently, been ‘the making of him’. Young people today had no stamina, no will, and no backbone.
It was no surprise then to find him holidaying alone in Cornwall, a place that had been dear to him for many years, mostly for its seclusion (if you chose the right places) and beautiful coastal walks. He would visit most years in late March, to take advantage of the last few weeks before the place hummed with tourists and their children, dogs and ice creams.
Whenever visiting Polperro, and when the place was available, he liked to hire a small cottage at the end of The Warren that Oscar Kokoschka had spent time in during the war, painting the outer harbour repeatedly. As an amateur oil painter himself Stephen Walker liked to feel that a little genius might rub off on him by inhabiting the dwelling of one of his favourite artists.
Painting and walking; two wonderful pursuits, balancing the equal requirements of every human being: quiet, contemplative creativity and vigorous, outdoor exercise.
Whilst he was naturally frugal he was certainly not mean. He was, how do they say it, careful. His savings from lunch would then contribute towards that evening’s treats; real ale, crab salad, and sticky toffee pudding and custard, at The Blue Peter. This was a small inn only a few feet away from him, and a place he always enjoyed spending a couple of evenings at during his holiday.
You can imagine him though, there at one of the larger window seats, begrudging sharing his table with a young family that have nowhere else to sit; the children staring up at the curious man uneasily, their dog occasionally nuzzling at his crotch.
To avoid unwanted small talk he takes a leaflet from one of those racks advertising local attractions and unfolds it across the table so that he should not be interrupted during his meal.
‘The Looe Valley line.’
His eyes are drawn to a picture on the inside flap, of a small well, rather mossy and overgrown – ‘St Keyne wishing well’, read the caption, with an arrow pointing to one of the stops on the railway line. There were a couple of stanzas of poetry beneath that, by Robert Southey, the second mentioned that the well was surrounded by an oak, an ash, an elm and a willow tree. Apparently, the leaflet went on, ‘Whichever of a married couple drinks first from the well, they will “wear the trousers.” So, hurry, lest your spouse beats you to it!’ Despite this folklore nonsense it sounded intriguing. Also, the leaflet proclaimed, ‘On your way back from the well why not visit The Mechanical Music Museum, where you will find all manner of music playing devices from yesteryear!’
It was rare that Stephen Walker was interested in anything of the kind, believing that most of them were aimed at extorting money from gullible parents through the relentless, imploring nagging of their children. Such as those sat opposite him now, slurping their cheap cola through bendy straws, and squabbling over their crisps. But, he was certain, there would be few children desperate to go to this museum; they were not interested in the magic of yesteryear’s innovations, the spirit of the craftsman and the skill of the mechanic.
He would visit the museum the very next morning, he resolved. He drained the rest of his beer and headed back to the cottage planning his day.
First, a brisk walk along the coastal path to Looe – he would have completed the five miles of it before most of the nation’s adolescents were awake, he chuckled. And he would then be on the train to visit the St Keyne wishing well, then take in the museum on his way back, before continuing to Liskeard to round the day off.
The walk went to plan, although the steep paths and cliffs to Looe, especially around Talland Bay, seemed to take their toll on him more this time than when he had last walked them a few years previously. He had over an hour to kill before the train at 10:32. He browsed around some shops, but didn’t buy anything.
The train was on time, and he enjoyed the restful juddering of the carriage as it made its gentle way through some splendid scenery. The ticket inspector had informed him that St Keyne was a ‘request’ stop and he would let the driver know. If only all train services these days had such courteous and helpful staff, Stephen Walker mused.
He alighted on a deserted platform, with newly-painted white picket fencing, with a quaint passenger shelter. He could almost be back in the 1950s he thought, even though for the most part, he already was.
He checked his watch. 10:50. He had over two hours before the next train at 12:59 that would take him on for the afternoon to Liskeard. This should be plenty of time to find the well and then return to explore the museum.
He headed off up the steep lane into the village of St Keyne, eager to find this beautiful little wishing well. Who knows, he thought, even this late in life I might find a wife, and if so I’ll have one up on her by having drunk at it first. He laughed quietly, at the improbability of either event.
The well proved elusive though. The little map on his leaflet did not appear to scale and he found himself trekking across some muddy fields, looking this way and that, without any idea of where he was. He headed back to the main road and back down the steep, narrow lane, towards the railway station.
Then he spotted – just where the steep lane joined the larger road at the top of the village – a signpost, mostly covered by low hanging branches. In his eagerness to rush on he must have missed it.
It did not prove particularly informative though. One side pointed north, saying ‘St Keyne Wishing Well’, and the other, pointing south, read exactly the same. Some local was clearly having a joke on the tourists. Stephen Walker did not really consider himself a tourist and was not amused.
He consulted his watch. 12:30. That damned wishing well really had taken some time up. He needed to get to the museum before the train arrived at 12:59.
Then the thought struck him, he could catch a later one. Why waste the opportunity to enjoy the musical machines when he could catch the next train to Liskeard. He filled a pipe – a little luxury he allowed himself only when out walking – and consulted the timetable again. It would have to be the 14:30. Oh well, why not take things easy, and with a little shrug of the shoulders he ambled down the lane to visit the museum.
Had he looked a little further behind the signpost he would have seen a set of greenish crumbling steps leading down to the wishing well. There were no longer any trees beside it, if ever there had been. And whether it was a magical well, or not, would have to remain a mystery. All that was forgotten now; Stephen Walker had set a new itinerary.
As he took slow puffs on the pipe he found himself humming a little tune, as the museum came into view. This was most unusual as he did not approve of humming. Still, it didn’t hurt did it, out here where there was nobody to hear him. It showed that he was taking full advantage of his leisure time.
The sign for the ‘Mechanical Music Museum’ pointed to a large industrial building with corrugated roof that lay behind a cottage. Some steep steps led down to them both and Stephen surmised the owner of the museum must also live in the cottage. As he tapped his pipe out on the wall at the top of the steps he heard a wonderful chorus of song coming from the museum. It sounded like a choir rehearsing. He listened a while. He was not sure what the hymn was, but it was delightful, and he spent a minute or two enjoying it.
The choir finished the hymn as he got to the bottom of the steps. Stephen was relieved as he hadn’t wanted to interrupt their practice; perhaps they shared the building with the museum.
He poked his head through the door, even though the sign read ‘closed’. The building might even have been a warehouse once, so vast was the space inside. At the far end there were great red curtains that gave the place the feel of a village hall, sometimes used for local am-dram performances, no doubt. All about the perimeter of the building were varying musical devices, maybe a dozen or so, ranging in size from small gramophones to larger organs.
There was a tall man, maybe in his early sixties, standing some distance away. He was dressed in scruffy work clothes and seemed quite busy. But there was certainly no choir. It must have been a recording, Stephen thought, even though it had been quite loud.
The tall man spotted him and shook his head apologetically.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir,’ the man said, depositing a handful of wooden blocks onto a workbench. ‘We don’t open to visitors until April. It takes so much to maintain all of these machines that I have to use all of the winter months to keep them in pristine condition.’
‘Ah, I see . . .’ Stephen began.
‘I’m working flat out on these dampers as it is,’ he interrupted, gesturing to the blocks and a scattering of felt and leather patches strewn across the bench.
‘Oh dear,’ Stephen said, ‘how disappointing. I had hoped so much to see the place before I leave for home in a few days. I recall my grandfather had a music machine in the living room; it played great metal disks, and even had a clock in it too.’
‘An old upright, eh!’ the man said, his eyes bright and his face suddenly interested, as though a little switch had been flicked somewhere inside him. ‘It will have been a Polyphon, no doubt, or maybe even a rare Symphonion.’
‘That was it!’ Stephen said, the name suddenly bringing back his grandfather’s pronunciation of it. ‘Sym-phon-ion! He’d always say, after we’d had some lunch, “Shall we have a few tunes from Mr Symphonion.” And my sister and I would be delighted. The Symphionion – well I never . . .’
‘Might I ask, sir, do you sing?’ the man said, rather incongruously.
Stephen Walker was perplexed. ‘Do I sing?’
‘Yes,’ the man said, as though his sudden change of topic were entirely appropriate. ‘Do you belong to a choir? Do you sing?’
‘Er, no, well, I mean, not for many years now, not since I was a child,’ Stephen replied, feeling rather badgered by a certain school-masterly tone the man had adopted.
‘I was particularly struck by the quality of your voice, you see,’ the man continued, heading over to him. ‘It has depth, and richness. But is that tobacco I smell? It would be a shame to spoil such a wonderful voice with the evil weed now, wouldn’t it.’
‘I’ve just had a pipe, as a matter of fact, on my way down from the wishing well – a wishing well that I couldn’t damned well find,’ Stephen said, defensively. ‘But I don’t really see what business my smoking habits are . . .’
‘No doubt the Connor boys have been playing with the well signposts again,’ the man interrupted, offering his hand in greeting. ‘I’m
Philip Morin, owner, restorer and guide here at the Mechanical Music Museum.’
‘I’m Mr Walker, Stephen Walker,’ he replied, shaking Philip’s hand timidly, without having shaken the sense of being rather admonished.
‘Let me show you around then, Mr Walker,’ Philip said (the issue of being closed for the season apparently having been entirely forgotten).
‘My own grandfather was an actor, I come from a long line of performers,’ he said, going over to a small, dark wooden box. ‘This is one of the earliest machines I have, and one of great sentimental value.’ Philip seemed a connoisseur of the non-sequitur.
He cranked a handle a few times and opened the lid. What looked like a black wax cylinder was spinning inside. From underneath the table he produced a large metal horn, fluted and almost shell-like. He attached the horn to a pivot arm and rested the base of it, housing a large needle, on the thick cylinder.
An eerie noise came out, mostly a great cloud of static and white noise, but in the background one could just make out a voice, but not the words.
‘This is my grandfather,’ he said, proudly, ‘reading Dickens’ Christmas Carol in 1896.’
Stephen was still unable to make out the words. All he could discern was a strange echoing of the sentences going on within the machine.
‘It takes a while to warm up,’ Philip said, ‘like any voice really.’
He angled a lamp down close to the cylinder, to warm it. ‘Perhaps we can try that one again later when the old man’s back in tune.’
Then, the sound seemed to clarify and there was a great laugh from the reader, Philip’s grandfather, followed by a peal of bells – Scrooge on Christmas morning, without a doubt!
‘Marvellous,’ Stephen exclaimed.
‘Yes, it is rather, isn’t it,’ Philip said. ‘This voice, my ancestor’s, brought to life here for us, one hundred years later. For all of its terrible crimes there are also some miraculous things achieved through technology.’