Three

by Shoshi

sound like a guy.

  “I don’t feel like finishing it. I’m bored with it. Besides, we already got paid. That guy gave us a hundred ducats.”

  “Is that all he’s going to give us?” He switched to his normal voice. “100 ducats sounds like peanuts. He should’ve asked for more. How much is a ducat worth?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “We’ll have to check with my dad.”

  Mathew already knew that her dad was pretty read up on music stuff, especially Mozart. He even played the violin and was a doctor, too.

  “And who’s this guy? The guy who asked me to write a requiem?”

  “Nobody knows for sure. Dad says a man came to Mozart’s door, asked for a requiem and paid him 100 ducats for it right off. No questions asked. There was one hitch, though. The man’s boss wanted to make like the requiem was his piece---like he was the one who’d written it.”

  “What a phony,” said Mathew. “Anyway, he ought to pay a lot more than that if he wants everybody to lie for him.”

  “Well, forget it, he never got the piece,” said Carol. “Mozart couldn’t finish it.”

  Mathew began to think about the telepathizing thing—about how they could even pretend to do it. There were so many obstacles to overcome. Besides, telepathy wouldn’t be enough. They needed to find a way to physically transport themselves back to his day. How could they possibly do it? Seriously. “Carol, if we really could go back, how would we even talk to him? Mozart only spoke German, didn’t he?”

  “How about sign language?”

  “That’s too hard. Nobody can figure out what you’re saying. Hey, I’ve got an idea. Remember that French movie we saw last spring?”

  “Yes! Subtitles!! You’re brilliant, drummer boy!” She looked dreamily off into the distance. “God, you think we could actually make this work? Go all the way back to Mozart’s day?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.” After a pause, he added: “Mostly not.”

  • TWO •

  They were waiting for the music class to begin, and they were still talking about the Mozart thing—whether there might be a way to imagine themselves all the way back into the 18th century when the guy lived. The class today was essentially just another rehearsal of the dance piece for the upcoming show. When it was over, Carol cornered Mr. Green, the music teacher, and asked him a pointed question.

  “Are they that sure Mozart didn’t finish his Requiem? I mean maybe he hid it somewhere in a drawer---that nobody’s opened.”

  “Anything’s possible Carol, but I doubt it. The fact is there’re a lot of composers out there that didn’t finish stuff. They upped and died too soon. Look at Schubert. He died before he could finish his Eighth Symphony. We all wish he had, but what he left behind was one of the supreme things that any composer ever wrote.”

  “I guess they wrote too slowly,” said Mathew. He had just come up to the teacher’s desk.

  “Don’t know about that. They say Mozart was writing like crazy right up to the end. Over 36 works in his last year---like he knew he didn’t have much time left. It’s sad if you think about it.”

  Now that the class was over, there were only a few students milling around in the room. “Good luck with the show, everybody,” he called out. “It’s going to be terrific.” He was smiling big, big, big.

  Carol and Mathew drifted away. “I wish he could’ve finished it,” she said. “He wanted to, Dad says. He wishes he could’ve finished it, too. It’s one of his absolute favorite Mozart pieces. Mozart practiced it with some of his buddies on his last day and sang one of the parts himself. He had no idea he was going to die. He thought he was going to throw off this bug and, then, sit down and complete the Requiem.”

  Mathew found himself feeling sorry for this Mozart character.

  Carol had said he was often wildly short of money—something he could definitely relate to. That’s why he had to take this lousy job and let some other guy who probably couldn’t compose his way out of a Dixie cup get all the credit. Only a composer who was desperate would agree to do that. “I’ll bet a ducat wouldn’t buy you much today,” he said.

  “A popsicle and a side of fries,” she said. “A snack.”

  A lot more than he knew he was going to find in the fridge when he got home. Just the mention of fries made his mouth water. He’d stop and buy some on the way---if only he had some change in his pocket, which he didn’t. Snacks in the fridge when there were any, he knew, were always for Clem and Susie, his younger brother and sister.

  “How was school?” asked his mom as he pushed through the door.

  “Okay, I guess.” He remembered something. “Are you going to make it to our show, Mom?”

  She pursed her lips a moment. “I think so. I have to clean Mrs. Daley’s house. I’m hoping she’ll let me put it off a day.”

  He really wanted her to be there. Usually she had to miss most of the other school stuff. Teacher meetings. PTA. She just couldn’t spare the time. This show was going to be good. He didn’t want her to miss it.

  He found a cookie his brother and sister had missed. It was such a drag being so strapped all the time. Come summer, he’d get a job at the gas station—on the Q.T., of course, because of his age. It would help them. The dad of a friend of his owned the station and knew they needed the dough. He might even make enough for some pocket money for himself.

  “Carol’s going to visit her aunt in Michigan,” he said. “In July.”

  “Still hanging out with that girl?” she asked. He knew she wasn’t sure how she felt about Carol. Her folks had money--a lot more than they were ever going to see. She didn’t have to work over summer vacations. Her clothes were too stylish by half for a kid her age. She had the wrong values, his mom said. She didn’t know what real life was like.

  “All right, I know you like her, but you told me she pays for everything.” His mom started folding some T-shirts. “Her dad’s a doctor, a big shot. It’s no skin off him letting her pay for the movies you two go to.” She paused. “He probably doesn’t know about your dad.”

  His dad, of course, was in prison. He was caught stealing at work so he got a year, and it sort of reflected on all of them in the family. He realized that. Carol knew it, too, but she was great about it. She never said anything about it ever.

  “We haven’t been over there in a month. Can you go this Saturday?” his mom asked. “It’s not right, not seeing him.”

  He didn’t want to—he had a soccer practice—but he said quickly that he would. He looked at the half-finished cookie he’d been nibbling at. “I should bring him something.”

  “I’ve got a few bananas,” she said. “He likes them.” She started folding some blue jeans.

  “We can’t hide a saw in a banana, Mom.”

  It made her laugh. “Just don’t make his mistakes, Mathew.”

  “You keep telling me that,” he said, but he knew it worried her. “It’s okay, mom.” He smiled. “I’m going to be a high-powered lawyer, a headliner. We’ll be rolling in it.”

  They’d had this conversation before. “That’s my boy,” she said. She patted a slap on his cheek.

  What he wasn’t saying was he’d much rather become a famous scientist like Crick or Watson, the DNA guys, win a Nobel and walk away with a million bucks. The only problem with that was you often had to wait half a lifetime for the payoff. At least that’s what his science teacher had told them in class.

  His dad was getting fat. Prison food wasn’t all that bad, he said, but it was greasy and had too many calories. He really missed his mom’s cooking. He looked really pale, being indoors so much. It was weird visiting him, something they tried to do every couple of weeks or so, either all of them together or sometimes just him—like today. It was a long bus ride. As they got closer to the place, the only people left on the bus were the other folks visiting the prison. They were very
quiet---and sad.

  It almost felt like he was the one doing time. The place had these humongous high walls and towers at the corners with guards looking out. The guards never talked to you. They frisked you, passed you through a couple of locked doors, up an elevator and, then, into a room with a dozen booths with closed doors. You went into one and sat down in the one chair. If his mom came along, he stood. A guard took the bananas from him to give to his dad later. Mathew knew what his dad really missed was his mom’s cooking—but bananas would have to do for now.

  There was a big plexiglass window that looked into another booth, the prisoner’s booth. His dad came in there and sat down. He was accompanied by a guard with a holster and a revolver sticking out of it, who, then, stayed around the whole time. He tried to look like he wasn’t listening in, but he probably was. Prison rules said the visit could only last half an hour. Two hours on the bus and he could only stay half an hour? It wasn’t fair. They both stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, his dad smiled.

  It felt so strange. How could they do this to his dad? Who gave them the right? Mathew held up a pretend banana, pretended to peel it and eat it and pointed at the guard with his thumb. His dad understood. They both laughed. Now he remembered there was a mike. He picked it up and pressed the button that would allow his dad to hear his voice.

  “How you doing, Dad?” He knew he didn’t sound