Words from across the sea.

Christmas / Music

I am in the taller, or workshop; tucked away in the corner. It is our break, after a morning of games, which has left me feeling content but exhausted, and so I have retreated in this small way, into the lime green painted, wooden chair, covered with thin, patchy, cardboard-like upholstery. It creaks and groans under the burden of a weight other than its own. It is slightly inclined and feels fine compared with the solid down-to-business workshop chairs, with their rusted frames and wooden panels. The word ´histoire´ is scratched into the right arm rest of the chair, and it disorients me to see a French word in the midst of so much Spanish now being filed away in my head.

On the plastic chair next to me, Alex has taken his seat. He is about a foot shorter than I am, with dark brown Dominican skin, the colour of burnt chestnut, and that frizzy, wild black hair, so typical of a Dominican. It is cut short, and kept tame, in line, equally so typical of a Dominican. His eyes are brown, and his right eyelid hangs slightly lower in a sort of squint, while his left is fully open. He is attentive.

His eyes move searchingly from side to side and his head sways slightly. He is silent, as am I. We are both silent. We are listening.

For these precious minutes we have sealed off our ears and filled them with classical music, a piece of piano music I do not know. The original intent of this exercise had been to find some relaxing music for an afternoon music session, though the idea of this being any sort of work has long since evaporated.  As he is seated, I go to place a headphone in Alex`s right ear, but he points and indicates that he cannot hear with it. He holds it to his left. So, we are listening.

And I watch Alex as he listens. I am very fond of him. Always full of beans and jumpy, with a grin that boasts a nearly full set of slightly skewed, white teeth. Now he is very still. We listen for minutes without moving, except for hs gentle swaying, sweeping back and forth, with the ebbs and flows of the melody.

“Me gusta”, he says “It pleases me”, and takes the headphone away from his ear. “Puedes escuchar más, si quieres”, I say, “You can listen more, if you wish” . He replaces the earphone and is still again.

Across the room, there stands our small wrinkled, artificial Christmas tree. A rather sad affair for both Lisa and myself, who are used to larger and realer evergreens, with their needles making a mess of the floor, sticking under bare feet, and the smell of their sap, oozing from the freshly cut trunk, and the German Christmas traditions; the Weinachtspyramide, spinning to infinity with its miniature figures in vertigo, and the spindly, handsome shadows that the candle flames cast on the ceiling as the wooden framework spins around and around; the feeling of approaching Christmas feasts and perhaps the promise of crunching snow underfoot…

Ours is not such a tree, and outside it is no less than 30 degrees.  This year will be a far cry from what we are both used to, and Christmas feels against the natural order of things. The tree is scantily clad, with only a few triste decorations hanging from its plastic branches and, as a gesture of optimism, or perhaps sarcasm, a Santa hat sits where the star should be.

No matter, the tree and indeed the Christmas spirit are of little overall importance. There is the beauty of sharing such a moment of communion with Alex, and our rejoicing in the perfect music. It brings enough happiness.

Tata sits drawing squiggles and circles at the table, the jerking rhythmical movements of her head and arms flow like a ballet in the stillness and the calm of the music.

The clarity of notes played on the piano, and my ability to recognise and visualise them, in harmony, to pick out counter melodies and understand different parts moving at the same time is something I have often found to be sharpest at moments of prolonged stress, when I find myself nervous, ticcy, strangely always more down the right side of my body, or face. Sometimes irrepressible movements or desires to move which vary in duration and persistence, sometimes for days and weeks.

They have always been a nuisance and only recently have I become aware of something like a hyperactive, hyperaware musicality and often creativity that accompanies them. I had always been loathed to admit to them, but with the years, have grown not to mind them so much anymore. They are generally milder than they used to be. But now the music is clear like distilled ice, and my body too, is at rest.

I hear the flow, the progression of the music. My ears decipher its key. It is set in C sharp major. Seamlessly, the piano skips down ladders of scales and arpeggios, from its treble to the deeper, tenor ranges.

F… C sharp, G sharp, A sharp, C natural. It holds the major seventh in rapture; so simple and so elegant, and it drip feeds poignant romantic melody into my tired body. Each progression makes perfect sense, and the middle builds and swells, moving between B and E major chords in the bass with the left hand, and gently hammering shimmering Bs in octaves, then G sharps, with the right.

With a deft key change we fall to C sharp minor, then on to G sharp major and hit the turning point on a brilliant, bright A major, as the bass descends once more down the scale and hovers, deciding eventually to settle on the G sharp. But the composer is elusive, and the progression returns but instead of the A, the piano sings out a triumphant F natural from the rich bass, and dangles a C sharp major inversion over it, quickly evolving into a sweet F sharp minor. The name of the composer is unknown to me, but I am at that moment, at his feet. Then, finally we are home, as soft as landing on a silk drape, we float back to the opening motif, ritardando, slowing; clumsy suspended notes over the final tonic as the music resolves and hangs in conclusion.

The piece is superb. But it is rendered a sublime masterpiece by the transient respite and tranquility it offers.

The hardest thing about working and living here is that there is almost no time at all for such moments. Such moments are vital, they are more precious than anything, and as I sit entranced, Alex says once more “Me gusta”, gets up and leaves silently.

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