J.

Note: This story was one that I completed as an undergraduate. The rule was we had to take one line from two separate books and use them at the beginning and at the end of the story (that may explain the strange quotations included in this piece - I do not remember the names of the books used).

And the title was one that came to me when I thought about the anonymity of some of the characters.

- …note that the number of frequencies is small and this gives a ‘pure sound’ – not a squawk.

The lecturer made a point of sharing this. J. moved in his chair. A bad headache. He could not rub his temples while the light shone on him. Television cameras. Reporters. J. had a talk with one. Her hair was blond, long; bouffant maybe. She came from the south. She never attended lectures when she could afford it. J. had tried hard to laugh more than the joke deserved. A glass broke. J’s eye caught the waiting crew (why not just call them waiters?) The dust pan and the broom were there. He had to nod it off, making it seem like an agreement with the speaker.

- Any questions?

The murmur grew. J. looked at his watch. Time to leave for a moment.

- Do you feel that this invention could improve…

And the chair shifts with a noise (does anyone notice?) J. walked down the stairs to the side of the stage. Darkness. The reporters repeated certain questions. J. could not see the blond reporter. He rubbed his temples.

The cafeteria was open. Blue with white tiles around the cashier. Some food was brought out. Juices, fruit, coffee, tea, doughnuts. Just for this one morning. His headache was beginning to disappear.

- So I told them, Hey, if it was in my mailbox…

- But you said it was in…

- Their box.

- So, they had it.

- Of course. Did you think that I…

He took his food out through the front doors. Long stretches of lots. Flagpoles. The park was on his right with the sun. It hurt his eyes. And how long do I have now? Yes, the park. Empty. It was quite warm, early, and the birds stayed in the trees to sing. Maple and perhaps oak. The leaves were growing green and still. They had come in with the weather. The snow left mud, dark puddles. He found a bench. The coffee burned his hand. Cold bolts in the planks of wood. He sucked his fingers. Who can put these lids on, anyway? No stains he could find. He ate some of the doughnut. Birds in the trees played in minor thirds, as he heard it. Maybe they were hungry. He could hear what he thought was a true melody. No bread or seeds to bring them. They could find food. They always did. “Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.” He could remember that from somewhere. Was it Spenser, Marlowe…? It sounded like Eliot. “The Waste Land.” Why was the park so empty on a Thursday, anyway? 9:10 AM. Digital watches are completely overrated. It’s a school day. A car passed by. Radio on a dance beat. A steady throb. He could no longer hear the birds.

The hall was emptying out; some reporters were smoking. A cloud passed over the sun. J. eased a shoe down to his toes.

- Do you think he’ll be out?

- Where’s the coffee?

- The film’s in the truck.

-…melted core…

- Who has the tray? Did someone take it?

- Just some of them. We should talk to the others.

- This coffee’s cold.

J. leaned back. He touched a plant. Thorns. A quick start. His head had no cuts he could find. His bald spot was completely clean. He had forgotten his hat. Brown homburg. J. took his coffee, found some bins that were still full. 9:32. There would be one more talk and two papers before the day was over. He had to speak at the next one. Forget the schedule. The birds sang again. Definitely thirds. The library was open. He could see if the books had inquired about were in. The path narrowed and curved down a hill.

The building was being cleaned with several machines. The stands of newspapers and periodicals were full and in order. J. touched a headline. “More bodies…” There was nothing more that he could read. Who put that right here? Not necessary. It’s really unnecessary. The front desk was brown and white.

- Yes, sir. How can I help you?

- Yes. I was wondering…

* * * * *

He read a few pages at a desk. Just what I thought. There is nothing new. They would not change a single thing. That was something that could not be helped. Low budgets everywhere. Money went into other things. Everyone needs a computer now. Nothing else. “The pulse repeats itself several times at ill-defined intervals…” Fourth floor. Some new shelves were brought in. The shelf-readers had already gone out with their carts. There were a few books left. That was new. It had just caught his attention. “African Folktales and Music.” One year on that continent is all that you need. He looked up from the title page. The large bay windows brought in most of the campus. J. sat facing them with his books on another chair. “The drum, an animal skin drawn over rims formed from the woods of specific regions, is a taut…” No one speaks clearly anymore. It was an anthropologist. It must be. The only people who would write like this would have to be academics. A magazine had been left behind on another chair. Is this the same? The name is not familiar. Just more deaths in the news. J. scanned it. One name stood out.

The floor was empty. A machine was cleaning the carpet near one set of stairs. J. let a sound escape himself. The books slid under an armrest. All over the floor. He was now silent. That isn’t right. 20_,summer. No, I would have known. Why didn’t anyone say anything? He was a grown man, of course. I couldn’t say he was… Why did I not know about it? How could it…? It was a recent issue. J. took the magazine to the front desk.

- What about your other books?

- They’re not important. Do you know when this happened?

- Mm… it could have been in the spring, late in May. I know that issue comes out four times a year.

- Can I check this one out?

She seemed to grow straighter as he asked the question. Hard flecks of light in her eyes.

- It’s a reference copy, sir. The bookstore should have a few left.

A wind picked up in front of the double doors. Blown trash. Papers. Empty coffee cups. Wrappers for different snacks. J. buttoned up his jacket. Smell of dirt, dust. Something coming in the air. The clouds were thickening; they were also moving faster. Two women ran into the doors, skirts billowing out. He caught the door for them. One of the women smiled at him. A quick hand on her outfit for the wind. J. rubbed his forehead. Hands shifted in his pockets. The nearest bookstore was one block up. Some mansions: Modern, Tudor. I cannot believe I was not told. Some time had passed. Yes, it took some time. Maybe three…no, seven years by now. It was at a convention. He said he was leaving the profession for which he had suffered; longer than necessary. Music became everything for him. Should be so. He had the talent. Sound was caught in his ears and mind. Music soothes the soul, the savage beast. A cloud was smothering most of the early morning sunlight. 10:14. I will be late. Elderly man and woman across the road. They were travelling in his direction. Is the bookstore open now? He stared out onto the curve of the road. Some lights ahead. Cars came in, slid along through them. Shops cleaned their sidewalks. Some garbage. An old hat. Excrement and broken glass. J. had an account with the nearest bank. Cards are for your convenience. The new sign was blue with silver calligraphy:

His Master’s Words

Books, Magazines, Videos

And Other Assortments

A dog with a book by its ear. J. did not smile. They had just opened. Could he call someone? Impossible. He knew nothing of his life (what was his life?) All overseas and time different. That mattered. He was sweating profusely. Heater over the music section. The stepladder was free. Same book; older edition. “Villagers often gather to hear musicians in performance for a feast or a hunt…” He took out his wallet. The cashier was free. No human traffic. He felt sad; inexplicably hurt by that.

- An excellent guide.

- Yes… Just one other thing: do you carry back issues of magazines?

- Well, we try not to. The publishers need to write off the copies that remain unsold. Was there a certain title you needed…?

The box held over seven sets of magazines. From 2002 to 20_; biannual issues. What was that song I taught him? “In the jungle, the quiet jungle…Wimoweh.” He paid in cash, counting his change and using his receipt as a bookmark. The brown paper bag – same blue and silver as the sign – was under his arm. The wind had died down. Again, the birds. Some interval there that he could not name. I won’t look at it until I am in the hall. I can’t now. 10:23. I can still make it. More cars were passing by. A limousine. The president of the conference? Main lecturer? Must be. I have some sort of paper. His pockets only held keys and change. Must have left it at the hall. They had copies. He could remember the coffee burning his hand and the pamphlet. What pamphlet? It had the plan for the conference. In the trash now. He knew that he was speaking at 11.

He passed by the same bench in the park. A young couple. She looked nervous. Tight shoulders. Or it was the cold? He seemed happy.

- …just until the show…

- But why not tell me right then and there?

- Oh, come on. Nothing…

- I know about your friends.

She made quotation marks in the air. He leaned back on the bench. A smile of weakness. Her glare. She has you now. J. did not look at them anymore. No birds sang now. The sun had them silhouetted in the trees. Nothing moved. The door to the auditorium was wedged open. He could hear the silence of the couple behind him. A young man caught his attention by the poster advertising the day’s schedule. J. tried to smile.

- Excuse me, sir, but I’m from the campus newspaper and I was wondering about whether you would be free to be interviewed.

- Oh, yes. Well, we have to leave right after this next speech. It will be mine, by the way.

- Oh…well then, um…could I ask you a few questions now?

10:40.

- All right. Just a few for now.

- Okay. Do you feel that the relationship between sounds is what gives music its incredible vitality?

- Yes, I do.

- …Okay. And do you feel that electronic music is where music will headed in the future?

J. coughed and looked down the corridor. More people were filling up the main hall.

- We are already in the future. Music is music. A computer only does what you tell it to do. It listens to what you have to say, whether you say too much or say too little. That is where most of the best electronic music comes from. But maybe that is not for me to say.

The student smiled. Another witticism down.

- And just one last one, sir. Do music schools still offer something to students that they can use outside of the classroom?

J. coughed again. He recognized some of the organizers and delegates. Ten people from the last conference.

- …I am…often asked about that when…people are considering this type of…education. But it is more than just…how can I put this? I cannot really answer that type of question…

The student was silent. Confused frown at J.’s stumbling talk.

- My…son did this. He found work he could… I just think… I’m sorry. I have to go, excuse me.

The student stood there and watched J. leave. J. checked his pockets. My handkerchief. The bag with book and magazine fell on the ground. J. looked into the aisle. The lights were beginning to dim. I should have waited. No one could have stopped him, I suppose. The music began. Some prerecorded hums.

- Ladies and gentlemen, it is my sincere pleasure to introduce to you a man who may be single-handedly responsible for increasing our workload.

General murmur of tittering. A bass sound, he thought. The chair seemed sturdier now. His speech was in his hands. A glass of water. “Wimoweh.” And it had to be in the jungle. It had to be. No one could stop him. The audience was still fixed on the speaker at the podium. All of his colleagues followed the speech. Did any of them know? Someone must have been told somewhere. They are reporters, journalists in music. They look for these things. I had been telling myself for years that he was… She told me about him almost two years before he left. Some photographs. Christmases. Birthdays. The song. He had that, at least. Two weddings. No ties are too strong. The sufi music convention. Miserable noise. He was there. J. heard it. He took the podium. Speech on Noise qualities. Assonance and dissonance. He mentioned the Congo. South-west. All to be done by hikes and canoes. Why wasn’t I told? He was all I had…then…

- …and notes in full rotation. But I have spoken for too long. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…

Rush of applause. Heavy rain on a metal roof. I should say something. The book. It has his name in it. A co-editor. He took it up with his papers. A spotlight. His eyes hurt.

- Thank you…yes. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I am here to talk about some of the changes made in musical forms and discussion groups. The enrolment at this institution alone has increased…

Just stay with what you have in front of you.

- …several times over. And, I would like to mention a book that has recently been reissued by Achilles Press. “African Folktales and Music.” It is edited by…

Not my name. It could not be my name.

- …who spent several years in Africa cataloguing and compiling these stories and musical encounters.

His cough was returning. That light is painful.

- He died in a recent plane crash this summer. It was during a flight over a war zone. The plane was fired…upon them as they passed over a disputed territory. No one would claim…any of the bodies.

Heads were turning. A low sound escaped J.’s lips.

- But in my speech tonight, I would like to talk about some of the changes made to the different electronic tools, and methods of practice, for music. In the beginning…

* * * * *

I could hear it during the speech. Some thunder was stirring up. The roads are too slick. The wipers worked off the sluicing trails of water. Lights were caught in the drops. FM radio.

- Tonight, as we had mentioned last week, we will be continuing with some of the newer compositions of…

I could call her. Leave a message. Motels are on every exit. He took the next ramp. You’re Inn! Phone booth. Occupied.

- So I said to him, Hey, I don’t need this, you bastard. Just left him…what? No. So, so what? That don’t make any difference. He had…he had his chance and it’s gone. Look, just find out what he’s doing now…don’t…go over there. Just call, he’ll be up. There’s no Monday Night Football, but…

I can smell her perfume from here. She should be home. I know she’s up. Vacancy sign. Bright red with an unlit “No”. Should I stay?

- Yeah, yeah. Sure…then, I’ll call you.

She left with a swing of her purse. J. took up the receiver.

- Hi, I can’t come to the phone right now…

A long beep. J. said nothing. A truck pulled out of the lot. He put the phone on the receiver. No one at the front desk. Service bell. Clerk in the inner office.

- Good evening.

- Evening, sir. How may I help you?

- Just one room. Single.

- Any luggage?

- No.

- …Then, I need to see the money upfront before…

He found that the room faced his car, the neon sign and the highway. Clouds passed quickly over the moon. The rain had stopped. J. checked his jacket. He still had the book with him. He stared at its cover. Another song started outside. Another melody. Names below the title. I can’t…I just can’t…he was everything for a while and… The book opened to a random page. His tears blurred everything. What…is left now…

- …every woman in the neighbourhood knew the sound of Nwayieke’s mortar and pestle…

*

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