THE TRUTH OF WHO WE ARE

CONCLUSION!

Photo by Dolo Iglesias on Unsplash

This is the final piece!

Thank you for sticking around and listening to me read this out. It’s taken a while, I know. But it’s a long story. I’m thinking that I’ll read the whole thing out and put it on my BOOK TOOB CHANNEL…BTC-TV Channel 3: SCRIBBLER.

Anyway, do drop by and leave me a note. I don’t think there were any surprises were there? I mean, you had it all figured out, right?

THE TRUTH OF WHO WE ARE

(CONCLUSION)

Martin stood aside and let the man enter, almost closing the door behind him, but leaving it wedged open instead, knowing the music would echo through the gallery and out into the street. He walked back into the club and crossed the dance floor, rejoining Annaliese.

“Who is he?” she asked, watching the Journalist stand in front of her son and snap a quick picture.

“He’s a Journalist. He works for a popular magazine.”

“I mean, why is he here? How did he know to come here?”

Martin took a sip of his beer and looked at her.

“He works for a magazine, Annaliese. He said he heard the music. He probably recognized it from somewhere. I don’t need to hear the rest of what Rudi’s playing,” he said, looking at his watch, and then looking at her. “I already know. But I want you to understand what I’m about to tell you. It’s obvious to me that he understands the music. He obviously read it last night, and studied it, because he understood me when I told him about the changes I wanted to hear — to the tempo — but more importantly, how to bring it in at the right length. The boy’s every bit as good as I was at his age. And at that age, I was on stage. He doesn’t need to enter competitions to prove himself.”

“What are you saying?”

“He need only learn how to perform.”

“And how does one go about learning that?”

“Well, I left the door partially open,” Martin smiled. “Let’s see if he brings anyone in off the streets.The blinds are up, or open at least.”

“What happened to the people who were standing at the window earlier?”

“They left when I opened the door. That man alone stayed. But that man can help us.”

“How?”

“I told you, he works for a magazine. A syndicated magazine. Ever heard of  Le Monde?”

  * 

The first person that slipped in through the door kept to the darkness and the shadows. Martin saw him, and a part of him hesitated for just a moment—his heart skipping a beat—as if catching sight of the man’s silhouette was a numbing reminder of that once upon a time terror he’d been trying to forget. He was just as quick to dismiss the thought, but he knew — as quick as he was to think about it — it was already too late. The thought had been confirmed; the silhouette reminded him of a distant memory, and he was looking at its shadow.

He caught the man’s profile and saw how it bent away to one side — to the left where his shoulder sagged. It was a body that bespoke torture and horrors better left unsaid; it was a body that had been broken and put back together in a haphazard fashion. It wasn’t difficult for Martin to understand how the shadow of a man was nothing but the reminder of a life once lived, and best forgotten.

Her heard a gasp from Annaliese and knew that she’d seen him. He’d frightened her —just the sight of him — and he knew her memories of the shadows were just as horrific, and he reached for her hand.

She grasped him tight.

There were others that filed into the entryway, who came to watch as much as to listen. But Martin knew it was the child being a child that had drawn them; the man from the magazine had been right about that much. And he knew he could use that to great advantage — and not just for his own redemption — but something for them all.

He glanced at his watch and looked up at Rudi who finished the last notes with a fingering extravaganza. There was an audience of twelve people, German tourists who’d been passing by, drawn in as much by the artistry of Beethoven as they were by the artist. Martin looked at Annaliese and smiled. One of the crowd clapped in appreciation and Rudi looked up; and Martin could see the boy beaming with pride. Others joined in and Rudy stood up beside the piano, bowing just like Martin hoped he would.

Martin looked at Annaliese.

“What I do now, I do to help you,” he said, standing up and looking down at her. “Trust me with this one thing, and I will change your life forever.”

“What? What do you mean?” she said.

He held his finger up and shook his head; she sat silent.

Martin ran up to the piano and grasped Rudi by the hand, pulling the boy toward him in a hug and exclaiming to him, in German, and loud enough to be heard by everyone. “The weihekuss, was a gift from Beethoven to Liszt, and from Liszt to his student, my maestro, Anton Beck, who passed it down to me.” He kissed the top of the boy’s head and the German tourists erupted with cheers. The Journalist began taking pictures of everything, and when he finished the one roll, he loaded another.

Martin looked down at Rudi, and smiled.

“I’m going to teach you myself. You can tell your Oma, I’m coming home. Now, are you ready for your first interview?”

“What did you just do?” Bijou asked, approaching the piano. He was looking at the Germans who were all smiling and happy. “Tell me. Why are they clapping? What did you say before you kissed the kid’s head? Tell me.”

“Yes. I’d like to know, too,” the Journalist said.

“When I was a child in Germany, no older than Rudi here, I was made to perform for the elite members of the National Socialists — you call them Nazis. My tutor was the composer, Anton Beck, who had been a student of Franz Liszt.”

“Your tutor, the man who taught you to play the piano, was once a student of Franz Liszt?” the Journalist asked.

“You know of him, then?”

“Who was he?” La Niña asked, standing with the circle of tourists who had inched closer to hear what was being said. A few spoke French and did their best to translate.

“That’s not important. Franz Liszt was a child prodigy, much the same as my maestro Beck had been, and myself. But Liszt had been taken to see Beethoven by his Maestro, who had once been a student of Beethoven’s. Do you see where this is going?”

“And you, having been gifted with Beethoven’s kiss, have passed it on to yet another child prodigy,” the Journalist said.

“I have.”

“You said something about an interview? With whom?”

“You, of course. Who else is there?” Martin laughed.

“How about we talk to the mother first? Maybe you could translate for us? She trusts you, right?”

“Do you?”

“I figure what do I have to lose? Right? The kid’s a nine year old child prodigy. Like I said, the world eats that shit up, and somehow, I’m thinking you already know that, and then some, if you played for the Nazis like you say. You’re not about to let anything hurt him, but I want to know how she fits into all of this. Didn’t I hear someone say she came in from Berlin looking for you? Did you know her back then? Nine years ago was close to the end of the war. Is he your secret son and this is how she’s proving it to you? The apple doesn’t fall far, if you will, the boy being a child prodigy and all. Like father like son?”

“I wish it were true, but no. It’s nothing like that,” he said with a smile.

“What is it then? What’s the story?”

“The story is whatever she says it is.”

“And what’s your story?”

“That I’m leaving Paris and going home to teach the child myself. He deserves nothing less, having been kissed by Beethoven.”

The man standing in the shadows was now standing at the bar. Martin saw him, but for the most part his face was lost in the darkness because of the slope of his body. The Journalist saw Martin looking at the man and nodded to himself, smiling.

“Do you know him?” Martin asked, thinking there was something about the way the man stood that seemed familiar.

“Him? He’s some old German who lives by the river. He pretends that he’s blind and begs outside of the museums. He’s a camp survivor, so he makes sure people see his tattoo. Gets more sympathy that way, I guess. Says he’s no Jew though. Insists he’s not. Says he’d rather be a Gypsy, than a Jew.”

“That’s the man that’s been looking for you,” La Niña said.

“Who? Old Claude? Why would Claude be looking for you?” the Journalist asked.

“Claude?” Martin said.

“That’s not his real name. No one knows what his name is. It’s what we call him. Hey Claude!” the Journalist called out suddenly, and the man Claude’s head jerked up.

Martin gasped.

“I know him,” Martin said, and stood up.

He walked toward him.

“His name is Dieter,” he said purposely as he spoke out at the man. “A man at least deserves to be called by his name, don’t you think?” Martin said, and Dieter shifted noticeably, but finding himself trapped and with nowhere to run, surrendered. He seemed to collapse into himself as he sunk into the stool, his broken body twisted, and at an angle, his face lost in the shadows.

Martin stopped in front of him, and the man lifted his face; his eyes were silent.

There were tears.

“Hello, Dieter,” Martin said, crouching down in front of him. Martin reached for his hand and Dieter jumped as Martin bent down, kissing his hand softly. “Why don’t you come home with me and let me take care of you? Let me love you again?” he asked, looking at him.

“What’s there to love? I’m a broken man, Martin,” he said, trying to pull himself away. “You don’t want me now. Look at what they did to me,” he said, and leaned into the light. “They took away the only thing I had. I’m blind.”

Martin stood up, still holding his hand.

“I couldn’t go back to you. Not like this,” Dieter said.

“Love is for always, and I couldn’t love you any less — even like this.”