It was the worst night of Marcus Lerner’s life. Marcus Lerner was a violinist in the Seattle Symphony. The Seattle Symphony had a concert tonight, and it was a disaster, thanks to Marcus, who played out of key and forced the entire symphony to start over. Now Marcus walked home with a beer in his left hand and a piece of beef jerky in his right. He sat on a bench, wishing he could forget about what happened. It was the worst night of his life. It was also the night that he met Perengano.
Marcus still sat slouched on the bench, leaning his head against the backrest. He began drifting off. And then he heard it: a faint song on the air, a rising ballad that floated through the night, over the rooftops and chimneys to where Marcus sat.
Marcus was powerless to the song. He crept in toward the sound, as if walking too quickly or too loudly would disturb the melody. He walked two blocks, then three, and the song continued. Finally, he stopped at an alley. The song was full in his ears now. It was coming from this alley. He breathed deeply and turned the corner. There was an opening at the end of this alley, and moonlight poured diagonally through the metal stairs above. Every step he took was a quiet calculation. He dared not breathe too quickly. The end of the alley neared and his steps slowed further. He reached out for the brick corner to steady himself as he peered into the square courtyard created by the buildings surrounding it.
Sitting in the middle of the square was a small, aged man playing an ancient viola. The notes flowed from the bow without ceasing. The tune was celestial, like he was coaxing the snowflakes slowly down to the ground.
Marcus leaned further, too far. His hand slipped from the brick corner and he rolled into the courtyard. The old man wheeled around, his eyes wide, furious. He covered his viola and leapt from the chair. Marcus recovered his footing, turned and fled the alley, full of fear and adrenaline. Too scared to look behind him, he ran two full blocks before stopping.
He tried to catch his breath, vowing never to go there again. Ready to drown his sorrows in some tea flavored heavily with whatever alcohol he could find, he started home.
A year passed, and it was winter again. Marcus was still in the Symphony and had played without incident since last year’s Christmas performance. He had received a phone call from his sister two days before, asking if he would mind taking care of her dog while she was away for the weekend, to which he agreed. Her instructions included food in the morning and evening and a mile walk every other afternoon, for which she left a leash.
Marcus was currently conducting one of these walks. The thing about leashes is that they only work well for small dogs. Unfortunately for Marcus, this was a big dog, and it was half-dragging Marcus up and down the hills of downtown Seattle. Marcus was gradually losing his grip on the small loop, and with a final tug, the dog was free. It ran down the rest of the street, and before Marcus could catch the loop, it turned the corner straight into the same alley Marcus had fled a year before.
Silently cursing dogs, leashes, and unsteady brick corners, he again entered alley. He hoped the old man wasn’t there. He neared the end of the alley and stopped. The dog was nowhere to be seen. Marcus turned wildly around, positive there was no other way in or out of this place.
“Is this yours?” asked a thin British voice. It came from the shadows.
Marcus froze. He slowly turned around to see the same old man standing behind him, holding the leash as the dog licked the old man’s hand.
“Uh, yes, he’s mine. Well, he’s my sisters, but I’m taking care of her for him. I mean, I’m taking care of him for her, because she’s gone. Well, she’s away, because she had some things to attend to because she’s a very busy person, and-“
“Ah yes, I recognize you,” interrupted the old man, smiling. “You were watching me play that night last winter, weren’t you, before the incident with the frying pan.”
Marcus smiled also. “Yes, that was me. To be honest, I thought you were crazy that night,” he admitted.
“I see. While that may have been true that night, I think I’ve fully recovered. Well, let us consider this our formal introduction. My name is Perengano.”
“Marcus Lerner.”
They shook hands and Perengano continued, “Strange, I know, for an old homeless English gentleman in an American city to have a Spanish name. It is my nickname actually; the Spaniards’ equivalent of your ‘John Doe’. You see, my friends call me this because of my love for the music of the Spanish composer Tomas Luis de Victoria. The harmony in his pieces is marvelously dark. It gives me the feeling of being outside myself; it extracts me from…” he gestured apologetically at his makeshift lodgings and shrugged. “I imagine it was less the fall and more this dull place that scared you off.”
Marcus laughed. “I was coming home when I heard your playing. It was an exquisite tune. I couldn’t place it at the time. Do you remember what it was?”
“I’m sorry, I do not,” he sighed. “I have extreme difficulty remembering any of the songs that I play. Most of the time, they are improvisations that I have no way of writing down, because I do not know how to read music. I am entirely self-taught, you see. Often, I wish that I could write some compositions down on paper.”
Marcus had an idea. “You know, I might be able to help you out with that,” he said. Marcus explained that he was a violinist in the Seattle Symphony. “You could play something, and I could write it out on notation paper. I’ve been reading music for years, it couldn’t be too hard.”
And what was supposed to be a 30 minute walk turned into a four hour meeting, during which Marcus transcribed several pages of music. This turned into a weekly regimen. Marcus arrived, Perengano welcomed him, and they played together. Sometimes Marcus brought his violin, so they could get harmonies right for multiple-part compositions. Perengano had never been able to hear more than one part at the same time, because nobody took the time to play with him.
During some sessions, Marcus sometimes mentioned to Perengano that his music was good enough to be published, performed, and recorded. Perengano always regarded this kind of suggestion as a joke, and often laughed it off by saying something like, “Oh yes, imagine. An old bum like me playing up there on a magnificent stage like that.”
Finally, Marcus decided to confront him about this. On one particularly progressive day with Perengano, Marcus sat down and did it.
“Perengano,” he said, “I’m really serious about this. I think we should get this music out there. It needs to be performed. The world needs to hear it, it’s revolutionary.”
As Marcus expected, Perengano chuckled, “No, my boy. I’m too old for that kind of tomfoolery.”
“No, I’m serious. You could really do this. You’ve just been sitting here for decades playing that…that worthless viola you have there, alone, in the freezing cold. For God’s sake, you wouldn’t have to be homeless anymore,” he pleaded. “You could have a house, real furniture, heat…It would be easy.”
Perengano sat with his legs propped on the back of a chair. He stared at the brick wall. After several seconds, he spoke uneasily, in broken sentences, “Marcus…What you do not understand is…This music is mine. It’s the only thing that I have, apart from this place. The truth is, let’s face it, you and I are the only two people that know I exist. If I give away the only thing that defines me…as a person. Do you understand?”
Marcus crossed his arms, and said, “I don’t think you understand. Do you realize what it is you have here? Nobody has written music like this before. Nobody, ever. This would be a completely new phenomenon, and people deserve to hear it. Despite whatever paltry reasons you can come up with to be selfish about it pale in comparison to the benefit of getting this music out there.” His voice grew indignant. “To me, it looks like you’re just trying to save the last scrap of pride you have.”
Perengano bowed his head. He stood and hobbled to Marcus, and placed one hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about this again,” he said. “I think it’s time you went home for the night.”
Marcus gave a silent nod and reached for his violin case. He began piling up that day’s notation papers. Instead of placing them in a neat pile under the table, this time he put them inside his violin case.
Somebody needs to see this music, he thought,
whether the old man wants it or not.
Marcus was looking forward to this week’s meeting. The conductor at the symphony praised the music’s brilliance, and set a rigorous practice schedule for the new music. This was the proof Marcus needed to show Perengano how important it was.
Marcus found Perengano in a state of panic at the end of the alley. All of the chairs and tables were overturned. His bed was flipped and everything had been shifted around. Perengano was crawling underneath one of the tables.
“What’s the matter?” Marcus asked.
Perengano bumped his head on the table when he tried to get up. His eyes were wide as he rubbed his head. “I cannot seem to find any of the music sheets you made. I believe somebody has stolen them, though I do not know who would do such a thing.”
Marcus smiled. “I took them,” he said. He was proud of himself. “I showed them to my conductor at the symphony, and you know what he said? He said exactly what I’ve been saying for weeks. He thought they were fantastic. He put together a performance. It’s happening in a month!”
Marcus waited for his praise. Instead, he received silence.
Perengano’s eyes narrowed; his bearded face sunk to a scowl. “I told you never to show that music to anybody. You couldn’t possibly have forgotten that. You directly disobeyed my wishes! What right do you think you have to take what is not yours?”
Marcus exploded. “Yours? What makes you think this is yours?” He held up a fistful of the sheets. “I wrote these down. Without me, you never would have had these in the first place. I think I have every right to show them to people. And what right do
you have to be angry with me, when I’m trying to do you a favor? The least you could do is be thankful for the effort. Nobody has given a damn about you for years, and when I finally come along a try to help, you give me trouble for it.”
Perengano grasped Marcus by the shoulders. “I do appreciate what you’ve done for me, Marcus. I do. But you
must respect me enough to listen to what I say. Is that too much to ask?”
Marcus pushed his hands away. “You’ve never understood what this music means. It’s more important than you, or me, or your wishes. I’m holding musical history in my hand right now, and you want to let it go to waste. This concert will happen, whether or not you want it to.”
Marcus turned and strode out of the alley, knowing he would almost surely never see the old man again.
A month passed, and it was the night of the performance. Marcus sat in his chair behind the closed curtain, sweating. He remembered the night just over a year ago, after a performance much like this one, when Perengano’s music first met his ears. He remembered how it lifted him from self-loathing when he heard it. His music was so honest, so personal. It was then that Marcus realized what he had done.
“Where are you going? You can’t leave now!” Shouted the director.
Marcus brushed by him. “I can’t do this,” he said. Marcus weaved his way through the crowds to the back door. He burst through it, wishing he had given more though to Perengano’s words. He fought with himself, his footsteps creating interwoven circles in the snow. He threw his violin to the ground; it’s neck broke in two. Exhausted, he leaned against a tree and sank to the ground, resting his head in his locked arms.
As he sat there, he heard the audience applaud. The curtains must have just opened. Marcus stood, walked to the back door, and opened it. There was a choir at the back of the stage. The violinists sat on the left side front, and one chair was empty. With a slow, calculated gesture, the conductor raised his baton. The violinists drew their bows across the strings. A heavenly note filled the hall. The violas joined in to produce a dissonant melody, then a resolve. A fierce rumbling came from the cellos. The trumpets and tubas shouted an angry, resolute chorus. The hall was vibrant with sound, a vibration that built and built. The conductor raised his arms as if he could not control their motion. His arms were raised to their full length. He swept them down and out, and the instruments became silent.
The audience was poised, sure the piece wasn’t over, but doubting themselves. Everything was motionless. The conductor stood statuesque in the middle of the stage. Nobody breathed. Finally, he brought the baton forward and the choir began to sing.
It was, as Perengano would have described it, “marvelously dark.” Those voices soared. Tomas Luis de Victoria would have been proud. The sound was glorious. They sang “Deus non me obliviscorit,” which means “God Will Not Forget Me.”
The voices began to fade. They grew quieter and quieter, until finally, they ceased. The hall was absolutely silent. The audience sat there petrified. Then, slowly at first, then faster, vigorous applause erupted from the crowd. And Marcus wished Perengano was there.
