Impossible Music

by Sean Williams

You all right?

  “I’m fine,” but then I realize that she signed the question instead of writing it down. For a second, to the part of my brain that processes language, it didn’t make a difference.

  With a cry of frustration and rage, I pick up a handful of Deafman cassettes from a pile on my desk and throw them against the opposite wall. Maeve ducks. Pieces go everywhere. I don’t hear the crash and clatter.

  I collapse back onto the bed and put my hands over my face. This isn’t fair! Maybe I can’t hear. Maybe I can’t get into uni. And now it’s becoming natural to view the world through the filter of silence—​but I don’t want any of it. I want, I want, I want . . .

  My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket, thinking it might be G answering my prayer.

  It’s Maeve.

  You want to smash shit? Come with me.

  I look up. She’s in the doorway, studying me over the upper edge of her phone. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I nod, glad I haven’t scared her away. Which is surprising, after all the door slamming and theatrics.

  She takes me into the spare room, which we’ve used as a hangout as long as I can remember. It contains some half-empty storage boxes, a raggedy couch, an old TV, and a selection of gaming platforms that all belong to Maeve.

  I’ve never had much interest in gaming, except with Sad Alan and Roo. On losing my hearing, that kind of activity quickly grew tiresome. You can type and game at the same time, but playing with friends in the same room is mostly about talking shit to each other or egging each other on. I haven’t looked at a game for over three months.

  Maeve points at the couch, and I slump into it while she switches things on and fiddles with settings. It’s amazing how much she reminds me of Mum sometimes. They share a blunt triangular nose and strong jawline that gives them a mountainous profile, particularly when determined to get their own way. Eyes green, hair brown. They differ in skin tones: I’m dark, like Mum, where Maeve has Dad’s Scandinavian creaminess.

  The screen comes to life. She hands me a controller and sits next to me.

  The controller buzzes with haptic life as lurid colors explode onto the screen. The opening of a game called Demolition of the Damned starts to play. The action is captioned.

  Some places are born bad. Others are made that way.

 

  “No, don’t, please—”

 

 

  Maeve skips past the intro with a you don’t need to know all that wave. Then we’re straight into a session that teaches me how to navigate on the run through a haunted asylum, smashing doors open with my shoulder or booted foot, snatching up rusted knives and bottles of tainted medicine, and throwing them with growing speed and skill. The weapon every player starts with is a crucifix balled up in a fist. It’s a shield, too: drop it, and you’re demon fodder.

  My mission is to tear the cursed place to the ground.

  Maeve and I play exorcists well versed in the art of annihilation, careening through the game leaving a swath of rubble behind us. I can’t hear the destructive power of our holy fists, but I can feel it through the controller, and even a little through my body. Maeve must have the volume turned up high for her own benefit, if not mine. Animated splinters fly. Blood splatters, in all different colors. Bone crunches.

  And it is brilliant, just what I need. I shrug off my everyday concerns and completely immerse myself in the ludicrous violence of a game that technically Maeve shouldn’t be playing, since it’s rated R. But who cares about that? An hour flies by, then another, and I hardly think about anything else.

  I’m so grateful I could kiss her. Almost.

  We take a break to make toasted cheese sandwiches.

  Your laugh is really loud now, she writes on her board.

  “Sorry.”

  No, it’s an improvement.

  My phone buzzes again, and this time it is G, inviting me to dinner. I feel as though all my fortunes have turned at once.

  With Aunty Lou. Just the three of us, nothing spesh. She’s a good cook, but she’s a vegetarian, so there won’t be any meat. Is that okay?

  Yes. We’re cool?

  I’m sorry I opt out like that. I can’t help it. When someone’s screaming in your ears, it’s hard to concentrate on anything else. I don’t mean you.

  I figured. What good would screaming at you do?

  None at all. And you get that now, right?

  I get that.

  So, great. See you at seven?

  It’s a date!

  Pathetic. X

  I put the phone back in my pocket, and Maeve gifts me with a sandwich and a significant look.

  “What?”

  She does a little you’re in lo-ove dance, and I roll my eyes. But secretly I am pleased. If it’s that obvious, it must be real, right?

  And if my sister is making me lunch and making me feel better, life can’t be completely awful.

  We don’t dwell on it. An infinite number of psychotic psychologists await our righteous fists.

  * * *

  To: Grace Dorn

  From: Simon Rain

  Date: January 3

  Subject: Impossible Music #4

  I’ve decided to change the titles.

  #1 “Concerto for the Other”

  #2 “Pedal Point (for Gustav)”

  #3 “Miniatures”

  And now, in case these three haven’t already convinced you of my brilliance:

  “3 of 4” or “Subtitle Sonata”

  This work is composed for a trio of projectors. It unfolds through three different representations of the music in three different colors: (1) progress through a score (written for four voices), (2) the unfolding of notes on a sequencer, and (3) a verbal description of the work for those who can’t read music. The score becomes increasingly complex as it unfolds until it overwhelms the capacity of musical notation, step-programming, or English to capture it.

  This replicates the experience of reading closed captions that are largely ineffective at conveying the dialogue, foley, and soundtracks of modern media. Which is the “true” depiction of the actual thing? Is it one of the three, or all of them? If the latter, how is it possible to keep track of three streams at once?

  As the work unfolds, each projection takes up more and more space on the screen until they overlap completely, creating a jumble of notes, data, and words that are increasingly difficult to separate. Finally, the black negative space vanishes, leaving the questions: Where is there room for the audience to bring their own experience to the performance? Where is the music itself, if there is no audio component, just visual? When the representation overwhelms the senses, how is that different from random noise?

  The sonata finishes with all three projectors on full. The three colors overlap to form white. We have returned to where we started, perhaps no wiser.

  Repeat ad nauseam.

  Sorry if this is a bit rushed. I’ve somewhere important to be. You’ll tell me when I’ve done enough, won’t you?

  Rain

  * * *

  To: Simon Rain

  From: Grace Dorn

  Date: January 3

  Subject: Autoreply: Impossible Music #4

  I am recovering from surgery for carpal tunnel syndrome and therefore unable to reply to emails.

  If you’re a postgrad seeking an extension, you are likely the cause of this problem. Please find someone else to belabor with your excuses.

  Most sincerely,

  Professor Dorn

  Glowing Speech Bubbles

  January 4

  Dinner that night is a welcome distraction from one problem I can’t solve, but it’s also a reminder of another. Aunty Lou doesn’t allow mobile phones at the table, a rule we used to have at home until it became one of the main ways we communicate. At Aunty Lou’s, our choices are notes on paper, signing, or sitting incommunicado.

  The meal itself is fantastic. G doesn�
�t eat all of it, so I help myself to her leftovers rather than see it go to the dog, Rusty, who fusses for scraps at Aunty Lou’s ankles. Also, while I’m eating, my hands are acceptably occupied and therefore too busy for Auslan. G fills in the answers to a lot of Aunty Lou’s questions, like: I’m a musician; no, nothing she’d like. Brave? Nah, thick as a brick, more like.

  I’m secretly, if a little irritably, impressed with how well G can sign now. This not a skill she ever revealed in private.

  You don’t like to sign, Aunty Lou writes to me when I’m done with dinner. Are you learning to lip-read instead?

  I shake my head. “Too hard,” I tell her, which compresses into two words very little about my feelings on sign language—​not to mention centuries of bitter arguments about how best to teach the deaf to communicate. Signing (manualism) or lip reading (oralism)? My answer is currently, Surely there’s a third option!

  George only signs to avoid writing me endless notes, Aunty Lou tells me.

  G snatches that particular note out of my hand and puts her right closed fist emphatically into her open left hand: True. Then she gets up to clear the plates. I go to help, but Aunty Lou pulls me back down.

  She smiles innocently until G is out of the room. Then she produces a note from her sleeve—​prewritten, just like Mum’s were when she tried to get me to give up on music—​and slips it across the table. It says:

  George is happier than I’ve seen her for a long time. Thank you. We still need to look after her, though. She’s very fragile. I’ve thrown out everything she could use if she tries again, but of course there are other ways, and she is very determined. You’ll tell me if you suspect anything, won’t you? I’m sorry if I’m being too pushy or putting you under pressure. This is all very new to you.

  Underneath she’s written her mobile number. I turn over the note and write on the other side.

  I’ll text you later, so you’ll have my number.

  Maybe do it now. Then destroy this note to stop it falling into the wrong hands, if you know what I mean.

  Her eyes twinkle at our little conspiracy. Behind the humor, though, is a deep well of worry and sadness. She knows G better than I do, and if she is concerned . . .

  But I know G in a different way, and the fact that G is trying to make room for a relationship gives me hope that she won’t need us tiptoeing around her, watching her every move.

  While she is out of the room, I sneakily save Aunty Lou’s number under a fake name in case G sees it (“Orianthi”) and text her, Mission accomplished.

  Then I eat the note, and Aunty Lou laughs.

  * * *

  I wake with a jolt. Someone is pulling my hair! It takes a second to remember where I am and who the culprit must be.

  G is thrashing back and forth, holding her hands up in front of her face, and has become entangled. Tear trails gleam in the merest hint of light. She is having a nightmare.

  Gently unknotting myself, I sit up and take her wrists, feeling their lumpy scars against my skin. Unthinkingly, I make a soothing noise deep in my throat, even though she won’t be able to hear it.

  “G, shhhhh, wake up, G, shhhhh.”

  Her eyes flicker open and the muscles in her arms relax, but she is confused, still weeping. I let her go, give her space if she wants it.

  She wraps herself around my chest and holds on tight until whatever torment visited her in her sleep subsides.

  For the second time that week, I have stayed the night, and we are both more and less comfortable with each other than before. Now there’s familiarity as well as newness: layers are forming over our initial impressions, like sediments in a deep ocean. I know all about her second tattoo and other hidden intimacies I could once only imagine. The way her skin feels, her lips, her hair. How she moves, tastes, breathes. I have mis­remembered nothing, and it all still feels fresh. Precious. Fragile.

  When she is calmer, we lie entwined and whisper into our phones. The screens are like glowing speech bubbles, held up in front of our mouths. Words appear as though drawn by an invisible hand.

  You must think I’m fucking insane.

  Well, you know what they say about the crazy ones.

  That we’re the best at everything?

  You got it. What were you dreaming about?

  My second fall. I thought I was going to die, even when I regained consciousness. It was worse when I woke up than the first time, because the noise was louder, and I didn’t understand what was going on. I thought I was in hell.

  Do you still feel that way?

  Part of me does. Don’t be disappointed, like Aunty Lou. I know everything could be much worse. It can always be worse, right?

  Sure. You could’ve landed on a patch of leprosy, or woken up in the year three million, when everyone is descended from Donald Trump, or—​

  Stop! I’ve had enough nightmares.

  We kiss for a while, our text bubbles empty. When we come up for air, I do my best to reassure her on one point.

  I honestly don’t think Aunty Lou is disappointed in you.

  Why? Did she say something?

  Not about that.

  Did she tell you?

  Tell me what?

  That I stole her stash of green dream to, you know, do it?

  I fight the instinct to tense up, even though I’m suddenly dangling over the conversational precipice of her suicide attempt. How we got here I don’t rightly know, but we are here, and I can’t ruin this opportunity to understand by prying too hard.

  What’s green dream? If you tell me Aunty Lou’s doing something hard like heroin, I’m not going to believe you.

  She’s not. It’s a sedative. She belongs to a club of oldies who hoard it for when they are ready to die. Nembutal, it’s really called. Better than a plastic bag or a razor blade. I speak from experience.

  The phone is misunderstanding more of her words than usual, so I know her tone is different. How, though, I can’t tell. Tighter, probably. She feels that way against me.

  You don’t have to tell me.

  I want to. I’m still working it all out myself. I swiped Aunty Lou’s stash and got the dose wrong—​but maybe I did that deliberately? Was I just trying to get attention?

  Maybe you needed attention?

  Maybe. May fucking be. God, I’m so tired of this. Don’t you ever get tired of it, the inside of your own head? The endless round and round of it all? I bet you don’t. You always seem so calm, so in control. Just tell me your secret, and I promise I’ll be sane. Probably.

  Me? In control? Wait until I show you the cassette I made.

  The what?

  Long story. I was afraid to show you because you’d laugh. Yes, I get tired of it. I feel like I’m going in circles inside the world’s biggest, darkest cave, and no matter how much I try, I can never touch the sides. But I never stop feeling as though at the very next step I’m going to walk into a wall.

  Ah. For me, the wall is always smacking me in the face, and nothing I do gets me away from it.

  You know, sometimes I envy you.

  That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Not heard—​you know.

  So what keeps you going?

  Except for when it isn’t? Habit, I guess. What about you?

  I shrug, feeling it’s neither fair nor completely true to say, You. I still have the possibility of studying composition, and now the tantalizing hope that my brain might be healing. But if I’m brutally honest with myself, not completely true is still mostly true, who cares about fair when this might be the only chance you have to tell someone they matter? That they matter a lot.

  You.

  It took you a long time to say that.

  I didn’t want it to sound dumb.

  How can one word sound dumb?

  I don’t know. “Whom” could probably do it.

  Simon Rain, I think I like you very much.

  Is that so?

  Yes.

  We don’t talk much after that, not because the
re isn’t still a lot to say, but because there aren’t words. And our hands are busy elsewhere. Given the choice between absorbing every living moment with her and discussing why she tried to commit suicide, the former wins every time.

  Eventually, we fall asleep, and when I wake up, she’s already in the shower. There’s a text from her on my phone:

  Got a meeting with Prameela at ten. Want to come say hi?

  My first, panicky concern is what will happen if G finds out I’ve been having tests behind her back—​but then sanity returns. Prameela won’t say anything to G about another client. Besides, it’s not as though my hearing is flooding back in one triumphant wave. Or maybe even at all.

  My battery is almost flat because I left my voice recognition app running overnight. What it has transcribed is very odd.

  Don’t be disappointed.

  Don’t be disappointed.

  Don’t be disappointed.

  . . .

  Hard like heroin.

  Hard like heroin.

  Hard like heroin.

  Hard like heroin.

  . . .

  You.

  You.

  You.

  You.

  You.

  This is how I discover that G talks in her sleep.

  Thanks Throat Cancer

  December 20

  Deafman wasn’t the only thing I’d kept from G for fear of her mockery. My second attempt at giving Professor Dorn a portfolio to prove I could write music was another.

  Writing music isn’t all that difficult. Writing good music is. You can start with all the rules, conventions, and templates that even the laziest composer can follow and come up with something that isn’t wrong and isn’t awful . . . but at the same time isn’t brilliant, or maybe not even good in a way that matters. Determining what sits on what side of that line is the trickiest part of the process. Usually it involves listening.