by Dan Edmund
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However, already by the sixth day of his new life in Paradise, Harry had started a number of other projects besides his history book, projects that were supposedly to determine the reality of this world. One involved astronomy. My father, under Harry's supervision, had constructed a simple sundial, consisting of a straight piece of wood, etched at six regular intervals, and with a raised crosspiece on its top. Also, on top of this 'T' stake, my father had constructed for him a removable wooden protractor. Harry himself had also drawn up a near perfect twenty-foot diameter circle around this stake, then placed rocks at exactly fifteen degree intervals. He explained that this was his own crude way of constructing an observatory to measure the position and movement of the sun during the day, and the moon and stars at night. His observations were then meticulously recorded in a special journal.
Another project of his was simply observing our daily village life. With his field notebook in his hand, Harry seemed more like an anthropologist than our latest village resident. Yet still, another undertaking of his, which seemed even more eccentric to our community, was his random probes into the ground. He dug several holes along the riverbank, around my mother's garden, in the forest and hills, and even within the village itself. To his annoyance, he could never understand why no bones, worms, insects, nor any remains of our previous world could ever be found. "This is absolutely impossible!" were mutterings frequently heard.
Also, in the hope of adding interest to his new life, I was teaching Harry the guitar in the afternoons. So far, I had only showed him the very rudiments: correct posture, correct depression of strings onto the fretboard, and simple strumming techniques using one-finger chords. However, on that sixth day, I introduced him to basic fingerpicking.
"All right, Harry, now that I've shown you what to do, it's your turn," I said enthusiastically. Unenthusiastically, he took the guitar from me and held it in an awkward position. "No! No! Hold it like this," I said, manipulating his hands. "Now, for this exercise, you will simply play the open strings, and thus not need your left fingers to press down onto the frets. You're right-handed like me, so with your right index finger, pluck the third string from the bottom using just your fingernail." He did as instructed and played a clear G note. "Good! Now with your middle finger, pluck the second open string."
Again a clear note sounded.
"That's great, Harry! Now try your ring finger on the first string on the bottom." This was more difficult for him, but after the third attempt, he also succeeded. "See, you did it! You were just playing three notes in what is termed the freestyle fingerpicking technique, or in classical guitar terminology, tirando."
"Oh, how exciting!" he exclaimed sarcastically.
I laughed and joked about his lack of interest. "Never mind, it soon gets more interesting, especially when the notes form into music."
"When? In ten years?"
I again laughed to ease the tension. "No, today! However, first we're going to play a very simple arpeggio on the open strings. So, starting with the third string, pluck each note with the correct finger, then follow my count of one, two, three. Okay, let's try."
He did, but very unevenly. "No! No! Play each note as I count them." He tried unenthusiastically several more times until eventually a very slow but even arpeggio was executed. Harry flashed a faint smile of satisfaction. "Now we'll play these same strings whilst holding down the simplified C chord." I then manipulated his left index finger onto the first fret of the second string. "Now pluck the three strings one-by-one, but keep in time to my count." He tried, but the notes were muffled. "No, straighten your left index finger, and just use your fingertip." He did, and a pleasing arpeggio sounded forth. "See, I told you! You're now beginning to play the classical guitar," I said, patting him on the shoulder.
"Don't patronize me," he complained. "I'm not a young child!"
"Sorry, Harry, I forgot that you're already a mature man!" I said, trying to be humorous, but failing miserably. I cleared my throat and apologized sincerely. His scowl softened. "Anyway, now try the other chord I showed you, the simplified G7 chord. Remember, just place your left finger onto the first string of the first fret, then with your right hand, pluck the strings the same way. He did, and after a couple of attempts, the notes sung out. "Great! Now hold down the second string again and pluck the same way." He did, with similar success. "Now we'll try changing chords without loosing time. Just play one chord for one bar, then alternate to the other chord. However, remember to keep in time to my count of one, two, three."
He tried, but found the simultaneous changing of chords and fingerpicking difficult at first. However, apart from the expected muffled notes and irregular timing, Harry was performing his first simple chord progression. With further encouragement and practice, the timing and execution of the notes improved.
Again a faint smile appeared. "At least it's beginning to sound like music."
"See! I told you that you could do it!" I said, glad he was finally showing some interest. "Now, we're going to reverse the order of the notes by playing the first string first, then the second string, then the third, but still using the same fingers for each string." He tried, and after several attempts, also succeeded. "That's great, Harry! Now, to make it sound even better, we're going to add bass notes to this arpeggio by using our thumb on the open sixth string." I took the guitar off him and demonstrated this technique. "Okay. Now it's your turn." I handed the guitar back to him. "However, only play the bass note, together with the first string, on the first beat of each bar. It's not so hard because we're now going to play all the notes on the open strings, and thus you will only need to concentrate on your right hand." At first he had trouble coordinating simultaneously his thumb and ring finger, but eventually he managed to execute the simple arpeggio with the bass. He smiled once more, a little wider than before.
"That's great, Harry! Now let me have the guitar again and I'll demonstrate how, by using this same pattern, you can play the first few bars of a very beautiful guitar piece."
Once holding the guitar, I demonstrated by playing the first four bars of the music, very slowly, using the same right hand finger pattern, and changing the notes only on the first string as the melody changed, whilst all the other notes were played on the open strings.
Now a genuine smile of approval flashed across his face. "Yes. Very pleasant! I think I've heard that tune somewhere before."
"You probably have," I replied. "It's one of the best-known and popular music pieces for the classical guitar."
"What's the music called, and who's it by?"
"Oh, it's been given different names. Spanish Ballad, Amours Interdits, Jeux Interdits, Romance, Romance de Amour, and probably others as well. Also, we actually don't know who composed it either."
Harry then asked me to play the entire music for him, which I did, fast, letting the haunting melody ride above the constant ripple of harmonic triplets.
"It's beautiful!" Harry declared after I had finished.
"Yes, I still think so, although I've been playing it since my teens. Many beginners learn only the first few bars, since it's so easy. However, as you can see, it gets much harder as the music progresses, especially in the second part when it changes key."
"It doesn't look as hard as the music that was composed by that Paraguayan. I particularly liked that first one you played that other night. What was it called?"
"Sueno en la Floresta," I answered. "It's, of course, Spanish. It means, 'Dream in the Forest.'"
"Can you play it again?"
"Yeah, sure, I'd love to!"
So, I played the music again, all seven minutes of it. I noted particularly his fascination when I started playing the tremolo parts to this music."
"It's absolutely magnificent!" he declared after I had finished. "It's almost a story without words, a dream of...." He let the words trail off. Then he paused, as if deep in contemplation. He shook his head, then said, "Strange, but I suddenly recall the first night I
came to your house, or that I dreamt that I did. I don't remember much, but I remember that I related to you one of my lucid dreams." He paused again. "Yes, I remember clearly now, that bizarre apocalyptic dream I had."
I did not know whether this was a good sign or not, but I asked, "Do you also now remember the angel and the -"
"No, but I remember we talked about Mozart and his opera, The Magic Flute." He paused again, as if he had some sort of plan in his mind. "Yes, I also recall that you said you could play it on the guitar."
"No, I said that I used to play Fernando Sor's Introduction and Variations on a Theme by Mozart. It's only a theme, one small piece of music that was taken from the opera."
"Please play it for me."
I was silent for a moment, unsure whether I should, or even still could. More importantly, I feared another psychological relapse of some kind or another. I vividly recalled that, according to him, the music had seemed to serve as a catalyst into his strange apocalyptic nightmare or hallucination, or whatever it had been. I shook my head. "No, it's been too long since I played it. I don't think -"
"Please try. It's important to me that you do."
"But why?"
"I will know when you've played it." He forced a pleading smile.
I saw that it was indeed important to him, although I could not imagine why. After a slight hesitation, I reluctantly agreed.
I had not played this music for at least two years before my death. I had first learnt it as an examination piece during the final stages of my music studies at the conservatory. I had then played it well. Could I do it again? The Introduction, played andante largo, was relatively easy to play, and I clearly could visualize the initial chords and the first few notes that followed. However, the music would get harder, considerably harder, particular near the flurry of notes near the end. Even so, I had an inner confidence that if I just started the music, the subconscious could take over. At least, I hoped so. Yet, what did it matter if I failed? There was, after all, nothing at stake - only Harry's approval.
Nevertheless, I had a quick silent prayer, then commenced the slow and somber introduction. After having played the first few bars that I consciously remembered, my mind switched on to autopilot. I no longer consciously thought what notes or chords would follow, they just did. One of my teachers had flippantly called it 'finger memory,' but as the notes continued to flow out of the guitar, I knew that this was a gross oversimplification. More was involved, a lot more, but I had to focus on the music, not on past memories. I was now only vaguely aware that Harry was watching. I was no longer playing for him; I was now playing for something much deeper, the joining of the inner recesses of myself and the music. For the next eight minutes, Mozart, Sor and I became as one through the medium of the guitar. The musical masterpiece that had never been heard before in Paradise had suddenly sprung to life. The tempo increased; the somberness decreased. Joy then followed as the introduction prepared itself for Mozart's theme. There came a poignant pause, building up anticipation towards the most beautiful part of the entire music. Then it started, happy, vivacious, beautiful, oh it Klinget so Herrlich! I glanced at Harry for the first time since I started playing, seeing the look of delight on his face. However, I forced my attention back onto the music, back onto Mozart's theme. All too soon, the theme had ended, and the first variation commenced.
It had been common for composers to build music around a well-known piece, changing the way it was played, elaborating on it, improving upon it, sometimes merely to show off their virtuosity. Mozart was a master of it himself; he could do it on the spot, on the piano, on the harpsichord, or simply in his head. However, this was now Fernando Sor's music, although with the first variation, the Mozart theme still clearly rang out, albeit in a more elaborate way. There then followed the second variation, slow in tempo, different in mood, somber and reflective, although not for long. The spirit of joy and optimism once more sprang forth during the third variation; Mozart's buoyancy was revived. Then came variations four and five, with Sor taking total control. The music was now short and abrupt, the notes played staccato. Then came the grand finale, with a great blaze of notes that exhibited the great virtuosity of Fernando Sor.
I had finished and knew I had given a near perfect performance, bringing a great masterpiece to life. For a second or two, I basked in that rare accomplishment in art. Then, once more, I noticed Harry, mouth wide-open, eyes lit up - he had been clearly moved, but not in the way I had wished.
"It was incredible!" he gasped. "For a little while at least, the music took me home again, to my living room on that night before that apocalyptic dream." Then he stared at me, as if trying to focus on something nebulous and difficult to comprehend. Finally, after a long hesitation, he sighed, "But, my God, here I am again!"
His words took me by surprise. "What do you mean? Of course, you're still here!" I laughed. "Oh, I see what you mean. The music reminded you of that night when you had your fantastic dream."
He audibly groaned, then almost whispered, "Perhaps everything is just a dream, perhaps all is 'Maya,' an illusion, as the Hindus would claim." Then trance-like, almost mystically, he closed his eyes and uttered: '"Just as the embodied self passes through childhood, youth and old age in this body, in the same manner, it will obtain another body. A wise man is not confused about this.'"
I was now confused about him. I truly feared another psychological relapse. "Harry, this world is real, you're not in a dream. Forget that nonsense dream you had that night, and those other strange dreams you seemingly had. However, you are in another body, a resurrected perfect body, in a perfect world, although you're still Harry Marston."
Suddenly, Harry snapped out of his apparent trance. "No, I was just quoting from the Bhagavad-Gita."
"The what?" I asked.
He smiled. "No, never mind. Perhaps it's only the power of the subconscious mind. Or else, perhaps there is a sign, a message that there is more than one way. Anyway, the music you played was magnificent. You have a gift, a rare talent, a way to understand things and communicate emotions and concepts that may only be expressed in the higher levels of art. You also have the technical skills to make that possible, a skill I can clearly see that takes great talent and years of dedicated practice to develop. In its own unique way, without resorting to words, scenery or singers in costume, the music you just performed expressed almost as much meaning as Mozart's opera itself."
"Only it expressed a different message. Fernando Sor only used a small section of the music that came from The Magic Flute, music that was happy and beautiful, and then built his music around it. It's like life, I suppose, where you should take the good and happy moments from the previous life, and cherish those, but ignore all the rest. That's what we do here."
"And that's the secret of happiness? Forget all that is inconvenient?"
"No. Well, partly, yes! But you have to remember that happiness comes naturally to everyone here in Paradise."
"Everyone, except me!"
"Well, it seems so. However, it would also come to you if you would just allow it to. It's like fine art of any kind. It can be like a beautiful piece of music, or a wonderful landscape painting, or a sculpture, or a great piece of literature. Many people are unmoved by it, even bored by it."
"Only the ignoramus."
"But you're not one of those, are you?"
"Certainly not!" he declared indignantly, then smiled. "Ah, I see. So, it's that easy, is it? Anyway, who is this Fernando Sor? I do not believe I've heard of him."
"He was a guitarist, of course, and he was quite famous in the early part of the nineteenth century. During his time, it was really he who brought the guitar out of the taverns and onto the stage of serious music, so to speak. He even composed opera and ballet music, and was apparently also a fine singer. He's, of course, Spanish, but had to flee from Spain after Napoleon's army was expelled from there."
"In 1813," the historian added.
"Something like that. I thi
nk he needed to flee because he had been too friendly with the French during the occupation. I think he accepted an administrative post of some kind. He thus went to live in Paris, although he also toured to several parts of Europe."
"Did he ever get back home to Spain?"
"No."
For a few seconds Harry sat in silence, seemingly brooding over Sor's, and by extension, his own fate.
I placed my hand on his shoulder. "Harry, you're not in exile here, you're set free!"
"Free from what?"
"From evil, from pain, from suffering, and from death."
"That's a lot of 'froms.'"
"And from unhappiness," I added. "If you only would give yourself a chance. Just take part in this life, and show some kindness to others because they're real people like yourself."
He gave me a wry smile. "I thought you were giving me guitar lessons, not sermons. So how about teaching me that variations on Mozart you just played?"
We both laughed. "Maybe in a few years. It takes time, as with everything. But what about learning the first few easy bars of Spanish Ballad, you know, the one that goes like this?" I then again played the first few bars.
He readily agreed and a little while later, to both our delight, he managed to stumble through the first few easy bars.
