The Artist

by Mark Tiro

  “But…” I quivered, suddenly afraid, “I don’t want to feel lighter.”

  “That’s funny, because you just told me how tired you were, how ready you were to lay this burden down. I only came back to give you what you asked for.”

  “‘Came back’?” I asked, walking back to put the piano between me and her now. “Wait a minute now, I know who you are. You’re her. You are that nurse. It was you there—in that hospital room with me, all those years ago.”

  She didn’t say anything, but as I watched in horror, the corners of her lips curled up ever so slightly.

  My blood ran cold again.

  She took a step towards me.

  I staggered to my feet. “So, what are you going to do now?” I asked, backing up. “What did you come back for?”

  She was walking toward me now, even as I kept stammering back.

  Until my foot caught the corner of a chair behind me. I lost my balance, and before I knew it, I was lying on the floor.

  Sprawled out on my back, she towered over me.

  It was all I could do—I looked up at her.

  It took me a second for my eyes to adjust because she was blocking out the light. She was standing right above me now.

  After a few moments, my eyes adjusted to the light. That’s when I saw her face.

  That’s when I saw her hand moving down, reaching towards me.

  8

  Eight

  “I still need you to play one more thing for me,” she said.

  I tried to sit up. I tried to move back, to pull away. But I didn’t make it. She grabbed me with both hands.

  There was nothing I could do now.

  She took me with both hands. And then she helped me up to my feet.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I couldn’t move my mouth to utter a word.

  “The last thing I want is for anything to happen to you.” I saw that faint flash of a smile on the corners of her lips again. “I still need you to play one more thing for me.”

  “Why would I play anything else for you? You’re here to kill me, I know it. You’re here to take my music away, to take away everything that’s ever made me anything.”

  I didn’t even realize the tears were streaming down my cheeks when she pushed a cocktail napkin over to me.

  “What nonsense is this? If you can’t play music, or hear it in your head—you won’t be anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though that same music courses through your mind, and it’s completely out of your control?”

  “Yes.”

  “And even though the beauty of its siren call will never cease, no matter what you do—not until it smashes you against the rocks of insanity, or strewn about the shore of alcoholism. Or dead. You still think that if your ‘gift’ goes away, you’ll die?”

  “Yes. If I lose my music, I’ll die. It’s all I’ve ever had. It’s all I’ve ever been good at. It’s what makes me who I am.”

  “You said it’s a burden, that it’s killing you.”

  “But the music—it’s my burden. My burden! Without it, I’m nothing.

  She tossed her head back and laughed. A big, full-throated laugh…

  “What’s funny? There’s nothing funny about this at all,” I protested. “This is my life.”

  “I can’t take away your music any more than I could give it to you all those years ago back in the hospital. I thought I explained that to you already. The music is. Period. Full stop. The forms it takes, in you and in the world, are just that. Form. Form isn’t source. I’m here because you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready?”

  “You’re ready to go back. To your home. You’re ready to go back to the source.”

  “Uh, I don’t think I like how this sounds.”

  “Don’t worry. The source—of everything good—is far beyond all the forms in your little life here. This music that permeates your life and your entire experience here—it’s all just the tip of the iceberg. And it’s that iceberg that’s the eternal source of all the forms. You think the music is written down in notes on sheets of paper? That you can play it on your instruments and hear it with your ears?”

  “Well, yes? But you… you—you gave me this gift, my music. I know it, you were there. You’re that nurse. It was you who gave me my music, wasn’t it? All those years ago.”

  “And now, I have one more gift for you.”

  “Gift? How is losing my music… no—how is sacrifice a gift?”

  “If you see sacrifice where there is none, then you’ll never see the gift right in front of your face. It’s there, in plain sight. I’m not here to take away anything. I’m here to lift the obstacles to your seeing. The thing you call a gift has gotten you this far. But now you’re ready to go a step further. What’s gotten you here is now an obstacle to moving beyond. It’s a block to sight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me ask you something. Are you ready to see? Can you ask yourself that? Are you willing?”

  “Willing?”

  “You don’t have to carry the burden anymore. Now you can just listen. The music is still there, as it’s always been and always will be. If you listen now, you’ll hear it, more beautiful than you’ve ever heard it. But you have to be willing to just listen.”

  “To what?”

  “Don’t add anything. The music is perfect. Be still. Your only part is to be willing just listen—without adding anything. Music has nothing to do with you. Whether you hear it or not, whether you play it or not—it is. You can try to burn it at the stake, or turn up the distortion beyond recognition… smash your instruments or cut off your ear…. But as you’ve spent a lifetime learning—none of this has any effect on the source of the music. Everything here is just a distorted reflection of the reality that is the source of it all. And the source of music remains as it’s always been—blissfully unaware of everything here, and completely unaffected as well.”

  “Why have you come then?”

  “I told you. A gift. I have one more gift to give you, if you’re willing. I came because I know you’re ready. But you also have to be willing.”

  “But, willing for what? For you to teach me more music, like before? To give me some special skill no one else in the world has? To teach me another secret chord?”

  “Willing to see. You’ve come as far as you can with what I’ve shown you. What had been a gift, the thing that’s made you strong, and guided your way in the world—who you believe you are here—it’s now your biggest obstacle.”

  “To what?”

  “To the truth.” She took a deep breath, then looked me deep in the eyes. “You’ve come as far here as you can. The good news is that you’re ready now. The shadows here have blocked out your sight long enough. If you’re going to see, we’ll need to drive away the darkness.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means, it’s time to turn on the lights.”

  “I’m going to die, aren’t I? You came to kill me, I knew it.”

  “Nothing real can be threatened. And nothing unreal exists.”

  “That sounds terrifying.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re real.”

  “Well, that’s good to know.”

  “Not, of course, the you who you think you are. But you, your reality—it’s like listening to stars, as I think you once said. It’s time; you’re ready.”

  “So, I guess it’s time to face the music, then?” I said.

  She laughed, then added, “It’s time to face the music and dance.”

  “You think I’m taking something away from you, your ability to play, your memory of the songs, of everything that’s made up who you are in this life. But you remember, back in that hospital room. I told you I would come back for the gift.”

  “I remember now. You did. But you didn’t mean… I mean, I didn’t know…” I was starting to get desperate now. “Give me just a little more time, will you? Just a little longer, please?”


  “Everyone who I give my gift to must return it to me.”

  “But why?”

  “Because if I didn’t return to collect my gift back, it wouldn’t be a gift any more, would it? It would become a burden.”

  “I know. But you’re going to leave me with nothing. Please, it’s all I’ve got.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re acting like a child who’s stubbornly clinging to his childhood toys. It’s like you’re afraid I’ll take them away from you.”

  “Kind of,” I said, a little sheepishly.

  “Hello?” she grinned, making her point and having altogether too much fun doing it. “You’re like—what was it? Oh yeah—like a hundred and eleventy years old, right? Get over it.”

  “But—”

  “These are childhood toys,” she said, suddenly serious, as she looked squarely into my eyes. “You’ve outgrown them. You’re ready to lay them aside and move on. Don’t let what was a gift become a burden. You already know this—hell, you even told me as much when I first saw you in this bar tonight. It’s how I knew it was your time.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “You were scared before, too. But not a day went by where I wasn’t with you. I’ve only come to take back my gift. To give to another. It’s time. But these are childhood toys, nothing more. And for you—it’s time to put them down. I will always be with you. Like I said, don’t worry.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now are you ready to play for me, one last time?”

  “Sure.”

  “It should be simple enough for you. Just one chord.”

  “Just one chord.”

  “You do remember it, don’t you?”

  “The secret chord? Yes, of course. I could never forget it. It changed my life.”

  “Then play it for me,” she said. “Will you? Play me the secret chord, one last time.”

  I slowly nodded my head.

  I walked over to the piano, rolling up my sleeves as I went.

  Then I sat down and began to play.

  9

  Nine

  A couple hours after the neon signs went out and the first light of day had started streaming in the bar’s windows, the day-manager slid her key into the lock on the front door. When she pushed it open, it only moved half way before bumping up against an immovable object. It didn’t take her more than a glance to realize what that object blocking the door was.

  Who that was.

  Leaning down, she felt the body. It had long since gone cold.

  She let the door close, not noticing that the piano that had been the bar’s centerpiece was no longer there.

  Reaching into her pocket. As she pulled out her phone to call police, the thought occurred to her that for all time now, it would be her voice on this call that would be preserved in infamy, the audio posted on celebrity gossip websites next to photos and video of the dead bodies of Marilyn, and Elvis and John, and all the other stars whose meteoric rise had ended… untimely.

  On the phone, making her report to the police, about the dead celebrity she’d found blocking the door to her bar, she didn’t hear the faint sounds coming from down the hotel corridor that ran past her bar. Even if she had, it’s unlikely she would’ve paid it any attention. The sounds of the piano off in the distance blended into the thousand other little background holes that filled up a day in the life here.

  In the conference room next door, a woman sat, alone. The room was empty, but for the woman… and for a piano that no one could ever remember being there before.

  A young girl whose mom worked at the casino in the hotel next door was out of school for the summer. Shyly, she knocked on the door to the conference room. Hearing no answer, thinking it was empty, she walked in.

  With one arm still bleeding from where she’d been cutting herself earlier, the girl pulled out a bottle of pills she’d taken from her mom’s medicine cabinet that morning. Then she pulled out the note she’d written to her mom.

  She read it over one last time.

  Looking around the room for somewhere to sit, the only place she found was the bench, right in front of the piano.

  Sitting down to the piano, she took out the pills, and what she’d guessed would be enough water to help her swallow the entire bottle… to end the pain. She laid the pills out on top of the piano, along with the note.

  With hands shaking as she began to open the bottle, she suddenly remembered the piano lessons she’d taken from when she was a little girl. From before her dad had died, from before her mom had shut down… from before the pain.

  Slowly she ran her hands across the keys, remembering. Slowly, she began to play what little she could remember. Her tears fell on the keys.

  And then she stopped.

  It was time.

  The bottle finally open, she reached for the water.

  That’s when she heard the voice.

  Startled, she turned around only to find a woman she hadn’t noticed until then sitting in a chair.

  “That was pretty good,” the woman said. “Why’d you stop playing?”

  The woman’s voice was kind and gentle. It was soothing. And, the woman was wearing scrubs.

  Like a nurse.

  The girl began to cry again.

  “Everyone has a hard time with those bars you were playing there. They can be tricky at first. There’s no need to cry about it.”

  The girl sat unmoving, unable to speak.

  “You know, I could give you a lesson, if you’d like,” the woman said, before adding, “You’re really talented. Let me teach you this one chord I know. What do you say—are you willing?”

  “Sure,” the girl stammered, straining to wipe away her tears. “But, I’m not sure. My mom is expecting me back. I don’t know… I should really go.”

  “It’s a secret chord. Just for you, to play… for times when you feel like this.”

  The girl started to give a faint smile.

  “It will change everything,” the woman went on. “But it’s just for you, not to play for anyone else. Can you keep it our secret?”

  “Uh, okay,” the girl said.

  “It’s yours to have, then,” the woman said, just enough of a gleam sparkling in her eye to give the girl hope. “Well, it’s yours until I see you again. Then you have to give it back. Deal?”

  “Uh… okay,” the girl answered softly. Then she stood up.

  The woman walked over to the piano, rolling up her sleeves.

  Then she sat down and began to play.

  The story continues…

  You can read FIRST CITIZEN, Book Three of INTO THE NIGHT: Stories Between Darkness and Dawn here.

  FIRST CITIZEN

  With his life falling apart, a failed writer lashes out at the politicians he holds responsible.

  He pens a bitter, fake guide for aspiring dictators—a how-to roadmap to seizing power.

  In a jail cell half a continent away, a failed, small-time party leader reads a smuggled copy—and begins to apply its lessons, one by one.