Sonant

by A. Sparrow

  “You got that right.” Dale clapped his hand over John’s shoulder. “Good luck, man. I know things are brutal out there.”

  As the waitress brought John’s tiramisu in a chilled glass bowl, he watched Dale thread his way back through the tables. Now he wished he hadn’t ordered it.

  ***

  Aerie found everyone on the sidewalk, standing around the bamboo marimba. Eleni stood beside Sari with mandolin and fiddle cases in each hand. Mal was attempting to refasten a length of thick bamboo that had knocked loose.

  “What do you mean no equal share?” said Ron, looking a little pink in the face. “Two bands. We should split the proceeds evenly. Particularly, if we’re the draw.”

  “Kolektiv may be an attraction,” said Sari, “But only the way a sideshow is to a circus. Vida is the headliner. It is only fair they get seventy-five percent. From what I understand, this is a very typical arrangement. In some circles, it may even be considered somewhat generous.”

  “I just assumed it would be fifty-fifty,” said Ron, scraping the soles of his sneakers against the concrete. “What does it matter to you, Sari? You’re in both bands so you’re getting a hundred percent share.”

  “Hey Ron, don’t knock it,” said Mal. “For a single set, twenty-five percent ain’t bad. Ain’t that right, Aerie?”

  “Guys. Aaron called. He—”

  “How’s Marta?” said Eleni.

  Aerie looked at her blankly.

  “His daughter,” she explained.

  “Oh. I guess she’s fine. The thing is, guys. Aaron’s on his way back. Tonight. He wants us at his place by ten, for the Production. Triple pay.”

  Four sets of eyes locked onto her face.

  “No way,” said Ron.

  “Has he left Boston?” said Sari.

  “He’s already in the Berkshires,” said Aerie.

  “That’s it. We have to cancel the gig,” said Eleni.

  “Nonsense,” said Sari.

  “Did you say t-triple?” said Ron.

  “That birdie. We need to bring the birdie back, pronto” said Mal, eyes bugging.

  “You don’t have time,” said Sari. “The Kolektiv is going on in less than an hour.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Ron. “There’s no reason we can’t do both gigs. We got plenty of time to do a set and get our asses over to Aaron’s. He’s still three hours away … at least. We go on in an hour. Play for an hour. That gives us another hour, at least, to pack up, get out to his place and put everything back.”

  “Forty-five minutes,” said Mal. “No need to play a full hour. That’s the equivalent of one set. That’ll still get us our twenty-five percent, won’t it, Sari?”

  “Why not?” said Sari, sighing. “The only problem is … I’m going on with Vida for two sets at least. And this ruins everything. I planned an after-party up at the house. There’s no way I can be at Aaron’s by eleven.”

  “We’ll start without you,” said Mal. “Get there when you can.”

  “Hot dawg! Two gigs in one night,” said Ron. “This is turning out like a dream.”

  “Help me grab the marimba, Ron,” said Mal. “Someone else get the birdie.”

  “Uh … I’m not touching that thing,” said Aerie.

  ***

  Wind blasted John as he stepped outside the restaurant, heart thumping. Clouds rushed overhead, obliterating the waning moon, unveiling patches of stars. Hints of Hudson’s Bay ice mingled with sultry swamp air straight from the Gulf of Mexico.

  Knots of people moved across the Commons, crossing Aurora Street to the brick building besides Mayer’s Smoke shop, where the event would be getting underway in a few minutes. Stalling, he studied them, trying to guess who was going to the event, and whether they accepted Jesus as their savior.

  Cindy insisted that she could tell from a glance who was Christian and who was pagan, atheist or Jew. John suspected that she just picked out folks whose appearance reinforced her prejudices: those with fresh haircuts, clean, bright clothes and no jewelry impaling anything other than earlobes. No telling how many Buddhists she had counted among her own.

  There were plenty of folks in their congregation who defied her stereotypes: hippies with pony tails and scruffy beards, women who dressed like tramps, even on Sundays. To Cindy, they were merely the exceptions that proved the rule.

  To keep up appearances for Cindy, he had dressed business casual—a polo shirt with sport coat and khaki slacks. It made him worry how much he would stick out among this crowd heading for the Arts Coop.

  It wasn’t so much how he looked, as how awkward he felt among these folks, their jaunty gaits and easy laughs, at ease with their place in the universe. They weren’t impostors like him, a fraud come to faith solely to get closer to Cindy.

  But he could not deceive his heart. It pounded well beyond its normal pace. He knew his presence in Ithaca had nothing to do with networking.

  Nor had he come to spy for Reverend Beasley. He didn’t care where or what these kids played. He saw no connection between their music and whatever weird beasts roamed the woods of Connecticut Hill. These were musicians, not necromancers.

  He had come for another glimpse of that girl—Aerie—to further explore the nature of the feeble ember that had sparked during their brief encounter on the road side. He had no expectations, no intention to even speak to her. He just wanted to be in her presence again, to see her in the flesh.

  A bass drone sliced through the air and hung and hummed like a power line. Clots of people converged on the Arts Coop, drawn to the call like Eloi to the Morlocks’ lair.

  A frisson shimmied down John’s spine as he crossed Aurora.

  Chapter 22: The Gig

  Two earthy and earnest ladies from the Arts Coop sat behind a table in a side room, displaying pamphlets for pottery and dance classes, bottled water and baked goods. This scene was a far cry from the smoke-filled gigs Hollis used to get them at strip clubs, second-tier casinos and pachinko parlors. This place reminded her more of a fifth grade recital.

  With three crumpled dollars, Aerie bought herself a Poland Spring and a marble brownie and wandered back through the crowd. People of all ages and stations filled the room, as if someone had hacked a cross-section though Ithaca from Cayuga Heights to Cass Park—blue collar, white collar, fops, hippies, grungers. Vida had a strong local following, but the sum of overheard murmurs told her that most here had come to see Kolektiv. How or why that was, seemed a mystery.

  As she flitted among them, listening to snatches of anecdote, the reasons became clearer. Between the small talk she caught juicy bits about Aaron’s public outbursts, his misdemeanors and altercations in traffic, bars, jam sessions. He was quite notorious, it seemed, a reputation at odds with Aerie’s impression of him as a salty but kindly older uncle.

  Mal caught her eye from across the room and nodded toward a clock on the wall. Seven-thirty was approaching.

  She made her way to the jumble of instruments in their corner, giving the bell jar, front and center, a wide berth. She pivoted her bass up off the floor on its end pin, tilting it forward to let gravity press the ebony fingerboard against her fingertips. As Ron and Eleni found their places, a buzz filled the room, as if a hive had been disturbed.

  Mal knelt on the floor, assembling his motley collection of reeds – clarinet, bassoon, bamboo saxophone. He looked up as Eleni brushed past him. “Anyone see Sari?”

  “She was making out with some guy in the utility room, last I knew,” said Eleni, fingering her mandolin, strumming only air.

  “With who?” said Mal.

  “I don’t know. Some … guy,” said Eleni.

  Ron swaggered up, wielding his guitar low on its strap, like an AK-47. “Screw ‘er. Let’s just start.” He was cranking on a new string to replace the one he had broken warming up, tuning it by ear in a series of ascending glissando twangs.

  “This is Sari’s gig,” said Eleni, climbing onto a chair and perusing the crowd. “She might want to int
roduce us.”

  “Screw the introductions,” said Ron. “I’m ready to play. Come on, let’s make that birdie sang. She’ll come running when she hears us.”

  His face was red, eyes popping. He looked all coked up, though Aerie had never seen him partake of anything stronger than a Pepsi.

  Mal struggled to set the double reeds of his ancient bassoon. “Give me a sec. I almost got it.”

  Aerie balanced the bass against her hip as she holstered a freshly rosined bow. People turned to face them. More emerged from the backrooms and stairwell, filling the gaps in the already substantial crowd.

  “What’s the occupancy limit in this place?” said Eleni.

  “Who the fuck cares?” said Ron. “I say the more the merrier. Pack ‘em in like anchovies.” His jacket began to ring. He yanked out his phone.

  “Hullo?” His face went blank. “Hey. Yeah, I’m fine. In some bar. No shit? Uh, yeah. I suppose we could. What time do you say you’d be there? Oh, really? Take it easy on those roads, um, no need to rush. Go ahead and grab a bite. We don’t mind playing late. No big deal.” He hung up.

  “Was that Aaron?” said Aerie.

  “He’s skipping dinner, driving straight through. He’ll be here in two hours, tops. We’re talking nine, nine-thirty.”

  “Shit!” said Mal.

  “Let’s get cracking,” said Ron, yanking the cover off the bell jar, its glass as dusty and opaque as ever. He nodded impatiently at Mal. “What are you waiting for? Go on! Do your thing!”

  Mal droned a low note on his bassoon and held it. It was the same tone that Aaron always used to initiate a session with his fiddle—a tone well below 440 cycles per second, but not an A flat. Aerie detuned her A string and stroked with her bow, pleased to find the rosin gripping like deck shoes on teak. Ron and Eleni stayed silent at first, letting them develop the drone. Their moans and rumbles oscillated, waves cycling, sometimes in synch sometimes beating against each other like ripples at the confluence of a river. The crowd looked on in a uniform trance.

  ***

  John joined a line that backed up on the sidewalk, halfway back to Aurora. A table was set up just outside the door. They were collecting a cover charge.

  “Twenty dollars?” said John, reading a sign scrawled in Sharpie. He had been expecting a token entrance fee. Like five bucks, maybe. This was the Arts Coop after all. “Gee, I guess I don’t get out much,” he said, fishing for his wallet.

  “Yeah, it is a bit steep for Ithaca,” said a burly guy in a black sweater.

  It stung to hand over the twenty dollar bill. He felt guilty enough about splurging on dinner at Madeline’s. Though, Cindy did tell him not to worry about the money, to treat Dale and not skimp. “Networking’s important,” she had said. “Consider it an investment.” Though, this kind of networking probably wasn’t what she had in mind.

  He got his hand stamped, with a pentagram no less, and started up the stairs. A frantic strumming started up. It made him think of a straggling bird, flapping frantically to catch up with its flock. He pushed through a group of people keeping close to the door.

  From across the room, the players didn’t look nearly as ominous or dangerous as Cindy and the Reverend made them out to be, but then again he already knew that. They were just a rabble of frumpy and underfed kids—not anyone he would cringe from in a dark alley, except for maybe that guitarist. They were missing their singer, and their leader, Mr. Levine. Perhaps that was confirmation that he had left town.

  Aerie stood with her back to the door. John couldn’t make out her face behind a curtain of dark hair hanging from her bowed head. He eased himself closer through the throng.

  “What is this crap?” said a thin guy in skin tight jeans. “There’s no rhythm. They’re not even in tune.”

  Someone giggled. “Oh my God, this is like watching a train wreck.”

  As the music droned on, attention flagged, heads turned, conversations resumed. Some people turned and left. John heard someone say: “Let’s come back later, for Vida.”

  John knew what they were in for, those who stayed and chatted over all the drones and jangly strumming. Unbeknownst to Cindy, on many nights he had sat on the patio listening raptly to the same sounds evolving here. As the music evolved, they would be like frogs in a pot of water being slowly brought to a boil. He knew what was coming, and yet he stayed.

  He slipped ever closer through knots of people, keeping one layer back to screen him from view. He didn’t want his presence known to the players.

  His eyes lingered on Aerie’s lithe form, the way she wrapped herself around her bass. For such a slight thing, she pulled such a big sound out of her instrument. Her eyes gazed into nothingness as if she her in a trance, face set into a sneer, as if she were angry at the crowd.

  The guitarist kept blocking his view of Aerie, flinging his crack-faced Martin from side to side, scowling at his shoes. He stuffed a hand in his pocket, emerging with a fistful of picks. John maneuvered closer to the corner, closer to Aerie. She glanced up at him as he sidled along the wall. Their eyes met and locked. She glanced away, her face tensing. She did not look back at him.

  A young woman in a flowing turquoise wrap came skipping into the corner. She found a place beside a shrouded, R2D2-shaped object on the floor and stood, eyes closed, swaying, arms stretched, fingers spread.

  A mangled chord slashed through the sonic backdrop like a machete, startling those whose attentions had flagged, interrupting conversations. The guitarist flailed at his Martin with flashy windmill strums. He gripped the neck of his instrument tight and quivered, milking it for every last iota of sustain.

  The scraggly kid on the bassoon put it down and grabbed four mallets, swinging behind a bulky xylophone-like apparatus of bent bamboo. He played rhythmic chords, jerking the beat through patterns odd and even, providing every possible pulse as if searching for one that the music could congeal around.

  The guitarist cycled staccato riffs, exploring variations, no two phrases alike, playing an aggressive counterpoint to the other girl’s mandolin. Their instruments seemed to argue, clashing, shifting tact, seeking some particular and elusive dissonance. John could trace no connection between the patterns and harmonies to any human musical tradition.

  Aerie sawed away with her bow, maintaining the central drone, spicing it with harmonics and pizzicato double stops. The girl in the turquoise silk began to moan, a low quavering that built into a meandering wail. Her voice lashed on the other instruments and pulled them tighter, and the rhythm began to chug with a unified purpose.

  John felt a wave of unexpected wooziness sweep over him. John felt a thrill growing in him. He could sense something building, like the shadings of an elusive orgasm. It disturbed him that music so alien could, at times, feel so natural, as if appealing to some base instinct buried deep. It felt like sin.

  “I gotta leave,” said a hyperventilating young woman to her friend. “I’ll catch you later.”

  “What’s wrong?” said her friend.

  “I don’t know. I just gotta get out of here.” She stumbled towards the stairs.

  ***

  Aerie looked up and saw a familiar face. She couldn’t place him immediately, but then she realized, it was Aaron’s neighbor. What was he doing here? Spying?

  She tried not to look at him. She focused on the music, counting down the minutes on the clock on the opposite wall, forcing herself to endure until they could finish and clear out of this place.

  For what it was worth, the music was easier to bear without Aaron’s uncanny fiddle tearing down anything that resembled a melody, steering them into uncharted seas far from sight of land.

  “What I strive for in this music is a property I call emergence,” he had told her, during one of their rehearsals. “I know when it comes together because it’s alive. But it’s a fragile thing. Its lifespan, it’s fleeting. It belongs only to the moment. Any one of us falters and it dies.”

  Ron stooped over the bell jar and la
id his palm on the glass dome. He swerved close to Aerie. “It’s not happening,” he said. “Not a twitch. What the fuck? Hope we didn’t break it.”

  “It’s this room,” said Aerie. “No resonance whatsoever. Our sound just gets lost in here.”

  Ron’s eyebrows bunched. “We need a fiddle, is what we need.” He lunged over to Eleni and made her put down her mandolin, and swap it for one of the ugliest violins Aerie had ever seen—encrusted with patches of thick, blackened varnish and singed along the edges as if it had once been set aflame.

  Ron swung over to Mal as well, head-butting him to get his attention, snapping him out of a trance. Mal put away his bassoon, and picked up a bamboo saxophone.

  Between the fiddle and the sax, and with Ron’s furious strumming taking up the slack in lieu of Eleni’s mandolin, things began to happen. Their playing grew louder and intensified, and Aerie responded in kind, putting away her bow, pulling a meaty pizzicato line that slid and warbled and thundered through the maple flooring.

  Mal’s sax captured and mingled with Sari’s vocal line until the two became indistinguishable, like the harmonies of twin sisters. Eleni’s fiddle line, more precise and nimble than Aaron’s meanderings, weaved through and around them, strengthening their bonds.

  The birdie began to rumble, and when it did it all conversation halted. Newcomers hovered near the door, afraid to enter. A few people headed for the stairwell, and then a few more, and then a swarm as if the place had caught fire. Aerie saw panic on teary faces, while others stood rigid and enthralled. A few attempted to dance, somehow finding steps among their elusive and shattered rhythms.

  The sub-sonic humming slowly increased in pitch like a feedback loop. The soundman came striding to his board to cut off mikes that were already off. Aerie wanted to stop, but the competing urge to make the birdie sing louder won out. The band adjusted their playing subtly now, like tweaking a fine tuning knob.

  In the opposite corner, Sari’s lead guitarist jogged over to his amp and plugged his angular guitar into an electronic tuner. Aerie looked at the time. It was seven-fifty-four. What on earth did he think he was doing up there? It wasn’t nearly time yet for Vida to play.