by Amy Cross
“That's quite impossible,” I reply, although I can't shake a hint of concern myself.
She lifts the guitar, as if she means to play again, but then she hesitates.
“What if I only have a few more minutes left?” she asks. “Or just seconds? I'm scared to play, in case it runs out and I can't get it back.”
“You mustn't think like that.”
“But it's happening to people all over the world! You must have seen the news!”
“I have,” I say with a sigh, “but I've also lived long enough to know that something like this simply can't happen.”
“Can you still play?” she asks.
“Yes,” I reply, but with more hesitation that I should like.
“Are you sure?” she continues. “Have you tried?”
“I know how to play the guitar,” I tell her. “One does not lose such an ability overnight.”
“Everyone else has,” she says. “Or they're in the process of losing it. What makes you think that you're going to be any different?”
“Because...”
I pause, as I try to work out how to explain this to her. Before I can say anything, however, I hear a distant scream, and Sarah and I both turn to look toward the door. It sounds as if someone somewhere is having a bad night, although they would seem to be some distance away. Finally, turning back to the poor girl, I see fear in her eyes.
“Because this whole story is nothing but hysteria,” I tell her. “It's an idea that's spread all around the world. What's the word that young people use these days? Viral. That's it, it's a stupid idea that's gone viral. And now people, even very intelligent people, are tricking themselves into believing that music is somehow going away. I'm not saying you're foolish for believing it, I know very well that the human mind can be fooled in so many ways. But how about we try to ignore it, eh? Would you like to come up to my place for a glass of wine?”
“I'm scared to play it,” she replies, looking back down at her guitar.
Sighing, I realize that Sarah – an intelligent girl, and very sensitive – has fallen for all this nonsense. I should very much like to dissuade her, but I'm exhausted and I'd very much like to think that the whole world will have sorted itself out by the time I wake up in the morning.
“I think I should pack myself off to bed,” I say finally, as I step around her and start making my way up the stairs. “You should do the same, Sarah, and things will seem fine tomorrow. I promise.”
“You can't promise that.”
“We'll see,” I tell her, preferring to avoid a big discussion on the subject. “We'll see.”
She's clearly still troubled, but I can't stop and talk to her for the whole night. My legs are aching as I make my way up the stairs, although I try not to show the discomfort until I'm well out of sight. By the time I reach my door, I can afford to let my shoulders slump a little, but it's only when I'm safely inside my apartment that I allow myself to truly relax. I push the door shut and lean back, and then I wince as I feel a flicker of pain run up my spine. I'm not doing too badly for a seventy-one-year-old, but now and again I feel twinges and twists all over my body.
Shuffling through to the front room, I stop as soon as I see my guitar over by the window.
Usually when I get home, I practice a little, just to soothe my mind before I go to sleep. Tonight, however, I have so much nonsense ringing in my ears. Sarah's words, in particular, seem to echo in the darkness all around me.
“I'm scared to play it.”
“Rot,” I mutter, but I turn and head through to the bedroom.
I'll play in the morning, and by then hopefully the world will have shaken itself from this mass hysteria.
Four
Alas, this does not prove to be the case.
“Quite extraordinary scenes outside one French music school this morning,” the attractive lady newsreader says on the television as I shuffle into the front room, carrying my morning bowl of porridge, “where angry students are demanding medical help to restore their ability to play music. A spokesman for the students told reporters that the mysterious condition must be some form of contagious sickness, and that the onus is on governments around the world to come up with a cure.”
I change channels, but I quickly find that the same subject is dominating all the broadcasts.
“It could be some kind of neurological condition,” a doctor is saying on the BBC, “although it's difficult to imagine how this could have spread so quickly, given that there were no reports of anyone losing musical abilities before about eight o'clock last night, British time.”
“But one thing that our viewers are repeatedly saying,” the interviewer replies, “is that they're even losing the ability to sing, or to hum. We're getting messages from parents who can't sing to their children. It's as if human minds are no longer capable of understanding music.”
“Indeed,” the doctor replies, “and that goes back to my suggestion that this is neurological. It's possible that the sounds are still emerging, but that we can no longer hear them or interpret them as music. This might also explain why recordings of music are failing to work.”
I change to yet another channel, and this time I see that our beloved prime minister is addressing the nation with his usual sickly, lying grin.
“I want to assure everyone,” he says, “that we're sparing no efforts in finding a solution to this problem. An international team is being assembled to determine the cause of what's happening, and to come up with a solution. Now, I can't give a time frame as to how quickly they'll be able to get to the bottom of it all, but I'm assured that there has to be an answer eventually. It's simply not possible that we've all lost the ability to play and hear music, all at once.”
“What about reports that some people are losing the ability more slowly than others?” a reporter asks.
“We have people looking into that as well,” the prime minister replies, “and there does seem to be some hope there. Again, I'm not an expert, so I can only really talk in generalizations, but whatever's happening is clearly reversible. We just have to understand the mechanism.”
“And what about suggestions that this is an attack?” another reporter asks.
“There's nothing to suggest that at the moment,” the prime minister says. “This condition seems to be affecting people everywhere in the world. England, the United States, Russia, the Middle East, Australia. We're getting reports from Africa and from North Korea. We don't think that this is an attack. At the moment, our best guess is that it's some kind of mass, simultaneous outbreak of a sickness that we don't yet understand.”
I switch the television off, and then I stand for a moment in silence. There are some voices outside, yelling in the street, but that's hardly unusual for this part of town.
Slowly, I turn and look over at my guitar.
I've been delaying this moment all morning, but I know now that I have to see if I can play. I keep telling myself that I'll be fine, and indeed I've managed to hum a few bars already. At the same time, the news reports can't all be wrong, and I'm deeply concerned that perhaps something's seriously wrong after all.
I set my bowl of porridge down, then I take my guitar from its stand and go to sit on the sofa.
“Come on, old thing,” I mutter, still not quite daring to play, not just yet. “You've never let me down before, so don't start now.”
I get into position, but something's still holding me back.
“You can do it,” I continue, before taking a deep breath and deciding to start with something nice and simple. A Carulli piece, perhaps.
I take another deep breath.
And then I start playing.
To my great joy, everything works. I'm able to play the entire piece, all the way through, although I do make a couple of uncharacteristic mistakes along the way. Still, those are most likely caused by nerves, and I feel a rush of relief as I get to the end of the piece.
Well, it would seem that I at least am still able to produce music.
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Feeling more relaxed now, I start playing a Spanish piece, one that I've been learning recently. As I play, however, I start to realize that my fingers are feeling rather unusual, as if they're harder to move. At the same time, my mind is getting muggy and I'm starting to make more and more errors. I manage to play the whole piece, of course, but when I reach the end I can't help but feel rather unsettled. I've been playing the guitar for as long as I can remember, and this morning something's definitely a little 'off'.
I tell myself I should play a few more pieces, but I can't shake a lingering fear that perhaps I – like everybody on the news – might 'run out' of music.
“Hey!” a voice shouts, and suddenly I hear a fist pounding on my door. “You!”
Startled, I get to my feet and head out into the hallway, where the pounding continues.
“Were you playing music in there?” the voice continues, and now I realize that this is the disagreeable man who lives opposite. “I heard music!”
I reach out to open the door, but then I hesitate as I realize that Roger sounds unusually frantic. For all his faults, he tends to be rather dull and dour.
“Open the door!” he shouts suddenly, and then I hear another voice out in the hallway. “I heard music,” he continues, clearly speaking to somebody else now. “Didn't you? I think it was coming from in here!”
He bangs on the door again.
I briefly consider pretending to be out, but then I realize that perhaps I have no reason to be afraid in my own home, so I leave the chain in place and carefully open the door just a little.
“Were you playing music in there?” Roger snaps as soon as he sees me. “I heard you, Watkins! I heard your guitar!”
“I -”
“How were you doing it?” he continues, not even letting me explain. “Open the door! I want to come in!”
“Is it true?” another voice asks, and I see Sandra from 4B peering through at me. “Did you manage to play music in there?”
“Do you mind?” I ask, feeling a little flustered. “What I do in my -”
“Let us in!” Roger shouts, slamming his shoulder against the door in an attempt to break through. The man seems positively feral. “Play for us!”
“I shall do no such thing,” I reply, relieved that the chain held. “As a matter of fact, I didn't play anything at all and I didn't even hear anything. I don't know what you're going on about, but I'd thank you to leave me alone!”
“Then where did it come from?” he asks.
“I don't have a clue,” I tell him, keen to get this lunatic to leave me alone. “Now go and bother someone else. I don't have time for this!”
He stares at me, glaring with stark intensity, and for a moment I worry that he might try to break the door down. Then, finally, he steps back and mutters something before turning and hurrying along the corridor. A moment later, I hear him banging on another door.
“You!” he yells. “Were you the one?”
“Are you sure it wasn't you?” Sandra asks me, with tears in her eyes. “Please, if you can play, won't you let me in so I can listen? It's been hours now and I need to hear some music.”
I open my mouth to reply, but in that moment I hear Roger shouting again.
“I won't tell him,” Sandra continues, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Just let me in. I won't tell anyone, I promise.”
“I'm afraid I can't help you,” I reply, worried about what might happen if I let anyone into my apartment right now. “I -”
“Please!” she hisses desperately. “Just a few seconds would be enough!”
I hesitate, wondering whether perhaps I should be more trusting. After all, Sandra has always seemed very calm and pleasant, and it's hard to imagine her causing too much trouble. Still with some concerns, then, I reach out to pull the chain aside.
“Let me in!” Sandra screams, suddenly throwing herself against the door. “Why are you being so selfish? If you can play, you have to play for me!”
Startled, I force the door shut.
“I can't play for you!” I shout, as she continues to pound against the door's other side. “I just can't, I'm sorry! I'm like everyone else! I can't play a note!”
Five
“These scenes from Los Angeles are very similar to what we've been seeing in cities around the world,” the reporter says as I watch the BBC news coverage again. “Civil disturbances are breaking out as people struggle with the sudden loss of music in the world. Casualty numbers are impossible to determine, but I'm afraid it's very clear that people are dying.”
The screen now shows awful images of fires burning in a street. Some people are screaming, while others are wandering around with dazed expressions.
“In most cities now,” the reporter continues, “we're hearing that emergency services are struggling to keep up with what's happening. We mentioned that story earlier about several hospitals effectively losing staff who find themselves unable to work, and now we're hearing in the past few minutes that all flights in European airspace have been grounded, following similar decisions that have been taken in America and the Middle East.”
I've never seen anything like this. As midday approaches, it's as if the world is on the brink of madness, and all because music is apparently 'running out'. I dislike that phrase intently, since it's clear nonsense, but I suppose that in some ways it does seem to describe the situation. And as much as I like to think that I'm beyond superstition, I am becoming increasingly aware that I have been avoiding my guitar.
Then again, the last thing I want is for that dreadful man to come knocking on the door again.
Stepping over to the guitar, as the television continues to run, I can't help but feel as if I'm suddenly cut off from my best and only friend. I never married, never had children, and I don't suppose I've ever had a truly close relationship with another human being. The guitar has been my life, and this particular guitar has been my focal point since I purchased it twenty-five years ago in Italy. In all honesty, today must be the longest I've ever gone without a proper practice session. Yet even now, I hesitate to play, just in case I too begin to 'run out' of music.
“There's a genuine concern here,” one of the voices says on the television, “concerning mental health. We've already heard that billionaire Sir Joshua Glass has offered a reward of ten million dollars for anyone who can play for him today, and that's a clear sign that people from all walks of life are really struggling. Unfortunately, the longer this situation persists, the more severe the consequences might become. We're already getting reports of suicides being attributed to this lack of music.”
Reaching out, I touch the neck of the guitar.
Do I dare?
Suddenly I hear a faint tapping sound at the door.
Turning, I look through to the hallway. If another idiot from one of the other apartments has come to demand music, I think my best option is just to hide and hope that they go away.
And then I hear a voice.
“Derek? Are you there?”
Sighing with relief, I realize that it's Sarah. She's never knocked on my door before, but – as I head through to answer – I'm at least glad that I'm not to be assaulted or shouted at by another ignoramus.
When I open the door, however, I'm immediately struck by the fear on her face.
“I'm losing it,” she stammers. “The ability to play, I mean.”
“Sarah,” I reply, “try not to -”
“It's going away!” she says firmly, clearly distressed. “I crawled into my closet and shut the door so no-one would be able to hear me. Even then, someone banged on my door, they were onto me. I got them to go away, but the point is... I could feel the music draining away.”
“Sarah, you must stay calm. Come in, we'll sit down and talk calmly.”
“It was like I was being drained,” she continues. “It was like they describe it on the TV. The longer I played, the more I could feel the music fading away. It's as if I have this finite amount left, a few
minutes that I can play, and once that's over I'll never be able to play again.”
“Sarah -”
“What do I do?” she asks frantically. “Do I just not play, and keep it inside? Then what? Or should I just play and get it over with? It's like torture, Derek. What about you? Can you still play?”
“I...”
My voice trails off. Sarah is a good girl, very kind and peaceful, but I'm worried about how she might react to this latest development.
“I've been avoiding my guitar,” I explain finally, choosing to be truthful. “I'm going to wait until all this madness is over, and then hopefully things will be back to normal.”
“People are looting outside,” she replies. “I saw one of my cousins smashing the window of the corner shop down the road. It's like the lack of music is turning people into animals. Is that possible?”
“Perhaps,” I reply, “or perhaps people just take any cue and use it as an excuse to go wild. Who can say?”
“I'm going to play,” she says, taking a step back. “I can't live like this, knowing that it's inside me. I have to play and get it out.”
“I'm not sure that's wise.”
“No, you're right.” She takes a deep breath. “I should save it. It's precious, I should keep it hidden. I can't afford to lose it.”
“I think the best thing is to sit tight,” I tell her, “and don't draw attention to yourself. The less that those idiots notice you, the better.”
“This can't go on for much longer, can it?” she asks plaintively, as if she's close to tears. “It's a sickness, right? And sicknesses always get cured. They won't let this carry on forever.”
“And who are they, exactly?” I reply.
“The government. Soldiers. I don't know, but someone has to fix it.”
“Of course,” I say, hoping to reassure her, even though I'm not sure that things will be so simple. “But for now, keep your head down. Those of us who can still play – who might still be able to play – must look after ourselves.”
“You're right,” she says, before mumbling something as she turns and hurries away.
