by Andrew Fish
on the value of PI - although the people of the Remus system, whose understanding of music was slightly more rudimentary, broke with this tradition by basing their unfinished symphony on the value of one over three. Not surprisingly, the symphony was discarded rather than simply left unfinished.
The discovery of recording technologies brought music to the common man and, in many civilizations this was also followed by an obsession with rapid repetitive beats, extremely loud noises and large piles of money. Unlike the previous military or religious constraints placed on music, commercialisation has, in many societies, proved a fatal development to the art and, to meet the demands of fashion, music has gradually become formulaic, repetitive and, above all, boring. Instruments which actually require some talent to play have been discarded in favour of those which the holder still can’t play but which they can at least hold in commercially viable poses on stage; vast amounts of audio processing technology allow even the least musical of people to become famous if they have the right look, whilst the true pioneers of music have been swept aside and their dreams have been allowed to die. This isn’t to say that true music is dead, of course, but it has become an underground movement, out of the eye of the unknowing public. Good music is, however, like a cocktail made with milk of magnesia, very hard to keep down.
1
The problem with sudden showers, Ben felt, was that they were sudden and that they were showers. Their least redeeming features were right there, expressed succinctly in their very description. Had they been called tears of joy or showers of affection, they probably wouldn’t have been so unpopular.
He should, of course, have been prepared. He should, like any sensible person, have gone out with an umbrella, raincoat, at least two sweaters, snowshoes and factor two thousand sun block, just to be on the safe side. But no, not he; he hadn’t even bothered to look at the forecast. Instead, he walked out into the streets in his shirtsleeves, carrying nothing so much as a pocket parasol in defence against the gods of watery fate.
Now he stood, wet and shivering, under the protruding upper floor of an electrical store with all the other poor, unprepared saps, helpless but to watch as the rain dived noisily to earth like an invading army and ran along the streets in rivulets, pursuing the few pedestrians who had chosen to run rather than to seek cover from the onslaught.
He cast a casual glance at the motley group assembled behind him: there was a couple taking advantage of their temporary confinement, perhaps convinced that the pillar they were leaning against afforded some privacy, perhaps simply unconcerned with popular opinion; a young woman leaning against the shop window, reading a novel and wearing a bored expression; and a scruffy looking man, sitting on the floor next to a robot dog and jerking his head rhythmically as if to some tune which Ben couldn’t hear.
Finding the couple rather embarrassing and the young woman rather dull, Ben focused his attention on the man, noting that he had a blanket over his knees, a sure sign the place the rest of them had chosen for shelter served him somewhat more permanently in the same regard. He wondered briefly on the robot dog – it seemed an expensive accoutrement for a man of casual address.
A second glance, however, revealed the dog to be an old model, one – if memory served – of the ones that suffered from the old postman’s trousers fixation bug. Clearly, the man had not always been so down on his luck. Either that, or his synthetic canine had been rendered homeless itself when its owners had chosen to upgrade in response to a boycott by the postal service. With its internal hydrogen reactor and solar cells, it was cheap to feed, and unlike a human friend, would never abandon him – it was the perfect companion.
Ben cast a concerned look at his trousers in response to an interested look from the dog and decided he was probably safe enough. The low growl was probably nothing more than a fault in the creature’s voice synthesis.
The man, for his part, seemed unconcerned with his audience. He sat under his blanket, rocking gently back and forth like a discarded rocking horse in a perpetual motion lab. After a few minutes of this, he paused to reach into his chest pocket and withdraw something. Curiosity drove Ben to cast another glance to see what it was. It was small – perhaps only two inches long – silver, and seemed lined with small square holes. Ben could scarcely guess as to its purpose.
The man brought the item to his lips and Ben lost interest. It was just a smoker – a filter device that allowed people to smoke without polluting the air or generating wasteful stubs to litter the ground. He turned away – smokers were hardly the pariahs society had once made them, but neither were they something regular people regarded as normal. It was like watching the couple at the other end of the arcade: you accepted people did that kind of thing, but you weren’t especially keen for a ticket.
He watched the rain instead. He’d never really paid it much attention before – it was, after all, only falling water – but forced to occupy himself in observation, he began to detect patterns. Drips fell from the guttering above in regular order, small ones measuring a steady beat, larger ones joining periodically with an accenting plop. And behind it all was the chorus of rain falling straight to earth. It was almost like music.
And then there was music – or something like it. A raw, reedy sound penetrated the heavy air, riding the raindrops like a man astride a horsetronic (Ben had watched a few Westerns in his time) and insinuating itself almost into his soul. He turned, wondering where the sound was coming from. To his surprise, the only candidate seemed to be the man under the blanket. His ‘smoker’ between his hands, he was sliding the object back and forth and blowing through it.
Somehow captivated, Ben approached the man and squatted down in front of him. After a few minutes, the man stopped playing and looked at him.
‘Don’t stop,’ said Ben. ‘It’s wonderful.’
The man’s eyes flickered slightly and something approaching a smile passed his old cracked lips. ‘Thanken you,’ he said, expressing the words with some lack of familiarity.
Ben nodded at the instrument. ‘What is that?’ he asked.
The man held it out for his inspection. It was beautifully made, with fine carving on the surface of the metal. Ben saw there were holes on the other side as well, giving the impression of a series of parallel tunnels through a silver hill. ‘It’s a Jew’s Harp,’ said the man.
‘A harp?’
‘Or a harmonica.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘No, there’s not many have these days. My granddaddy gave it to me when I was little. His daddy gave it to him and his daddy to him. My granddaddy said that long ago, people used to play them when they were sad.’ He put the instrument to his mouth and produced a slow, wailing series of notes, which vibrated in a way that sent shivers along Ben’s spine - although this could equally have been caused by the rain dripping through the cracks in the parapet.
‘You play beautifully,’ said Ben.
‘Thank you. My granddaddy taught me to play. And his daddy taught him and-’
‘And his daddy taught him?’
‘No. My great-great granddaddy was taught to play by an angel.’
‘An angel?’ Ben strained to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
‘At a roundabout.’
This time Ben restricted himself to eyebrow movement. It still felt like he looked sceptical. The man seemed not to notice.
‘It was a long journey, they say,’ he said wistfully. ‘They woke up in the morning and travelled hundreds of miles every day to reach the promised land.’
‘The promised land?’
The man nodded. ‘This place,’ he said, nodding around them.
Ben looked around. He never really thought that much about his home environment, but if it had been promised to him he would have been somewhat disappointed. He looked back to the man, his gaze taking in the tattered tartan blanket.
‘I know,’ said the man. ‘Some promise, eh?’
‘Indeed.’
�
��That’s probably why the angel taught my great-great granddaddy the blues. I kinda figure if they was pleased to come here they might have learned something a little happier.’
‘I imagine so,’ said Ben. Feeling slightly uncomfortable on his haunches, he rose to his feet and looked out onto the rain-soaked streets. The man began to play again. Ben found the mournful melody seemed both to reflect the feelings the weather induced and to amplify them, giving him the impression that it was somehow raining in his heart.
For the first time, he felt somehow connected to music. The tunes of his youth – the bouncy happy ones he had enjoyed with his mother, or the saccharine ballads that had salved him after another failed romance – they faded by contrast. This was raw music, a potent emotional high that wrenched at the soul. Something deep inside told him that to walk away now was to turn his back on the first real emotion he’d ever felt. He didn’t want to leave, but he knew he could hardly stay under the parapet indefinitely.
‘Should I stay or should I go?’ he muttered to himself. The clock across the road showed an hour had passed – if he stayed there would definitely be trouble. Out on the street, the rain had subsided. The street robots emerged from the alleys between the shops and began to shepherd puddles into drains with their brooms. Any excuse to remain disappeared with the water. A glance around him
