—Hard what do you mean hard! Read it to you tell me what’s so God damned hard where is it, hand me that can . . .
—I’ll go get it if you . . .
—No sit still leave it where it is, Jack? If you want this drink come down off that pile of books and . . .
—Said I’ll read it to him Tom . . . he pulled up the board cover of the bound volume of Musical Couriers for 1901—tell me what’s so God damned hard . . . he slapped pages over in a heap—here. The music of the world is free to all. Is that hard?
—Well no but . . .
—The Pianola is the universal means of playing the piano. Universal, because there is no one in all the world, having the use of hands and feet, who could not learn to use it that so God damned hard? Use of hands and feet . . . he got one of each on 12–38 Oz Btls Won’t Burn, Smoke or Smell coming down.—Problem Schramm’s having use of hands and feet he said Tolstoy told him, something terribly lacking between what he felt and what I could do Bast anything hard about that?
—Well I, no but I still don’t know what happened to him he . . .
—Problem what happened he always woke up the same person went to bed the night before only way he knew it these God damned words going through his head, go to bed knew he’d wake up the same God damned person finally couldn’t take it anymore, same God damned words waiting for him only thing to do get rid of the God damned container for the thing contained, God damned words come around next morning God damned container smashed on the sidewalk no place for them to . . .
—Look get his arm will you Bast? Listen Jack . . .
—Container for the . . .
—Damn it listen you don’t know what you’re talking about, think he was going around quoting Tolstoy the last thing he told me when he left a man goes into a hardware store asks for a can of blue paint a can of orange paint, a paintbrush and a hammer, the clerk thinks that’s a funny selection he tells him I’m going home and paint one ball blue the other one orange and when I see my new girl tonight damn it Jack he was jealous that’s all, dimwitted little piece Rhoda if she’d been here when he . . .
—Ought to get one Tom, having use of hands and feet ought to get yourself one . . .
—Mister Gibbs are you . . .
—Just trying to get to the God damned window see what’s . . .
—Know what I think Jack? You’re jealous.
—Got one Tom, ought to get yourself God damned people down there think they’d bought tickets even brought the children, half fare little bastards whole God damned mezzanine’s full too, every God damned window across the street somebody hanging out . . . he jerked the blind further askew catching the flashes of light from below—five God damned Jones boys right in the middle of it with their here it is, here he comes canvas bag with handles Christ why aren’t we, three cops pallbearers three cops somebody in white pajamas stowing him in the back of a, looks like a bakery truck City of New York Department of Hospitals looks like a God damned bakery truck Christ what a, God damn it Tom if you’d . . .
—Finally stole your act didn’t he, Jack.
—I, I think somebody’s at the door I’d better . . .
—Didn’t finish your joke Tom, if she says what funny looking balls I’m going to hit her with the hammer think you’re jealous Tom.
—Stole your act and left you here didn’t he Jack, look out . . .!
—Halte là! Qui . . .
—Look sit down and shut up, it’s the police.
—Come in officer we, we have trouble with this door but . . .
—Somebody break in on you?
—No it’s just, like this . . . he got it open on one hinge.
—Nobody lives here like this they’ll break in on you. Who walked up your shade.
—Officer! I can explain that, officer . . .
—You still with us?
—That was Lazarus officer, having use of hands and feet Lazarus come back to tell us all. I am Lazarus, come from the dead, come back to tell you all. Believing and shitting are two very different . . .
—Jack damn it shut up!
—But turn your eyes from Lazarus that cannot find a tomb, took one look around saw what he’d come back to and did it all over again . . .
—Bast get hold of his, no, no just let him sit on the floor.
—You know any next of kin Mister, what’s your name?
—Eigen, Thomas Eigen, e, i . . .
—You want to come down and make the identification then?
—Make way, make way for Lazarus that must go search among the desert places where wait, his eye, his eye . . .
—Okay, let’s go.
—Left his eyes to the eye bank, still got one good one if we hurry quick, need a shoe . . .
—Look Mister don’t make it hard for yourself, take another drink and sleep it off. Your friend here can handle things.
—Sleep it off? We’re friends of his too Mister what the hell do we, Bast quick a shoe, officer? Want you to arrest a cab driver named Hardy Suggs no the right one Bast quick, stole my right shoe officer . . . he tore at the laces and pulled it off—get him with the evidence, riding around with it in the back of his cab right now thought I didn’t see his name on the hack license Hardy Suggs, and his picture before he shaved I can point him out in the lineup . . .
—But I’ll need it in the morning Mister Gibbs I have to . . .
—He won’t get this one Bast it’s all right, he won’t get it . . .
—Jack listen . . .
—Suggs his name officer wait, I’m coming with you . . . The film cans crashed to the floor as he reached the door—still got one good one if we hurry . . .
The policeman turned in the doorway.—You got your water running there, he said to Bast and left him fitting the door back into place and then standing there with his back against it, staring at the footprints on the shade and appearing to listen, finally to make his way through film cans and lampshades back, over the Morning Telegraph, to reach the shade and send it up with a snap, and stare through the window beyond, motionless, staring, till a knock on the door brought him round.
—Who is it?
—Hello? came from the other side.—Could I talk to you?
—Who is it?
—One minute could I ask you Mister?
He got the door opened enough for the shaft from the bare bulb to catch an old face in the hall there.—What is it?
—I came to ask the apartment Mister?
—It’s not mine I just sort of, work here.
—No by the end of the hall Mister, it’s empty now? the apartment? My vife Mister . . .
—But, what do you . . .
—We live upstairs Mister, five flights stairs up, my vife Mister, her legs, she couldn’t go up and down, I see them take him away in the bag Mister, I ask, maybe . . .
—But you you, miserable . . .
—My vife, Mister . . .?
—Go away! He stood backed against the door, pulled a shirt from the dishtowel rack and wiped his face with it, waiting, and then he suddenly started picking up film cans and stacking them, lampshades and stacking them, scores, papers, pencils, in to the armless sofa where he pounded shape back into the punctured lampshade and sat putting down notes, drawing lines, curves, sitting back to wipe his face, up to find the cup, trip on the bottle, shake the empty teabag box, pick up the bottle and empty what little was left into the cup, drink it, stare at Baldung’s sorceress propped sideways against 24/One Pound H-O, grab it up and examine it and finally return it, upright, and stare at the ceiling. On his feet again and halt with his shod step forward, he scaled The Musical Courier and, strung out atop it, put his ear to a crevice between the volumes.
——a country the size of California has the fourth largest army in the world, thanks to . . .
He raised himself, reached a mop protruding over the edge of the submerged piano, forced its handle down into the crevice between the volumes and pounded, brought it back out and put his ear to the c
revice again.
——timely food tips, brought to you by . . .
Over cartons and lampshades the mop flew to lodge behind Appletons’ and he hitched himself back to the edge of the plateau steadying one foot on Won’t Burn, Smoke or Smell, looking into it, digging among undeveloped film rolls, string, an odd glove, defunct cigarette lighters, coming up with a straw beach slipper he fitted descending, paused again to brush another layer of dirt down his front before he sat on the sofa’s edge staring down at a fresh lined page, up at the ceiling, at the Baldung, at 24–7 Oz Pkgs Flavored Loops, appearing to listen as shreds of sound escaped sporadic partings of his lips, scribbling a clef, notes, a word, a curve, still reaching fresh pages as light chilled the skewed leaves of the blind, lapsed motionless as it warmed the punctured shade and finally cast it into shadow, coming to abruptly and through to the torrent at the sink with the slap, slap of the straw slipper back to set the cup dangling the teabag string on Moody’s and reach a sharper pencil, a fresh page, pages as shadows rose, crossed, fell, hunched as though listening to bring sounds into being, up in a sudden turn that might have been a pose for the mirrorless wall as though holding them off.
——time to join the biggest savings bank fam . . .
—Wait who is it . . .! he was through to catch the door as it came in at him—oh it’s, it’s you Mister Gibbs wait let me . . .
—Bring in the mail see who’s in the package . . .
—No no wait I’ll pick it up don’t, wait here’s your newspaper . . . he held up the Turf Guide,—just let me . . .
—Good, today’s? Where’d you get it . . .
—You just dropped it no be careful . . .!
—Christ . . .
—Yes well I wouldn’t try to sit on those film cans they’re not very, just let me get the door here . . . he heaped the mail up on 24-One Pint Mazola New Improved,—can you . . .
—Keep tripping on this God damned . . .
—Wait yes let me pick up this music’s scattered around in here . . . he came sliding the slippered foot ahead past 36 Boxes 200 2-Ply—I mean I’ve been working all night and . . .
—Left my cigarettes here, who took my cigarettes.
—They’re under you, on the floor right under your . . .
—Call that cigarettes? A hand worked blindly under the sofa—that’s a bottle, tell a bottle by its shape Bast take my cigarettes left an empty bottle.
—Well but, I can make you a cup of tea I have to shave anyway because I have to go . . .
—Saw your car waiting outside why I broke my neck to get here Bast, said I’d . . .
—My what?
—Car waiting downstairs take you on your business trip, why I broke my . . .
—That, no that black limousine down there? he let the blind fall back—that’s not, I mean that couldn’t be . . .
—Said you’re going on a God damned business trip didn’t you?
—No but that’s, I mean I’ve already been Mister Gibbs just somebody who asked me to help him out this one time it was just a, just sort of an errand he couldn’t really handle himself just to earn some money till these dancers pay me if you could move your knee, just let me get these pages before they . . .
—Problem Bast you don’t trust them, God damned performers sit up here write music for them you don’t trust them to . . .
—No well they wouldn’t even play it till I rescored it I mean I don’t really know what it sounds like myself yet but . . .
—Why I just told you broke my neck to get here didn’t I? Help you dig out that God damned piano promised I’d . . .
—No but right now I, I mean maybe you should just rest for a while Mister Gibbs you don’t look, you look like you haven’t had any sleep and your . . .
—Better take a look at yourself Bast, call the God damned kettle back better go take a . . .
—No that’s why I have to go clean up and shave before I . . .
—Can’t compose without a piano Bast promise to help you dig the God damned thing out didn’t I? What Beethoven told Cipriani Potter can’t compose without a piano may be tempted to consult it, Bast? Talking to you where the hell . . .
—Yes I can hear you Mister Gibbs ljust have to shave, he called over the sink’s torrent pulling his shirt off, working his face with the cracked bar of yellow laundry soap from the rusted shelf there—Mister Gibbs? It’s all right if I use this razor I found here isn’t it?
—Never compose in a room where there’s a God damned piano Beethoven told Cipriani Potter because you may be tempted to consult it, Bast? you hear me?
—Yes but I’m . . .
—Problem Bast there’s too God damned much leakage around here, can’t compose anything with all this energy spilling you’ve got entropy going everywhere. Radio leaking under there hot water pouring out so God damned much entropy going on think you can hold all these notes together know what it sounds like? Bast?
—What . . . he drew the rusted razor down his cheek, tipped a cookie tin top on the shelf to catch its reflection.
—Not listening.
—Yes but . . . he drew blood and paused, reached for the shirt dangling from the dishtowel rack.—I mean there are some things you can’t really write down especially simple things, they just have to be left for the performer and till the music’s actually performed it doesn’t really exist at all so the only . . .
—Problem writing an opera Bast you’re up against the worst God damned instrument ever invented, asked me to tell you about Johannes Müller didn’t you?
—Well I, I don’t think so but . . .
—Just told Mister Eigen his play doesn’t exist at all didn’t you? Doesn’t trust actors doesn’t trust directors he ties up the end with a knot because he doesn’t trust the God damned audience told you Schramm had a tin ear didn’t I? Problem how to get rid of the God damned artist why he kept coming in here and bothering you didn’t he?
—No who, Mister Schramm? No but he . . .
—Asked me to tell you about Johannes Müller didn’t you? Told you you’re not listening I’m talking about Johannes Müller, nineteenth-century German anatomist Johannes Müller took a human larynx fitted it up with strings and weights to replace the muscles tried to get a melody by blowing through it how’s that. Bast?
—Yes it sounds quite . . .
—Thought opera companies could buy dead singers’ larynxes fix them up to sing arias save fees that way get the God damned artist out of the arts all at once, long as he’s there destroy everything in their God damned path what the arts are all about, Bast? that’s why you hid it?
—What . . . he came pulling on one shirt, holding a sleeve of the other to his throat spreading with red—hid what, I . . .
—Manuscript you told me’s so hard why you hid it didn’t you?
—Which the, no the one in the blue cover? No I just put it in the wait, wait sit down I’ll . . .
—Found it! the oven door crashed closed.—Promise to read it to you hide it in the God damned oven . . .
—No I just put it in there so it wouldn’t get any dirtier but . . .
—Read it to you tell me what’s so God damned hard.
—Yes but I haven’t time right now Mister Gibbs I have to go somewhere could I, could I have my shoe?
—Says quarter of seven under there Bast got plenty of time sit down.
—No but for the right time you have to subtract that from ten because wait wait don’t sit on my . . .
—Opening kind of epigraph here please do not shoot the, listening?
—The opening epitaph yes but I need my . . . he sank down on Hoppin’ With Flavor!—my shoe what, what happened to it . . .
—Told you been tripping on the God damned sole’s loose, now listening?
—But it’s almost, how did you . . .
—Told you I broke my neck to get back here wanted me to read this to you didn’t you? Please do not shoot the pianist. He is doing his best. There, anything hard about that?<
br />
—No it’s, it’s fine . . . he got the inert foot propped on Moody’s and bent forward to work on the knotted lace.
—Posted in a Leadville saloon, this appeal caught the eye of art in its ripe procession of one through the new frontier of the ’eighties where the frail human element still abounded even in the arts as Oscar Wilde alone, observing the mortality in that place is marvelous, passed on unrankled by that phrase doing his best, redolent of chance and the very immanence of human failure that century of progress was consecrated to wiping out once for all; for if, as another mother country throwback had it, all art does constantly aspire to the condition of music, there in a Colorado mining town saloon all art’s essential predicament threatened to be laid bare with the clap of a pistol shot just as deliverance was at hand, born of the beast with two backs called arts and sciences whose rambunctious coupling came crashing the jealous enclosures of class, taste, and talent, to open the arts to Americans for democratic action and leave history to bunk. Now God damn it Bast anything hard about that?
—Well, well no . . . he eased the shoe off.
—Good, nothing so God damned hard about this, anything hard about this? A remarkable characteristic of the Americans is the manner in which they have applied science to modern life Wilde marveled on, struck by the noisiest country that ever existed. One is waked up in the morning, not by the singing of the nightingale, but by the steam whistle . . . All art depends upon exquisite and delicate sensibility, and such constant turmoil must ultimately be destructive of the musical faculty and thus, though the flute is not an instrument which is expressive of moral . . . what’s the matter.
—Nothing I’m, I just have to get this envelope you’re sitting on and this, these newspapers . . .
—Good yes, yes though the flute is not an instrument which is expressive of moral character, it is too exciting, it had not taken this particular rebuke of Aristotle’s to check young Frank Woolworth’s rash ambitions on the instrument. He was becomingly tone deaf, and by eighteen seventy-nine had already crowned a decade of insolvency with the failure of his five-cent store in Utica, New York, where the rewards of leisure were then being advertised in the hapless passage of George Jones through McGuffey’s Fourth Eclectic Reader, last glimpsed as a poor wanderer, without money and without friends. Such are the wages of idleness. I hope every reader will, Bast God damn it keep complaining about how hard it is and then wander around the room while I’m trying to . . .
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