The Last Rational Man Read online

supposed to go to a concert. They had a subscription, and the concert just happened to land on the day when they were most exhausted. On the day that J in particular was most exhausted.

  "Let's cancel. We can get credit for the concert, and go some other time. Maybe next year."

  "The break will do us good. Something besides weddings. The music will be better than the music at the weddings."

  "The music might be good, but I'll sleep through it and miss it. It will be the world's most expensive nap."

  There was only one way this discussion was going to end, as J knew full well. He stumbled home from work and drank some coffee before they drove off to the auditorium. Only half a cup, hoping to strike a balance between staying awake through the concert and being able to sleep at night afterwards. He shouldn't drink that much coffee. It wasn't good for his heart, which already beat irregularly, and sped up under the influence of that dark brown drug.

  "What are they playing?"

  "A Beethoven concerto. The 'Emperor', I think."

  At least it was an old classic. Sometimes you enjoy hearing something you know better than a new piece. On the other hand, if you've heard it a hundred times, it could be boring. A combination of boring and exhausted meant a huge effort to keep from snoring through the concert. Dear wife would be kicking him to make sure he stayed awake. So it goes.

  The short drive to the concert hall went smoothly. They parked downhill from the hall, and walked up the hill, a ten minute walk. J felt more awake after the walk, but how long would that last for?

  They got their subscription tickets punched, bought a program, and sat down. The concert was going to start with two other pieces, both Beethoven, though not as famous as the Emperor. The program would probably spell out which ones were written after Beethoven was deaf, though the Mrs. was reading the program now, so he might not get a chance to find out till later.

  The gods must have been happy, striking a composer with deafness. Deafness was an odd one. They usually struck the creative with madness. J knew this. He came from a creative family, and was often not sure of his own sanity. He'd make stuff up, and then he wasn't quite sure which bits of information were real, and which he had invented.

  But to strike Beethoven with deafness seemed especially unfair. Who knows? Maybe Casanova was stricken with impotence at some point. Could he keep such a thing secret? He could write a book about it, The Secret of Casanova. Maybe it would be popular like one of those books about Jesus' secret life. And just think about the graphic love scenes. It was bound to be a best seller. What would you rather read about, a first century Jew being executed in a most horrible fashion, or a eighteenth century lady's man making his way into the finest beds in Europe?

  It was a minor miracle that he hadn't fallen asleep yet. The orchestra finished tuning up, and out came the conductor along with the pianist. They must have changed the order of the pieces. The Emperor was the only work that included a piano, so they were playing that first.

  Here was the first shock. The conductor was dressed in traditional black, just like the rest of the orchestra. But the pianist, a young woman, was wearing a white suit. And she kept her hair pulled back in a pony tail tied with a red band. A red band! She was very daring, or very confident, or both. J could see the reviews, all going on and on about her red band, as if it was the most important thing about the concert. Like Camus' stranger, convicted of murder by his café au lait.

  J didn't say anything to C, but the pianist looked cute with that red band in her hair. Hell, she looked cute in general. But classical music was classical music, Beethoven was Beethoven, and he was tired. The coffee hadn't woken him up- just made him jittery. There was no way he was going to stay awake through forty-five minutes of Beethoven. C would be kicking him before long to stop his snoring. He only hoped that she wouldn't stomp on his foot with those spike heels.

  She did that once. Another concert. Haydn maybe. Something terribly boring, whatever it was. A real lullaby. He had managed not to scream out loud, but they spent the rest of the concert in the emergency room having his foot set. Some little bones he'd never heard of. He would have preferred the Haydn.

  He must have made that up. C never wore spikes. She didn't even own a pair. Just his 'magination, running away with him. Some day it would run away with him, run so far that he wouldn't find his way back.

  The concert started. First the piano a bit, then the horns off on that familiar tune. The Philharmonic played well, no doubt about that. And Beethoven was OK. But when he was driving and wanted music to help him stay awake, it would be the Temptations, Stevie Wonder or even Bob Dylan. Not Beethoven, Mozart, or any of the other guys whose busts decorated so many pianos. Classical music was sleepy. No words, no beat, and, well, no soul. Not for J, anyhow.

  He took the program from C's lap, and starting reading. That would keep him awake for a few minutes. Hélène. A French pianist. What a French pianist was doing out here was beyond him, though the Philharmonic did have a good reputation. The orchestra finished their bit, and Beethoven handed the show over to the piano. Hélène had kept her neck stretched out, her head cocked, waiting for the conductor's signal. There was something attractive in the way she held herself, a hawk about to swoop on its prey.

  The signal came, and Hélène flew with Beethoven. J's jaw dropped. This was different. Very different. It was still Beethoven, yet something new. She was doing something different to the music. Same notes, different song. He hunched forward, chin in hand, a regular 'thinker'. My God. Beethoven had written it, but only now was it played properly. Ludwig had written it for her. J hoped that there was a heaven, and that Beethoven had his hearing restored there.

  There was something special happening. He knew that he was still breathing. If he had stopped, he would have dropped dead by now. And he wasn't dead, though he was in heaven.

  He stopped thinking for a minute. Something he never did. He never could. There were always a dozen things running through his mind. Work, recipes, inventions, stories, people, and that old male stand-by, sex. For once though he stopped and just listened. An image came to his head. A lone bird, a seagull, flying against a breeze.

  A vision, one of the few that somebody had induced in him. There were plenty that he induced in himself. Or that the gods induced in him. Sometimes a book would do this to him. Music? Never. Yet here he was.

  Hélène. Helen of Paris. The music that launched a thousand ships. Trojans and Greeks smiting each other.

  Soon it was over, No amount of applause could get an encore out of Hélène. She didn't need to please her crowd. She was good, damn good, and didn't have to do any favors for the audience in this hick-town. So downstairs for the intermission, a quick drink, and a chance to buy a disc. Hélène and Beethoven. J picked out one that had been autographed by the master, actually touched by those hands.

  C was impressed too, but hadn't had the epiphany that he had experienced. She was too sane, that was the problem. She understood how impressed he was, but didn't share the experience with him. Like trying to explain a battle to someone who wasn't there. Only your buddies really knew what it was like. The folks at home never understood. Though come to think of it, he had never been in a battle either.

  Home and to bed. J had to settle down first. Internet time. Hélène on the Wikipedia. Where she was from, where she studied, what she was famous for, even a link to her personal site.

  J wanted to send her some fan mail. He wanted to share that vision with her. It was silly. He was almost fifty years old, married, a father and grandfather, and he wanted to send fan mail to a classical pianist as if she was a rock star. Ridiculous. J went to bed.

  Sleep wouldn’t come. It may have been the coffee, but that was many hours ago. It was Hélène. His mind was boiling, the music running through him, her fingers seducing the keyboard. A letter. What could he write her? What did he want from her?

  Dear Hélène. I heard you play in my home town tonight, and can't get the music ou
t of my soul. I had a vision as I listened to you. I want to meet you. I would give my right arm to meet you. I have tried to get the arm into this envelope, but it did not fit, so I will keep it in the fridge until we meet. Please excuse the bloodstains on this letter- the wound is still dripping.

  But how to send such a letter? Her site only had her agent's email address. There was no address for fan mail. Besides which, that bit about the arm was too much. It didn't sound like a fan or an admirer. It just sounded crazy.

  Well, first he'd have to figure out where to send a letter to, and then he could figure out the wording. He sent a quick note to her agent, asking where he could send fan mail to. He was not surprised when he didn't get a response. Classical musicians didn't get fan mail. If they did, their agents didn't want to be bothered with forwarding it.

  J knew where his mistake was. He should've started screaming at the top of his lungs when she performed, like the teenagers did for rock stars. That's what he was, a fifty-year old teenager. He should've tried to meet her offstage after the concert. He had been in a state of shock, and it hadn't occurred to him. It wouldn't have worked. Hélène had performed first, so she was long gone by the time the concert was over.

  Maybe she stayed in one of the local hotels that