Читать книгу Mahler in love with Monroe? - C.-A. Rebaf - Страница 10

"Gooooolie, Goooolie, Golie, where are you?" I shouted towards the village. Nothing moved. It was getting dark and I started to worry. "He'll probably be back with Steffen," I calmed down. However, as the high pressure weather – called ‘Föhn’ in Bavaria – was about to collapse and again heavy rain from the south was expected, I pulled on a cardigan and ran in the direction of the convent ruins, to look for him and get home before the fall-out. From afar I heard the organ. It was a completely different kind of music than I knew Steffen from before. Obviously somebody else was playing today and I did not have to wonder why Golie did not get home in time. The music was beautiful, I had not heard such a thing and I was anything but a complete layman in this field. My father introduced me to classical music. Or maybe everything was a matter of genes. He had recognized my abilities early and showed me how beautiful straight simple melodies could be and how subtle harmonies could be interwoven to dance with the keys. Recently, since Golie approached this art with frantic steps, I suddenly saw myself in the role of the teacher, especially in the sense that I was quite analytically exploring his potential and tried to promote him as optimally as possible. My father had owned a large collection of music: records, CDs and even a few old tapes. I remember that he had liked to sit in a chair with a glass of red wine at the end of the day, just before the Super-GAU, when there was electricity from the socket. Then he had cumbersomely threaded one of his old tapes into his TEAC machine and then completely surrendered to the music. As for the tapes, he had hovered not only in the realm of sounds, but also in the realm of his memories, since he had recorded all the recordings personally from the radio. During his studies, he had started collecting music, now there were some rarities for him: Salzburg or Bayreuth Festivals, which had been back several decades.

Was it this new music that reminded me of old times and made me daydream? Did my father even hear this piece that someone played here on the organ? I could not rule it out, but I could not say yes. Because at those times I was still too small. It did not sound like an organ piece, it was more like a symphony somebody played on the organ, because there were no orchestras anymore. I entered the ruined church under the tarpaulin, looked up, and recognized the stranger with the high forehead at the organ desk and his horsewhip on top. Seeing the stranger and hearing his music a feeling shot between my legs and warmly flooded up to my heart. I had not felt anything like that for years. In my emotional chaos, I noticed that the riding whip played a fascinating role. It was a sort of attraction.

Suddenly I recognized Steffen staying by. "Certainly, Golie kicks the bellows," I thought to myself, after I got my conscious again.

Then I realized that there were no notes on the console. The stranger seemed to know the many notes by heart? "What a genius!", I thought to myself and at the same time remembered how quickly Golie could now record melodies and play them with his little willow flute.

But what was a unanimous melody against three organ and one foot manual? The acoustics under the tarpaulin were already strange: muted as in a dry studio. The resonance box of the organ, which the magnificent baroque church had once represented, was now missing and was replaced by the tarpaulin, which looked like a sound-absorbing element. The organ sounds fizzled out in the air. Nevertheless, this music was not without charm. I climbed the ladder to the gallery. When Steffen saw me, he waved me with his forefinger on the mouth, that I should be quiet as a mouse. I ran around the console, looked through the open door of the organ and saw Golie raptly kicked the bellows vigorously. He did not notice my eyes at all, and I was fascinated by his devotion. So we stood at our positions, remained silent and listened to the stranger, who seemed to play a new music.

Suddenly there was a crash outside at the same time as my eyes met his. A thunderstorm seemed to raise not only outside but in my inner body too. A flash lit up the scene, and again it crackled loudly. Then the radioactive rain pelted down from the south. The stranger finished his play and looked skeptically at the roof construction.

"That's pretty close here, that's what I've taken care of," Steffen told the stranger." By the way, we got visitors. May I introduce? This is Maria-Luise. We call her Mary Lou here. They had seen her once before. She is the mother of the little Golie and has certainly been worried about why he has not come home." "Oh, my mother certainly has understanding ", suddenly remembered Golie, who had emerged from the back of the organ box when the Music had stopped. He beamed all over his face.

Now finally Steffen introduced the stranger officially to me. He should have done this last time, but Steffen was crazy: "This is Mr. Grinder. Imagine that he came here from Vienna. This long distance - and only because of the organ. It has probably already spread in professional circles that we have here in our small Polling still one or, better said, again a functioning organ. Mr. Grinder is a musician." The stranger approached me a bit dominant and shook my hand in an in a noble way. "Nice to make your acquaintance," he said quite and seductive. "You played wonderfully. Could it be that my dad played this music before the disaster? "

He responded with a surprised gesture and gave me a pull up of one of his eyes: "Oh, I just improvised a bit and I'm so happy to be here. This organ is wonderful. But you seem to be a music expert!"

Now it reminded me again: This music was Mahler's Symphony No. 8, my father's favorite piece. That sounded like in the old times but now played on an organ instead of an orchestra. Performed by a fascinating fellow, whom I estimated slightly younger than me, but by far more predominant in all his being. But I did not want to state with my music knowledge to much and said nothing. Do I intended to be obsequious?

"Do you want to stay here for a long time?" I asked, just so as not to break the conversation. I felt very bivalent towards this stranger. On the one hand I was alienated from his dominant behavior and is horsewhip; on the other hand I felt also attracted to his person. Only by his music? I never experienced my feelings to an younger man, who floats above me.

"If it were possible, I would like to stay with this magnificent instrument. As far as I know, there is no better instrument between Vienna and Munich." I saw Steffen smile, and his figure became bigger and bigger. After all, it was his modest merit that he, who had dealt with organs before the catastrophe, especially the tuning of these instruments, had seized the opportunity to restore their playability.

"Where did you find yourself?" I asked in a logical sequence. "My driver, whom I had rented only with his Paco, drove back to Munich this morning and then to Vienna. I stayed with Steffen, but his bed for both of us ... It was already a difficult night. My back is not the best either. You are not angry with me because of my openness, Steffen?"

He slowly came down from ‘Cloud Seven’ of his music. "Can you help us with accommodation for him?" Steffen flinched from embarrassment. "That's difficult here in the village. I would like to have a listen. What could you compensate for?" I asked. Compensate, in former times one had said to "pay", and it had been easy at that time: One gave away his credit card or had a sum of cash, which was accepted in exchange for achievements of all, especially if the money from the USA or came from Europe. But today, when money was worthless, people preferred to rely on real value.

The stranger blushed suddenly, "Yes, I can compensate, but my compensation units are ...", he hesitated and coughed, "... let's say for the moment: ... delicate! But available. I may be able to tell you more about it tomorrow. We should all go home now."

"Home? You are funny! Do you really think we should expose ourselves to the fall-out that is just coming to an end? That's half a death sentence! I'm afraid we'll have to stay together for a while, until we can venture outside again. Please play something else! ", I asked the stranger, and Golie interrupted me immediately: "Oh yes, Mr. Grinder, that would be very nice. I enjoyed your music so much!"

The stranger was surprised, but realized that we better not go outside now. Steffen tried to save the situation, and turned to a pile of notes. "Here, Mr. Grinder, I have something we could possibly play together. I have another edition of Mozart's "Jeunehomme Concerto" here. Let's try it together. I have practiced the piano part, but try to play the orchestral part on the other manuals. "The two musicians made themselves as comfortable as possible on the narrow organ bench, placed the notes on the desk and looked at each other.

Meanwhile, Golie had dutifully crawled into the organ box to the bellows and stepped up vigorously. I followed him unobtrusively and watched him. His reactions to music and especially in connection with Mr. Grinder interested me burning. Golie was quite enchanted. It could not only be the music, it was even more behind it; I felt that. Only dampened, the introductory orchestral beat indicated by an organ tutti came to me.

Steffen in his piano part answered him much quieter, but almost boyish. Everything came in my position also because of the acoustic shifts as from another star. Golie listened attentively, but it was not until the two musicians began the second movement, which began with the long, mysterious orchestral introduction in abysmal C Minor, that Golie's face changed in a way that really scared me. It seemed to me as if he had left the earthly sphere and was now dreaming, but as naturally in a new, spiritual level. Grinder was borne on the set, slowly approached, and Steffen followed him with the piano part. They had tried to imitate the mood of the piano concerto on the organ through a mysterious registration, which they had succeeded in doing.

Suddenly the music broke off abruptly. Golie was so moved by the music that he stopped kicking, and when he saw me, he stormed toward me, hiding his tears in my apron. I took him in my arms, tried to comfort him, and asked him what was wrong with him. As I noticed, he had no right words to describe his condition. He just stammered almost incomprehensibly: "It is so sad!" Then I understood the word "awesome" out of his sobs. I soberly assumed that he, a particularly sensitive young man, had been so overwhelmed by the emotions of the music that he had to give in to his mood and discharge his feelings in a tear-burst. Steffen just came crawling into the organ box from the front to see what was going on. He understood the situation quite well, after I had started an explanation that Golie nodded or shook his head. He had always covered his eyes with his hands.

Suddenly Grinder said: “I would like to play specially for you” and again his eyes disoriented me. I was so ruptured: as a mother, as a women in love, as a lover of music...