Proslogion

Love the one good in which all good things are, and that is sufficient.

Desire the simple good which contains every good, and that is enough. For what do you love, O my flesh, what do you  desire, O my soul?

There it is, there it is, whatever you love, whatever you desire.

:)

Short Story 5

The Fourth Movement

Mary’s cello weighed a little heavier on her drooping shoulder as she took one last look at the arched ceiling and marble floor of the beautiful lobby. With sore fingers and heavy hearts, the other musicians filed out of the rehearsal hall. They did not know when they would return. Perhaps never. Stepping out into another grey, rainy day, they lingered wistfully on flooded the sidewalk in front of the hall. The musicians were all reluctant to acknowledge the end.

            It was the principal trumpet that broke the spell. The tall, bespectacled man, usually so amiable, was irreparably deflated today. With a wave, he silently made his way across the street to the bleak parking lot where his rusting Ford waited. He had hoped to get a new car, but the week before he was to make the purchase, the orchestra director made his tearful announcement. Let go, all of them. 80 unemployed musicians. Something about poor sales, declining audiences, not enough “cultural relevance.” Now he only hoped he could pay the heating bill.

            The others slowly followed the trumpeter across the street. They were instrument-wielding specters, with pale faces and empty eyes that reflected the steely sky. No one could speak.

            “Wait.”

The word carried through the heavy air, clear and ringing as a French horn’s call. It was Mary the cellist. A young woman with a short brown bob and a frame about the size of the instrument she played, Mary was one of the youngest members of the symphony. A year ago, she learned that she had beat out hundreds of other competitors for the coveted open spot in the cello section. A month after that, she’d moved to this struggling city with the renowned orchestra. She practiced, rehearsed, and performed. She breathed in eighth notes and drank up sweet-sounding melodies, pure as water. And it was the beginning of her dream, until it ended. So abruptly. Far too early. It was all wrong.

“Everyone, wait,” Mary said again. The others turned around, still half-immersed in their melancholy daze.

“Don’t leave. I’m not ready, and neither are you. Let’s do something.”

“You’re young, you don’t know how it is,” said the oldest member of the orchestra, a violist with no hair and a hoarse voice. “There’s nothing to do. They’ve been threatening for years, and now it’s finally happened. It’s done.”

“No it isn’t,” said Mary, her voice rising. “We’re going on strike.”

            Now everyone was awake.

             “You can’t go on strike if you’ve already been fired,” replied the gloomy violist.

            “Look, that was our last concert, but our contracts are good until the end of the month,” the tall trumpeter said excitedly. “Let’s strike.”

He turned to his pessimistic colleague. “Do you have any other plans for the next few weeks?” he asked incredulously.

Silence.  “Didn’t think so. We have nothing to lose.”

The soft murmur rose to an excited clamor of voices. Plans were made, concerns voiced, problems worked out. And for the first time in weeks, hope emerged from its hiding place, delicate but unmistakable. In a city accustomed to hard times, the musicians joined the ranks of the strikers. Like the assembly line workers and the casino employees, they were manual laborers; they suffered back pains and arthritis for the sake of the beautiful final product they produced. They needed this commodity, and the city needed it too.

So the musicians prepared for battle. Tuxedoes were their suits of armor and bows their swords. They carried sheet music like battle standards, and they bravely sounded their fortes with the force of a gunshot. They returned to the hall they loved, they took possession of their land and refused to move. Gradually, the story trickled out of the hall and into the streets; it spread rapidly through a population eager for news that didn’t involve corruption or bankruptcy. “Sit-in Symphony,” the evening headlines proclaimed. “Rogue Orchestra Refuses to Quit.”

The musicians eliminated “quit” from their vocabulary. They didn’t have much of a vocabulary at all, for they were too busy playing Beethoven and Tchaikovsky and Mendelssohn, dressed in their finest attire for the occasion. At first, they played to an empty hall. But as the news broke, a few curious enthusiasts took their seats. Others followed; they were supportive, idle, or simply hoping to witness a confrontation.

The seats filled to capacity, and the musicians played with the passion born of true emotion. Through the music, their anguish, worry, rage, and hope became manifest. The sound engulfed the audience. It soothed and startled them, it elated them and sunk them into despair. Sometimes, they forgot to breathe, so immersed were they in the wonderful, reverberating notes.

The orchestra played and played. The conductor gracefully waved his baton, sweat trickling down his temples as he poured his being into his orchestra. They were performing for themselves, for the audience, for the city, for the cause. The sun went down without any sign of weariness from the laboring players. Dinnertime came and went, and no one made a move to stop. Far into the night they played, onward through the darkness.

The clouds of the previous day had dispersed, and the sun’s first inviting fingers beckoned over the broken city. The last quavering note died down in the cavernous expanses of the hall, absorbed through the parted mouths of the transfixed listeners. In silence, the conductor shook the concertmaster’s hand. He bowed. He serenely descended the podium and walked off the stage. The orchestra sat still, their energy and passion spent.

A single clap broke the silence. Then another, and another. Slowly, the sound grew into a deafening thunder of applause. Cheers rent the air. The beautiful chaos was music of its own, an expression of gratitude and solidarity from the audience to the orchestra. They all understood each other; they needed each other. And they would find a way to help.

The orchestra struck up a joyful march as the audience emerged into the sunlight.