The Man Who Fell Together
Chapter One; No Strings Attached
Ishmael awoke and looked around. He was in the dingy little attic loft above the Seine. He could tell because the slanted ceiling was so close on one side of his bed that it nearly touched his face. He had a fear of rolling over in his sleep and getting stuck between the bed and the ceiling.
Once, he had awoken here and banged his head on the ceiling before he realized where he was. It had been a most unpleasant way to get oriented to this place again.
He carefully got out of bed and, leaning over, surveyed the little room. The sun was shining through the one window on the front wall and he could hear a tour boat going by outside. People were laughing and talking. It was a pleasant sound.
On the wall, next to the window, was a dresser with a mirror and a couple of bookshelves that were full of various books and music; violin music, it would be.
In the middle of the dinky room were a chair and a music stand. There were stacks of music around the chair and his violin, sitting in its case.
It was far too early to begin practicing; the tenant below would start pounding on his ceiling with a broom handle if he began practicing this early, so Ishmael would have to wait a bit.
Fortunately there was breakfast and Ernst.
Ishmael went down a flight to the bathroom he shared with the other tenant. No one else would be using the bathroom this early. The other tenant seemed to like to sleep in; well past eight it seemed. Ishmael was an early riser since it didn’t seem that he ever really slept.
He wondered what happened when he did sleep. Was that the time that he traveled from life to life? He supposed that must be the case, since he woke up in a different life each morning. He was the same Ishmael because he was the one experiencing it all but each one was a different life and a different personality.
Each seemed to have its good and bad points; the violinist appeared to be a rather pathetic existence at first glance, since he was so poor. In this life, there were only two things he lived for; music and Ernst.
He supposed most people had many things in their lives that they lived for; family, friends and success, but he had only two.
Those two, however, were so amazingly intense and rich that he almost felt sorry for other people.
He washed up and got dressed to go to breakfast with Ernst. It was the morning ritual. Even though he and Ernst were lovers, they didn’t live together. Oh, Ernst had all but begged him to move in, but Ishmael was too proud. Ernst was a successful lawyer and very upscale but Ishmael didn’t want to be a burden, just the same.
This didn’t stop him from letting Ernst pay for breakfast most of the time.
He went out and walked down the street next to the Seine that would lead to the café where tall, thin boned, dark haired Ernst would be waiting, chain smoking.
Ernst’s manner was not calm, despite being the successful lawyer he was. It was as if something was eating away at him and Ishmael was only vaguely aware that it was he.
Ishmael sat down at the table and ordered his usual breakfast of crepes and too much coffee.
Ernst had already eaten; a martini and toast.
Now he was well into the second course, of cigarettes and more cigarettes.
“How can you stand to smoke so much in the morning?” Ishmael asked, for the thousandth time.
“I’ve cut down, really,” said Ernst, over the ashtray overflowing with butts.
“Well, I think you should quit,” said Ishmael.
Ishmael took over Ernst’s health issues as Ernst took over Ishmael’s career concerns. Both were equally daunting.
“I’m having a dinner party on Saturday,” said Ernst, lighting up another cigarette.
“Splendid,” said Ishmael.
“You’ll be there then?” asked Ernst.
“Naturally,” answered Ishmael.
“John-luc Tibonay, the conductor of the Marseille Chamber Orchestra will be there! You know, I thought maybe you could play…”
Ishmael set his spoon down with a violent clink.
“You know I don’t play for social gatherings,” he said with disdain.
“It wouldn’t be like you were performing. I thought you might play with him! He’s a great pianist, you know,” Ernst said.
Ishmael’s stare had become quite icy.
“Now that I think of it,” he said, “I have a prior engagement. I won’t be able to make it. Thank you very much for the invitation and thank you for breakfast. It was lovely, but I must be going now.”
Ernst sighed and snubbed out his cigarette as he watched Ishmael go. He knew it had been a mistake but he had to keep trying.
Ishmael was too proud to take playing jobs that he considered beneath him and that included most everything, from playing at restaurants to playing in local orchestras.
Ernst had lost count of how many times he had tried to pull strings for Ishmael and connect him with someone who might give him some real work as a violinist.
The only thing Ishmael considered good enough, as a career, was being a soloist, but there was a problem with that; he had severe stage fright.
They never spoke of it anymore. For a time Ernst had tried to make him get help for it. He even suggested a hypnotist that he knew, citing the fact that it had been a hypnotist that had straightened Rachmaninoff out but Ishmael couldn’t even confront the problem.
Ishmael went around and saw his pupils for that day. There was usually more invalidation from his students; they had seen so and so on YouTube and his video had millions of views, so the way he played the musical work they were studying must be the correct way and that usually over-rode Ishmael’s instruction.
Ishmael had studied at the Paris Conservatory but had not graduated for, to do so, one needed to play a recital and Ishmael’s stage fright had already manifested.
He dallied about, preparing for the recital, adding semester after semester to his studies, draining his parent’s resources until they finally had to put the foot down and demand that he graduate within the next term.
Ishmael dropped out and was now eeking-out a meager existence tutoring younger music students who wanted to make it into the conservatory.
After seeing his students, Ishmael went home and spent the rest of the day practicing. He found solace in his playing but had to wrap-up in the early evening otherwise his neighbor below would pound on the ceiling some more.
He spent his evenings reading and drinking. He drank to kill his pain over his failed career. He also felt bad about the way he treated Ernst, who he knew was his only friend.
At last, he would slip away into unconsciousness and the flighty feeling he would get; he knew tomorrow would be different. And it would…
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