Two nights after Paul had left him, taken all his things and walked out without a word, leaving only his keys and a Post-It on the kitchen table that said “I can’t do this any more”, Marlow Langdon slept, or tried to sleep, and dreamed of keys.
Piano keys, this time. He walked along a road built of ivory and ebony, and each step he took was discordant. Surely if this one was a G, the next should be a A? And the two should sit neatly next to one another, in suspended harmony? But it wasn’t an A at all, it was a D#, and a slightly flat one at that. The whole road was out of whack. He tried to run, but in the dream his legs were made of treacle and he could only trudge, step by step, wrong and wrong and wrong, as the audience to his left and right booed and threw paper planes made of Post-It notes that were sharp as knives.
Unusually, he knew it was a dream. The crowd at the Crown and Ha’penny last night hadn’t thrown things. But that was where the differences ended. There, too, he’d seen in their eyes that they knew he wasn’t up to it, and when the band was done they’d clapped only half-heartedly and rushed to leave to the bar. Kim had leaned over the piano still holding the drumsticks and asked, is everything ok? There she was now, in a theatre box looking down onto the piano road, shouting in the wordless language of dreams. Marlow kept walking.
The Post-Its read, This is all completely meaningless, and What do you think you are, and Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry.
One hit him almost in the eye and he caught it in surprise. Unfolding it he read, in his own handwriting:
If you’d played better, he would still be here.
He crumpled it up and squeezed it in his right hand so hard that his nails cut half-moons into his palm.
The discordance stopped. He’d reached the end of the keyboard, walked right off the top C onto the sideboard. He turned and the crowd was gone, leaving only the keys stretching out into the distance.
He opened his hand and the Post-It was gone too. In its place, he was clutching five black threads which stretched off into the distance.
He began to follow them. The dream grew dark, but even black on blackness he could somehow still see them, or feel them. From time to time the path would turn or bend around to one side, though the threads weren’t attached to anything except his own hands. He got the impression someone was leading him somewhere.
He felt a knot on the middlemost thread – but it wasn’t a knot, it was perfectly rectangular. He knew intuitively it was a rest and the threads were a musical staff. He kept going. Another rest, then another. They sounded almost like a heartbeat, or something huge breathing in the darkness.
Then he saw/felt/heard a crotchet, and another. A, E, one octave above middle C. Clear as a crystal goblet, echoing around the space. It sounded like his name.
Marlow...
His heart leapt into his mouth. He almost stopped, but continued.
More notes. Semiquavers leapfrogging each other, dotted and slightly syncopated. Poor, poor Marlow, you sad little boy, in misery you think you are unique, but you are just like all the others...
There was a nice little modulation into D minor. Marlow kept going.
I know what you want and I can get you it, if you’re willing to pay, but let me tell you, little Marlow, the price is cheap for you right now, you’d better take advantage of the interest rate while you have the chance...
Who are you? cried Marlow, E-A-G sharp.
You know very well, very well, who I am, my friend, the real question is: who are you? Will you fizzle out in the dark or blaze bright? Your choice, your choice...
I just want to be able to play again, said Marlow.
And play you shall – let us play together, Marlow, Marlow, they’ll never have heard the like before...
And then a glissando, tumbling all the way down from the very top C, the piano now a sheer cliff, Marlow cartwheeling down octave by octave, all the notes happening at once – in all the cacophony he let go of the threads -
Marlow woke up.
He sat up in bed. It was 8am, or a little after. The light was pressing under the curtains, and he still had the disconcerting feeling he was falling. He shuddered and switched on the bedside light.
His fingers brushed silk and he looked to one side, astonished.
On his bedside table were a pair of pristine white silken gloves.