A Woman Dies in the Desert to Piano Sonata 14 in C#Minor Opus 27/2
(Quasi Una Fantasia, Adagio Sostenuto)
It is raining outside the Center for the Performing Arts. Inside, pianist Fredrick Pulk looks out into the darkened audience and accepts the soft applause following his third piece. He can barely make out the dark figures behind the blind of spot and stage lights. Glare bounces off the polished stage floor, and pools on the far surface of the ebony piano before him. When silent, even the large piano looks small. He takes a glance to the side stage. There is no one there. He lifts up a glass of water, drinks, and sets it back down on the mandala of condensation it had made. Taking a second to relax his hand, he examines the cuffs on his sleeve. They appear loose; one is almost detached. After tightening them, he sets his hands on the keys and begins to play his fourth piece, Beethoven's Piano Sonata 14 in C# Minor, Opus 27 Number 2.
The smell of burning rubber screams. Boulders and cacti blur into the cobalt sky as a car losses grip on the shimmering road, slides to the edge and goes over. It rolls several times. Scraps of blue plastic and metal are flung off into the rocks and brush. She is thrown out through a shattered window. The car tumbles thirty more meters. She is beaten and injured from the tumult inside, the glass cuts her, and the impact into the ditch breaks her body. A sliver of glass is spun through the air to become lost in a thicket of thorns. The desert is silent again. She lies in the barrow pit, unconscious beneath the climbing white sun.
The piano keys smoothly respond to the mechanical pressings of calloused fingers. While Pulk occasionally glances down to his fingers, most of his time is divided between staring into the distant audience, up at the busied stage ceiling, and down into the darkness of his shut eyes. After the second theme of the exposition, the dew-covered glass of water on the piano catches his attention. He wishes he could remember the drink he took before he began. He tries not to let his mind get caught in the glass, but the tightening in his throat keeps drawing him back to the smooth crystalline cylinder that waits for him. Most of the ice is melted; only narrow sheets remain in a thin layer at the top. Through the glass, the light off the piano is bent and twisted. Pulk's mind recoils in shock as his left ring finger barley misses the D sharp in one of the modulations of the opening phrase. His mind scrambles to regain focus, but this process creates a new distraction
Slowly, her eyes open under a cloudless sky. Weakly coughing, blood drips out over sun-baked lips. Despite the brightness it's cold. She tries to sit up, but fails to raise her head higher than a few centimeters. She slowly rolls it to the right. The grey and green tips of a few saguaros puncture the horizon. A discarded plastic sack caught on one hangs silently. Below it lays the first gargantuan rock in an endless field of boulders and cacti. Next to it lays the road. The pavement is crackled and grey like the rocks and the dead cactus. The asphalt is marked with black smears of rubber, now muffled. She starts to look at her arm, but becomes afraid and closes her eyes. In the red darkness she forces her head to the other vista.
Pulk reminds himself to breath slowly and deeply as he eases himself back into the trance of the piece, after this he still has five more works to play. He inhales a measure, letting it settle deep into his lungs. He tries to pause, to simulate in himself the feeling the sonata's space creates. At the next root, he releases his breath slowly; the notes float free in three's as if his breath was the work manifest, yet given a somber weight by the blackness of the piano, the stage, and even the cold, damp weather outside. The metronome of rain is not loud enough to be heard. He lets his head hang limp, then rise up with each crescendo, only to drop again like a branch suddenly broken off a tree by a winter frost.
She cautiously opens her eyes to a squint into the sun. The car is there, about thirty meters down the barrow pit, still and silent. It is totaled. What isn't strewn along the desert is tilted against another large, grey crumb of granite. Behind it is the ideal cactus, one main stalk with two others coming off in opposite directions, one beginning lower than the other but both curling up to almost equal heights just shy of the main. There is no one to point it out to. Out of all the cacti it stands closest to the road, removed from the expansive army of bristle and rock behind it. It has been growing in the same spot for one hundred years. Looking up at God in the sky she screams until the desert eats up the last bit of air in her lungs.
Pulk mentally notes his progress as he enters into the development of the theme. He tries to keep out any distracting insecurities about his slip in such a simple piece. Beneath his shirt, a drop of sweat falls from his arm pit onto his side. At this rate the next section will be disastrous. But it won't. Every phrase is a new beginning, divorced from the past. The rest will be excellent. Pulk's fingers lift and fall. The most similar thing about good pianos is how smooth and worn their keys are.
A car soars past. She opens her eyes quickly, and tries to sit up but fails. If this car doesn't see her . . . The silence makes her sick. The road is empty, and the rough grey asphalt, the cacti, and the cold sun all stare at her quietly. The desert is hostile and might play a trick like this, but she can't bring herself to hate it. She tries to picture blossoms on the cacti, like there are in the spring. Slowly, there is the approaching sound of the car. She can't turn her head enough to see it yet, but she knows it's coming for her. For her. A stack of surfboards slowly rises into view through the shimmering heat waves on the highway. Tourists looking for the ocean. A blue jeep pulls up fast, throwing up a cloud of dust. It smells like dust. People are yelling in English as car doors open and slam shut.
The lighting makes it impossible to see anyone beyond the stage, but he pretends to look out at the people in the audience. Pulk musters a faint smile, blinks, and then turns back to the piano. Sweat is beginning to escape his skin. The ice in the glass is melted. The sparkle on the crystal makes the liquid look inviting. A drop of dew rolls down the glass to become absorbed by the pool at the bottom. Concentrate. Do not think about water, or cufflinks. Listen to the music. The arpeggios wash through him like waves, peaking then pressing down on him at the cadences. He lets the thought of not thinking about not thinking float through his mind. Acknowledging it, he lets it go and closes his eyes. Everything turns a marine blue twisting with the melody. His left little finger stretches for a bass note, gently settling on the key.
A sun-burnt American with long blond hair kneels over her, frantically looking her up and down as one would a puzzle, not a woman. Another one pulls an azure shirt down over his head. He runs over to join her. He has a mohawk and a badly peeling face. Their words swarm at her. The long haired one kneels by her right and gently takes up her hand in his. Her arm grinds. He places two fingers on her wrist. He looks to be about twenty, with a red and freckled face, half covered by his hair. After he finishes he looks up and calls out to the others, then lowers his gaze to hers. His lips are cracked. He struggles to speak Spanish, but she only slowly shakes her head.
A fly is on the right edge of the piano. It meanders around, oblivious to the rhythm of the piece. Pulk's lips barely whisper "one-rip-let, two-rip-let, three-rip-let." He looks to his cuff wanting to see the watch beneath it, then back to the fly. The fly is gone. He tenses a little at the possibility that it could be on him. It could be walking up his back. Then the audience close enough to see it might think that he smells poorly. And the cufflink could be loose again. Inside his polished shoes his feet are sweating. He does not want to be perceived as the pungent piano player. However, better a pungent pianist performing well than one who plays poorly. He watches his fingers continue to play.
Two more kids are frantically looking through the car. She shakes her head and coughs. They run toward her carrying her jacket and her sleeping bag. The four consult each other. The two drive away in the jeep. The plastic bag hangs still and the car disappears behind it. In the bright light, the plastic looks thin and weathered. The boy with the mohawk reaches for her forehead and grimaces. Rolling her eyes up she watches him draw a long needle from her brow, then delicately swab away the crusted blood. He works a little more one her face. She closes her eyes and tries to ignore him as he works a little more on her face. He begins to pull needle after needle from her left forearm. She begins to count them but doesn't finish.
The fly is on the edge of the water glass. Sitting there, dry washing its hands. Pulk tries to blow at it without puckering his lips. The breath doesn't even make it to the insect. Try again. The fly takes off. Then it returns. Pulk closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them the glass is vacant. The water quakes a little when he hits a cadence. He is already well into the next phrase when he realizes he is playing it very heavily. He decides to crescendo further until he is at fortissimo by the time he has hit the pinnacle of the scale. Going down he slows his count and decrescendo's to a whisper. He nods his head to acknowledge the few soft claps and the murmurs he hears from the audience.
An unzipped sleeping bag has been spread over her. It is soft. The familiar scent of her car mingles with the chalk smell of dust, but she smells iron and salt. The long haired one is still holding her hand. He is looking off into the desert. She reaches her other hand out. The boy with the mohawk gently takes it. She squeezes his fingers. His entire head is red and the skin is flaking off. Unlike the other one, his face is relaxed. The chapped corners of his lips are even raised a little, until he catches her eye. A blush manages to appear on his sun-reddened face. After a moment, concentration contorts his face. On her other side she feels her pulse being taken again. Facing Mohawk, she tries to gesture towards the iconic cactus. He turns his head to look, but shortly returns to her. After a few seconds, Mohawk slowly asks her name. He broadens his smile for a response. She stares back at him and tries to return his favor, then closes her eyes.
Pulk takes in a deep breath, feeling the damp air cool his throat. He listens to the beginning of the recapitulation sounding from the chamber of his piano. He raises his eyes to the water glass. At its base, a sliver of light floats on pooled water. The glass remains before him, disinterested and offering no sentiment. It glistens with callousness, despite the envelope of music he pours to it. Pulk hits the keys as a ritual offering, but receives no response. Counterpoint falling directly on the downbeat of the triplet. It continues to shatter the light on its hard edge. He no longer wants to drink the water to quench his thirst, but rather to subdue it. It stands there as stable as the rest of the stage.
A vulture croaks and lands upon the tip of a looming cactus. Its flapping wings mock the silent group in the ditch. The long haired boy stands, faces the bird, and throws a rock at it. The buzzard flaps into the sky as the rock knocks into the cactus. The green thud is refreshing. The sound of wings is not. The other boy looks at her face and rolls his eyes, as if dismissing a graceless joke put forth by the childish bird. She smiles. He looks away, reaching for something above her head. Rustling sounds from a first aid kit. A second later he shows her a band aid, carefully removes the wrapper, and then stoogishly places it on his chin. Her laughter quickly turns to a garbled cough. She turns away. The grey road shimmers placidly. It has to be water because it is too cold for a mirage.
The piano keys continue to respond to the pressings of tired fingers. Pulk hopes the audience is aware that he hasn't looked at his hands for some time. He looks up again at the busied stage ceiling, then down into the darkness of his shut eyes. The end is coming soon. He is well into the recap of the second theme. He wishes he had taken a drink before he began. The ice is long melted now. Through the glass, the light off the piano is bent and twisted, but not as sharply as when the water was cooler. Pulk's left ring finger gently taps the D sharp in one of the modulations of the opening phrase.
She lifts her head to the sound of an approaching car. It's not an ambulance, but the jeep again. The mohawked boy walks over to it. She didn't want him to leave. His bare feet are filthy. He should have shoes on. His back is to her as he quietly talks to the other two. With his companions he returns to her side. One of the others has a plastic jug of water and offers it to her. She shakes her head. The mohawked boy takes it, and pours some of the water into his mouth without letting his lips touch the rim of the jug. He passes it back to his companion, who takes a few loud gulps.
Pulk breaths slowly and deeply as he takes one last moment to settle into the piece. He inhales a measure letting it settle deep into his lungs. He tries to pause, to simulate in himself the feeling the silence Beethoven has framed and accented. The emptiness between notes gives a somber weight by the blackness of the piano, the stage, and even the cold, damp weather outside. The sonata is so thick it absorbs the space on the stage and makes Pulk feel twice as large as he is. He lets his head hang limp, rise up with each crescendo, and then drop again.
She wakes to the sound of an engine and gravel being crushed below tires. The exhaust pipe from the ambulance pours out blue clouds that rise straight up to the cloudless sky. Three of the surfers are up and moving around frantically. The mohawked surfer is about to rise when she grabs his hand and pulls him towards her. She brings his hand to her face and presses it to her lips.
Pulk is completely still as he plays the space between the final chords. The chords hang in the air, heavily and spacious. Finally, there is a silence that endures with no interruption. Pulk lifts his hands from the piano and adjusts his tie. The audience stands, cascading down applause. Pulk gently shuts the black lid to the piano, rises without acknowledging the audience, and walks off the stage.
The smell of burning rubber screams. Boulders and cacti blur into the cobalt sky as a car losses grip on the shimmering road, slides to the edge and goes over. It rolls several times. Scraps of blue plastic and metal are flung off into the rocks and brush. She is thrown out through a shattered window. The car tumbles thirty more meters. She is beaten and injured from the tumult inside, the glass cuts her, and the impact into the ditch breaks her body. A sliver of glass is spun through the air to become lost in a thicket of thorns. The desert is silent again. She lies in the barrow pit, unconscious beneath the climbing white sun.
The piano keys smoothly respond to the mechanical pressings of calloused fingers. While Pulk occasionally glances down to his fingers, most of his time is divided between staring into the distant audience, up at the busied stage ceiling, and down into the darkness of his shut eyes. After the second theme of the exposition, the dew-covered glass of water on the piano catches his attention. He wishes he could remember the drink he took before he began. He tries not to let his mind get caught in the glass, but the tightening in his throat keeps drawing him back to the smooth crystalline cylinder that waits for him. Most of the ice is melted; only narrow sheets remain in a thin layer at the top. Through the glass, the light off the piano is bent and twisted. Pulk's mind recoils in shock as his left ring finger barley misses the D sharp in one of the modulations of the opening phrase. His mind scrambles to regain focus, but this process creates a new distraction
Slowly, her eyes open under a cloudless sky. Weakly coughing, blood drips out over sun-baked lips. Despite the brightness it's cold. She tries to sit up, but fails to raise her head higher than a few centimeters. She slowly rolls it to the right. The grey and green tips of a few saguaros puncture the horizon. A discarded plastic sack caught on one hangs silently. Below it lays the first gargantuan rock in an endless field of boulders and cacti. Next to it lays the road. The pavement is crackled and grey like the rocks and the dead cactus. The asphalt is marked with black smears of rubber, now muffled. She starts to look at her arm, but becomes afraid and closes her eyes. In the red darkness she forces her head to the other vista.
Pulk reminds himself to breath slowly and deeply as he eases himself back into the trance of the piece, after this he still has five more works to play. He inhales a measure, letting it settle deep into his lungs. He tries to pause, to simulate in himself the feeling the sonata's space creates. At the next root, he releases his breath slowly; the notes float free in three's as if his breath was the work manifest, yet given a somber weight by the blackness of the piano, the stage, and even the cold, damp weather outside. The metronome of rain is not loud enough to be heard. He lets his head hang limp, then rise up with each crescendo, only to drop again like a branch suddenly broken off a tree by a winter frost.
She cautiously opens her eyes to a squint into the sun. The car is there, about thirty meters down the barrow pit, still and silent. It is totaled. What isn't strewn along the desert is tilted against another large, grey crumb of granite. Behind it is the ideal cactus, one main stalk with two others coming off in opposite directions, one beginning lower than the other but both curling up to almost equal heights just shy of the main. There is no one to point it out to. Out of all the cacti it stands closest to the road, removed from the expansive army of bristle and rock behind it. It has been growing in the same spot for one hundred years. Looking up at God in the sky she screams until the desert eats up the last bit of air in her lungs.
Pulk mentally notes his progress as he enters into the development of the theme. He tries to keep out any distracting insecurities about his slip in such a simple piece. Beneath his shirt, a drop of sweat falls from his arm pit onto his side. At this rate the next section will be disastrous. But it won't. Every phrase is a new beginning, divorced from the past. The rest will be excellent. Pulk's fingers lift and fall. The most similar thing about good pianos is how smooth and worn their keys are.
A car soars past. She opens her eyes quickly, and tries to sit up but fails. If this car doesn't see her . . . The silence makes her sick. The road is empty, and the rough grey asphalt, the cacti, and the cold sun all stare at her quietly. The desert is hostile and might play a trick like this, but she can't bring herself to hate it. She tries to picture blossoms on the cacti, like there are in the spring. Slowly, there is the approaching sound of the car. She can't turn her head enough to see it yet, but she knows it's coming for her. For her. A stack of surfboards slowly rises into view through the shimmering heat waves on the highway. Tourists looking for the ocean. A blue jeep pulls up fast, throwing up a cloud of dust. It smells like dust. People are yelling in English as car doors open and slam shut.
The lighting makes it impossible to see anyone beyond the stage, but he pretends to look out at the people in the audience. Pulk musters a faint smile, blinks, and then turns back to the piano. Sweat is beginning to escape his skin. The ice in the glass is melted. The sparkle on the crystal makes the liquid look inviting. A drop of dew rolls down the glass to become absorbed by the pool at the bottom. Concentrate. Do not think about water, or cufflinks. Listen to the music. The arpeggios wash through him like waves, peaking then pressing down on him at the cadences. He lets the thought of not thinking about not thinking float through his mind. Acknowledging it, he lets it go and closes his eyes. Everything turns a marine blue twisting with the melody. His left little finger stretches for a bass note, gently settling on the key.
A sun-burnt American with long blond hair kneels over her, frantically looking her up and down as one would a puzzle, not a woman. Another one pulls an azure shirt down over his head. He runs over to join her. He has a mohawk and a badly peeling face. Their words swarm at her. The long haired one kneels by her right and gently takes up her hand in his. Her arm grinds. He places two fingers on her wrist. He looks to be about twenty, with a red and freckled face, half covered by his hair. After he finishes he looks up and calls out to the others, then lowers his gaze to hers. His lips are cracked. He struggles to speak Spanish, but she only slowly shakes her head.
A fly is on the right edge of the piano. It meanders around, oblivious to the rhythm of the piece. Pulk's lips barely whisper "one-rip-let, two-rip-let, three-rip-let." He looks to his cuff wanting to see the watch beneath it, then back to the fly. The fly is gone. He tenses a little at the possibility that it could be on him. It could be walking up his back. Then the audience close enough to see it might think that he smells poorly. And the cufflink could be loose again. Inside his polished shoes his feet are sweating. He does not want to be perceived as the pungent piano player. However, better a pungent pianist performing well than one who plays poorly. He watches his fingers continue to play.
Two more kids are frantically looking through the car. She shakes her head and coughs. They run toward her carrying her jacket and her sleeping bag. The four consult each other. The two drive away in the jeep. The plastic bag hangs still and the car disappears behind it. In the bright light, the plastic looks thin and weathered. The boy with the mohawk reaches for her forehead and grimaces. Rolling her eyes up she watches him draw a long needle from her brow, then delicately swab away the crusted blood. He works a little more one her face. She closes her eyes and tries to ignore him as he works a little more on her face. He begins to pull needle after needle from her left forearm. She begins to count them but doesn't finish.
The fly is on the edge of the water glass. Sitting there, dry washing its hands. Pulk tries to blow at it without puckering his lips. The breath doesn't even make it to the insect. Try again. The fly takes off. Then it returns. Pulk closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them the glass is vacant. The water quakes a little when he hits a cadence. He is already well into the next phrase when he realizes he is playing it very heavily. He decides to crescendo further until he is at fortissimo by the time he has hit the pinnacle of the scale. Going down he slows his count and decrescendo's to a whisper. He nods his head to acknowledge the few soft claps and the murmurs he hears from the audience.
An unzipped sleeping bag has been spread over her. It is soft. The familiar scent of her car mingles with the chalk smell of dust, but she smells iron and salt. The long haired one is still holding her hand. He is looking off into the desert. She reaches her other hand out. The boy with the mohawk gently takes it. She squeezes his fingers. His entire head is red and the skin is flaking off. Unlike the other one, his face is relaxed. The chapped corners of his lips are even raised a little, until he catches her eye. A blush manages to appear on his sun-reddened face. After a moment, concentration contorts his face. On her other side she feels her pulse being taken again. Facing Mohawk, she tries to gesture towards the iconic cactus. He turns his head to look, but shortly returns to her. After a few seconds, Mohawk slowly asks her name. He broadens his smile for a response. She stares back at him and tries to return his favor, then closes her eyes.
Pulk takes in a deep breath, feeling the damp air cool his throat. He listens to the beginning of the recapitulation sounding from the chamber of his piano. He raises his eyes to the water glass. At its base, a sliver of light floats on pooled water. The glass remains before him, disinterested and offering no sentiment. It glistens with callousness, despite the envelope of music he pours to it. Pulk hits the keys as a ritual offering, but receives no response. Counterpoint falling directly on the downbeat of the triplet. It continues to shatter the light on its hard edge. He no longer wants to drink the water to quench his thirst, but rather to subdue it. It stands there as stable as the rest of the stage.
A vulture croaks and lands upon the tip of a looming cactus. Its flapping wings mock the silent group in the ditch. The long haired boy stands, faces the bird, and throws a rock at it. The buzzard flaps into the sky as the rock knocks into the cactus. The green thud is refreshing. The sound of wings is not. The other boy looks at her face and rolls his eyes, as if dismissing a graceless joke put forth by the childish bird. She smiles. He looks away, reaching for something above her head. Rustling sounds from a first aid kit. A second later he shows her a band aid, carefully removes the wrapper, and then stoogishly places it on his chin. Her laughter quickly turns to a garbled cough. She turns away. The grey road shimmers placidly. It has to be water because it is too cold for a mirage.
The piano keys continue to respond to the pressings of tired fingers. Pulk hopes the audience is aware that he hasn't looked at his hands for some time. He looks up again at the busied stage ceiling, then down into the darkness of his shut eyes. The end is coming soon. He is well into the recap of the second theme. He wishes he had taken a drink before he began. The ice is long melted now. Through the glass, the light off the piano is bent and twisted, but not as sharply as when the water was cooler. Pulk's left ring finger gently taps the D sharp in one of the modulations of the opening phrase.
She lifts her head to the sound of an approaching car. It's not an ambulance, but the jeep again. The mohawked boy walks over to it. She didn't want him to leave. His bare feet are filthy. He should have shoes on. His back is to her as he quietly talks to the other two. With his companions he returns to her side. One of the others has a plastic jug of water and offers it to her. She shakes her head. The mohawked boy takes it, and pours some of the water into his mouth without letting his lips touch the rim of the jug. He passes it back to his companion, who takes a few loud gulps.
Pulk breaths slowly and deeply as he takes one last moment to settle into the piece. He inhales a measure letting it settle deep into his lungs. He tries to pause, to simulate in himself the feeling the silence Beethoven has framed and accented. The emptiness between notes gives a somber weight by the blackness of the piano, the stage, and even the cold, damp weather outside. The sonata is so thick it absorbs the space on the stage and makes Pulk feel twice as large as he is. He lets his head hang limp, rise up with each crescendo, and then drop again.
She wakes to the sound of an engine and gravel being crushed below tires. The exhaust pipe from the ambulance pours out blue clouds that rise straight up to the cloudless sky. Three of the surfers are up and moving around frantically. The mohawked surfer is about to rise when she grabs his hand and pulls him towards her. She brings his hand to her face and presses it to her lips.
Pulk is completely still as he plays the space between the final chords. The chords hang in the air, heavily and spacious. Finally, there is a silence that endures with no interruption. Pulk lifts his hands from the piano and adjusts his tie. The audience stands, cascading down applause. Pulk gently shuts the black lid to the piano, rises without acknowledging the audience, and walks off the stage.
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