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“I got no expectations to pass this way, again.” (Mick Jagger)
Oct
Trained that way
by E. Uro Rail
His perfect father had hammered music into his head until there was room for nothing else. But when his father, a great cellist himself, slowly came to accept the reality that his son understood the mathematics and intricacies of music more than the sweetness of the cello, he re-directed Peter’s education to become a conductor, to direct others, to inspire them, to give them passion, and to breathe passion into their hands, their hearts, their instruments. This, his son could surely master.
And is a baton not an instrument? Is it not a magic wand? “There is music within you, Peter,” his father said, when, on Peter’s fifteenth birthday his father gave him an ivory baton, in a teak case lined with purple felt. “This is the instrument you were always meant to play. You will be great interpreter of all the greats. Think of it! Mozart! Hayden, Beethoven! All contained in that slender stem of ivory, waiting for you. I can feel it.”
Peter had watched as a younger sister and brother, and two brothers slightly older than himself had progressed under his father’s tutelage to become what his father had hoped would be Peter’s good fortune: to be one with their instruments. Dorothee played piano and clavier: Erik and Uli mastered violin, and Deiter, the youngest, learned his father’s instrument.
It was Deiter, though, who received hour upon hour of instruction, encouragement, praise. If only I had studied harder, been less distracted, more attentive, thought Peter, that could have been me. Instead, Peter was relegated to the post of being their conductor, but it was a false assignment: his father dictated the philosophy of each particular piece, who spoke of nuance, who inspired his children. In their small cottage in the German countryside, all was sweet chaos. The piano, of course, was immobile, and Dorothee had exclusive use of the living room. Deiter had the kitchen in which to practice; Erik and Uli had a bedroom, and Father, of course, practiced and perfected in the dining room. The silent baton required no such privacy, and Peter’s only opportunity was when the family rehearsed together, after each musician knew their part. But what was Peter’s part? But that was years ago.
The concert in the Stadthalle was scheduled for six p.m., and Peter barely arrived in time for the last train. His father, his siblings, had already departed, he was informed. But of course, they would not begin without his presence.
He looked at his pocket watch, dangling captured on gold chain, and slipped it back into his vest pocket. He shook hands with the station master, after a brief apology for cutting it so close. He adjusted his tie, the brim of his cap, as he boarded, but first surveyed the platform for any late arrivals. There were none.
A lurch forward, and they were on their way to Berlin, everyone seated but himself.
“Tickets, please,” he said in his most formal, authoritative voice. Passengers turned and smiled as the conductor approached.
The limited magic here is an ongoing misdirection ending with a double entendre of professions and the well laid out family plot. Cello ! (pun intended) The storyline left me wax and wanding, while being entertraining (pun intended) but hardly music to my ears. It was a bit of a sleeper compartment for me. May be I just have an aversion to the name Peter (insider’s joke) or may be I love music too much to think of the ivory baton laying closed in a case being felt up, surrounded in darkness. I had a rather slow cousin whose father forced him into playing an instrument. I thought of my judged cousin while reading this.
I did wish to applaud the concept of self-actualization and the recognition that parents often are insensitive to their children’s needs over their own need to make their child in their own image. I am grateful that my own parents did not try to force me to take up medicine or the law or banking, but I also have pain over how they forced me to live as a boy rather than the girl I knew I was. Parents can mean well and still fail. A continuation of this story could dwell more into how being a train conductor rather than a musician or orchestra conductor is being handled by Peter and his father and his siblings. This flash does have potentials of expansions into the characters’ mindsets.
ah rebellious youth! a sweet ending to a tale of individualism taking flight.
Sadness, all in all. Well, well written full of characters and the way things were. I do not see this as a youth to man rebellion, but the wayside survival of a boy who fell through his father’s crack. (No wife or Mom involved; interesting.)
The ending was delightful. Not as a surprise, but beyond my anticipation. Nice work.
This one I liked. I felt for the child being ‘shown’ a way of being, but in the end, the right to choose for yourself what makes you happy comes through beautifully. Such is life. Very well written.