"Finch,_Sheila_-_The_Old_Man_and_C" - читать интересную книгу автора (Finch Sheila)

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The Old Man and C
by Sheila Finch
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Copyright (c)1989 by Shiela Finch
First published in Amazing, November 1989

Fictionwise Contemporary
Alternate History


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Light sprang to the wall when his wife opened the casement window to let in a little breeze from the lake. It shattered, sparkling over bookshelves and wallpaper, as his young student's bow scraped across the E string and the fingers of her left hand searched for high C.
She still could not seem to get it right. The note must sing, not screech! He had shown Rosa over and over, patiently correcting her fingering, the pressure of the bow across the string, explaining to her how the sound was produced in the hope that if she understood perhaps she could improve. She was so brilliant in every other respect.
_"Kaffee,_ Papa?" his wife whispered in his ear.
He shook his head.
"Don't lose sight of the time. Eddie comes this afternoon. And Lisl will want to go with her _Opa_ on the boat!"
Rosa had progressed to the arabesque, a passage she played excellently, her fingers flying like the scintillating reflection of water on the wall.
His wife left him to his pupil and the music lesson, closing the music room door quietly behind her. He gazed at Rosa. Eyes closed, she bit her lower lip in concentration. Wisps of fair hair escaped from braids trailing over her shoulders. She was a good girl, the best student he had ever had. If she mastered this one note, she should easily take the gold medal -- perhaps the last he would ever see a pupil take. She had more natural talent than any of his previous medalists.
But the other students in the competition, children who came from the wealthy suburbs of Zurich where they had _Waschmachinen_ and _Fernsehapparaten,_ they could afford to spend all day practicing, whereas Rosa got up at first light and helped her father milk the cows. Time for the violin had to be sandwiched between farm chores and schoolwork. Now she was approaching sixteen; her father had begun to think of the day she would marry a solid farm lad and give him one less mouth to feed. This was her last chance, too. He had worked hard with Rosa, giving long lessons and extra lessons that her family had paid for with cream and eggs. Who could say if it would be enough?
Rosa finished the piece with a flourish, the notes sparkling almost visibly in the air between them.
"So, Herr Professor, are you pleased?" Triumph shining on her round face showed what answer she expected.
"I am very pleased," he agreed.
"We're going to win the medal," she promised.
It was important to him that this little farm girl take the very last gold medal. Yet he knew he should not allow his own sense of self-worth to become bound to a pupil's performance in a competition. How had it happened? When one is young, he thought, how many choices lie at one's fingertips? How many roads beckon the eager traveller? Time spreads out before the young man like a map of a marvelous sunlit country. He knows he can write symphonies, build castles, discover the secrets of the universe -- which will it be? He does not know (for God is merciful) that the choice of one road shuts out the possibility of another. Who can guarantee which is right to take?
His mother had always wanted him to play the violin. And he had been an indifferent scholar in school.
"Herr Einstein?" Rosa said, her young face creased in a frown. "Aren't you well?"
He discovered that he was sweating and took out a linen handkerchief to mop his brow. "I'm well, Rosa. It's hot today, that's all. What else should we expect of July?"
"If I get my chores done early enough, my mother says I can take my little brothers swimming." She looked up at him, blue eyes innocent as infinity. "Do you wish me to play something else, Herr Professor?"
He patted her hand. "Enough for today, _Liebchen._ Enjoy the lake!"
And the light, he thought, the vast potential of the realms of light.
Rosa put the violin away in its case, gathered up her music, dropped him a hasty curtsy, and scurried from the room. The dancing light, fragmented by her departure, gathered itself together again, settling back on the walls and the Turkish rug and the dark wood of the grand piano.
The day's post lay on the floor by the armchair under the open window where he had left it at the beginning of Rosa's lesson. Sunshine fell on the fat pile, a correspondence he carried on with old friends, poets, pacifists, and Zionists, people he had met all over Europe when he had still been touring with the orchestra. They sent letters full of music and philosophy and grand theory, wonderful talk. It was like a rich festive meal that today he did not feel like eating. He set most of the letters aside unopened. There had been a time when he had shared his friends' sense of the universe in the palm of his hand, a gift of a benign God who revealed His existence in the harmony of His creation.
He shook his head mutely. It was a young man's belief. The world had fought two terrible wars since then. Now it was enough to sit quietly and look at what had become of the promises.
He was so tired today.
One letter was from his widowed cousin Elsa, full of news about her daughters, no doubt; he had always liked Elsa. He tore the stamps off the envelope carefully, saving them for his granddaughter, Lisl.
"Papa?" His wife appeared in the doorway, her hands still floury from making _Dampfnudeln._ "Are you coming to lunch?"
"Ah, Millie," he said. "I'm getting old."
"Seventy-five isn't old!"
"And what have I accomplished?"
Millie spread her arms wide. "This house -- two fine sons -- your sailboat down there on the lake -- your pupils -- Perhaps Rosa gets the gold this year. How many will that make for you? -- And you ask what you've accomplished?"
He was silent, looking at the shimmering light from the lake that shot its arrows into his soul.
"Besides," his wife said. "Lisl adores you. That must be worth something?"
But the sense there might have been more gnawed at him.
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