Chapter Text
On a mild spring evening, Dr Stephen Maturin carried his supper, his encrypted personal journal and his notebook out to the tiny deck of his small hut, where he sat down and opened the journal.
Journal entry, 18 April 20—, Torelló, Catalunya
This transitional phase of a relief mission is always difficult, particularly when a natural disaster such as this earthquake has destroyed so much of the local and even regional infrastructure - buildings, roads, communications – as well as casting up such inconceivable numbers of victims, so many injured, so many homeless, soon to be prey to starvation, exposure, disease. There is no uncertainty during the critical unthinking early days of round-the-clock surgery, dealing with the unending sequence of urgent cases, desperate decisions, victims who cannot be helped, and hundreds more waiting, perhaps dying, waiting for rescue, waiting for treatment. No doubts, just do what you can as fast as you can, as long as you can. It’s when that gives way to the beginnings of a resolution, chaos becoming tamed, that doubts return. The days begin to assume a routine, not exactly comfortable, but a level of difficulty that can be maintained indefinitely. Médecins Sans Frontières deploys secondary and tertiary teams, the muddy tents are replaced by newly-built hospital pavilions, storage facilities and housing for the field workers. The critical cases become fewer as the first victims die, recover, or enter the rehabilitation stream. The work becomes more rational, distributing inpatients as new facilities are built, revising early surgeries, triaging the sick, expanding the preventive medicine services, orienting and assigning newly-arrived staff, and starting the process of handing over management and responsibility to local authority, swamped as they are with a whole ravaged territory filled with similar encampments, all with the same urgent and unanswerable requirements.
It’s at this point that I look up from the many long days and longer nights, finally, draw breath, discover that some weeks have passed almost unnoticed, and wonder why I keep on doing this. I have done a number of these volunteer missions with MSF – partly to indulge my insatiable curiosity about the world, its cultures and its inhabitants, flora and fauna, and partly because as a humanitarian with a sense of responsibility, and being the fortunate possessor of the requisite skills and the disposable time to use them, I could not do otherwise. This mission, especially, in this locale. But it is at this stage, when I am no longer needed to the same extent, when I have to yield up my responsibilities (and I do realise my reluctance to do this contributes to my current inward disquiet), that I want to go home to Taoibhcoille, close the door, sleep in my own bed, hear my own native birds, talk face to face with friends, hear live music, read late knowing I can sleep late.
He put down his pen and slowly ate a handful of olives, considering, then picked up the pen again.
Yet the work, demanding though it might be, and less suited to my tastes and skills, is nevertheless still critically important, and with my personal comfort so much improved over the early conditions, I can hardly complain. Indeed, how can I justify feeling dissatisfied or indulge in my fundamental melancholia when I have every proof of my own good fortune in front of me? I have this hut, now, which keeps me warm, or cool, as required; its solid roof keeps me and my few possessions dry and safe; I have a cot for sleep and a deck for air and camaraderie - this last where I am just now enjoying my supper, tonight a wedge of hard yellow Garroxta cheese, a dish of olives, a barra de pan, and a litre of Glops fumada. There is a velvet softness in the evening air, a host of bright stars seeming to hang low over the hills; I can hear a choir of Luscinia megarhynchos in the trees and smell a variety of wildflowers. This dinner, these sights, sounds and smells, are all evidence that I am indeed in the comforting Mediterranean home of my youth. Perhaps I may even have time, soon, to walk out and explore a little – there are many small orchids on the hillsides, some of them unfamiliar. And I must not omit to mention, among all these blessings, that I have electricity, and even, at times, an internet connection.
With that he turned to the notebook. Habitually content in solitary pursuits, he nevertheless preferred to enjoy music in company; he therefore resorted to the online community http://music-has-charms.songwidth.org/ whenever he could access the internet.
He had founded the comm with a few friends some years earlier, the little management it required being informally shared. The focus was chamber music, the founders being amateur musicians with an interest in ancient, early, and classical music. The comm had hosted a number of wide-ranging, engaging discussions, on topics such as trends in the performance of early and ancient music, newly-recorded composers, the construction of instruments, and promising young performers, as well as the expected preponderance of wandering discussions of nothing in particular, and a good deal of gossip.
Tonight he indeed had an internet connection, and logging on, he found the discussion of the lost Locatelli quartet still flourishing. He had last visited the comm two days earlier, so he scrolled back a few pages and slowly absorbed his supper while reading.
The discussion had started with a query to the comm, quoting a passage from a classic novel, a passionate, eloquent description of a piece identified as a Locatelli quartet: ‘Can anybody tell me what this might be? What is the author thinking of?’
Some of the more sober members of the group, Gabrieli for instance, had declared that as Locatelli wrote no quartets as such, the discussion was meaningless, and the famous literary reference which had sparked it referred to an entirely imaginary composition, or perhaps attempted with limited success to describe a real piece of music. Others, including a good many performers, maintained that the description was good enough to identify the piece, had it been any work generally known, occasionally resorting to speculation that the author had obviously found a manuscript, or alternatively had heard it performed, perhaps in Italy in World War II.
A middle ground was occupied by a few people, notably Padraig, who methodically explored variations on the mistakes the author might have made. The most obvious, of course, was the number of players, but his speculation ranged through the composer, form, number of movements, and tempi.
The arguments had gone back and forth for some time, and Stephen himself had recently advanced the proposition that the author may have deliberately disguised the piece, out of a strange coyness, perhaps; he was mildly curious as to this argument's reception.
There had been the usual set of responses to this, rather predictably conservative or passionate according to the nature of the commentator. Stephen's attention was arrested and his curiosity piqued, however, by the following maiden post:
Goldilocatelli: Charming discussion, very intrigen. If I didn't know better I'd think you are alright. [g]
Gabrieli had replied: Yes, we are fine. Or did you mean 'all right'? We can't all be correct.
Goldilocatelli: Well, you aren't anyway. ')
I heard this piece some years ago, pretty sure. As far as I can remember, it fits the description – it was definitely a quartet, too.
A flurry of posts had followed this, most of them saying, ‘Are you serious? What, where, when?’ in a variety of ways.
Goldilocatelli: Sorry to say I don't remember where, exactly. I see a lot of music. It was a long time ago, LOLO, in the Med for sure.
There had been another barrage of posts, mostly expressing doubt with varying degrees of subtlety.
Goldilocatelli: No, really, a good memory is mightier than the sword, you know.
A remarkable number of members had a surprising lot to say about this, much of it vituperative.
The newcomer had not posted for more than twenty-four hours, and the discussion from the regulars was now mostly mutual reinforcement about liars, idiots, and trolls.
Stephen put down his half-finished meal and posted:
Linus: Goldilocatelli and my friends: I am unwilling to deny the possibility you (Goldilocatelli) may be correct – possibly I am led astray by my sincere wish that it might be so. Can you be more specific about what it is you remember?
He had no real hope, as the fellow seemed to be trolling, and had in any case apparently moved on. But to his surprise an answer came back several minutes later:
Goldilocatelli: I remember wondering in the allegro that the book was opening before me. I smiled all the way through it.
A performer: Not sure I understand you.
Gabrieli: wtf does that mean?
Linus: Don’t mind Gabrieli, he’s always rude. We put up with him because he’s remarkably well-informed. Will you tell us more? Perhaps you would be more comfortable describing this in your native tongue?
There was no response to this, and Stephen eventually logged off from the increasingly tiresome tail-chasing discussion, spending a few more minutes on his journal before retiring for some much-needed sleep.
Journal entry, 18 April 20--
... had an irrational and scarcely acknowledged expectation of something extraordinary about to happen all day, so when a newbie on MHC claimed to have heard the lost quartet my heart leapt. It doesn’t seem probable, I must admit, but stranger things happen every day. However, for today’s special event I will have to be content with the long-delayed arrival of the supplemental shipment of tetanus toxoid.
~∙~∙~∙~
April 19
Stephen had thought about the comm, briefly, several times during the day. Returning to his hut, he assembled a supper and logged on. The discussion was not materially different from the one he had left the previous night, several pages later, though more threadbare.
He reviewed some of the previous days’ exchanges as he ate, then posted:
Linus: Are you there, Goldilocatelli?
Gabrieli: Just a troll, he’s gone.
Linus: What if he’s in earnest? What if he is right?
Gabrieli: In your dreams. I wish you would admit the whole thing is a chimaera, and do something useful for a change.
Linus: ha ha.
Goldilocatelli: I have to regret not expressing myself well. You might say I am somewhat unused to civilised discourse, more accustomed to the casual usage (and I may say the good will) typical of the internet to excuse any errors. But however my native tongue is English.
Linus: I beg your pardon. No offense, I trust?
Padraig: Good will, typical of the internet ????????
After a few minutes, the newcomer responded.
Goldilocatelli: No. No, I suppose you must be forgiven. But it would be so much easier if i could just play the blasted piece for you, rather than trying to describe it. I did hear it, or something very like, you know.
This was greeted by a torrent of responses, most of them skeptical or even outraged (‘How many instruments can you play at a time?’), overwhelming his own response encouraging the stranger to continue. Stephen waited patiently, finishing his supper, working on an article on reconstructive surgery in field hospital conditions, and checking the comm every few minutes.
But Goldilocatelli had disappeared again.
Journal entry, 19 April 20--
… always somewhat relieved to return to the hut, still seeming luxurious after living under canvas for a month. Tonight I was more eager for the comm than for supper and bed, and pleased to find I again had access, two nights in a row. Whether the gentleman with the awkward username has anything substantial to tell us or not, I don’t yet know, but it would be the pity of the world to miss such a chance.
~∙~∙~∙~
April 20
Early the following morning, Stephen sent a private message to the newcomer.
PM from Linus: I blush for my comm-mates. Please do not take offense, or at any rate please have the goodness to stay in touch. I very much want to pursue this subject. I would welcome anything you can tell me about this piece.
Around midday, when Stephen was occupied as usual in the hospital, there was a reply.
PM from Goldilocatelli: Yes, ok, what do you want to know?
Responding that evening, Stephen posted:
PM from Linus: Anything you can tell me.
PM from Goldilocatelli: Ok, I heard it probably ten years ago. I’m not sure where. I said the Med on the comm, but I meant that in the broadest possible sense, just an approximatation.
PM from Linus: Can you say anything about the venue? Describe it?
PM from Goldilocatelli: Oh. Yes. It was a small place, a village church maybe? I spent some time backpacking around the pyranees and I have an idea it might have been then. Definitely not a concert hall, but great accoustics. Darkish. Not a huge crowd, maybe 30 or 40 people.
PM from Linus: Do you remember what language they were speaking?
PM from Goldilocatelli: Good one. But no, I don’t. It wasn’t French, or I would have remembered more, beyond that I couldn’t tell you.
PM from Linus: And the music?
PM from Goldilocatelli: I’ll think about it. Later, ok? Busy day.
PM from Linus: Yes, ok. Good night, and thank you for this.
Journal entry, 20 April 20--
… He seems perfectly earnest. I can’t imagine the answer would be this simple, but I will certainly pursue it.
Beatriu’s leg is swelling. It’s beginning to appear cyclical. Lymphatics seem ok, no sign of infection. There may be some shards we failed to find. I dread having to take her to surgery again.
~∙~∙~∙~
April 21
PM from Linus: Did you get a chance to think about the music?
PM from Goldilocatelli: Yes. The first movement: allegro, I think. It had a sort of spiralling theme, ending at G below middle C. Up and down the fingerboard, inversion, crescendo/decrescendo, with a deferred resolution until the final chord.
PM from Linus: Have you any means to convey this? You play, I believe?
PM from Goldilocatelli: Yes, the violin. I see you play cello.
PM from Linus: So I do. Goldilocatelli - may I call you Goldilocks for short? lol.
PM from Goldilocatelli: Have we known each other long enough? LOLO!
PM from Linus: Ah … Goldilocatelli, then.
Music makes all men brothers, they say.
This theme, could you play it for me?
PM from Goldilocatelli: Might. I’ll get back to you.
PM from Linus: Ah, wait -
But he was gone again.
Stephen looked at his barely-remembered profile on Songwidth, reading ‘cofounder of MHC, amateur cellist and music historian, physician with a history of frequent missions with MSF; he begs those who enjoy the comm to express their appreciation by means of donations to Médecins Sans Frontières.’
Journal entry, 21 April 20--
… warmer today. I am eager for the summer – selfishly, because greater heat can only bring greater difficulty controlling disease, and worse conditions for food storage – but I feel ten years younger in hot weather, and ten years happier as well.
I have the strangest notion, when exchanging messages with Goldi, that I’m missing something - we are not speaking precisely the same language. He makes a baffling comment, and darts away. Odd behaviour, but I’m convinced he’s perfectly sincere, for no good reason beyond intuition. I don’t think he’s bashful; possibly hyperactive, or perhaps just unused to discussing music sensu stricto - which is hard enough to do in all conscience, even for those of us who have been at it for years.
~∙~∙~∙~
April 22, morning.
PM from Goldilocatelli: Sorry, I keep having to go do much less interesting things. I have a little sketch of part of the first movement, the first theme. How do I get it to you?
Stephen found this message well down the page when he turned on his computer the following evening.
PM from Linus: I too have demands on my time, sorry.
PM from Goldilocatelli: So I see. Are you in Catalonia?
PM from Linus: Yes, how -??
PM from Goldilocatelli: Guessing. It’s one of the most active MSF missions just now. That’s kind of brilliant of you.
PM from Linus: It seems worth doing. At the moment I am panting to hear your ‘little sketch’. In what form is it?
PM from Goldilocatelli: I recorded it on my mobile. I did some more this afternoon, waiting for you to answer.
PM from Linus: Give me five minutes.
PM from Goldilocatelli: it isn’t anything cohearant you know. Don’t expect too much.
…
PM from Linus: Okay, go to [email protected]. The password is PietroAntonio1695.
It’s private, nobody can access it except me and anyone you choose to give the address and login to.
PM from Goldilocatelli: Ok, here they come. Talk tomorrow?
PM from Linus: Yes, indeed.
Stephen spent a restless few minutes pacing about the little hut, straightening his meagre belongings, waiting for the upload; then, his heart, ludicrously, beating high, he went to the FindingLocatelli page. Rapt, he listened to the set of short recordings there.
The first was a twelve note sequence, repeated and then inverted, breaking off suddenly. The violin was perfectly in tune, the tone mellow, the notes clear and accurate, and the deprecating comment that followed – ‘That’s all I have, so far,’ was delivered in a deep, mellifluous, British-accented voice.
The second clip started with that same voice: ‘I remember least about the 2nd movement. It’s largo, a dialogue between cello and viola. There was a variation with a very graceful intertwined melody, part of which is like this:’ followed by a passage with fragments of a melody appearing now in a higher register, now in a lower.
Another clip: ‘Third, minuet: very pleasant, something like this:’ – a charming run of phrases.
‘The fourth movement was quite complex. It started in this sort of manner’ - playing a stormy little run - ‘then there was a long difficult stretch I can’t put my finger on, and then towards the end, a decrescendo to solo violin, pianissimo,’ he played a fragment starting from nowhere, going nowhere, intriguing. ‘Then each instrument enters separately, volume building. I particularly remember the cello entry,’ represented by a set of quick notes played on the open strings of the violin. ‘I remember that, alright, even though you can’t really appreciate it in isolation like this,’ the beautiful voice continued, ‘and then:’ the violin restated the stormy first theme, ‘and that resolved in a quite brilliant set of variations which I can’t quite bring to mind. But this morning I could remember only a little bit of the first movement, and now as you hear, quite a bit more, so I believe in time I can give you still more.’
Stephen listened attentively to these clips two more times before he logged off, turned off the lights and retired, lying in his cot relaxed but very much awake well into the night.
--=ooOoo=--