The BLACK SHELL - A Short Fiction by Radu Pintea

8/14/2019 The BLACK SHELL - A Short Fiction by Radu Pintea

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THE BLACK SHELL

A short fiction by Radu Pintea

To the Mobile Quartet

All kind of people incessantly step down on the railroads

platforms of the big cities: these are field executives haggard

executives and a worn out overnight suitcase in hand; there are

managers using to take about just a single patent leather briefcasewith just a slim sheaf of typed papers and an eau de Cologne

ampoule in it. This latter breed is happily chubby jowled and self

important, their tread is heavy, they throw their weight about and

are hard men to please. Furthermore there are ordinary tourists

pulling in tow oversized suitcases of bursting drab olive rucksacks

and trampling about with their big uppers and colorful puttees.

They use to laugh often, chew gum, smoke, and every now and

then nibble at a cracker; at the same time mostly.

You have then old timers headed for the spas to check their

ailments that sneak in along with seniority. These ask right away

about the next stop where they can hardly wait to plunge

themselves in a tubful of thermal water and gobble up tablets by

the handful as per medical prescription. Swindlers come in next

streetwise and quite alert and on cue about what sells and what

buys, there to trick, fool, pick and skip. One also sees a lot of

sprightly kids chasing all over the place and almost ever running

the risk of getting themselves lost from their parents.All these kinds of people are to be encountered mostly in

summer and are to voyage mostly on daylight.

There is one more category left among those who jam the

railroad stations in season.

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The cello case, perched upright, the cello itself, the chair, the

staff holder and Veniamin Gheorghita himself standing up

occupied the remainder of the room, and hardly he could take a sit

before the staff holder without risking to turn in a mound of bones

the human skeleton or flatten the replica globe with its cardboardcontinents and oceans, or beak the glass pane of the portrait for

that matter.

Eventually he managed to sit down without triggering any of

these.

When he was given the key, Mr. Cornoiu Marcel told him he

could exercise here as much as he wished without bothering

nobody.

He glanced at his wristwatch and learnt he still had one hourto go before his recital was due.

He buttoned up his tuxedo, he kneaded together his tapered,

flat tipped, strong grip fingers, he changed the lamps position so

that its light would not blind him but rather fall on the musical

notes, then he grabbed the instrument and clasped it between his

knees and set off with Saint SaensAllegro Appasionato.

The larder was too dinky to have a window of its own, so

while practicing Veniamin Gheorghita had no way to learn about

the dusk coming down and the cold rain and wind buffeting against

the outside bare wall.

About fifteen minutes elapsed since Veniamni Gheorghita

began his rehearsal while keeping the door open, or else he

wouldnt have room enough for bow handling, and despite the

chilly draft blowing flush with the cement floor of the landing, his

long, sinewy, hard tipped hammer like fingers had warmed up by

now as they slipped and knocked up and down the instruments

neck. The diminutive size of this improvised rehearsal roomresulted in a strong reverberation effect; mostly the lower notes

were hurled back at the same energy they had emerged with from

the strings rubbed with horsetail hair yielding a vibratory effect on

the shivering flesh of the cello player.

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Albeit the building is of strong appearance, dust, must,

obscurity and poor maintenance lent the edifice as a whole the

eerie atmospheric compression immediately foregoing an

earthquake.

At the half-sunk basement it had been established theLiterary Salon out of a dozen or so all-style chairs, one rickety

table, one 100 Watt electric bulb and fifteen rolls of cheap

wallpaper.

It was for the final act of the literary session on that night

Veniamin Gheorghita exercised in one of these ancillary, dusty

rooms, the only one provided with a bulb, the only one with

unburned one anyway.

Not that the doors were perfect wrecks as the one from thelarder where the cellist passed through the calisthenics of his

fingers but the overall impression was that you could be liable to

expect any moment some cheeky tomcat or a shivering bone sack

of a stray doggie to pop unawares right at your feet scaring the

brains out of you as if itd been some God knows what other bogie.

Furthermore, someone in a luckily well lighted ancillary room

might easily surmise that no one except some stray bitch or a

phosphorous-eyed tom would have dared to flout the liquid

darkness of the stairway tripping or hitting some discarded empty

can jar for that matter, with deafening-inducing follow ups.

When for the first time the cellist who kept practicing saw the

unknown man popped up unheard and brisk in the door frame, the

former jumped startled with fright.

At first the bewilderment of Veniamin Gheorghita made the

other man look very much like some scale-enlargement cross breed

between a tomcat and a bitch, or maybe some hyena almost

hesitating and astounded as it hit the very spot where smell orwhatever other of its excessive senses zeroed it in on.

That awful sensation lasted just one second, nothing more.

Good evening, the scale-enlargement cross breed of a

tom/bitch stammered. Pardon me, I was looking for a place where

a literary soiree is due just about to begin. I found the edifice, I

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believe. I stepped in no one in sight at the basement yet. But as

soon as I entered I noticed the sound of a cello, I backtracked on it,

and here I am. Actually, the caller added after a short pause, I for

one dont care for the literary soiree not a bit. Ive learned though

from those little ad-stickers glued on the lamp posts all over thecity and in the display counters of the ham & salami retail dealers

that they have scheduled a violoncello recital at the end of the

program. Thats why I came for. It was you Im here for.

And the newcomer shrugged as if begging some excuse in

some way.

You also play cello? Veniamin Gheorghita asked.

Unfortunately no. Im just an aficionado. Cant tell just how

much I love it, the man said and his sorrow that that was all hecould and knew about suffused with such genuine sincerity his

expression, his very being that Veniamin Gheorghita experienced

instant pity for this unexpected aficionado and his predicament

twisted with real pain and disaster of it, obviously resented like a

fallacy and a handicap.

Despite a pair of puffy, redolent rings under his eyes he

seemed very coltish now, barely a young man of twenty, and it was

something special about him, the eyes were the name of that

something deep, unfamiliar passion, some hideous vice maybe,

scanning some realm just not too easy to reach.

This extremely soft and sweet spoken visitor and a prayer-

like tone wore a thick, padded overcoat made of rough khaki

fabric.

The cello player was immediately hooked by the young

mans delicacy and even felt ashamed and almost guilty for in the

beginning his imagination brutally shaken out from its favorite

roaming ground had played such an ugly trick as to compare such aperson to a predator.

Why, yes, of course, mister. Good evening to you. The

soiree will be held right in this here place where you are staying

now. If youll only be so kind as to let me fetch the key and open

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the salon for you. I came a bit earlier myself too so Ill be able to

warm up, you see. Instrument, fingers, me.

Oh, no, please, dont go, the visitor protested vigorously

cutting air with a short, resolute gesture. Why bother? Please, do

continue the study. If you wont mind me sticking around. Idrather very much love to. How beautiful is this instrument! he said

as an obvious afterthought.

The artist indulged in a pleased silence for a while.

You like it?

If I like it?! I love it, sir! I love it no end the khaki

overcoated youth murmured.

And I have to go downstairs and open though. We have left

only half hour to go and presently the people who might careenough to join will do so by now.

The cellist cast him a doubtful, probing and definitely real

time consuming glance. Maybe the guy was a freak. Not even

maybe. The guy was a freak all right to dare such a foul weather

only to drop by and practically downpour honey from his mouth

over the object of his adulation which happened to be his

instrument too, plus the passion that went together with it. No,

even if he was a freak, he somehow felt this man was not one to

fear. He was just very passionate, very hot, like himself after all, so

why fear? No, he was just a passionate young man like himself,

both of them having the same common denominator, and as

Veniamin Gheorghita acknowledged physically his sycophant as

one of his peers, his mind made the decision for him: obviously it

seemed far better to burn together than to burn separately.

He saw the signal full and clear, and couldnt help to home it

true and acknowledge and give the whole thing his inner nod.

The rain outside. Is it that bad, really? the cello player said,his not only broken down but mellow voice altered a coma his

decremented tone richer by a sharp.

The visitor nodded his head in silence.

Well, of course, by all means, yes, as you wish, but I thought

that Veniamin Gheorghita said.

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Actually, and I say again, I have come here tonight for you

and your cello only. Im here to listen to you while, as a matter of

fact Im just en route in this town.

Because of the way the other man had spelled out the word

this the musician just about to step over the threshold , felt an icyshiver running along his spine. As if he would have felt the artists

quandary the new comer went on apologetically:

As I roamed the streets Ive noticed here and there tiny type

written leaflets announcing the literary soiree and a cello recital at

the end of the program. On the spot I decided to join. Actually Im

not interested in the literary section of the soiree.

Then he cut off his speech with a somewhat strange

abruptness.You may go and open up for the other fellows; well be

waiting for you right here.

Okay, the cello player said. It wont be long.

He felt himself making headway in a deeper state of

perplexity: what did that visitor mean when he had said we?

would he be thinking some peculiar usage of excellency plural to

befit royalties? Maybe the perfectly neat and distinguished manner

in which he uttered each one of his words was deadly peculiar .

Then there was also his impersonal way of making up the display

of his wish ring almost imperatorial, but keeping in store though so

much smoldering, bridled passion.

He said he had come especially for him to listen to. That

meant he was a . Well, yes of course, he was a classic of music

maniac, a rather bland, bitter vintage if any, and that was that.

Why he hadnt realize it right from the onset? Way back

there were many such music loving persons the philarmonic was

teeming with them then. Today the music fans grew scarcer andscarcer - a vanishing breed among others.

And there he was one of those extinct species standing up

before him in flesh and bones and very much alive. An original

one. And when he had said we he had had probably in mind

himself plus the instrument that was perched against the chair

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symbolical concertos were beginning to look more and more

chamber music made for the arts sake by few for the benefit of

few. Where not from men and women more or less fanatical like

this one. It was that he craved the sincere outbursts of

handclapping and the more calls?Oh, yes, certainly, the more excited and troubled the spirit of

these poor half madmen was, the more rotund and accomplished

was the satisfaction of some artists whereof one of them was

Veniamin Gheorghita, cello maestro.

He regretted bitterly that out of listlessness he hurt the

already hurt pride of such a man to whom art was in debt for its

glory.

No, I dont play, he said slowly lowering his chin as if hewas just about to excuse himself for being forced to cool off

expectations. When I was a kid, he went on. Id have loved to

play saxophone, there was just so much sorrow in its sound, that

blue it seemed to me it blew and I can positively recall that only

sax I dreamed, and me a famous sax player, and ever blue and

famous sax man. I could never figure the saxman other than

mooning and preoccupied with nothing else except their own

sorrow.

If you say you loved it so much, why didnt you buy one?

the cello player said.

Too expensive. Until Ive been able to save enough for a

purchase, Ive grown old enough to forget about it. It was like a

fever. Could you explain such a thing? I discovered that I could

just feel content only by touching with the fingertips the shiny

polished surface of its silver, or even just have a look at it as it

stood in the velvet cushion of its black case provided with a lid.

Looked very much like a small coffin this case.Unwillingly Veniamin Gheorghita stole a glance in the

direction of his own cello box. The glance went not unnoticed by

the visitor.

Feeling restless, the cello player glanced at his wristwatch.

About time for the soiree to begin, I think, he said.

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Oh, in that case Id better leave and go down to attend the

first part of the literary evening although I told you already I find

no pleasure in poetry, actually, its getting me nervous, and I find

the talks about it even less attractive. Therefore, the more rewarded

Ill feel while listening the recital.I do thank you, I appreciate, really, Veniamin Gheorghita

said.

If you need someone to turn the staff sheets for you, Im the

first to volunteer, the visitor said still straddling the threshold.

Oh, thank you so much but it wont be necessary, the

musician said. There are very short pieces, you know, among the

most popular ones.

Bravura pieces, the young man cut in quickly. He still kepthis hands in his pockets and the cellist agreed with a simple, brisk

nod. The youths smile reported back to where it had been.

I can hardly wait, he said.

Well, thanks. Thanks a lot, cellist Veniamin Gheorghita

murmured.

Right there, on the very top of the thresholds worn out beam

where the white light from the small room was neatly separated

from the darkness almost liquid that filled up the corridor, the

visitor stopped, staggered and shifted weight unsure whether to just

do or say some more which it was apparent he intended to; half of

his youthful, expressive face lay into the stark, blinding light from

the chamber, the other half immersed into the perfect darkness of

the corridor. Yet his eyes, as Veniamin Gheorghita noticed, were

lovingly nailed down on the cello case that occupied in an upright

position one of the recesss corners thick with junk all of them.

The case the cello case, he murmured, and his lips

seemed to be powdered with lunar chalk.A vein in the temple of Veniamin Gheorghita began to throb

and he had no idea why.

What about the case? he asked meekly.

Nothing. Its just that it looks like a .like a black shell, a

very large one, the visitor said quickly, almost breathless, and

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much too so to ring the full moaning it was supposed to carry;

somehow he was leaving the impression that in the very last

moment he had swapped the original words in order to spare the

other man sensibilities.

The cello player was intrigued.Im going down now. Good luck. Tonight you wont have a

better listener than me, its a promise, the young visitor said and

his sunshine smile chased away the somber thoughts of the cello

player; he didnt doubt his words.

Thank you. Much obliged, the cello player mumbled for a

third time.

Then the young fan was gone.

Well, Veniamin Gheorghita sighed, no kidding there; thatnight out there among the dozen nuts who in the foul weather

instead of staying home flouted eagerly the wind mixed with ice

needles in order to gather themselves someplace where to read and

talk poetry and who, after all and honestly didnt care much for

the cello there he was someone who will zoom in on him all his

unspent energy of an unaccomplished sax player and maestro

Veniamin Gheorghita knew only too well the tremendous force,

often blind, merciless, brisk and devastating passion developed by

any aborted case at the judgment of a luckier accomplished

fellow artist.

Tonight somebody will be all out just for him, all eyes and

ears, all claw and nail. God, what eyes, and what ears!

A shiver of intense pleasure ran along his spine up and down

and as it hit the cervical vertebrae area, it extra-electrified the

flatten, callused waxy hard tips like some tiny hooves from the left

hand fingers.

An old, frayed, metaphysical happiness turned into a brandnew one, blinding, carnal, which by now set afire his brain, soul

and heart.

And yet, a living man, a genuine blood and bone man had

come brimming eyes and trembling lips to tell him only after stator

couple of minutes of warming up exercises overheard though the

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Veniamin Gheorghita picked up his cello with one hand, his

notes with the other, and climbed down in the wake of his herald

the stairs barely lighted by the gas lighter of the verse maker.

They reached the basement without further incidents.

He felt them right from the onset; two blazing eye sights

which melted away and consumed his instrument, two predator

cocked ears frantic radars, strained and hectic boring and burning

with their X-ray beams both wooden and flesh entrails of the living

subject-matter-with-cello sitting on top of the dais made of coarse

timber in a licentiously looking embrace.

The Saint Saenss Swan died first, and when the hand

clapping went off it was just one place whereof they gushed with achildish gusto, and he knew well who was the clapping conductor.

This was through the end the soul and sinew of the skimpy

audience made of poets, critics and poems lovers whose secret

wish probably was to stand up and go home as soon as possible.

When that happened he was there waiting for him.

He simply stood there upright in a ramrod rather martial

stance, somehow trembling, a large smile slapped on his face and

the tips of his ears red.

May I help you? I might carry the notes for you if you dont

mind, the fanatic offered himself. They climbed the stairs up

walking one behind the other. They kept quiet all the way, a fact

that added up to the strange feeling of pressure was resented rather

painfully by Veniamin Gheorghita.

Cant find the switch, he said aloud just to gain some heart

from it while feeling by touch the area on the wall where the

switch should have been.

And the moment he spotted it and operated it, along with thecruel light in front, from the rear came an even more brutal

question.

Is it true what Mr. Cornoiu Marcel said?

What Mr.Cornoiu say?

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That you have a heart condition, that you consented to leave

home for the recital although you just had a major fit,I

meanan attack

contrary to the young mans expectations that the departure

preparation will lag, therefore delaying the pleasure of just hangingaround extra minutes around the object of his adoration, the tall,

red haired cellist had but to put a muffler and an overcoat to be

ready to go.

Why, yes, its true, he answered, and after a brief,

enigmatic hesitation, he slammed the cello case shut.

But, sir, in this case it is extremely risky for you to play, the

young man ejaculated.

Is there anything around that aint? No, it aint any.And yet, in your case mostly the music making qualifies as

the most deadly dangerous of all activities, the melomaniac

insisted. I simply cant believe it youve not been warned before

by your medic. Id rather say you rebutted his good advice.

They switched the electric bulb off, climbed down the dark

stairs by feel and went out in the street.

They made it out for the old city two shadows making

cautious headway along the sidewalk covered with a thick skein of

ice.

What advice?

To dont play anymore. But then maybe thats why I didnt

notice you playing in the big strings section at the yesterday night

concerto with the Philarmonic.

Veniamin Gheorghita cast a furtive glance with the corner of

his eye to his companion to whom in an outburst of sympathy had

allowed him to come along; his words housed a deeply seatedpoison, both sweet and alluring.

He instantly felt game to throw himself heartfully in the

intricate maze of undecipherable meanings the fanatics answer

was teeming with it. At the same time he felt that the man was

under pressure not only with concentration to keep his balance on

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the darkened and extremely slippery sidewalk, but also with

hunting his own reaction. What reaction?

I admit youre quite observant. But not because of this you

werent able to spot me in the big strings section at the concert

hall.Then there would be only one other alternative left, the

companion said slowly and Veniamin Gheorghita felt that this one

was some mysterious messenger of a faraway fraternity of

investigators. He seemed to outguess the mute question, and he

continued in the same tone, after only one moment in pause:

Since touchy - you defied the cries just for the sake if a

recital in front of a dozen bored and bitter poets who anyway dont

give a shit for a cello, I infer that you would have disregarded thiscrisis even if you wouldnt have a slot in the big strings party at the

Philarmonic. But you actually occupy such a slot in that party,

now, or no?

To the quilt ridden silence from the musician, the

melomaniac went on and in his voice one could hear now the

completely changed ring of a ponderous certainty.

I know it. Having many people about its not exactly what

you want from life, what youre after. Cant stand a mob whatever

adept , whatever elevated. You enjoy much better the solitude,

aloofness of the elite, being unique. It would have been for a man

with your sensibility not to crave you are maestro soloist, if Im

not mistaken, he added briskly the way someone recalls the

necessity of one trifle detail so that whatever he had learnt until

that moment to gain the final touch, a purport that seems the more

terrible the more discreet he wraps it all in some badly disguised

carelessness.

To which the aficionado himself gave the answer.Isnt that so? No, it would have been inconceivable, and no

trace of sarcasm was to be found neither in his answer-by-question

nor in the final answer he had uttered aloud while walking together

at an alert pace shoulder to shoulder, fighting the fierce drizzle

hitting like buckshot.

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The cellist had a remarkable way of giving his assent;

without uttering a word he lowered his chin only once as if to face

a cruel sentence or maybe just the wind that blew along the street

now. He seemed to pledge guilty he was only half ashamed , the

other half being made of some strange pride, paradoxically enoughhumble and stubborn at the same time; well, yes, sure enough he

was maestro soloist, that devilish fanatic wormed it out with an

unerring flair.

He knew only too well that he should be afraid of such type

of people a little bit too insistent a little bit too persistent he knew

he should have done all his best to avoid them to keep himself out

of their way , and yet now, not only he didnt run away from this

saxophone non player but he actually dragged him along instead,touched to the tears by the frank and outright disinterested

obedience of this poor worshipper whose young age would better

had him accompanying home some girl more or less poetess rather

than persisting in escorting him, Veniamin Gheorghita, a man, and

a married one at that.

They walked fast now along the Tomis Boulevard to the

Ovidiu Square in the old city.

From the Popular movie theater to the left there lay a good

dozen of rows cut in irregular, steep grade, narrow and dark that

lad to the last and oldest part of the ancient city of Constanza left

un-upturned by the yellow caterpillars of the present. By way of

the end of them, these narrow, cramped streets left the impression

that they opened right on top of the water front abyss beyond.

Irregular strings of dinky rough looking houses lay on both

sides of the streets, most of them deserted.

The oldest ones of the latter type had no roof tops anymore;

a couple of timber beams put together at pointless angle on top ofwhich alighted every now and then the winged things; those

deserted sooner could be identified from their banged open gates,

or their ever darkened, cracked down windowpanes misty with

dust and cobwebs.

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They turned left into the Aristide Karazali street, then to the

right, into Mircea street.

They passed almost at a full run by the ruins of the Jewish

synagogue. Somewhere within its nave something barked a long,

blood curdling wail an owl or maybe a seagull. There was nodoor frame left, and no door as well. The mound of debris and

peeled off plaster and clumps of weeds swamped the threshold up

rising its level unreasonably high and through the rosette with its

broken colored glass inlay one could be able to see the roof lattice

now holed in many places. Through the missing shingles the white

ice cold drizzle buffeted in all over the place stirring up eddies that

ambled here and there like some tall ghosts haunting from the past.

Mighty unhealthy this ambition of yours, but murmuredbarely audible the young melomaniac.

what is it you wanted to say? Pardon me for interrupting,

the cellist said slightly incensed like being under the influence of a

first shot of strong spirits.

I mean it could be dangerous with your ailing heart and all.

There is the hearsay about cellist losing weight in a concerto, say

Boccherini or Schumann, about five pounds. Is that so? the khaki

clad young man asked haphazardly; then he added some more

while choked by the violent gusts of arctic wind: I know pretty

well its true, but I need your confirmation as a practitioner.

His radically change tone telltale a barely dissimulated

cynical certitude, surefooting.

Why, yes, sure thing, Veniamin Gheorghita admitted.

Is it water, mainly, no? the young man said.

Yes. Perspiration. What a concert soloist feels right away

after the concert is mainly thirst. A burning, scalding almost

unbearable thirst.I know, the young companion said, the viciously. Strange

enough though, since dumping the water excess theoretically

would rather have to ease up the hearts job. Thats rather upside

down, really, I could have sworn

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They plodded on shoulder to shoulder and every now and

then they knocked into each other as if in an obscure way they

wanted to be reassured that the other one sidekick was still there.

A minute ago Ive interrupted you just when you were about

to add something up. You managed to say but and I cut in onyou, the maestro tried to change the tack.

Really? What did I say?

About the ambition, You said it is unhealthy. Then you

added a but.

A few moments of silence elapsed. The young man frowned,

putting something like a mock struggle to recall.

I fail to remember what I wanted to say at that point, he

said, and the other one felt disappointed. He went on immediately.Ive only wanted to say that maybe his consuming ambition of

yours is justified with the outstanding, accomplished artists whose

biological being while in some circumstances of absolute grace

might very well crash under the overwhelming grandeur of the

artist itself housed within that poor lousy body, I have the notion

am I saying the notion? No, the conviction that you are such an

artist, concluded sententiously the young man, and to the

Veniamin Gheorghitas ears it had the ominous ring of an oracle.

Well, here we are. This is where I live, Veniamin

Gheorghita said and he halted in front of a two stories villa,

apparently the only one left in a relatively good shape at the

outskirts decaying under the direct blaze of salty mists from the

sea.

Due to the darkness and almost to the dried ivy covering the

building like a camouflage curtain, one could hardly tell its actual

size. Only one window was lighted up at the second floor. The

young khaki clad companion looked that way for a second.My wife. Reading maybe, Veniamin Gheorghita explained

reaching out his hand.

The khaki clothed youth took it and pressed it in a

surprisingly strong grip. He even held it so for quite a long time.

Thanks for good company, the cellist said.

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them, please, I do beg of you. Understand them and forgive them.

Dont you believe that theres nothing more beautiful on Earth than

forgiving. Dont you think so, maestro?

Dazzled, astounded, Veniamin Gheorghita kept hearing the

young man going on and on and on each one of his words ahammer blow in the top of his skull although uttered with

unparalleled meekness.

In one section of the martial arts called kung fu there is a

naked hand strike vibratory palm they used to call it. Its a killer.

It has to do with inducing of an alien frequency into the blood

hydraulics of the circulatory system which makes the finest

capillaries burst. And speaking about the cello, why it wont be a

killer too, since the range of its frequencies is so very much closeto the ones of the human voice, especially when it displays sorrow,

its wails, its innermost laments? And then, there comes the case

What about the case? the cellist asked, looking at the

suddenly popped up eyes of the young companion where he could

almost physically feel a funest anxiety as he stared at the

instruments big box shining wet into the blizzard.

looks like a coffin.

Your ear, maestro Veniamin Gheorghita murmured.

What about my ear? the fanatic murmured as if

scatterbrained.

Its perfect.

Oh, the other ejaculated either is disappointment or simply

bored. It looked like he would have expected to hear entirely

something else.

How about coming up with me for a while? the cellist

suddenly said.The other started, or shivered anyway the blizzard could be

the cause, the biting frost, the roar of the sea boiling into the

cauldron below and crashing into the nearby precipice down,

beyond the deserted outskirts of the ancient city.

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Youd better stop begging of me, or else I might consent and

go up with you.

Okay, just do that and come. Come in now.

The youth glanced over to the abyss that began beyond the

steep cliff hovering on the beach and recoiled.Id rather not advise that, masestro, he murmured at last.

Im no good. Really. Im dangerous too. I beg of you dont invite

me. Withdraw it and be gone.

the cellist seemed not to mind the other mans words.

Its not everyday I get the chance to enjoy such a good

listener, but why you say youre dangerous?

Its just because Im too good a listener. Im always bound

to be carried away and with it and become simply hysterical in notime. Its sheer impossible for anyone to stand me then, believe

me. Im a murderer , and always it is always my love that kills,

maestro. Use to founder the object of my worship, thats always

the custom with me, the visitor explained awkwardly.

Nonsense! Veniamin Gheorghita said after he seemed to

ponder for a while both his proposal and the other ones refusal.

Then he added I want you to further listen to me playing, I

insist.

The youth shifted weight from one foot to another. His wind

blown hair was crammed with myriads of tiny ice beads. A couple

of hair locks got stuck to his brow. The storm changed their pattern

continuously.

Be it, he said, but take one more look at the sea. Might be

your last time for doing so. Night Storm at Sea Flemish

Anonym the khaki clad youth whispered.

We can see it from upstairs, too, from the terrace,

Veniamin Gheorghita said while pushing him through the gate.He swung though and cast a quick overshoulder look to the

ink dark emptiness out there where in the gale there must have

been the roaring sea. He felt a shiver but presumably not on the

account of the frost.

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The wife opened the door for them and the cellist made the

introductions.

That late?

Im frozen. Id like to play for Mr.Arthur.

But, George, youre tired. You cannot. Its real late and theyesterday night crisis might hit you again, you know, Mrs

Veniamin said in a worried tone then she turned to the visitor who

stood shy, ramrod and unmoving and flushed red with exposure.

Mr.Arthur, would you be just so kind as to spare him? God only

knows how much I tried to prevent him from attending tonight that

literary soiree. Last night he had such a heart attack I thought he

would die.

When that? While playing? the visitor burst.Why, yes, he uses to play almost all the time. Yes, yes, he

had it while performing, the woman agreed.

Must have been extremely well performed, then, really,

utterly beautiful, the khaki visitor whispered.

I objected as strongly as I could, but in vain. And today at 5

in the afternoon he picked his cello and was gone to play that

bastard recital.

I know, the guest said.

Really? Are you a doctor?

The youth smiled.

On the contrary, he murmured.

The smile got lost on her as the forlorn host was by now busy

with helping him out of his thick, wet, cold, clumsy khaki

overcoat, or maybe had it been noticed it wouldnt have made any

difference either.

He just left, took off like a rocket. I couldnt have hold him

not even if Id have to club him over the head for it. It seemed tobe his fate to go down there no matter what. It seemed he was out

of his mind. Hes going to kill himself one day.

The air of shyness enhanced on the childish face of the

unexpected guest. Clearly he was just about to say something yet

he was radiating and overall refrain of sorts.

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Maam, maybe you dont reckon what an extraordinary artist

your husband is; anyway hes the most outstanding cellist Ive ever

got the chance to listen to in my whole life. I beg pardon for me

having to tell you that, but the way an artist seems fit to touch the

ultimate lies beyond the competence and grasp of any woman,even if that woman happens to be his wife. I dare say this is the

only thing in the life of a man that escapes completely to either the

conscious or the subconscious womans custody and control. And

the only way a good housewife qualifies as such to an artist and is

being able to turn into masterpiece he sharing bed and board with

such a man is to never try to influence him at all; just stand him as

he is and she saw him right from the onset when she decided to

take him as husband. Had something in the mechanics of a coupledoesnt work as it should, women have no excuse for innocence,

since its their in-built intuition that tells them clearly from the

beginning whatt going on and how

Youre cazy. Listen, dear. Whos this man you brought over

with you in our house at this odd time of the night?

Whoever he is, hes right, Veniamin Gheorghita said and he

put a protective hand around the shoulders of his strange guest who

had managed to pretend miraculously well he didnt hear a word

from what Mrs. Veniamin said.

You are crazy, both of you, the woman decreed.

One more reason for us to retire in the sudy, the musician

mumbled, relieved to get a proper excuse to consider formalities

closed and enter him and his aficionado in the study.

Get me clear, maam, the visitor said. I am perfectly aware

I didnt have to come here, but if Im here now, its not my fault

either. Your husband is a very important artist and he simply

couldnt skip such a hap; he saw it coming and did nothing toduck. It seems for him the time has come. And its now. And

theres practically nothing you or anyone else could do about it

anymore.

Come on in, Arthur. Lets go in. Its late, Veniamin

Gheorghita said with impatience, then pushed him into his study,

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switched the light on discarding his overcoat as he bid the coltish

coy quest to do alike.

The quest was looking about, searching for the French doors

to the terraces.

One can see the sea from out here, no?Sure thing, but youd better dont open. Thats quite a storm

out there and my wife barely managed to keep warm. Thats to be

on the waterfront. The draft is terrible. Pull that chair, will you.

No, youll better come over here, in the sofa. I want you to sit here,

by me, the cellist said.

When I listen cello I love to listen the sea, the visitor said

already in a strange sort of trance very much alike daydreaming

with eyes riveted on the French doors closed and locked on theterrace.

Meanwhile Veniamin Gheorghita settled himself comfortably

before the staff holder and tuned the strings. The visitor watched

carefully the operation.

Do that a bit higher, please, he said abruptly.

It doesnt seem good to me, the cellist said and looked at

him as if he were some citizen caught riding free by the conductor.

He rubbed some more bows against the E-string.

Maybe the key slackened, the quest ventured.

That could be.

Not much up, but upper just the same. Thats it! Now its

real good.

Youre right. Its okay now, the maestro acknowledged.

Actually it had slackened maybe a quarter of a coma, but it

slackened just the same, and the other had felt it.

Im ready. What would you like for starters?

The visitor didnt answer right away. He kept a long momentof silence which turned him from bothered into bothering.

Are you sure you want to begin? he said in a sad voice. In

the concert halls where are throngs of people things might be

different, but, here, in this confined place where there are only the

two of us and you want to play for me only, were much too close

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coming from and acuity and memory absolute, but mostly

springing from, true, a hysterical sensibility.

Visitor Arthur had such a poor control of the expression

muscles, or maybe disregarded them on purpose, that any

incoming improper stimulus, no matter how tiny, used to hangthere strings of grimaces of discomfort, hurtful in their lush

prolixity of hues and outright stunning by their chameleonic

variety; to this mans nose everything seemed to stink. Thats why,

any praise the most ambiguous allowance, however allusive,

carried an enormous weight in the eyes of the instrument player,

and the cellist needed such a ultra-sensitive barometer to double

check out for him some deeply hidden truth he had for long time

now secured.How about now? he bagged and the other man said nothing,

nodding his head though a couple of times in a way meaning no

more than a half tolerated half forced concession.

Instantly the cellist felt happiness like a lump in his throat

very much difficult to swallow. He felt himself filled up with a hot

liquid that made his articulations strong and his discharged tickling

electricity along his spine and into the flattened, callused tips of his

fingers already curled around the black teak neck of the

instrument.

With most surprising exhilaration he discovered himself

possessed by some species of perpetual, mind boggling orgasm; as

time went by, this intense feeling of pleasure metamorphosed in an

infinite gratefulness toward the man who had stirred it.

Suddenly he felt choking with a huge gusto to perform.

He replayed in the same sequence all the pieces from the

recital, and a couple of them he replayed two or three more times

prodded by the meek bidding of his quest, most expert in thescience of listening.

He rehearsed at a stretch long sections from the Haritunians

Esprompt and Manuel de Fallas Dance of Fire until he felt his

fingers burning.

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With the corners of his brimming eyes he perceived the lean,

almost skinny and approval-nodding silhouette of his guest, and

then he didnt feel anymore the mortal grip of the claw ready to

strangle his heart forever.

He played and played with a brand new frenesy unknowneven to himself until now, he couldnt have guessed he was able to

develop so far.

At the caesuras, at the respires, on the fat, rich, rebounding

cadenzas, when he practically hit the bow against all four strings,

he managed to steal fleeing, tearful glances to his youthful, dear,

special guest; the other mans weeping, slippery, glittery eyes were

the absolute eloquence of the sublime emotion before the Art

whose Maestro he was.He performed passionately all his repertoire, without halting,

trancelike. For the first time he realized with utmost clarity that the

trance he had been forced to induce himself so far, so much

craving the audiences sensibility was induced in him divinely

from outside at last, as it should be normal after all, by means of

none other than the ideal epitome of that amorphous, latent

audience storing a tremendous potential of lethargic power and at

the same time a hurricane of senses. And the young man, his guest

tonight, had with him the very yardarm of what he had expected

from a perfect audience.

Unexpectedly something fractured inside of him and he

almost before learning what it was and what the follow-ups were,

he felt the urgent compulsion to laugh his brains off no matter what

those follow-ups were or they would be do come soon.

For the moment, all present and all mighty was but the sheer

emotion violent no end featuring some unheard of colors mingling

in a hallucinatory rainbow, dizzying one to whom it apparentlywas better to yield that withstand; and he yielded, gave himself

completely, as he, to his shame and guilt (lasting but short) have

never did before.

He was very much aware that excited by the completed

expertise in sounds of the young man, the cellistic technique he

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had just reached ranged the top of mastership and the effect one

could easily watch in a mirror on the face of his youthful guest.

One ecstasy gives birth to the next, prodding to soar higher

and higher, as it happens in shared love, ever unsatisfied, ever

unhappy in the very midst of its own roaring pyre.The two of them were in love under the spell of Boccherini,

under Schumann and Lalo, Faure and Haritunian, they loved

themselves under Saint Saens and de Falla, under hammered or

barely sighed cadenzas, under the death lamento of the thickest

string vibrating all alone, under the spectral shrill mewing of the

thinnest string in its uppermost, impossible position, under the

balanced mourning locked into the realm of the other two

intermediary strings.There it was like some fraternity of hiding the young man

under the high vault of an all melting harmony, while the finger

work, the instrumental technique became but simpletonish monkey

business, external and alien to the routine, nerve racking emotion,

trivial by the simple fact that it originated in the flesh that meant

substance and at that hour of the night substance occupied the

second place after the spirit.

Since one was all and all spirit in those fleeing instants of

self abandon and self forgetting.

And the more his tough, young guest wished more from his

host, the more the latter one felt he had more to give.

And give he did, more and more, and more, as if hed

dumped some bottomless reserves; and give he did more precise,

more neat and sublime until he very much Chirstlike he expired

from heart breakdown, his heart much too weak in the rampant

surge he never saw it coming not even in his last flicker of his life.

The visitor lent over Veniamin Gheorghita and then awayward hair lock slipped down like a pendulum tickling his

eyelashes. Unwillingly he smiled as he hovered on the stiff body

then as he stepped over it his sole hit the thickest string of the also

dead instrument finding rest in the lap of its been maestro.

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The sound burst all of a sudden and seemed slightly off key

as if the cello admirably tuned up to that moment would have

become a useless piece of discarded junk.

The last falsetto of cello bounced against the walls of the

study like a forlorn creature unable to figure its true meaninganymore.

The visitor shivered and froze his juvenile stare on the

French windows on the terrace, as if hed expected any minute

now either storm or sea to reach out and snap so rushing a

judgment that by all means didnt qualify to being rushed at all.

No one entered the French windows, only the wooden frame

was shaking the knob-lock assembly and the window panes rattled

and zinged and barked and sang it lookslike the lugubrious litanyof the sea.

Then the visitor heard the woman voice asking something the

other side of the door and raised his chin a bit. And then his face

beamed with another type of smile.

He stepped back over the still, stiff body and went to the

French windows. He opened them with a short, brisk inspired

gesture sort of and immediately the storm burst in and turned into a

desperate encaged white whirlwind of notes torn free from the staff

holder, spinning madly about the room.

Then he turned back and stepped over the body once again

and ducking behind the door that opened pushed by the alarmed

Mrs. Veniamin.

When she saw the body she yelled and rushed at him,

mindless of the storm that tugged at her cotton nightgown laying

her thighs naked up to the crotch. An as she began to sob, and

nibble at her fingers and eyes squinting, she began to fight her way

to the French windows to see what had become of their nightvisitor, that young man still smiling, sneaked about in her back and

went out the door leaving both study and apartment unnoticed after

grabbing his khaki overcoat on his way out.

Propped against the Palace Restaurants fence a drunk man

sang to the night:

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In a bar in Barcelon City

There was a sailor in a setee.

In a bar in Barcelon City

There was a sailor in a setee.At a table suddenly

Sees a most beautifull lassie.

At a table suddenly

Sees he a most beautiful lassie

He rushed past him, and stooping with cold and drizzle gusts,

he went down the cliff, to the deserted breach without bothering tolook up to the opened up now and sallow lighted French windows

banging out there in the gale swept terrace where an outstanding

musician could not be able anymore to learn how sounded the sea

slamming into the gray mounds of the concrete stabilopods from

the breakwater.

One mile south west from the mourning ridden apartment

with just one window lighted in the Aristide Karazali street, in the

Constanza Grand Station, the rain poured on, in the only night train

pulled at the platform, in the pale light from the low Wattage

corridor lamp, a solitary shadow, very much like a hallucination

was contoured barely visible through the main steamed car

window poorly lit, stringed among dozens and dozens others it

eventually blended up with, confounded and vanished gradually as

the streaming with rain water train as if just then emerged from the

waves, dimmed in size more and more with growing distance, just

enough to soon look like a dinky string of glittering beadspointlessly rolling on and on out into the darkness.

Aboard Ploiesti tanker, October 8, 1988, Port Constanza

Documents

The BLACK SHELL - A Short Fiction by Radu Pintea