He chuckled, and added, It’s a certain kind of nostalgia. A really valid kind of … nostalgia.
Alison had nodded.
Which was fair enough. Then when he didnt add anything further she made a quiet grunting noise that could have signified whatever was required. She stared at the fire. He could say something but he wouldnt. I just feel, he said and he stopped. She continued staring at the fire. It was as if she hadnt heard him or was just trying to ignore him. She gazed at the fire, the ash gone light grey at the tip of her fag, not bothering about the mug of coffee.
The silence continued. He was not going to breach it. If he did he would end up saying something daft and getting himself into knots. There were dangers in too much speechifying — that self-consciousness, and ultimate lack of faith in what you were up to. Silent folk aye gained the fucking advantage. Old Milne was an obvious example; he could stand for interminable periods, saying nothing in an attentive manner, as though you the speaker had only been halfway through your explanation when in actual fact you had finished the thing altogether. Which is how come the old dickie had wangled his way to praetorship. And this benign exterior he liked to assume: the wise old chap to whom one could march with the personal problems, no matter how unsavoury. Aside from that of course he was a rightwing fucking shite, a rightwing fucking shite, and it was best just to rise and in a swivel, in a swivel, of the palm of his hand on the arm of the chair, to be rising without having to raise his gaze to par, now on his feet and as though quite naturally, just staring ahead where ahead is the door into the lobby. Leave the coffee. Ignore it. Just fucking on ye go. He inclined his head a little to one side and muttered, Ben the parlour eh … that’s where I keep them.
Out in the lobby the obvious temptation to enter the bathroom and lock himself in. Yet it was so out of the question as to merit nothing at all so far as thought or consideration was concerned. And was she rising to follow him. And yet presently of course she would still be wondering if this is what was asked of her. She would still just be sitting there. Well fucking let her. It was her decision. Whether to follow him ben or not. I mean after all, he had made his intentions known, he had told her and implied the palpable, the glaringly fucking obvious, a fact for christ sake, he had given her to know she should follow him. So then.
The way a seated jazz musician gets him or herself and the instrument prepared, these wee glimmers of a smile to the fellow musicians, the friends and the acquaintances in the audience, but also taking great care not to confront directly the stares from members of the ordinary people — otherwise enter irony: the kind that leads to a lack of overall control. But it was no bloody good without her being there. The whole thing was her to be there as audience, as a sort of ordinary person, so he could play with her there spectating. And she would not come unless invited. And had he invited her? Had he fuck! Of course he hadni. The lassie was sitting ben the kitchen and she did not know what the hell to do, was she to stay or come for christ sake for all she knew he was in the lavvy. Patrick laughed.
He cleared his throat loudly at the kitchen door, then opened it. She looked at him when he entered, a book in her hand. Eh … he smiled: Are you coming ben Alison?
She rose, tugging down the bottom bits of her jumper. She put the book back on the shelf. She looked so worried, yet without showing it. He left her to follow on her own, to close the door behind herself and to come into the parlour and close this door as well, him moving straight onto the wooden upright chair he used, trying to establish an immediate aura of concentration so that she would comprehend the seriousness of it, that he was in total earnest over what he was doing; and he quite envied the guitarist for being able to footer about in a very meaningful way with the keys and the strings.
He cleared his throat. He had almost forgotten her presence, he was lifting the larger of the pair to balance its bottom rim on the toe of his left shoe, positioning his left hand round the top, covering the gap between his mouth and the rim, and he breathed in through his nostrils — there was a reason for this method but it did not demand any exposition; and too his method of blowing without the slightest puff of the cheeks, it also had a good reason, the same reason, but later, later. He began the sound at the back of the throat, controlling his breath that the note might be sustained without any break, without even the slightest alteration in pitch, nor in audibility, just that one note, evenly and all, the whole thing of it; and too when shading off, retaining the note precisely, and no sign that his breath is almost gone. And the pause too, that same sense of it not being an actual pause strictly speaking, or perhaps it was, a pause just as that, pause as pause and nothing to do with a need to stock up on oxygen; and into the next sound, the same note precisely; everything about it was to be the same, it was what he was after, the key to what he was after. He wanted it to always be the same, in every way, to the ordinary listener; that was plenty, he wasnt after any extra-terrestrial point of communication. It was just a straightforward sort of evenness be needed, constancy. He had begun the sound at the back of the throat, his breath under control, the note.
It didnt have to be the same pitch all the time. But he sought the same sort of thing each occasion he sat down to play, and the only part he really wished to vary was the pause, it was all that was important, essentially. It was simple. There is not much to be said about it. There was just a certain easing of the spirit, an easing of the spirit. That was it really, an easing of the spirit. Nothing more, he said modestly, an easing of the spirit!! Alison looked a bit cold and shivery. He laid the pipe into the crook of his elbow and said, That’ll do.
She nodded. She showed interest in them. He handed the thinner one to her and she felt its weight and looked along it and into its interior. Is it papier mâché? she asked.
I’m no really sure. I suppose it is. It’s the kind of thing an electrician uses to rewire a house; they run them at the foot of the wall. Or for thick cables maybe, I’m no a hundred percent sure, to be honest.
You’ve just painted them?
Aye. But I’ve never been quite sure about that either, about whether I would’ve been best to just leave them in their natural state.
Though who’s to say what their natural state really is, said Alison.
Aye christ, exactly.
Alison was still giving her attention to the pipe; he motioned with the thicker yin and she took it and returned the first.
It’s amazing the variety of sound ye can get.
Mm.
Just by the way ye actually breathe, and where ye allow the sounds to come from, the parts of your mouth and throat.
Most instruments work on that principle though dont they — wind instruments I mean?
Eh aye, I suppose so.
She passed the pipe to him; he returned the pair to their places. She said, D’you listen to a lot of music Pat?
Eh sometimes. Sometimes I dont. What about you?
I’m a bit the same. If Drew’s away I tend to listen more. I was borrowing from Desmond for a while, and taping.
Aye, he’s got some collection! Mind you, he doesni usually like people borrowing. It’s probably because he fancies you!