The evening went swiftly, despite the occasional look John worked not to misinterpret again. The orchestra finally had a handle on Prokofiev’s opus, and the next three weeks would smooth their rough edges. When the composer called it a night, John was still ready to play for hours.
He closed up his cases, and started after Sara. “Great night’s work, I think.”
Sara’s head twitched but didn’t turn. “Could you walk me to my car, John?”
John followed obediently, not comprehending her queer mood. Halfway across the parking lot, an unhappy idea presented itself. “Has something gone wrong with Mara? Is she all right?”
Sara wheeled. “You mean is the implant all right, don’t you?”
“Wh—well, yes, of course.”
Her hand snapped back a few inches. If she hadn’t been carrying her bow case in it, John was certain she would have slapped him. “You couldn’t care less about my sister, only the hardware in her skull! You fooled me pretty well, but it’s the last time.”
She stomped away, but John wasn’t too dazed to pursue. “What are you saying? What gave you that idea?”
“Doctor Hippert, on the evening news. Didn’t you see?” She set her cases on the car roof, and rummaged for keys. “No matter. You can catch it at eleven.”
“I never gave him—” His indignation swerved back to the primary problem. “Sara, I didn’t know what the operation could do until I spoke to Hippert. I wasn’t—Sara, please—”
She responded to the touch on her shoulder with a wheeling swing. John fell hard to the asphalt, a red handprint already burning on his cheek. He stayed down until her car was out of the lot. He opened his cases, and sighed. He’d protected them satisfactorily, at the cost of a nasty sting in the small of his back.
He spent his drive home searching for some way he could have said something to make her understand. The idea hadn’t blossomed in his head until Hippert’s impromptu lecture on the technology. Until then, he had only suspected, hoped… and probably used Sara to explore that hope.
Great. He was a jerk, a jerk who could now forget kindling anything with Sara Weber. No, she was a musician, too. She could understand. She would, when he got the chance.
Probably.
He didn’t recognize the car parked in front of his house, but the man standing by the door was unmistakable. What, had he heard too? He left his auto parked outside the garage. “What can I do for you, Doctor Nikisch?”
“Let me in, I suppose. Oh, I sent away some journalist who was skulking about. Did she find you at rehearsal? No? You don’t seem disappointed.”
“I’m not.” John lit up the living room, unsuccessfully offered Tadeusz a drink, and sat heavily on the sofa, violin and bow in his lap. “I know what you’re going to talk about, so go ahead. Apparently I’m the only person who didn’t watch the news tonight.”
“Fine. I will go ahead and apologize, for wounding your feelings so badly two weekends ago. I belittled your frustration, and impelled you on a desperate path which I hope you will now let me lead you off.”
John held still and quiet for a long time. “I believe I’m honored, Doctor Nikisch, but… can you help these?” Shaking hands bracketed his ears. “Your conclusion hasn’t changed, and shouldn’t. I don’t have the ear for violin, but maybe I will soon. If you do understand my frustration, you know how much this would mean.”
“John, John, to run such a risk with your body, for so modest a gain, is not right.”
“Would you say that if you had the flat ear? If you didn’t have the natural aptitude to match your dedication and love? You’re so accustomed to your gift, you don’t see the chasm it opens between us.”
“But I do, John. I have for a long time.” Tadeusz clasped his hands. “Tell me, particularly, what this operation will give you.”
“Simple. Better hearing. Perfect pitch, keener volume discernment, every improvement technology can provide.”
“Ah. An artificial approach to a natural phenomenon. It misses the point.”
“No it doesn’t. There’s no barrier between the two. We stretch gut and nylon strings over an open wooden box, but somehow that’s natural while silicon circuits aren’t.”
Tadeusz let out a short breath. “I should know by now how firmly you make up your mind.” He stood and walked slowly toward the door. “I just think you should ask yourself what you may lose from this, against what you might gain. Consider whether you should hold onto the gifts you have, rather than grasping at ‘might-be’ and ‘want-to-be.’ ”
“Doctor…” John followed, never closer than two paces. “I’m sorry that we always have to disagree. I admire you, and respect your advice… but I cannot take it.”
“Not even to reflect? Then I would also be sorry.” Tadeusz left, walking into the night.
John watched him until his car disappeared around the corner. He walked without caring where his feet carried him, but they knew to bring him to his study. He dedicated this room to music, both for application and contemplation. He picked a Beethoven CD off a shelf, programmed the stereo to play the “Pathetique,” and dropped into the soft chair.
Music itself was artificial, he thought, in any form beyond the banging of rocks and sticks, or the blowing through hollow reeds. It was the rising sophistication of artificiality that gave music its growing richness. Without it, what would there be worth hearing, by anybody’s ears?
That premise granted, artificial hearing was the next reasonable step. Who would begrudge a music lover a hearing aid, after all? Without a discerning ear, no music could work its magical effect, just as notes on a page said nothing without an instrument to voice them. Composition and performer.
With him, the chips would become both. They would perform for him, making the music new as the first day on Earth. He would pour the insights that flowed thence into his performances, his proficiency redoubled, reborn. He would play as the instrument of his brilliant new perceptions.
He dimly perceived the music entering its second section through a bone-deep chill. Was that Tadeusz’s dread? Might the implants hold him in thrall, enslaved to his new senses, his individuality drowned in technical perfection? He shuddered to imagine a machine guiding his fingers… guiding a piece of his soul.
John willed the fears away, rebuking his own egotism. If he began producing great music, wouldn’t that addition to the world’s joy be enough itself? He couldn’t claim exclusive credit for what he played now. Not with a Lupot violin and a Tourte bow, instruments that won their own justified praise, independent of any musician.
Could he be content as an instrument? No, he wouldn’t need to. Concert violinists were more than ears: they were repositories of practice and study, knowledge and love. No implant could make a musician, any more than the fretsaw made the violin. The will and the skill would remain his own. He needn’t fear that.
Still, he feared. His brain laid open, fragile nerves prodded, mutilated, destroyed. Or if Hippert didn’t err… what if the gain weren’t all he hoped? He was staking the bulk of his worldly goods on the wish that music could lift him beyond worldly concerns.
The known and the unknown. Conventional man that he was, Doctor Nikisch held to the known. It was their musical common ground, the old esteemed above the modern, Bach over Bartok, Schubert over Stravinsky. John was the more adventurous of the two… but would he be if he could never go back to the “Pathetique” after hearing “The Rite of Spring”?
The last low chords of Beethoven reverberated, and faded. John sat in silence, as the stereo shut itself off. He longed for bed, for sleep swept clean of the tumult of a decision yet unmade. It would haunt him for years if he said “no,” tempt him in his darkest moments. Too great a decision, for anyone.