He calls from the kitchen, but I cannot hear him.
“Excuse me?”
“Why are you here?” as he comes back into the room. “Why did you want to meet him?”
“I don't know. Money, I guess,” despondently.
“An honest man.” He places the two coffees (in cups and saucers) on the table. “I know all about the money from the magazine. Was there anything else?”
“I don't even know anymore. I've been asking myself that question a lot lately. I guess a lot of people just want to know what he had to say.”
“He said all that he needed to say,” dismissively. He notices a look. “You are a fan of Whistler, yes?”
“Excuse me?”
“You were staring at the print. Was this just passive observation?”
“No, no. I’m something of a fan. I guess he just brings to mind someone I used to know.”
“I see. I've always appreciated his understanding of the similarities, the parallels, between painting and music.” He laughs lightly as he sits. “But you are not here to listen to my thoughts on Whistler, brilliant though they may be. You are here to learn what you can of my son.”
“Do you really believe what you just said, that he…said all that he wanted to say?”
“Wanted? No. Needed? Yes. True, Time is man's greatest nemesis, but Time is not necessarily an antagonist. My son accomplished what he set out to do. He never became redundant or boring. I believe one could compare his work to that of a published novel. More could have been added, some themes could have been refined, but this hardly makes his work incomplete or without merit.” He pauses. “You do not agree with this, do you?”
“Look, I don't want to impose. You've clearly been through a lot, and I really feel like I should go.”
“What? I am an old man. I have been around death all of my life. Half of my family failed to escape the genocide of the Nazis — not my mother and my father, of course, but two of my uncles, my Aunt Shayna, and two grandparents—; I served my country in Korea; I have buried two wives. True, it is perhaps the greatest tragedy to lose a son or daughter, but I have come to grips with death. As Nietzsche so brilliantly put it, 'The certain prospect of death could sweeten every life with a precious and fragrant drop of levity — and now you strange Apotheker-Seelen have turned it into an ill-tasting drop of poison that makes the whole of life repulsive.' Life is something from which one ought not cower, no matter the reason.”
“What does that mean? I mean, I know the word apothecary, but what was the other word?”
“Let me see…Nietzsche's phrasing is always poetic, odd. Apotheker-Seelen. I guess it would mean, literally, pharmacist-souls. Just who are the Apotheker-Seelen? As I've said, Nietzsche's phrasing is often more poetic than one would think, and I'm somewhat at a loss to say definitively just who these individuals are, though I am of the opinion that he is speaking of the weak and fanatically religious types — the women who stand on the corners in the city soliciting Watchtower magazines, provided one can call standing with the magazine held up and looking so solemn and empty-headed soliciting. Regardless, I find myself drawn more to the first aspect of the passage. Death's certainty ought to create a sense respect, a reverence, for life, not only in terms of ethics and the interactions that we have with others, but in terms of our very place in the world. And as hard as it was to lose Mordecai, to lose him to blind chance, one cannot turn away from living; one cannot succumb to resentment. The beauty of the world is in its chaos, its irrationality. The Beautiful is not, as Plato posited, necessarily apposite to the Good or the orderly — the realm of Apollo. It's a certain freedom on which we must not impose limits or moralities — not even values. We have to accept that there is beauty everywhere, even in the tragedy of death.”
I attempt to sip my coffee.
“Patience, young man. You lack patience.”
“Excuse me?”
“That coffee is far too hot. Place it on the table, allow it to cool; sip it when it can be enjoyed. Bah,” he exclaims, though not with enough force to require a mark. “The youth of today: so much energy, so little direction.” He pauses. “And yet such is the perennial folly of youth, I suppose.”
“There seems to be some consensus on the matter.”
He smiles. “Of course you fail to understand that my son said all that he needed to say. You go around collecting experiences as a young boy collects stones at the beach — or, if wandering Coney Island, syringes.” His guffaws are like cluster bombs. “But, joking aside, at the end of the day, nothing is cherished; nothing is enjoyed. You look, but you do not see; you listen, but you do not hear; you touch, but you do not feel.” I nod hesitantly. His posture eases. “This is not the first time someone has made a speech of this nature to you, is it?”
“No, sir. My father still treats me like I'm twelve.”
“Given the way you react to the death of a man whom you have never met, it is no wonder. While I understand that this is difficult, that death is an emotional tempest that one must learn to navigate, I simply don’t see the reason to dwell upon it, or, moreover, to solicit pity on account of my loss. I certainly shed many tears for my son, but it is nothing less than an act of self-destruction and vanity to turn away from the passing of time, of life, because of hardship.”
“It's not that. It's not that I'm…I don't know. I'm just in shock right now. You have to understand that. It's the shock.” He nods sympathetically. “And it's not that I'm…you know…overcome with grief. I'm just not a very talkative person.”
“The shock of one great moment leaves you filled with despair; all else evades your attention.” He smiles. The word mercurial pops into my head. “My, my, my — you are truly young. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
He grunts. “I guess this is my mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
“You look a few years older. Perhaps because I associate you with my son. He was thirty-four — just thirty-four — when the accident happened.” He repositions himself on the sofa — stretches his legs, crosses left over right, kneecap to ankle. “Death terrifies the young; it ignites the old; it passes over the lost like the wind. The truly lost embrace it for fear of life.”
“It's not something I dwell on,” I respond.
“Spoken like a true child.” He notices a look. “I don't mean to be condescending when I say this. You speak of death as a true soldier, a hero, speaks of death. The Argonauts were children — so, too, were they heroes. And is it not the children of the world who are the heroes? Is it not the most hopelessly quixotic who arouse populations from their slumber? The heroes of the world are the ones with courage, the type of courage that only youth successfully can cultivate. But the term, hero, that has been corrupted, has it not? Corrupted, just as Wagner was corrupted, both in his soul and in his vision.” He takes a deep breath. “You must excuse the musings of an old man, especially one who has recently rediscovered the works of Nietzsche and, what seems almost a consequent of the great Pole, Wagner.
“I only wish to express my belief that there is great depth in every experience, that a man who has the capacity to savor each moment of life will never be tempted to capitulate to despair.” He shakes his head. “You have probably seen much of my son's catalog, but I doubt you can remember each piece with any sense of uniqueness. The young cannot see past the future — a paradox, no doubt, but one that you ought to take to heart.” I squint to him. “Patience, my boy,” he stresses with levity. “Patience.”
The subsequent silence is probably only awkward for me.