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Chapter Seventeen: Cadenza
*********************************
Davies Symphony Hall
7:58 PM
Joshua stood backstage, his violin tucked under his arm,
watching the orchestra members slowly wandering out to
take their seats on the stage. Normally, he spent his final
minutes in his private room, gathering his thoughts. But today
his thoughts had been enemies that he longed to escape.
There was a reason he usually let others manage his life--
there wasn't enough room in his mind to accommodate the
pursuit of both life and art. When Joshua's life turned to shit,
he turned to music. He'd spent most of the last 15 hours
immersed in it, sleeping little, perfecting his surprise cadenza
tonight. His thumb flicked the end of the bow, anxious to
begin.
Someone touched his shoulder and he looked up. Michael
Tilson Thomas, music director and conductor of the San
Francisco Symphony, had paused to wish him good concert. He
asked if Joshua was feeling well as he usually didn't see him
in the wing. The conductor was concerned about his all-but-
forgotten stab wound. Joshua stretched his arm, showing him
it was in fine working order. It seemed like years ago when
Joshua had shared that ridiculous violin-playing joke with
Mulder in SF General.
"I'm having a hard week is all," Joshua said, assuring him he
was more than ready to go on. The conductor smiled and
moved away to the edge of the stage to pause before his
entrance.
'A hard week' was an understatement Joshua didn't want to
elaborate on twenty minutes before a performance. He'd been
refusing himself the agony of reliving any of the experiences
he'd been through recently. Still, the angry words he'd
exchanged with Mulder that morning would find a way to
come back to haunt him, he was certain. He could feel the
stress building from the effort he was exerting to ignore their
exchange. If he could just hold off the emotional
repercussions for 26 more hours, he'd have a seven-hour
private bus ride to Los Angeles to sort it all out. He'd always
had disastrous relationships with men. Why he even bothered
to try again with Mulder was beyond him. No, that wasn't
true. Loving Mulder had not been a choice; it had been an
inevitable truth. The truth that no one would ever make him
feel like that again was a crushing blow to his heart. It would
have been better not to know it, then to spend the rest of his
life trying to forget.
The orchestra began the overture and Joshua turned his
consciousness over to the seduction of music, which no one,
man or woman, could ever take from him. Music had been his
companion from birth.
###
8:00 PM
Mulder followed his partner up the curved, carpeted hallway
that ran behind Davies' dress circle entrances. Joshua may
have called off his personal guard, but Davies Hall Security
wasn't about to take any chances with a "cursed" performer.
Once again they had requested FBI assistance in keeping
order during Joshua's last two remaining performances. After
tomorrow night, Joshua would be leaving town and his woes
would pass on to a new performing arts jurisdiction. Both
Davies and Dillmont were looking forward to that day.
Agent Dillmont had been forced into front-row orchestra duty
tonight. Mulder didn't feel he could stay focused sitting right
under Joshua again, watching him play. The overture had
begun and Mulder stopped at one of the partially-curtained
entrances to peer over the many silhouetted heads at the
stage. The symphony was hard to listen to now that he had
grown so close to it in the past week. Classical music was a
powerful art form to learn to disassociate oneself from.
Mulder wondered if he'd start experiencing bouts of sudden
depression in elevators now.
He felt tired, not himself, like the walls around him were
closing in, suffocating him. He'd slept fitfully last night, his
head filled with bad dreams. He'd dreamt he was at the opera
again, standing watching the performance. Only this time
when Don Giovanni threw back his hood to laugh, he didn't
have the rouged cherub's face of a plump tenor; he had the
face of a Russian violinist.
Scully moved close, brushing his arm. She looked concerned.
"I'm fine," he said before she could ask. She squeezed his arm
and gave him a supportive smile, heading back up the hall to
cover the rest of the entrances. Her reaction to his affair was
a tremendous relief to him--the fact she didn't resent him, a
revelation. She'd been a real friend to him the last 12 hours,
taking care of him at the hospital last night while his knuckles
were bandaged, holding ice on his hand. It helped to ease the
pain of feeling betrayed.
The evidence against Joshua was overwhelming, yet somehow
Mulder was still having a very difficult time accepting it. He'd
taken off before dawn this morning to do his own
investigating. Everything Scully had gathered on Joshua was
accurate and well-supported. She wasn't operating under any
assumptions. Why then had he felt the need to confront
Joshua at his home? What had he hoped to gain by that? All it
had served was to hurt him even more, to have the full flame
of Joshua's anger thrown at him. His words had been painful
to the extreme. *I don't ever want to see you or hear you say
my name again...*
On stage the orchestra was ending the Mozart. Joshua would
be introduced soon. Mulder moved from the entry, taking
refuge in the long hallway, making sure all was clear. Of
course it was clear; the Thin Man didn't exist. It was all a lie.
###
8:15
Joshua stepped out onto the stage taking his position at front
stage right, lifting the violin to his shoulder as the welcoming
applause receded. He was in his element now, a performer
upon his stage. His world was set right again as he turned
temporarily to lock eyes with the conductor. Joshua gave a
faint nod. MTT took up the baton and the Mendelssohn began.
###
The first dotted quarter note cut into Mulder like a finely
honed blade. This concerto that he had heard Joshua play in
his apartment on so many occasions brought it all back to
him--Berkeley, the Marina flat, Sonoma--the memories of all
these places were infused into the sound of Joshua's
instrument.
Several hours ago, Mulder had taken a cab to Land's End to
get his head together before tonight's performance. He jogged
along the cliffs in the cool sea-scented afternoon to the Sutro
Ruins. He hadn't meant to wind up there, sweating and out of
breath, but the fresh air blowing in off the surf gave him
courage and he made his way down the steep windswept
hillside to sit on the edge of the ruined walls to think.
His legs dangling over the surf, Mulder had tried to piece it all
together. Where had he gone wrong? How could he have been
so blind? Why would someone like Joshua go to such lengths
to make a fool out of him? It just didn't add up. Whenever he
tried to set his mind to match the evidence, his heart refused
to listen.
He sat out there on the water for a long time, throwing loose
chunks of concrete into the sea. This was where it had begun.
This was where they had stood under the heavy moon and
Joshua had reached out to kiss him, tasting of champagne. The
offer had seemed innocent enough; how could it have turned
so ugly? Perhaps he had spent too many years separated
from intimacy to know when someone was being honest with
him.
It would all be easier to take if Joshua hadn't been so good to
him--if Mulder could look back and see echoes of dishonesty.
But Joshua had been a friend to him, someone who had
welcomed him, accepted him, appreciated him, listened to
him, touched him, and moreover, made him feel alive for the
first time in years. The sex, regardless of its orientation, had
been surprisingly satisfying and restorative. How could
Mulder deny the depth of passion he had experienced in
Sonoma? Joshua's patience and tenderness while making love
to him; Joshua's face bathed in peacefulness, sleeping warmly
against him in the night--these were not the actions of a vain
and vindictive man. Being loved by Joshua had been one of
the truest experiences Mulder had ever known. His heart was
heavy with its absence, and his mind, simply confused.
###
The first movement, the allegro molto appassionato, was
working its way toward the cadenza. Joshua felt comfortable,
in the moment. He knew as his solo approached he would fall
effortlessly into his written composition. He was pleased with
it--he felt it would work nicely, give the critics something to
scribble about tomorrow. At all costs he was determined to
make progress tonight, put the recent past behind him if by
no other means than sheer will. If he couldn't control his life,
he could at least control the music. It was coming up fast; the
time was now.
A hushed consensus of approval from the orchestra members
was his first indication that his cadenza was making a
statement as he began to play it out. The musicians knew how
this was supposed to go, but they weren't nearly expecting
the switch to major. Joshua played into the emotions of the
simple two-note line, and perhaps it was the use of key, or
merely the untrained experience of playing off the page, but
those memories he had been trying so hard to suppress all
day came through in a rush, filling him with unexpected
longing for someone who he wasn't even sure was listening
tonight. He slowed the major passage down. The melody was
changing in his heart and his fingers followed it willingly--
back to Sonoma, to the colors of the valley, the sunlight--even
the tragedy of rain inhabited the soul of his violin. Joshua was
speaking in his own improvisational language of love, desire
and loss. He recalled sitting at the end of the bed in his home
while Mulder slept, captured by the instinct to play what was
in his heart--a lullaby. He closed his eyes and followed it,
being led by the honesty of music, rather than by the practice
of it.
###
Mulder was still hidden in the dim hall when he heard the
start of the cadenza. There was no way to escape the sound of
the violin. Fifteen inches of stained driftwood never had such
power as when it was worked by Joshua's hands. Joshua was
changing the cadenza and Mulder came to stand next to Scully
again, peeking through the partially opened curtain at the
stage. Mulder remembered what the newspaper reviewer had
said about the art of classical improvisation. Joshua had been
writing a cadenza when Mulder visited him that morning. At
the time he had been too filled with suspicious anger to fully
comprehend Joshua's unkempt appearance. It was strange to
find the musician unshaven and rumpled. Mulder hadn't
realized he intended the new piece to be played tonight.
There was no end to Joshua's ability to amaze him.
At a distance, Joshua looked elegant and poised, his bow
pulling over the strings, working them in a slow cadence. His
solo was sad and beautiful, filled with an unmistakable
longing that made Mulder's throat tighten. In a moment the
melody altered, turned itself around into something Mulder
had only heard once before, and the pain of recognition forced
him to turn away.
Scully followed him into the hallway as he sank heavily
against the railing, throwing his head back against the
carpeted wall with a miserable thud. His hands came up over
his eyes as he fought to keep it together. He shouldn't have
come tonight--he was much too close to this case.
She took his hands, gently, lowering them from his face. He
blinked, looking away, fighting to keep back the onset of
tears. Her eyes registered his pain and she rubbed his hand.
"Oh, Mulder," she said sadly. "You're really hurting, aren't
you?"
He closed his eyes and tossed his head back, giving it another
dull thump, trying to regain some control. He wanted to
explain to her why this was so hard. "I asked him if he would
play this again for me, Scully. It's a Ukrainian lullaby his
grandfather taught him. It meant a great deal to him and to
me. He's made it a part of his cadenza."
Her lips moved, trying to find words of comfort. "I'm so sorry,
Mulder. He's not going to let you go that easily, is he? You
need to be careful. You can't let him get to you like this."
"I know," he said, biting his lip painfully. "It's difficult. I
didn't tell you; I went to see him today."
She looked worried, but not disapproving.
"I asked him to explain himself, but he floored me by
accusing me of coming by to hurt him...to punish him for
making me want to be with a man. It isn't true, Scully. I
would never do that to him. Not even if he was..." Mulder
sighed. He couldn't even say it yet. *...if he was guilty.*
She still held his hand, reassuringly. "Trust me, Mulder. It will
be okay. We just need to be patient. We need to keep an eye
on him."
Mulder nodded, feeling some control return. She had to be
right. He was much too close to Joshua to see him clearly. He
had to trust her to protect him like she had countless times
before. He squeezed her hand and wiped the back of his arm
over his eyes as the cadenza concluded and the original tempo
took over again.
###
Immersed in the melody of the bassoon guiding them into the
second movement, Joshua felt the relief wash over him that
he had let his heart open to release its withheld sorrow for
the audience. It wasn't a secret he needed to keep in
anymore--it was a gift. This was the suffering that drove the
human impulse to create. The knowledge of loss--a tragedy as
old as time--certainly as old as the concerto he played or the
violin he played on, shaped by hand, hundreds of years ago.
He closed his eyes, leaving the stage and the orchestra behind,
lost in the instrument's clear voice. The andante wove itself
around him, protecting him. Inside that musical cocoon, he
could find the caring that was otherwise so elusive to him.
"Joshua..."
The single note of a rasping voice entered his mind. It was his
name again, spoken with coldness, bitterness and revenge.
He'd been hearing it these last weeks over and over like a
sick taunting game.
*Not now. Not here,* his mind hissed as his slow trill matched
the gentle pluck of the cellos. No one was allowed into this
perfect space that belonged to him alone.
"Joshua..." it whispered again, sounding closer. Joshua refused
to acknowledge it; only the soft pulse of the Andante was real,
the rest was all a bad dream.
"You do not listen..." it spat under the suspended fifth,
hanging on the phrase as Joshua's violin completed the
progression, descending into resolution. It was closer--it was
coming closer.
Fear broke the spell and Joshua's eyes shot open just as the
orchestra held the final note of the movement, his bow
drawing so slowly over the E, sustain, sustain...and quiet.
The Thin Man was on the stage, under the same golden lights,
walking toward him across the polished floor in his filthy felt
coat. He was walking without footfalls in front of thousands
who all sat unknowing, releasing a cough or fidgeting briefly
in the pause between the second and third movements. They
couldn't see the specter closing in on Joshua any more than
Joshua could look beyond the brilliant curtain of lights to see
the faces of the audience he knew were seated before him.
Joshua's instrument hung loosely at his side, the bow dangling
from his forefinger. He was resting his arm, as was his habit
for the few seconds' rest he received in the Mendelssohn
before starting the final Allegro. His heart was pounding in
his chest. He could hear each thump, growing louder as the
man approached. Fear crawled into his nerves, sending a
signal to his brain to at all costs, run! Get free!
But he couldn't. His performer's instinct was at the helm.
Joshua took the violin up in his left hand and his chin felt for
the warmed wood of the Stradivarius as the Thin Man
methodically cleared the distance, moving slow and steady,
coming for him.
Joshua breathed, the air sounding harsh and rough in his
lungs. He turned his head to the left to look at the conductor
who was holding out the baton, awaiting Joshua's cue to begin.
He was about to make the small affirmative move to signal
the director's arm to fall. Downbeat was imminent; the pause
had been long enough, too long.
Joshua's fear made his eyes track once more toward the
lights. The Thin Man stood directly in front of him. He was
raising his pole-like arms, reaching out to Joshua, the cracked
smile of death breaking across his sunken face. In the lights
he was horrible to see, a walking corpse. "You don't exist,"
Joshua said without breath. His bone-thin hands, cold as
icicles, reached out to Joshua, cupping his head, pressing over
his ears. Inches from his nose, the death's head spoke.
"Tishena," it said.
Rome took flame as Joshua's chin dropped, cueing the
conductor to begin.
******************************
Mulder crossed the hall to look back at the stage. The third
movement was underway, the orchestra frolicking along after
Joshua's violin. Except it didn't sound like Joshua's violin; it
sounded...different.
Scully caught his concerned expression. "What is it, Mulder?"
"Something's wrong. Something's not right," Mulder mumbled,
squinting at the brightly-lit stage and its soloist. Scully stood
beside him, peering around the curtain.
"I don't understand. What are you seeing?"
"It's not what I'm seeing; it's what I'm hearing. That's not how
Joshua plays this. Something's wrong. He's moved; he's
standing differently."
Mulder watched Scully as she observed the scene. "He's just
watching the conductor. I don't understand. I know this piece,
Mulder. It sounds fine to me."
Mulder reached into his pocket for his phone. "I'm alerting
security. Joshua's seen something, or...I don't know, but I
swear, Scully, I've heard him practice this piece over and
over. It's just not how he plays it."
His partner kept her eyes on the stage while Mulder called
the Davies Hall security chief. They were sending extra men
backstage and toward the lower orchestra to check for
suspicious activity.
Mulder hung up his phone and leaned toward Scully. "Keep
this post covered; I'm heading backstage."
###
Mulder broke into a jog once he reached the maintenance
passage. Whether Joshua's life was a lie or not, he knew
nothing would keep the truth from his performance. The facts
Scully had laid out were hard to deny, but Mulder's gut
instinct was all but screaming at him to listen to the situation
with a less-trained ear.
He cut through the dressing rooms and opened the backstage
door, flashing his badge at the techies who rushed forward to
halt him. He stopped, standing to the side in the darkness of
the wing, catching his breath as Joshua and the San Francisco
Symphony finished the last seventeen bars of the concerto.
The audience broke into applause and Joshua bowed,
somewhat haltingly. His body language was communicating a
restrained panic that became more apparent as he exited the
stage and walked briskly past everyone in the shadows
toward his private room, keeping his eyes to the ground. He
didn't see Mulder and the agent called after him, squeezing
past the backstage security and technical crew jamming the
hall. Mulder caught up just in time to see Joshua's private
door slam and hear the bolt slide and lock. Mulder knocked
on the door.
"Joshua? Are you all right? Can you open the door?"
There was no reply, just the sound of rapid movements
coming from within. Mulder put his ear to the door. He could
hear the quick pace of Joshua's breathing as the stage crew
and even the symphony's conductor all gathered around,
concerned. Joshua had missed his curtain call.
Mulder pounded and called out to him to no avail. Finally, he
turned to the music director. "I think he saw something in the
audience. His performance was off, wasn't it?"
The conductor nodded. "He was technically accurate, but it
wasn't the Joshua I know. He hesitated before beginning the
last movement."
Mulder agreed with a grim nod, jiggling the knob. "Can
someone get a key for this door?"
A key was located, but before the stagehand could untangle
his string of keys, Joshua burst out of his room, hastily attired
in his casual clothes. He looked wildly at the crowd
assembled, and made a dash, violin case in hand, for the stage
door.
*The Thin Man has him,* was Mulder's concerned thought as
he kept close on Joshua's heels, calling to him. Joshua rushed
out the stage door and into the backseat of his waiting car,
held open by his driver. Joshua slid in, slamming the door
shut and locking it, shouting at his driver to "Go! Go!"
Mulder caught the driver by the arm as he made to circle to
the front to do as he was asked. "Wait a minute," the agent
said, holding open his badge. "Let me find out what's going on
with him. I think he's just spooked."
The driver looked at Mulder's ID and unlocked the back door
so Mulder could enter. In the dark interior, Mulder could see
Joshua sitting in the far corner, hunched over, his hands
around the back of his head. His eyes were closed as if he was
in pain.
"Joshua?"
The musician was making a strange moaning sound as his
hands shifted to cover his ears.
"What's going on, Joshua? What's wrong?"
When he failed to reply, Mulder moved across the seat
toward him and touched his shoulder. Joshua jumped
violently at the contact and looked up in surprise at Mulder.
He was shaking all over and his eyes reflected the dark
echoes of terror.
Mulder touched his hair, trying to calm him. "It's okay,
Joshua. I'm here. What's going on?"
Joshua's eyes narrowed and he shook his head like he didn't
understand. Mulder repeated himself and Joshua still failed to
comprehend.
"I..." he finally began to say, his fingers coming up to touch
the curve of his ear.
"What?"
"I...can't hear you."
******************************
*********************************
Chapter Eighteen: Tishena
*********************************
Weightlessness. In a world without senses, the child floated.
His small body had slipped through the ice and he had sunk
into the murky pond like a sodden leaf. His toes didn't quite
reach the muddy bottom, his head was not quite breaking the
surface. He was submerged, the heavy waters rocking him up
and down, up and down. Surrounded by fluid in a cold womb,
Joshua wanted to sleep, drift with numbness into oblivion.
Senselessness could be realized were it not for the thuds
shuddering from above. Men were searching for him, crossing
the ice, calling out, testing the brittle surface with long poles.
They came closer to his frozen head, striking the silver film.
A sudden current rippled through the water and he started,
air retching from his lungs like a sickness. He wanted to
breathe, his chest pleading for relief. His head tipped skyward
and his eyes opened. A rowboat cracked the surface as it
glided overhead and stilled. A man leaned over the side,
peering into the water. His blurred mouth was moving as if he
were shouting for someone. The man's hand reached down,
breaking into the icy silence of the water, reaching for him.
###
Davies Medical Center ER
1:45 AM
Joshua jerked and opened his eyes.
"It's okay," Mulder said, laying his hand on Joshua's head,
stroking the edge of his ear with his thumb. Joshua had been
dozing on the gurney. Mulder hated to wake him, but hated
even more to watch him struggle with his dreams. He stood
next to him trying to communicate comfort even though he
knew Joshua couldn't hear the words. He stroked the side of
his face. It made sense to try and ground him with touch.
Joshua's eyes tracked over the room, skittish and afraid. He
was still having difficulty orienting himself in the white
rooms of the ER.
"Spinning..." he said with difficulty, halting on the start of his
words. It would take some time for Joshua to learn how to
speak comfortably without the use of his ears. The room was
still moving to him, an inner ear imbalance somehow related
to his sudden auditory failure. He looked pale to Mulder,
closed off and frightened. Joshua had barely said three words
to him since they left Davies.
Mulder reached for the erasable noteboard and pen the nurse
had provided lying near Joshua's bed. /How are you feeling?/
he wrote.
Joshua frowned, motioning for the pen board. /What's wrong
with me?/ he wrote sloppily, still lying on his side, too out of
it to sit up. Two hours ago he'd been administered a dose of
Meclizine to calm the vertigo and himself. He had become
nearly hysterical at one point during the course of exams the
emergency neurologist and ENT ordered on him. They'd
feared an aneurysm. Joshua didn't take well to being strapped
down for the MRI. It didn't matter; the images of his brain
had come back normal. Two hours had passed now and they
still failed to find any answers.
/We don't know yet. You seem to be in no danger./ Mulder
replied in writing.
Joshua read the words and pushed the pad away.
Mulder took it up again, wiping the slate clean with his hand.
/They'll send for an audiologist tomorrow./ Joshua read it, but
did not respond. He closed his eyes, pressing his head into the
pillow. "I want to go home," he whispered.
###
Marina Flat
2:34 AM
Mulder assisted Joshua in readying for bed. He helped him
change out of his clothes, moving the covers back for him to
lie down. The Meclizine was starting to wear off, but the
majority of Joshua's despondency was attributed to
disorientation and ultimately, shock.
Mulder sat next to Joshua on the bed as he got comfortable,
settling on his stomach. Mulder placed his hand on the man's
back, rubbing gently until he felt him relax.
/Try to sleep. Scully and I will watch you./ Mulder wrote on
the pad. He reached over Joshua's head to shut off the lamp
and draw the blanket up over his shoulders. It was only after
Joshua had closed his eyes and seemed to drift off that
Mulder got up to face Scully, who'd been watching them from
the center of the room.
She looked uncomfortable. Mulder didn't care how it
appeared to her right now. Joshua needed a friend.
"I don't think requesting a specialist is going to make any
difference tomorrow," she said in a hushed voice.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because the ENT ran Joshua through all the standard
examinations tonight and concluded that there was no
apparent physical cause for his condition--no injury,
infections or tumors."
"That's because the cause isn't physical," Mulder said firmly.
Scully sighed. "Mulder..."
"Why are you whispering, Scully?"
Scully looked obstinately at him--her impatience with him
was quite visible. She gestured for him to move with her to
the far end of the flat. Mulder followed with trepidation for
her coming argument. She turned to him once they'd reached
the kitchen bar. "I'm whispering because I'm not 100 percent
certain he's deaf. His MRI indicated his auditory nerves are
functioning normally."
"I don't care about the tests. It's obvious to me he can't hear."
"According to Joshua he was struck deaf by the so called Thin
Man--who no less than a thousand people failed to witness--
just before the final movement of the concerto. After which,
Joshua went on to finish the performance flawlessly. "
"So? He's a good violinist."
"Or a very good actor. And if you elect to believe his story at
face value, you've allowed yourself to be more influenced
than I thought."
"But it's like Beethoven...he's like Beethoven," Mulder insisted.
"What?"
"One of the first conversations I ever had with Joshua...he told
me about Beethoven conducting the premiere performance of
the Ninth Symphony while he was stone deaf...he followed the
bows of the first violins."
"That might be fine for waving a stick, Mulder, but Beethoven
wasn't playing an intuitive instrument. The violin...its
fingering is relative to the pitch of the orchestra. Joshua may
be a virtuoso, but I don't believe he could possibly have
pulled off a concerto finale in this condition; if it is a
condition."
"You're saying he's making this all up?"
"Yes...No. I don't know. He may believe that he's not hearing.
In cases of psychogenic hypacusis the perception of deafness
can be brought on by extreme stress, but I'd hate to find
ourselves in a compromised position with him. I think we
need to operate as if he can hear us."
Mulder stood staring at her. "You really believe he'd lie about
something like this?"
Scully opened her palms in frustration. "Of course he would.
He's been lying to us all week. It's very convenient that he's
already fed you a history lesson to back up this whole
scenario."
Mulder pursed his lips and shook his head. "You can't
convince me of that, Scully."
"Mulder!" she exclaimed, although her voice was still hushed.
"How much more corroborating evidence do you need?"
"I don't buy it, Scully. Everything you've shown me so far on
him is purely circumstantial," Mulder replied, beginning to
lose his grip on the enforced reasoning in his voice.
Scully's mouth parted as she stared back up at him, blinking
in amazement. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. You're
denying everything we've proven. You're clinging to invisible
suspects and fantasies. What will it take to make you see him
for who he really is?"
"What will it take for you to see that he might actually care
for me?" Mulder said abruptly. He stopped, shocked that he
had just said those words to her.
"What are you saying to me, Mulder?" she said, unsteadily.
"That you're in love with him?"
Mulder struggled to provide a response, but found he
couldn't. His lack of reply stunned them both as they stood in
the far corner of Joshua's dark flat caught in a surrealistic
limbo.
A small object hit the floor and both agents flinched. Out of
the darkness, an erasable marking pen rolled freely toward
them across Joshua's wooden floor. They looked beyond it to
find Joshua standing in the center of his flat holding a sign.
/Get out!/ it read.
************************
3:42 AM
Sleepless, Joshua sat at the end of his bed for over an hour,
staring across the bare floor to the back of the piano. The
instrument's long back was a cold, remote black. In its center,
like an island, sat the Stradivarius case staying afloat in a
frozen ink sea. Joshua felt himself rise and reach out for the
thick weave of the case. He unzipped and unlatched it in two
simple movements. Inside, the violin lay patiently, waiting for
him to wake it like a sleeping fairy maiden. He took her in his
hands, familiar, and tucked her under his chin. He smelled the
ancient wood, colored an even mahogany in the dim light
from the street--its aged imperfections smoothed by paucity
of light as if it were reborn into the night.
His fingers moved to first position, his wrist dipped to take up
the bow, twisting the peg taut. Bow met string as his arm
moved instinctively. The open 'A' rang out, and for a single
moment of relief, Joshua could swear he had heard it clear
like the ring of a church bell. But when the vibrations under
his chin stilled, the perfect 440 'A' rang on in his head until
he silenced it. The violin would still give to him, but he had no
capacity to accept its gift, only the memories of thousands of
hours of solitude lost with the failing of his ears.
Lovingly, he lay the Stradivarius back in the case along with
the bow, loosening the strings for long storage. He closed the
lid and slipped the locks into place. He slowly walked away
from the piano around the bench to look out the window. The
Bay was smooth and calm like polished onyx. In his mind he
saw the frozen pond beyond the farm--a soft blue-gray
sheet--and tried to remember the serenity he had found
under those dormant branches. The border collie looked up
from where she had fallen asleep at his feet, the eyes of trust
and love. Another winter from then his grandfather would
come and save him, raise him to greatness; but the dog had
remained behind. He never knew what had become of her.
With a sob, Joshua gripped the piano bench, lifting it over his
head and cast it into the cold thin pane of the window,
smashing it into a billion brilliant pieces that flew apart in
perfect silence--tishena.
************************
3:55 AM
Mulder found him sitting on the floor at the side of his bed,
bleeding from the hands in a glinting sea of broken glass. He
was in the dark, shivering in the cold wind that flew in from
the ocean blowing his home apart. Trinkets and papers had
fallen from the shelves and lamps had tipped over and
broken in the gusts. Joshua was cold, unresponsive. His eyes
were open, but his face was streaked in blood from where he
had tried to cover his eyes.
Mulder helped him up and held him against his shoulder,
covering him with his coat. He walked him slowly out to the
car where he'd been waiting, parked on the street out of sight,
until he heard the crash of the piano bench escaping the
fourth floor and splintering into kindling on the sidewalk
below. Scully had gone back to the hotel.
Joshua sat still in the passenger's seat as they drove to the ER.
His torn hands were lying limp in his lap, wrapped in lime-
green dish towels that Mulder had found in a Sonoma
shopping bag. By the time they reached the medical center
again, Joshua's shivering had stopped and he stared bleakly at
his wrapped hands. Mulder turned off the car and was about
to open the driver's door when Joshua finally spoke to him.
"Why has God abandoned me?" he asked in a voice wavering
from being used without the guidance of his ears. "I've never
played with more honesty before in my life."
Mulder shook his head and mouthed, "He hasn't."
"But you have," he said, lowering his head in despair.
###
Davies Medical Center
5:30 AM
Mulder sat, despondent, counting the number of blue-gray
floor tiles in the hospital hallway. He felt there was something
he should be doing, someone he should be talking to,
arresting, shaking up and down for answers, but there was no
one left to ask. The mystery of Joshua's curse had been
revealed. There was nothing to do but wait and hope. Joshua
was a musician who couldn't hear--that was a cold hard fact--
Mulder didn't care what the reasons were anymore.
He also couldn't care that Lt. Jarvis chose this early peak of
the morning to make an appearance. The misplaced rogue
gunman of the West strode up the hallway toward Mulder's
slouched form, taking the seat next to him.
"Mornin', Agent Mulder," he said, tipping an invisible hat.
"Why are you here?" Mulder asked tiredly.
"I'm doing you a favor," he said.
"Somehow I doubt that."
"I don't know if I'd be so quick to judge. I'm having my men
keep those nosy reporters out of this hallway," he said with a
nod toward the main parking lot. "Seems your boy put on
quite a show last night."
"I don't find that amusing," Mulder said darkly, shifting as if
to stand.
"That's not humor you're gettin' from me, son," Lt. Jarvis said,
stalling him. "Just the truth."
Mulder wanted to end this conversation before it got started.
"I've had enough of the truth this week."
"Now just settle yourself down and listen here for a minute. I
didn't come here to get you all in a froth. I'm here to do my
dutiful follow-up on a disturbance call from the boy's
neighbors. Somebody's upset they've got shattered glass and
bench legs in their rosebushes."
Mulder sighed. "Joshua's understandably upset. I shouldn't
have let him be alone. He's very vulnerable right now and
unpredictable. You can't blame him for that, after what he's
been through."
Jarvis rubbed his mustache, agreeing. "Well, I'm not here to
arrest him, anyway. I'm here to talk to you. I know a little
something about you--and I don't mean your fondness for
violin-playin' fellas. I did a little checking up on you and I
know about the kind of work you do. It's a far cry from
throwing bums in the can, but if you'll give me your ear a
minute, you might learn something from an old street cop."
Mulder sat back in his chair, wary. "I'm listening."
"I've spent over thirty years dragging junkies and drunks and
just plain crazy folk off the streets and into the lockup so
they'll stop bothering the regular folk. We clean 'em up, feed
'em, give 'em a warm place to sleep before the law says we
gotta turn 'em loose again. It doesn't do much good; they just
come right back. Each time they're just the same or maybe
even a little worse off. Do you know why they keep coming
back?"
Mulder shook his head vaguely. He'd been up all night and
didn't feel like conjuring the energy to launch into a social
commentary.
"They keep coming back because they can't face their demons.
A man who overcomes addiction is a man who's faced himself
and his troubles head-on. Locking these fellas up only gives
them a place to hide one more day. I don't pretend to know
your business, but I do know you've been bending over
backwards to protect that boy in there and it ain't doin' a
heap of good for him."
"I'm doing my job," Mulder insisted.
"Yep, and I do mine. But I know you were feeding me a tall
tale that night at the opera and your friend in there wasn't
doing very well to hide himself in your coat. I interviewed
the second valet; he saw what really went on, but I kept it out
of my final report because I trusted you knew what you were
about."
Mulder looked at the floor. That fabrication had caused him
more trouble than Lt. Jarvis could guess.
"I've seen plenty of demon-haunted men, but I ain't ever
seen anything like what's after that poor boy. It's not the kind
of thing I'm familiar with, but I know you are, so I'm more
than willing to keep back from your case. What I'm saying is,
maybe protecting him is only making his demons get
meaner."
Mulder looked over at the older man. Lt. Jarvis was regarding
him with patience and support. Perhaps he wasn't half the
pompous ass Mulder had taken him for. He'd been good about
the photos, after all. "Thank you for respecting my business,"
Mulder said civilly.
Lt. Jarvis stood up and placed a big hand on Mulder's
shoulder. "Just do me a favor and keep the boy from throwing
the rest of the piano out the window, okay?"
"I will."
###
Mulder stood at the foot of Joshua's bed, watching him sleep.
He was lying on his side, breathing in shallow gulps of air.
Even in sleep his adrenaline-charged body refused to let him
relax. He seemed so fragile to him right now, like glass, ready
to shatter under the slightest tremble. How could he even
begin to leave Joshua alone to stake his own battle?
Joshua's eyes opened and he looked to Mulder.
Mulder took up the message board and wrote across the pad.
/I don't know how to free the boy from the barn./
Joshua flexed his hands; they were partially bandaged, but
useful. He held out for the pen and wrote in blocky letters.
/Find a key./
###
Mulder was wandering back from the coffee vendor, nursing
his third cup of brown swill, when he saw Joshua's mother in
the hallway, opening her son's door and slipping inside his
room.
That was odd, he thought. How did she know? The morning
papers had yet to be delivered. He didn't have much time to
wonder before his eyes caught a shadowy form in a long felt
coat turning to flee at the far end of the long hall.
"Hey!" he yelled, dropping the nearly emptied cup and
running for the end of the hall. "Stop, Federal Agent!"
He reached the corner in time to see the stairwell door
clicking shut. He ran for it and took off down the cold cement
steps, pulling his weapon. The gray-headed figure was a few
flights down, moving slowly. It wasn't long before he gained
the distance and the figure held up his hands as Mulder
pinned him against the wall. The "figure" barely came up to
his shoulder. He turned him around.
"Nanette."
"I'm sorry," she gasped out of breath. "Don't hurt me."
Mulder let her go and holstered his weapon. "Why did you
run from me? And why the hell are you wearing this coat? I
could have shot you!"
She held her hands up in fear. "Don't shoot me! Don't shoot
me!"
"I'm not," he insisted. "But you could tell me why you're
sneaking around in here."
"I brought someone to see Joshua."
"Who?"
"The only one who doesn't know him as a musician."
"His mother," Mulder realized. "Did you go in to see him? He's
been missing you."
The old woman lowered her mussed gray head. "I can not see
him. Poor darling; not like this. Not after what I've done."
"What did you do?"
She shook her head sadly like she couldn't answer him.
"Goddammit, Nanette! Joshua's been struck deaf. Don't you
think now might be a good time to confess? I don't give a crap
about your past or whatever rituals you participated in sixty
years ago. I'm not even remotely interested in arresting you
for illegal immigration, forgery or otherwise. All I care about
is helping Joshua and I need answers from you, now!"
She looked up at him with reddened gray eyes. "It all started
so long ago; I never knew the evil we did would become so
deadly. Joshua's grandpapa thought he'd be safe if he only
stayed out of Ukraine. He forbade Joshua to ever tour near
there. But it's grown so powerful. It's crossed continents and
generations. Every day it becomes stronger," she hissed.
"Explain it to me, so I can help you stop it."
"You cannot stop it. It is immortal. But...I will try so you can
understand. It began with the birth of a child..."
###
Joshua stared at his bound hands, wrapped in white gauze.
They seemed such a simple sacrifice. He'd cut them off at the
wrists if it meant the restoration of his ears. He kept hoping
he would wake up to the sound of his own breathing and let
this nightmare end. Instead he was encased in a glass box,
invisible and impenetrable. He was separated from the one
thing that defined his very life. He didn't know the measure
of himself without music. Music was the length and breadth
of him. It dictated his ambitions, his friends, his passions.
Without it, there was nothing. He became invisible. He ceased
to exist. He remembered his birthday party--the gold
balloons, the laughter, the indulgences. The world was his that
day. Fortune had smiled on him briefly, her fickle favor now
all but forgotten.
He didn't have the mind to protest when his mother entered,
looking lost and afraid for him. She came to his bedside, but
unlike the others, she didn't try to speak. So many lips had
been mocking him with their ability to make sound. Hers
were still, but her eyes said everything--they spoke of love,
unconditional, as she took his bound hand and held it
between her own.
"I can't play, mama. I have to leave the stage...I'm nobody
now."
Her sad eyes looked deeply into his. They were dark blue like
his own. "You are my son," they said as she reached for him,
cradling his head in her arms, holding him tightly to her
breast.
Joshua surrendered to her embrace. For the first time he
allowed himself to be a child for her. Since this whole tragedy
began, he allowed himself to weep.
###
He was resting now, exhausted from the tears and wails he
didn't hold back--he couldn't hear himself to be ashamed by
it. His mother sat next to his bed, her hand over his, silently
willing him to sleep.
His mind was quieting, giving up the struggle to strain for
sound. His thoughts hushed and his consciousness abated. In
that stillness he could begin to hear it--faint simple tones,
string for string--a Bach partita, the foundation of music. The
violin sang him to sleep.
***************************