The Last Symphony

The turn in the road came up slowly, gracefully, with the forest opening in front of him, a welcoming parting that drew him in deeper and deeper into his thoughts. It was silent, not even the hum of the road, nor the whistle of the wind breaking through. But the rain… he realized he could hear the rain. For a moment he thought this was a dream, he was dreaming, mostly because it was far more peaceful than it felt like it should be. He had been here before. He knew this music. He knew how it came in, how it strutted and how it ended. It was not his favorite symphony, but he knew it like the back of his soul.

He started the piece knowing it would arouse the audience, get them whispering to themselves, and he wanted to see what would happen. In the corner of his mind was a violin speaking softly to let it go, play this bit sotto voce. It went pretty much as expected, following the music he had seen written when they first met, dashing his hopes for a different composition as the new movement unfolded. He knew the crescendo would come, and the longer the rest after the first bar, the more spectacular he expected the music to return. He was prepared for it, waiting unconsciously for it, and when the music came back after some time, it arrived as an old worn-out unwelcome friend. The feeling that it needed anything from him passed quickly now that he was older, more experienced, and more familiar with this piece. He could let it go. He was more melancholy than upset, saddened that the music had continued as he knew it, while played in a different time and place it was turning out exactly the same. He wanted to believe it would be different this time. But knowing this piece and the nature of conductors and hearing the expected phrase rather than the hopefully awaited one, he knew how this was going to play out. Emotionally he was already putting his stuff in a box. He was a bit surprised to hear that particular voice, but it made perfect sense once heard. He had smiled sadly on hearing it, not the notes he had hoped for, but what he knew would come. The conductor lacked imagination but knew the notes well, played them expertly. The audience would swoon. Same tune, different venue, just as upsetting, maybe, and now, disappointing. And he conducted with the vigor of a man impressing himself impressing others.

The forest enveloped him as he drove on, giving him a sense of peace and quiet that small calming spaces can offer. Part of him still felt vulnerable, but maybe knowing the rest of how it would play out made it easier now that he knew the piece would play out unchanged. He would never understand how the same tragic compositions kept showing up in different places playing the same notes, singing in the same key, while he expected and hoped for seomthing more serene. The conductor had brought forth the usual highlights that were designed to inspire awe, to seize the narrative, to cheerlead and console, while between the chords the diva was screaming at him, “Sit. Down.” The shepherd was warning the wolf to stop eating the sheep, and letting the wolf know he was not part of the pack for having done so but could be if he let the sheep be, like all the others. But he was a wolf, the shepherd feared this, and when they first crossed paths, he had made it clear the wolf would behave for the piece was already written, the show had already begun. But the wolf did not, could not, for he was a wolf. The shepherd’s plan was already orchestrated and composed; he had said as much. And now he had eaten a sheep. Perhaps, the wolf wondered, if he left the sheep alone now that the first movement passed, the shepherd would leave him be, the piece would play on, and no one would notice a broken string, a split reed, a sad wolf.

He lost himself in the drive, letting the rain wash the music, the melancholy away, letting the experience drift further behind him. Soon enough he would see if the expected coda would play, or if in letting it play in silence as it was the music would continue to flow around him, leaving him alone, sitting, watching, not eating the sheep. But he is a wolf, and wolves do wolf things, already there was growling. But this was a tired wolf, and being at the edge of the herd was better than having no herd at all. He awaited the next movement with great anticipation, rooting for the wolf who would wear sheep’s clothing, that he might console himself and follow docilely. Would he be less of a wolf for not straying from the music and for following the unimaginative conductor, he wondered? So many wolves before had managed to let the piece play out, so too could he. Play his part, add to the chorus without distinction without losing himself in it, let go of being a wolf. It would not be his music, but to an old wolf, maybe this no longer mattered. The edge of the herd then, second chair is still in the orchestra. It was a good orchestra, even now.

He decided to drive on through the rain, and see how this would play out, if he simply listened, played his part, and never looked the shepherd in the eye again. Orchestras and conductors want to be the sort that surround themselves with wolves but become upset when the wolves eat their sheep.

He reminded himself that in the end, the conductor always leaves… and he didn't like eating sheep anyway.