My Friend Wolfgang

I suppose I shouldn't complain about my childhood. But because this is my book I will. One word could characterize it: boredom. I was raised by my nanny and taught by a governess. My father was present for the most minimal amount of times. Every night we would get an hour or so together where me, my father, and my mother sat together in the parlor. I would sit board straight and wait to be spoken to. My father would sit with his legs elegantly crossed in such a thoroughly masculine way and my mother would do her needle point and pretend to not be listening to every word of the conversation. These were some of the only memories I had of my father that were not of him reading, smoking, drinking brandy or tea, or doing something, anything. In this hour he simply was alert eyed and seemed to be trying to get all of his fathering for the day out in one hour.

Afterwards it would be off to an early bedtime for me.

In the beginning of my childhood I do remember some of the magic that is described in the books, and while we’re on it, those were the source of much of that magic. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Charles Dickens were aptly devoured. They made my world light up. But even more than those were the fables. I loved Aesop's fables more than any other book, even getting into my adolescence. They were simple and engaging. I cherished engagement in any medium more than anything else. My governess taught me reading and writing and math, a bit of history—but never so much that it actually got exciting. After the morning and early afternoon classes I was left alone except for the daily routines of bathing and eating. I sat on my bed looking at the ceiling and wandered my parent’s elaborate apartment complex.

I later found out that my parents were ludicrously wealthy. But they didn’t show it nearly as much as other families I saw. Our house was large, very large, and had its share of paintings and art, and silverware. But when I compared it to other homes it certainly boarded on middle class.

So I was left to continue to wander the house and stroll through the rooms, today its large library. I never enjoyed reading much past Aesop’s fables and children’s adventure novels My father had a large volume of books on politics, medicine, and the state of the world and those bored me to tears, but one day as I was searching aimlessly through the many titles I saw a very faded squat blue book. I couldn’t see what it said on the side cover so I pulled it out.

“The Arabian Nights.”

So I began reading.

I never felt such complete and utter joy since playing with my nurse or hugging my mum as a youth.

I read about Sheherazade frantic storytelling to save her life, the tricky fisherman who talked his way out of torture to an ifrit, and I felt frustration as the one eyed man opened the 1 door of 40 that he couldn’t open.

I read and read and read and then read them over again.

One day I was reading so much I hadn’t realized it was 7:15. 7:15-8:15 is family hour. I bolted upright, but not before my father opened the door. He looked at me sprawled across the bed and frowned. My heart thundered in my chest as he stepped close in a seemingly drawn out manner.

Finally he held out his hand and I knew there was no hope.

He paged through the book eyes wide saying nothing. Then, still silent, he put the book into his coat pocket and walked back out the door.

So I went about family hour like any other day, although it seemed more tense than normal that night, but nothing was said.

I was sad and anxious as I bathed and put on my pajamas after family hour, my governess keeping a strict eye on time.

In bed by 8:30 and to rise with the dawn makes a man strong.

Then my nanny said something I never expected her to say.

“John, your father wants you in his study.”

I gulped, but was also oddly excited. I can’t remember the last time I was in his study.

So I treaded down the pastel blue and white hall and entered his study and found myself surrounded by dark mahogany, deep brown woods, and low lamps. The air smelled of strong tea, brandy, and cigar smoke, and many, many old volumes.

My father sat across from me, hands folded across his stomach.

“Son, I came to realize lately how much you have been neglected by this family. You have neither privilege nor responsibility, nor any meaningful activity to fill your time, I intend to change that.”

I nodded, not processing entirely what had been said but daring to hope for the best.

“I will begin tutoring you privately in the finest of subjects personally.”

History, fables, adventure stories, maybe even hunting or horsemanship or fencing.

“Latin and Greek.”

I hope my face didn’t drop.

“Every man should know them, they are the founders of the ideals that built our empire today and are the mark of true civilization.”

I sighed inside.

But nonetheless we began and besides, I was focused, maybe too focused on pleasing my father. But as I got used to it, I began to enjoy it and actually started to look forward to it. It even allowed me to stay up a bit later. From 8:20-9:00 every night we spoke and he was a surprisingly good teacher. He taught me a lot. And you can hardly imagine my thrill when he handed me my first large volume: The Odyssey.

Another love affair was in store. I read and read and I learned quicker because I wanted to read so much.

The thrilling escape from the cyclops, the seduction of Calypso, and the wrath of Poseidon filled my hours with color and adventure for a time.

But my days were still unoccupied. I finished whatever small classes my governess prepared quickly and the afternoons were long, lonely, and friendless.

Until finally I made the real discovery.

One day I was strolling through the apartments and I came across something I had seen thousands of times before, but never really noticed. A piano. I looked at it for a second and realized just how odd the 52 ivories and 36 ebonies were. I sat down for a second and thought. I played a key. It took more effort then I thought to play it and the sound resonated around the room for a while.

I knew how I would spend the afternoon.

Soon enough I found Playing the piano for children.

And I entertained myself day after day in a state of some sort of boredom, but active boredom. I played the boring sounding songs just to learn where the keys were until finally I thought I had a good grasp.

By then I was bored to death with the same emotionless songs and I decided that the piano was just another useless piece of furniture. So, I went back to my normal routine of boardome and strolling the empty halls, just to avoid playing the practice songs again.

Until I met my first real friend.

Wolfgang.

Now, I can’t explain how it happened, but just listen to me for a moment.

I was laying on my back on the floor of the piano room alone, looking at the ceiling pondering whether or not I should bore myself once again with the c major scale or f minor arpeggio. When I heard footsteps and saw a man walk into the room. He was young, severe faced, and tall. Somewhat handsome, but also odd looking and almost bird-like in his features. He wore an old fashioned colorful suit and one of those wigs the parlament men wore.

He didn’t even spare me a glance as he stord towards the piano and sat down confidently.

Slowly he tapped a single key with effortless control. Then two, then three, then four. Then the second hand. He moved both hands seamlessly and independently, completely in control. His feet moved in perfect coordination along the pedal and the melody filled the room. This wasn’t a boring opera, this wasn’t slow, this wasn’t a learners song. This was musical perfect. This was action embodied in sound. The music felt like a fight or a dance. The finger work was incredible—impossibly fast and complex. It seemed as though his fingers were longer, more complex, and more dexterous than any other human’s I had ever seen.

From that moment on the piano wasn’t furniture, but a mighty sword. And Wolfgang became my fencing instructor. He never spoke, just sat by my side and guided my hands by show and feel.

Slowly I became better. And I didn’t feel it, but I must have become excellent.

I worked through every piece he knew and wrote. And I got to know him through it. I didn’t like it, I loved it. I loved it. I loved the ups and downs and I loved most of all, the action. This was boredom’s foil. This enlightened me, it taught me, it thrilled me.

Until one day Wolfgang didn’t come back.

And I sat by the piano slowly plucking the keys sadly. And I kept plucking them. And I played and played sadly. And then played sadly some more, until finally I realized I was making music. It wasn’t my friend’s but it was inspired by it, but also my own. And slowly, something formed and rose up in a mighty climax before ending with a final peaceful rhythm.

I was sad my friend wasn’t sitting by my side, but I knew somehow he was still here.

Boredom didn’t come as much any more.