Hunter's Moon - Randy Wayne White by Randy Wayne White

Author:Randy Wayne White
Language: eng
Format: epub

13

When Tomlinson disappeared, he was wearing British walking shorts, tank top, hair braided. Now, though, he was dressed formally: black slacks, white dinner jacket, hair brushed smooth to his shoulders, sun-bleached, with streaks of gray. He was hunched over the piano, fingers spread, face close to the keys, like a near-sighted novelist at a typewriter.

Wilson and I entered the shop unnoticed to listen. It was like stepping into a musician's attic: a cramped space, no air-conditioning but cool, instruments overhead, violins, guitars, swaying with ceiling fans like the pendulum of an antique clock. There were reading chairs, a chess set, a workbench of disassembled artistry. Red-shaded lamps melded shadows with the reticent lighting of a Chinatown whorehouse. If Sherlock Holmes lived in Key West, it would've been here.

When Tomlinson finished, Wilson and I waited for the last note to end before I said, "Ten years I've

known you and I've never heard you play."

Tomlinson looked, threw his hair back, and focused. Said,

"Marion?," as if coming out of a trance while his brain relocated. "You've never heard me because I don't play anymore. Pianos disowned me when I moved to a sailboat. Can you blame them?"

"Because . . . ?"

"No room, man. It was a form of infidelity. Pianos demand space and I chose not to provide it. Occasionally, I'll find a very forgiving instrument"—he touched the ebony wood with affection—"that'll play me. This is one of the few who accepts my fingers. This piano is saturated with sea air, I think. We're both sailors." Tomlinson's eyes drifted until they found the president, then brightened. "Sam! I've been trying to contact you! That's why the piano." His fingers moved over the keys. "Like the Pied Piper. I knew you'd show up if I played."

"I don't get it."

"For the music, of course." Once again, Tomlinson began

"Moonlight Sonata"—left hand rolling the repetitive bass notes, right hand coaxing a reluctant melody.

Instead of being confused, Wilson grew serious. "Why that passage?"

"Because I watched you on the beach yesterday and the sonata's first movement was all over you. Like an aura." Tomlinson continued playing; notes reluctant, understated.

"Knock off the baloney."

"For real, man. It's what I heard. I was getting No Más ready. You walked to the point."

"That's true. But why 'Moonlight Sonata'? Out of all the songs in the world?"

" 'Cause I felt it, man. This sort of thing happens to me all the time, Sam. I'm like a wind tunnel. Energy blows right through me."

Tomlinson's eyes were cheerfully numb. From Wilson, I expected cheerful forbearance. Instead, he became more serious.

"Prove it's true."

By the way he tugged at his hair, I could tell Tomlinson wanted to be done with the subject. "I can't prove it, but I'm right. I knew if I played the sonata, you'd show up. Same with 'Clair de Lune.' It was there, too, with you and your wife on the beach. Debussy."

Chords changed; Tomlinson's fingers slowed. Another familiar classic—fragile, inquisitive.

I was reminding myself that Wray Wilson had been deaf from birth as the president said, "Cayo Costa.

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