Free Nocturne by Charles Sheehan-Miles

can talk.”
    “Then tell me why you’re here.”
    “My mom ... she … um ...”
    “Your mother wanted you to learn? Does she think because you are blind you’ll be some sort of prodigy?”
    He flinched, then nodded, just a little.
    “And what do you want?”
    His face turned away from me, his blank, scarred eyes moving around aimlessly. Then he said, “I want to stop feeling like I’m a freak.”
    I bit the inside of my cheek. All right, then.
    “Then listen.” I set the bow to my strings and began to play. The same beginner piece I’d played for my useless music theory class a few weeks before. Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major. The first music I’d learned on the cello. The music that had transformed my life.
    As the notes rang out in that tiny practice room, I watched the boy. I watched his expression. I wanted to see inside his head. See his thoughts. See if he felt it. If he believed it.
    And then something quite magical happened. He began to sway in his seat. He did feel it.
    Finished, I said, “For you to learn to play like this, you’ll practice until your fingertips feel like they’ll split open. Day and night. You won’t stop when you’re hungry. You won’t stop when you’re tired. You have to want it enough to give up your entire life for the music. You have to be able to coax beauty out of nothing. Do you understand me?”
    He nodded his head. Quickly. I thought about the difficulties of teaching this boy. I wasn’t the instructor to get him started. But I would ensure he found someone.
    I leaned forward until our faces were almost touching. “If you’re willing to go that far, then I’ll find someone to teach you.”
    I stood and put my instrument away in its case. Then I opened the door, and walked past his parents, who had to scatter in front of the swinging door. I paused for just a moment and turned back toward them. “You’ll need to get him a decent instrument. That one isn’t going to work if he’s going to seriously learn. Call me on Thursday and I’ll find you an instructor.”
    Without another word, I walked back up the hall to the stairs, back to my office.
     
     
    Savannah 
    I squinted again and took my pen out of my mouth. The top of it was thoroughly chewed. Bad habit, I knew, but sometimes when I was really concentrating I tended to chew on whatever was at hand.
    I’d been sitting in the coffee shop for two hours, working on a composition. This wasn’t an assignment, though it had been inspired by one. Just before spring break, I’d completed a paper in music theory on Claude Debussy’s music and life. That led to some speculation on variations that might be possible with the Debussy’s Claire de Lune. So I’d taken the original composition and begun to rework the beginning, which was all piano, into a cello and flute duet. For hours I’d worked on it, closing my eyes. Imagining the layers of notes, the point and counterpoint.
    But now I was stuck. My legs were cramped, my tea was cold, and I needed a break.
    So I shook my head, took my earbuds out, and stood. I hadn’t actually been listening to music with the earbuds. But keeping them in served two purposes. First, it helped shut out some of the noise. Second, it deterred would-be conversationalists. I walked up to the counter and ordered another chai latte, then waited. And then it hit me.
    I closed my eyes. And then I imagined ... the Claire de Lune, but transposed with Debussy’s Nocturnes . It would take a lot of adjustment in both pieces, but the end would be … a magnificent and beautiful contradiction. Haunting.
    Someone tapped my arm, and my eyes jerked open. The barista stood there looking puzzled and tapping a foot in impatience. “Are you all right?” she asked.
    “Yeah ...” I was a little breathless. “Thank you.”
    I turned to hurry back to my seat and get to work, then came to a halt.
    Gregory Fitzgerald sat at the counter diagonally opposite where I’d been sitting the last two