Free Jog On Fat Barry by Kevin Cotter Page A

seeing things: things that weren’t there. But then, only moments later, the bloke was back; repeating what it was he’d said before.
    “What… anything?” I asked.
    “Whatever your heart desires,” he replied.
    “Bring Frank back,” I commanded.
    “Anything but that,” he countered.
    “But you said—”
    “Not that,” he repeated, cutting me off.
    Now genies were crafty buggers who would take advantage of any poorly worded wishes. I remembered reading that time and again. And Mum always warned me to be careful of what I wished for because I might just get it. Of course, I knew what the others would’ve wished for. Frank would have wished for a million pounds, and lived like a king in Palma de Majorca; Granddad would have wished for steak and chips every Thursday night; Mum and Dad would have wished Frank back, like I had, but they’d have settled for a new Dolomite Sprint with overdrive and tinted windows. But I was stumped and couldn’t decide what to ask for until I saw the book I’d been reading to Mum upended on the floor.
    “I want to see Beethoven conduct the 9th,” I said. “The very first performance… at the Kärntnertortheater in Vienna.”
    “But Beethoven didn’t conduct that, Master,” the genie replied.
    “He stood on the podium beating time,” I shot back. “That’s what I want to see.”
    “Alright… as you wish, Master,” the genie replied.
    “But wait,” I yelled, throwing open one of the cardboard boxes. “There’s something I have to get first.”

    According to the librarian, the world of 1824 was quite unlike the world today. You couldn’t just switch on a light, or make a phone call, or watch the telly, or catch a bus, and things like syphilis could kill you. It was a leap year that started on a Thursday. It was also the year Lord Byron died; Alexandre Dumas was born; Charles X succeeded Louis XVIII as King of France; the British captured Rangoon; the Egyptians captured Crete, and Ludwig Van Beethoven’s glorious symphony No. 9 had its world premiere.
    But travelling back to 1824 wasn’t as exciting as I had thought it might be. All I experienced was this tingling sensation and the faint scent of oranges. And even that lasted but a moment. No sooner had it begun, then it was over again, and I was standing in a small room lit by a single candelabrum burning four candles. For a moment I thought I was alone in the room, but then I heard a scratching noise followed by grunts and grumblings. I turned toward the sound to see a man hunched over some manuscript paper in a corner. He dipped a pen into an inkwell and then his hand flew across the paper. And the hand seemed to have a mind of its own, furiously drawing squiggles and lines. The man himself appeared quite content. He mumbled and laughed. But moments later a door opened and the man writing stilled his hand. Another man stood in the doorway. He tapped a cane against the floor. The vibrations travelled across the room and the man huddled in the corner looked up. It was Beethoven. I could tell by the rash on his face. The man caught Beethoven’s eye and bowed. Beethoven stood up and the man in the doorway left. Beethoven glanced at himself in a mirror. I could see he didn’t like what he saw.
    “Excuse me,” I said, moving toward him.
    Beethoven saw my reflection in the mirror and turned to look at me. I stepped forward, pushing a hand into my pocket.
    “Here,” I said, “This is for you.”
    Beethoven glanced down at my hand. Granddad’s pink hearing aid was sitting in my palm.
    “It was Granddad’s,” I told him. “Look. This is how it works.”
    Beethoven watched as I switched it on, slipped it behind my ear like Granddad had done a thousand times, and removed it. I handed it to him. He looked from it to me for a few moments. I nodded; motioning at him to try it on. He was hesitant.
    “Go on, mate,” I said. “There’s nothing to it.”
    Beethoven slowly took the aid from my hand. Then he copied