by Douglas Carlsen
‘Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart,
if they exist, I will still not have the power to forget...’ (Ovid)
Yesterday I woke up in Winston-Salem and The Outer Banks seemed far away; desolate and challenging. What beckoned me was unknown, but I called in sick and left. It wasn’t until I passed through Columbia, skirting Albemarle Sound, that a sense of what I was doing struck me. No one knew where I was.
I spent the first night at Nag’s Head in one of a small grouping of bungalows nestled into the dunes. The wind sang about me as I walked from my car to the cabin. Closing the door on the salt night air, I closed it upon the world as well.
Inside, the single room with bath was panelled in pine. In one corner there was a small kitchenette with a burner and sink. It was simply furnished, with a table and two matching chairs, dresser, overstuffed chair, and a bed. Over the bed hung a still life of a blue porcelain pitcher and washing bowl sitting on a table next to a window, through which could be seen grass-covered dunes and the sea.
I unpacked my bag and put my things away. After a dinner of smoked oysters, cream cheese, and crackers, I read late into the evening before going to bed. The wind blew all night, yet it, with the sound of the surf, sounded muted, distant. I fell asleep to its quiet bluster.
Sitting on the beach the next morning, wrapped in a woollen blanket pulled from my bed, I watched the waves come rolling off the Atlantic, crashing and foaming against the shores of the Outer Banks. Windsurfers came flying in with the waves, as if great fists of water hurled them through the air, then chased close behind in hopes of tossing them once again. Gulls screamed. Blue-black clouds threatened rain.
It was then the movement caught my eye. To my left, ambling down the beach, was an elderly man. Now and then he would stop and gaze out to sea or bend down to pick up and examine some object from the ground. Occasionally, he threw what he had found out into the waves. I realized, too late, he knew that I was watching him. He veered from his path to approach me.
‘Dynamic day isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘Yes indeed. I’d say three dimensional. This is weather that surrounds you and involves you. Give me this bitter day in March, when seasons come crashing into each other and battle for the right to say, ‘it is Winter still’ or ‘Spring has won, yet again’. It is a wonderful war we watch, and, if we try, we too might take up arms in defense of one. For which do you fight?’
Uncertain what I might get myself into, I hesitated before answering, ‘the Spring.’
‘A brother in arms.’
He held out his hand and beamed, such that I could not help but take his hand in the odd camaraderie he offered.
‘Without the Spring, the fight would not be worth attempting. For the glorious burgeoning of color, and thick rich light it brings, are flags worth following. Only this encourages the struggle against Winter’s bleak hold. Alone of all the seasons, does it expand the heart and spirit of man.’
With these last words, he flung his arms wide to the storm as the rain once again began to fall. The windsurfers seemed to take the cloudburst as an additional challenge and swarmed into the sea. I stood up and turned for the cover of my cabin, and instinctively asked that he should join me. For a moment he hesitated, but finally fell in step with me as I headed over the dunes.
‘Would you like some tea?’ I asked, hanging the blanket and our coats over the shower rod in the bathroom, and getting a towel for each of us to dry our dripping hair.
‘Thank you.’ he said, taking the towel and drying his hair. ‘Do you play?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The violin.’ he said, pointing.
‘Yes. I do.’
He crossed to the dresser where it lay. ‘May I?’
I couldn’t think of a polite way to say no, so I nodded. He paused before placing his thumbs to the locks, then with a click, they flew up and he raised the lid of the case. An old paisley silk scarf was wrapped around the instrument, and he gently lifted its folds to reveal the violin. The wood was a rich, dark golden brown. I held my breath as he reached to pick it up.
‘Wait.’
He turned, waiting for me to let him continue or ask him to close and latch the lid. He gave me a smile, as if to say either decision would be fine with him.
‘It was my father’s.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
He reached out and lifted the violin from its case. Holding it before him, he examined it front and back. He hummed into its body, and the violin quivered as that note held; its resonance vibrating the entire instrument.
‘A fine violin.’ he said as he placed it back in its case.
‘My father’s.’
‘So you said.’
I poured the tea, set out the pot and a plate of crackers, then sat down with him at the table.
‘All three of my children played an instrument. Like you, Barrett played the violin, Trina the piano, and Gilly the flute. My wife sang. She had an amazing voice. When the four of them performed, it filled me with awe. I would sit transfixed, bursting with pride to hear them. Only Gilly kept it up, though. She teaches at the North Carolina School of the Arts in Winston-Salem. Occasionally she still plays a concert, even went over to Europe a year or so back. It would be nice to hear them play together again, but I doubt either Trina or Barrett remembers much anymore. Besides, Francine, that’s my wife, passed on last year.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He paused, staring at his cup. ‘Thank you. You know, memories are a poor substitute for Francine’s presence, but they are what I have to cope with her absence.’
It was my turn to pause, not knowing how to reply.
‘I live in Winston-Salem,’ I said
‘Maybe you know my daughter, Gilly Fischer?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
He looked disappointed. I wanted to say “yes, I know her and have heard her play many times. One of the finest flute players I’ve ever heard”. I wondered why I should be concerned about disappointing this stranger. We had only just met, and a part of me wished he would leave so I could be alone, in my cabin, on the beach, at Nag’s Head, far away from home. Another part of me wanted him to stay.
‘So, do you live here?’ I asked.
‘Off and on. We have a beach house down here. Most of the time, though, I live in Durham. What about you? What brings you to Nag’s Head?’
‘I don’t know.’ He stared at me for a moment before nodding, as if he understood. I wish I did. Perhaps there was an answer on this windswept spit of land. ‘I don’t know. I thought I would see where the Wright Brothers first took flight, then head down to Ocracoke. I had no plans, really. Just needed to get away. An adventure.’
He asked no further questions, and we fell into a comfortable silence, listening to the creaking of the cabin and the sounds of the rain and wind. Soon the tea was drunk, and crackers eaten.
He leaned forward on the table as if to speak. Looking around the room, he pushed himself to his feet. ‘I must be going.’
‘But the rain….’
‘It’s stopped.’
Reluctantly, I got his coat from the bathroom. As he put it on, he looked once again about the room. There was a sense of regret in his voice when he said goodbye.
‘Thank you for the tea.’
‘Anytime.’
He held out his hand. I took it, a firm yet gentle hand. ‘Thank you, again.’ he said.
I closed the door and turned to look at the room. The violin lay silent in its silk lined bed. For a moment, I just stood looking. Then I walked over to the dresser and picked up the violin, carefully tuned it and placed it under my chin. My fingers danced over the strings, blending one barely heard note with the next until a gentle sea of music was held within the hollow body of the violin. I reached for the bow, tightened the hairs, and began to play.
Each note conjured up another. They came quicker and quicker, running up and down the scale, chasing after each other. My fingers flew through random musical passages and half-remembered melodies, one moving directly to the next without hesitation or thought. Every note, every theme, and every phrase bound together in some grander work. Faster and faster I played, to stay ahead of the music that now threatened to come crashing down on me. Finally, unable to keep pace, I stumbled and fell under wave after wave of music that tossed me aside and continued on without me, forgotten. My fingers trembled as I placed the violin in its case and folded the scarf once more around it. I closed and latched the case, my fingers lingering along its textured surface. I turned off the lights and sat down in the overstuffed chair. In the darkness, I wept.
Douglas Carlsen is a retired bookseller living in Walla Walla, WA. His stories have appeared in ‘Flash: Inter. Short-Short Story Magazine, and ‘Splonk’. As well he has had two short plays produced. Douglas is also involved in theatre as actor, director, and set designer.
