Raindrops

He couldn’t sleep. The rain pounded on the windows, a low irregular drumbeat. He began to hear his own breathing and the click-chink of the radiator. There was no pattern, but his mind couldn’t let them go, kept trying to sort them out into time signatures, but there were none and they just rattled around in his brain, free. And then he noticed that there was a grain of sand between his left rib and the bed, and it began to blaze forth like a needlepoint in his consciousness. And, even though he was sweating underneath the blankets, his feet were cold, and his toes couldn’t get hold of the blanket to pull it down, and the more he tried, the more he woke and the more he noticed. His head itched, and the itch seemed to move about, and he imagined the little microscopic animals that lived in everybody’s head and hair, and even though his eyes were closed he could feel the light from the streetlight outside his window shining on his eyelids.

If he concentrated, maybe he could almost hear the radiator disappearing in the sound of his breathing but the rain rattled about and ruined that pattern. And one thing had nothing to do with the other, and they all rattled about in his head looking for a place to be filed, but they wouldn’t fit together. And the piece of sand was a high-pitched needlepoint scream, off key with everything else.

And he had to pee. So he got up.

And after he came back from the washroom he saw that it was nearly morning, so he put on the kettle and sat at the kitchen table and listened to his fingers pound out a drumbeat on the counter that seemed to fall into sync with everything, drowning out the rest of the world. And by the time the kettle began to whistle, all he could hear was ratatat-tat-ratatat-tat-ratatat-tat.

***

“Ratatat-tat-ratatat-tat.”

There was a knocking at the door.

“Ratatat-tat-ratatat-tat.”

The latch turned, the door opened and someone came into his apartment.

“Ratatat-tat.” Hi, Susan.

“David,” she called, moving through the living room and towards the kitchen.

“Ratatat-tat.”

“Jesus Christ, David. The kettle,” she screamed pulling the dry overheated kettle off the burner and unrolling the paper towels from above the stove. Water was all over the floor.

“Ratatat-tat.” Why are you yelling at me?

“How can you let this happen? - Could you stop that!”

“Ratatat-tat.”

“David, I’m going to touch you. I’m going to touch your hands to make you stop drumming the table. Ok?”

“Ratatat…” The drumming stopped. The disorganized world started sneaking back into David’s head.

“Oh my God,” Susan said going back and inspecting the ruined kettle. “It’s noon, David. We’ve been calling all morning. You know you have a recital at two?”

Of course he knew. Schostakovich.

“You are ok? David? David?”

The clock ticked loudly now. Susan wouldn’t be quiet. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her to shut up. Maybe she would just go away- but she never went away. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“David!”

“Tick!”

“Oh, God, no,” she cried desperately.

She was clattering about in his music collection. Just stop it please. I don’t need the distraction. I’ve been up all night trying to make sense of raindrops.

The soothing sounds of a Bach fugue on piano, compliments of Glenn Gould, came to him. It was nice, but it couldn’t make sense of raindrops. Didn’t she know anything. Now he was annoyed. He got up and went to his music collection.

“Two o-clock, David! You have an hour to get to the concert hall.” She was on her cell phone now. “Yeah, bring the car around. I’ll get him moving. Five minutes… fifteen minutes. He’ll be ready… He’ll be there!”

Ornette Coleman.  Ornette Coleman could understand raindrops. He’d been working on a new piece all night. What was more important? A new work or a silly concert. Everyone had already heard it all before anyway. Ornette Coleman. He found the CD and put it on.

“Lift your foot, David. That’s it.”

The music began. She was pulling his trousers on over his pajamas. He didn’t resist. Drums, bass and tenor sax were drowning out all else now. This was it. The raindrops were falling into their proper places now. His two hands at his side moved involuntarily to the new time signatures of life he was figuring out. This was close. She had his pajama top off and was pulling on one of the white cotton shirts he liked to wear at concerts. The pale cotton sports jacket with that, please.

Yes! The rhythms were there and they were twisting the world around into places where he wanted them to be. There was the breath, and the clock, but where was Susan’s screaming? He couldn’t hear it. He turned the CD off.

“The other arm. That’s it. All good now.”

There it was. His right hand could hear the cacophony now while his left hand held it together.

“Oh, shit, we’re going to be late.” Her head cocked awkwardly as she pushed him out the door. “Yes! Yes! We’re on our way down now. Be there!”

He could hear it all now. Things moved forward. A door slammed. Locks snapped. He had solved the puzzle. His world fell into place.

***

It was dark. All was calm and still. He could hear people coughing in that darkness but it was ok. All he needed to focus on was the one bright light.

Susan pushed him out on stage. He found his way to the piano. There was a microphone there so he guessed people wanted him to say something.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” His voice felt naked. “I’m sorry. There has been a slight change in the program. This is one of my own pieces. Raindrops.”

And he started to play.