Chapter Text
The duo finally reached the hospital, one unconscious and one weary. The violins soon followed them; Eddy’s violin came untouched and Brett’s only slightly damaged. Brett was diagnosed with subarachnoid hemorrhage and the prognosis was poor: his left body was fully paralyzed and his voice was barely any more than a hoarse, breathy sound. The worst: another stroke could strike him at any time, and when that happened; it meant no less than severe trauma, or worse, fatality.
Still, the wilful spirit in Brett never betrayed him, not when his body had failed him. With his remaining arm available, he connected his thoughts and emotions through a small board full of letters. He demanded Eddy to be the one holding it, for he wanted Eddy to fulfill his wishes.
On Monday, Brett pointed out, “C-O-M-P-O-S-E-R;” he paused for a while. “T-I-L-L-I-D-I-E,” he continued. He wanted to hear something from different composers before he passed away, for he shall never part with music, no matter what.
“Who do you want to listen to?” Eddy asked, reaching the board to Brett.
“T-C-H-A-I-K,” the board read.
Of course, Brett’s favorite. His first listening experience with the Tchaikovsky violin concerto must have left a strong mark on him, and even when he had much to worry about, he found himself in Tchaik’s music, passionate and lovely. It was where his soul was at.
Eddy remembered Brett playing this concerto distinctively: Brett played the first movement as part of the audition for the professional orchestra they both went to while Eddy performed the first movement of the Sibelius violin concerto. He played it well, very well; the impression never left him. During their time in orchestra, Brett would pull off the second movement as well and play it for Eddy multiple times. His playing also inspired Eddy to look at the score a few times, but never enough to play as well as him. The third movement? Eddy had never heard that from Brett. Did something make him give up? Or he was too unconfident to perform it like the typical Brett he knew? He would never know.
How ironic was that Brett, who loves all the beautiful music in the world, would now have to put up with a potentially rusty version of his own favorite concerto, Eddy thought. But he only wanted to hear from Eddy’s playing; Eddy could tell that from Brett’s eyes. “Frick-” Eddy thought, “am I getting a shaky bow now, of all time? It’s just Brett! Literally!” But he was determined to continue: he couldn’t let Brett down right now. The very first moment was a little off, for sure, but he soon got into the music. When he finally let himself go and just focused on the sound he was creating, his tone significantly improved and his phrases became more apparent. He thought Brett was smiling for a moment, “Maybe I’m seeing things,” and carried on. When he finished playing his last solo notes, he could imagine both of them in orchestra enjoying the last 1 minute of the second movement, with all the winds, brass, and of course, strings, playing; ah, great times. If only they could be playing together again…
On Tuesday, Eddy voluntarily pulled out the board, knowing that Brett would like to hear from another composer. This time the board spelt “S-I-B-E-L-I-U-S.” Eddy was stunned. Why would Brett want to hear from his favorite composer, out of anyone he could have chosen? He probably just thought of the first composer that came to his mind. Maybe he cared about him and would like to see him play. Or maybe there’s a deeper meaning that he had yet to comprehend. There’s no time to think; Brett’s wish was his command.
Unlike Tchaikovsky’s, he knew this one by heart. He could have played the solo part of any movement, but he decided to settle on the second movement. Not because it was any easier, but because it meant something special to him. So special that it became the piece he would play if he could never touch his violin again. Whether he would continue to play the violin after Brett’s demise, he himself was not certain. But he would play it anyway; it was what he knew best.
The music opened up like a person who got lost in himself, seeking nature as his guiding light. A beautiful landscape was encapsulated in his playing to substitute his dull self: the gentle breeze typical of Finland filling the silence in his mind, the shining light from the Aurora Borealis illuminating the darkness in his heart. Nature could not satisfy him, for he still felt something was missing: “There has to be more than this,” he thought. He kept searching for ‘something’; what could it be, he never knew, but the world kept defying him. No matter how close he felt to reaching it, he could never quite have it. No matter how much he struggled to obtain it, that ‘something’ could never be his. Even though Eddy didn’t play the orchestral part, he could immediately imagine the climax, the desperation the protagonist was experiencing; even though he was resting (his violin was still secured under his collarbone; that’s what both would do when they play the solo parts and there’s an orchestral tutti in between), he could feel every part of his skin raising little bumps out of sheer awe. The protagonist eventually reconciled with himself as he learned the most important lesson in his life: satisfaction has to come from within. It was an important lesson for Eddy himself, too; seeing his friend in this state, he understood that soon enough, he would have to fend for himself. It pained him, but it was only the bitter truth he had to accept.
On Wednesday, “M-E-N-D-Y” was what Brett spelled. Ah yes, what they had last played. His music was a harmonic combination of genuine candidness and astonishing maturity, just like his own life. But instead of commencing his playing immediately, Eddy felt a need to talk about the composer first.
“I know you would like to hear my playing right now, but I have my thoughts that I want to share. Perhaps you would take some joy in listening to them first? If you like, of course.”
Brett tried to make a fist and gave him a weak thumbs-up. Eddy began his narrative.
“Do you know why Mendelssohn wrote his 6th, and also his last, string quartet, which sounds so very different from his other chamber compositions? He wrote it during the darkest moment of his life; his oldest sister, the closest sibling, the ever-supportive musical friend, the soulmate, passed away. In fact, it wouldn’t be too far off to call it a “Requiem for Fanny;” it is indeed his lament to his higher being, whoever it might be in his mind, of the utmost unfortunate catastrophe that had struck him. Don’t you think his death falling on him 10 days before his sister’s birthday a little too coincidental? Especially after he promised to be with her on her birthday earlier that year after how many years he couldn’t count? Hmmm? Jokes, tehehe; I’m not doing any conspiracy theory right now. Now, shall we start?”
An interesting fact: even though Eddy played the second violin part, he was so worried about being disconnected from other quartet members that he also looked at everyone’s music scores carefully beforehand, especially Brett’s. He pulled out not his part’s music scores, but Brett’s; he was confident he could pull through. Besides, if there’s only one violin, why play the second violin part when you can play the first? Common sense.
Heartbreaking, literally and figuratively. Heartbreaking to both the composer and the listeners. This movement, unlike any other movement in this quartet, was the only place where one could see a shed of clarity, a little moment to reflect. It posed itself as a personal elegy, a musical portrait of his now-gone older sister. His proficiency in craftsmanship in combination with his raw love and expression for her made it so delicate but no less serious; in fact, it only made it more agonizing. The chilling climax in the middle almost made Eddy jump in his chair (too much body language they say, but it’s only fitting); perhaps it had also made Mendelssohn pull his manuscript aside and find a corner to weep for his unfortunate self. As the music settled down once again, Eddy realized he could just be in the same situation; not yet, and hopefully would never be, but the thought haunted his mind, perhaps his tone as well until the very end.
On Thursday, Brett gave Eddy the word “B-R-A-H-M-S.” This totally baffled Eddy. Throughout their career, they barely had any relation to Brahms, besides one or two performances. Could it be… that one movie named “Do you like Brahms?” that they watched and cringed throughout? That one movie he despised to heart and made him vow to himself never to watch any more K-drama that features the violin? Well, that certainly was an interesting choice.
He was genuinely curious. He showed the board to Brett another time and asked:
“Why do you want to choose Brahms? Is that because of that movie?”
The board spelt: “T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W.” Tomorrow, huh? As if he could live until then- NO. He had to believe that Brett could survive and recover. He had to believe. He didn’t understand what Brett meant by that, but he played his piece anyway.
Little did Brett know, this was Eddy’s secret favorite piece. He knew of this a little, and by that, he meant very little, while back during their orchestra times. He wasn’t particularly interested in the virtuosic and fiery first movement, nor did he pay much heed to the flamboyant and energetic third movement, but the second movement struck him hard. The lengthy winds section in the beginning - over two minutes to be exact - never put him off like in some other compositions, only pulling him further into the piece. And when the solo violin entered, it was no less than heaven descending into the concert hall. This movement would follow him further into his career, and he would soon be able to learn it well enough to perform. To master though, it might take a long while.
The violin began with a series of soaring high notes played by the previous oboe line, filling the empty hospital room with a sense of somberness. It did feel a little missing when there was no oboe present; it played such an important role in the piece: the opening theme, first of all, then the conversation between it and the solo violin (was that the reason why the violin sounded particularly gloomy today?). Eddy’s expressive playing made up for the lost atmosphere, however. The virtuosic part in the middle caught him a little off-guard, but he managed to calm his nerves and successfully pulled it through. In the end, he was satisfied with the attempt; Brett would be content with his first debut of this violin concerto, hopefully.
On Friday morning, Eddy took out his board as usual and showed it to Brett. The board showed “D-E-B-U-S-S-Y.” A piece by Debussy. He knew what he had to play and was about to rush to his violin. But he was taken aback when Brett held onto the board as if he wanted to spell something else. Brett hesitated momentarily: he was looking for a number, but no number was on it. He had to take the longer way of spelling the number in words, and it did take forever: “T-W-O-B-O-Y-S-O-N-E-V-I-O-L-I-N.” Eddy understood why Brett wanted him to play Brahms yesterday; because the whole movie was about exaggerated fantasy and romanticism, the very thing that made up this game. But still, what is this? Brett wanted to participate in a silly game of theirs, where with one bowing and one fingering, tests their telepathy, or ”telekinesis,” as Brett liked to call it? With him being partly paralyzed? Eddy almost wanted to dismiss Brett until Brett knocked on the board multiple times, signaling his seriousness. After asking the doctor and having gotten his permission, Brett was transferred into a wheelchair; the process took long, but Brett was more than ready to begin.
Eddy would be doing the fingerings and Brett would be bowing; it was usually done the other way round, but because Brett’s left hand was paralyzed, he could only play the bowings from his right hand. Brett’s face was set in a way he could see the violin, for changing his head position was near impossible. Their stature was odd, to say the least; since one was in a wheelchair, the other had to kneel down. The violin was placed on Brett’s shoulder, but because Brett couldn’t use his face to secure the violin, Eddy’s right hand, his unused hand, had to do the job. In order to do that, Eddy had to be behind the violin. Of course, Brett could barely speak, combined with the fact that they couldn’t even meet each other’s eyes meant almost no communication, verbally or nonverbally whatsoever, was made possible. This was the ultimate test of their telepathy.
They had much trouble figuring out when to start at first, as they couldn’t agree on anything; in fact, they couldn’t communicate anything. But with a little luck on their side, they were able to start the note right. Once the ball had started rolling, it was now only a matter of muscle memory and tempo. Despite Brett’s terrible physical health overall, his hand still retained most of the agility and dexterity it used to have, and his muscle memory of the piece was undamaged. This couldn’t have been their best attempt, but it had a different feeling: the lack of communication made this a genuine try for both to be in touch with their thoughts and feelings, to themselves and each other. Occasionally, they may be out of touch and the music didn’t sound as pleasing. But instead of laughing and dismissing their goofy attempt, like they usually did, both were determined to carry on. The effort paid off: with music, they, as a unified being, painted a drawing of two men in a starry night, sitting next to a body of water, hearing the murmurs of the gentle waves and the chittering of wild animals. But in the center of that painting lies a prominent figure: a bright round moon, shining through the night and onto the faces of the two men.
“Don’t you love it when that happens, Brett? When you can’t be in that moment, imagining it happening is enough.” Eddy whispered after their playing. It seemed to have touched Brett, for he gave an endearing look at Eddy and a thumbs-up afterward.
On Friday afternoon, however, things started to go awry. Brett suffered from another stroke; Eddy only knew when he was suddenly awakened from his nap by a painfully loud shriek from Brett, and unfortunately, this was essentially a question of life and death for Brett. And in this battle, there is no hope for him. Eddy spent the whole evening in denial and bargaining, thinking how things wouldn’t have gone so wrong if he had been awake; at least he would have been able to say ‘leben Sie wohl’. Whoops, must have been Mendy that got to him. Now he was there but also no longer there; his spirit would soon be either peacefully or violently taken away from him.
Eddy was startled when in late evening, he heard a voice coming from Brett’s bed. Did he make it? Does that mean he has successfully defied death this time and his body was given back to him? His emotions were stirred and mixed up, but his mind got the better of him.
“Terminal lucidity, I forgot, ” he let out a long sigh. He learned this from his random Wikipedia trip; it happens in those with Alzheimer’s mostly, but it can happen in those with schizophrenia, tumors, meningitis, Parkinson's disease, and most importantly, strokes. And no, it doesn’t mean he is recovering; it means he is dying. This is his final chance to bid farewell to him.
“Brett?”
Brett looked at Eddy endearingly, then began with his hoarse, rough, and weak voice:
"Do you know who my favorite composer is, Eddy?”
With no hesitation, Eddy answered: "Tchaikovsky?”
Brett gave a faint smile: "He had shaped much of my life, yes. But no, I have a better appreciation for another composer.”
"And who may that be?” Eddy asked.
“It may surprise you, but Mendy. Mendelssohn. Jakob Ludwig Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy.”
Oh, tsk. Yes, Mendelssohn, indeed, has such a long name, Eddy lightly knocked his forehead. He had just known his full name too, and it always surprised him whenever he came across this fact. After a moment, Eddy was all ears again.
"You may not know this, but I have been secretly researching him back in our orchestra times, shortly before our departure. Our trip to Scotland and our time with his 6th string quartet only made me appreciate him more. He made much effort to bring Bach back, whom I absolutely adore, to a wider audience at that time and to us, future generations, as well. He combined classicalism and romanticism so beautifully; all that he did was to make sure that the simple yet structural nature of the Classical era would not be forgotten-”
Brett took a sudden gasp. The speech must have worn him out.
“I know you have much to tell, but calm down.” Eddy consoled Brett.
“That’s why I love his music and his life so much. He had done much good. But in life, you shouldn’t take too much from one person. And I have taken too much from him… not sparing his debilitating headaches and his series of strokes, it seems. Was it worth it, all the time being snowed under work? Perhaps I owe you that, Mendy.”
Brett’s speech was now slower and more labored. He knew he didn’t have much time left.
“I should have known better… These stars were never mine to chase, yet I chased them anyway… And I got repaid badly. But isn’t it better… to have lived a life on your own terms, like you said, instead of counting down the days?”
“I don’t ever regret having you by my side, Eddy. When I’m the Felix, being worn down by overwork and agitation… you’re the older Fanny, the calm, quiet but avid friend whom I know will always be there to help, to share, and to lament together. All too soon… I know, all too soon… but it’s time we part ways, and don’t worry about me. I’m grateful to have been on board with you, I’m happy with the many fleeting moments I have, and I’m ready… for my departure.”
Brett’s right hand, which had been held by Eddy throughout the conversation, slipped off a bit. Eddy panicked, thinking that was the end of Brett until he noticed a slight change of pressure in his holding hand. He looked down: The hand was now in the shape of a violin bow hold. Perhaps he had either finished talking or he no longer could carry the conversation, but his gesture suggested that Eddy should play something on the violin. The hard part is: what should he play? For as much as he knew Brett’s love for Mendy, he didn’t know many violin pieces by him. At this point, he didn’t want to wake Brett up again; even if he did, Brett would probably respond with: “Well, why don’t you take a guess?” Apart from the second and the last string quartet, he didn’t know anything from Mendy. And who would play an octet when there’s only one violin again? Or so he thought…
Brett mentioned the moment they left the orchestra; he did play something to celebrate the moment, the actual beginning of TwoSetViolin. It all made sense now; he played the second movement of the Mendelssohn violin concerto, not only because it was one of the last selections, but also because it had stirred something in him. He said that this particular movement struck him hard because of its sweet melody and the tranquil atmosphere it gives, so ready to burst into lyrics, except there was none. Unlike the Tchaikovsky violin concerto, Eddy was never interested enough to actively seek this second movement’s music score; Brett’s only time playing was his sole reference. It also meant that he would have to use his immaculate perfect pitch skill to perform.
It’s tough, but now or never, Eddy thought. He brought his violin, put it under his collarbone, and the music began. The very beginning brought a hint of melancholy and wistfulness, like someone remembering his own past: memories, joys, troubles, friends and enemies along the way— and of one who would express his strongest desire to right his wrongs and to fulfill his long past wishes. But in the end, he realizes a thing he has missed amidst those external influences that had misled him: no shallow happiness is the same as being able to let himself go. For all the regrets and the unfulfilled dreams he had in his temporary stay on this earth, he would not trade them for anything else; he accepted them with the most innocent heart of his young self and the most burning passion of his teenage years. “Maybe, and hopefully, that’s what Brett’s thinking about.” Eddy thought while playing in a way that could be described with the same adjectives for his fictional character. It did help when you could build an interpretation out of a story; it made his playing unique from many conventional recordings, though perhaps not as concise. He played up to before the orchestral tutti; the only difference was instead of pausing a little as he would normally do, this time his violin was in a resting position, and no sound was heard afterward. His aural memory and his perfect pitch could carry only so far.
“I’m sorry that I couldn’t finish it,” Eddy said, “I couldn’t compute the rest. The melody-over-accompaniment part was too difficult for me.” But Brett had become almost unresponsive.
Eddy knew Brett was just hanging on to hear his friend’s last words, and that wasn’t his last, Brett sensed. He held Brett’s hand tightly and whispered:
“Don’t be afraid, for death is where it is hoped there is still music, but no more sorrow or partings. Depart, my friend, for you deserve a better life ahead.”
As soon as Eddy finished stating his farewell, Brett’s soul peacefully left his body. The angels above had taken his spirit “to where music was born.”
It’s interesting, Eddy thought, that Brett called himself the Felix in the Mendelssohn siblings, and Eddy the Fanny, for now, the role has reversed: the Fanny that was Brett has left the Felix that was Eddy, leaving him with the emptiest void that nothing could possibly replace.
Whatever the interpretation might be, one thing remained certain: there could never exist an Eddy without a Brett, nor could there be a Felix without a Fanny.