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Much to Edwin’s annoyance, Charles insists on acquiring a communal music-playing device for their office.
For as long as Edwin has known him, Charles has repeatedly expressed interest in procuring a tape deck. He often speaks fondly of the one he had owned while still alive, citing the tapes as his only refuge from the frightening household he grew up in. Edwin has come to understand how important music is to Charles, but he decidedly refuses to allow such a noisy and crude machine to infiltrate their workspace. No matter how far his acceptance of modern technology has come, he finds himself unable to become comfortable with the idea of having a music player in their home. He finds that Charles’ music taste is already questionable enough without the addition of the grainy, static-like quality that accompanies the various cassette tapes that he pilfers from every vintage shop they pass through.
Mercifully, Charles finds himself a cassette walkman and a pair of beat up headphones at a second hand shop near their office. He is able to listen to music without being scolded by Edwin, and Edwin is able to enjoy the relative silence of their office. If he can sometimes hear the tinny sound of guitars and brass leaking through Charles’ headphones, he does his absolute best not to say anything.
One Saturday afternoon, after a particularly grueling case, Edwin sends Charles to acquire some more tapered candles and enchanted chalk from the local witch’s market. He finds that he is often hesitant to send Charles in his stead, normally opting to venture out himself to ensure that his materials are of the finest quality. However, Charles had offered, and he had assumed that Charles could likely handle the acquisition of some rudimentary arcane elements.
Technically, he had not been wrong; Charles did return with the candles and chalk that Edwin had requested. The machine in his hands, however, had not been on that list.
Edwin peers at the machine over the rim of his reading glasses, his scratching pen coming to a halt.
“Is that…”
“A record player!” Charles interrupts triumphantly, holding up the machine to punctuate his statement. The record player vaguely resembles the shape and size of a small suitcase, the surface of it a glossy sea foam green color. There are a few dents and divots on its surface, but it otherwise seems to be in good condition. Edwin sighs inwardly and sets his pen down on the desk.
“A Victrola*, how wonderful,” he deadpans, removing his glasses. “Where did you manage to find one?”
“A family down the street was having an estate sale,” Charles explains, setting the Victrola down on their coffee table. “I met the bloke who passed away, introduced myself and all that. He offered to let me take the record player if I helped his living granddaughter find her missing cat.”
“I take it you found the animal?” Edwin asks.
“Sure did! So now we’ve got a way to play music that isn’t a tape deck. Brills, innit?”
Edwin exhales sharply, considering his response. Ever since Charles had broached the topic of his singing on the dock at Lough Beg, he has been attempting to shoehorn the topic of music into nearly every conversation. It is no secret that Charles’ music taste had been quite a large part of his identity when he was alive, and continues to be so in his death. He often regales Edwin with tales of live shows and concerts that he had attended as a young teenager, citing them as an escape from the reality of his home life. The mention of his home life is nearly always glossed over, leaving Edwin’s imagination to fill in the gaps of what that reality might have been. If Edwin is honest with himself, the amount of gaps that Charles refuses to fill does not paint a pleasant picture.
Edwin’s taste in music had also been a large part of his identity while he was alive, but unlike Charles, the thought of it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He would much rather leave those memories behind a locked door and throw away the key.
However, expressing this discomfort to Charles has proved to be quite a challenge.
“So what do you say, mate?” Charles asks, looking at Edwin hopefully. “Can we get some proper records for the office?”
Edwin cannot think of an appropriate reason to disagree, so he gives Charles a tight smile and retrieves his pen, looking down at the notes he had been working on previously.
“Very well, Charles. My only request is that the volume be kept to a minimum.”
Charles listens to a style of music that he refers to as 2-tone, which he explains as a combination of reggae, ska, and British punk music. Admittedly, Edwin finds Charles’ taste in music to be quite abrasive. Charles insists that his music is far less nettlesome than the more modern versions of ‘punk’ and ‘ska’, though Edwin has pointedly never asked Charles to demonstrate the difference. He finds himself purposely brushing off Charles’ excited rambling about the bands he enjoys, content to flip through his books as Charles speaks in the background.
“Mate, Edwin,” Charles eventually calls, waving a hand in front of his face. Edwin looks up from his book, annoyance simmering in his chest.
“Did you hear a word I just said?” Charles asks.
Edwin leans back in his chair and places a slip of paper in his book, closing it.
“My apologies, I have been distracted,” Edwin replies, knowing that it is a lie. He had been trying his hardest to block out Charles’ musical ramblings. “What were you saying?”
“Mate, why don’t you like to talk about music?” Charles asks accusingly. “You sing all the time and you’re aces at it, but every time I bring it up, you tune me out."
“I do not,” Edwin replies defensively.
“You do,” Charles shoots back, though there’s no true heat to his words. His relents after a moment, the confrontational energy draining from his posture. “It’s okay, I’m not judging, am I? Just wondering why it bothers you so much, is all.” Charles runs a hand through his hair, looking a bit crestfallen.
“I can let it go, if you like. I know I can be proper annoying about music.”
Edwin is quick to shake his head, cringing internally at the idea of unintentionally leading his best friend to believe that he is annoying.
“It is not you,” Edwin sighs. “I have my own sordid past concerning music that I simply have trouble acknowledging. In fact, your passion for music reminds me of the passion that I once had.”
Charles looks at him sympathetically, perching himself on the corner of the desk.
“Will you tell me about it?”
Edwin rests his chin on his hand, considering his options. His past with music had unfortunately set him down a road that eventually ended with being murdered and imprisoned in Hell for seventy years. Most days, Edwin cannot help but believe that if his love of music hadn’t been so all-consuming, he may have gone on to live a full life.
He could tell Charles no, of course. Charles would never hold it against him, nor would he push. He always seems to be acutely aware of Edwin’s emotional limitations, even if Edwin is usually unaware of them himself. Even before he had gone to Hell, Edwin’s relationship with his own emotions had been tumultuous at best. The seven decades he spent being brutally tortured had severed any remaining natural connection he had to his own feelings, often leaving him with a neverending feeling of untethered numbness. Every time he registers an emotion other than careful neutrality, it feels as though he is touching a raw nerve.
But this is Charles. His emotions are as wide and deep as the ocean, written clearly across his face in a language that Edwin is slowly beginning to understand. Every time Edwin offers up a morsel of what is going on inside of his emotionally disconnected mind, Charles finds a way to make it sound much more reasonable and beautiful than it has any right to be.
He clears his throat.
“I suppose,” he says slowly, leaning back in his chair. “How much do you know about the perception of jazz music in the 1910’s?”
“Er,” Charles replies, scratching his head. “Not much. That’s when it was popular, innit?”
“Not quite,” Edwin corrects. “The Golden Age of jazz came about in the 1920’s, though it did not truly flourish in Britain until the mid 1920’s. There were jazz musicians before that time, of course, but they were mostly African American musicians.”
Edwin pauses, tapping his fingers together in thought.
“The time period I lived in was never kind to those who were different. The jazz musicians of my age were different due to their skin color, and I… Well. I am still not entirely sure why I was perceived as different, but I certainly was. I had very few friends in my life, and the ones I did have did not know me very well.”
Charles makes a small sound of sympathy, but Edwin quickly dismisses it.
“It was not as if I tried very hard to relate to others,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “My mother encouraged me to become more like the strapping young boys my age, but I always preferred reading and writing to the rough-and-tumble life that my peers often led.”
Edwin swallows thickly, staring at his desk as he gathers the courage to continue.
“At the time, jazz was seen as a genre that was boorish and undesirable, purely because of the musicians that played it. The various history texts I have consumed on the subject state that one of the contributing factors to the 1920’s Jazz Age was the sudden involvement of caucasian musicians in the genre. Many scholars nowadays conclude that caucasian musicians very successfully profited off of the backs of the original African American jazz pioneers, and I am inclined to agree.”
Edwin spares a glance at Charles, admittedly to see if he is still listening. He knows that he has a tendency to fall into a lecturing rhythm at times, spouting massive amounts of information without considering the attention span of his ever-indulgent friend.
He is pleased to find that Charles is watching him intently, hanging on every word. Edwin smiles to himself softly, secretly flattered to be awarded such a large amount of his partner’s limited attention.
“I was raised in a very affluent household, which meant my siblings and myself were all required to learn an instrument,” Edwin continued.
“Hang on a tick,” Charles interrupted. “You had siblings?”
Edwin nods, chuckling slightly.
“I had two. My younger sister begrudgingly chose the flute, while my elder brother was a quite gifted violoncellist.”
Charles clicks his tongue.
“Middle child, eh? Must have been rough.”
Edwin shrugged.
“Not particularly. William was more of a father than my actual father ever was, though that was not uncommon for the time that I lived in. It fell on him and the nannies to take care of Rose and I when our parents were otherwise occupied, which in truth, was more often than not. Rosie was the sweetest child imaginable, always kind to everyone around her, though I cannot say what kind of woman she grew up to be. She was only ten years old the last time I laid eyes on her.”
Edwin can feel his spectral heart constrict at the thought of Rose growing old without him. While he had been imprisoned in Hell, constantly attempting to escape the torture that awaited him, she had experienced all of the firsts that he should have been there to help her through. He feels a deep, yawning grief open in the pit of his stomach, threatening to swallow him whole.
“Did you have any siblings?” Edwin asks, attempting to shake off the stupor that his memories have left him in.
“Nope. Only child, me,” Charles says, offering a lopsided smile. “Don’t think dad wanted one kid, let alone two.”
Charles’ tone is light and joking, but Edwin cannot help but clench his teeth tightly. The subject of Charles’ father is one that he has learned to steer clear of, but every now and again, Charles will make an off-color joke concerning his maltreatment. Edwin knows better than to scold Charles for taking his pain so lightly, but the thought of anyone hurting his partner causes Edwin’s blood to simmer painfully in his veins.
“What instrument did you play?” Charles asks, seemingly intent on Edwin continuing his story.
“I was a pianist,” Edwin hums in response, drumming his fingers lightly on the desktop. “My mother forced me to practice when I was young, but as I got older, it was almost as if the keys became extensions of my fingers. I was quite good, though I cannot say if I still retain those skills after nearly a century of atrophy.”
“Was jazz your genre of choice?”
“Heavens, no. Not in the beginning, at least. Proper society dictated that I learn the compositions of composers such as Mozart and Strauss, which I found to be endlessly boring. Classical compositions felt like little more than a skill challenge to me, with no room for the artistic expression I so desired. Learning them felt akin to riding a bicycle, or learning to write in cursive.”
Charles nods along, allowing Edwin the space to continue.
“I attended piano lessons at a facility not far from my home, with a teacher that was not very fond of me. She was strict and unforgiving, often harping on about my refusal to obey the written tempo. I cannot say I liked her very much in return,” Edwin recalls, face crinkling in distaste. “Her voice was shrill, and she always smelled like too much perfume. I suppose everyone smelled like too much perfume in those days, but it was almost as if she bathed in it.”
Charles barks out a laugh, startling a chuckle out of Edwin as well. He realizes that what he said has likely been interpreted as a joke, when in reality, he is quite serious.
“After our lesson one day, I was leaving her studio room when I heard the most beautiful music down the hall,” Edwin muses, smiling at the memory. “It was–”
“Let me guess,” Charles interrupts. “The Entertainer?”
“A commendable guess, but no,” Edwin replies fondly. “It was another song by the same composer, the Paragon Rag. I had never heard anything quite like it, and I took to it immediately.”
Edwin pauses, momentarily attempting to ground himself in the present. The memories of his past life as a musician have gone unrecognized for decades, but recalling them comes as naturally as breathing.
“I decided I simply must speak with the musician responsible, so I knocked on their door. His name was Sicily Thomas, and to this day, he is one of the most wonderful men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”
At the mention of Sicily’s name, Edwin has to stop his recitation of events and collect himself. Sicily Thomas had been the first person in Edwin’s life to ever take an interest in who he actually was, rather than who he pretended to be. He had cared very little for decorum or proper etiquette, allowing Edwin to truly be himself.
Edwin had looked Sicily up in the local archives shortly after his return from Hell, curious about what had become of him. He had apparently been a quite successful jazz pianist well into his old age, having died at the age of seventy five. He had never married nor had any children, but had lived with a male roommate by the name of Joseph Bright up until the day he died. That information had squeezed Edwin’s heart in a confusing way, and he had abandoned his research in favor of something less emotionally challlenging.
"He invited me in and introduced me to the works of Scott Joplin, who remains the most famous ragtime composer to this day. Sicily and I got on well enough that he offered to take me on as a student,” Edwin continues. “He opened my eyes to a whole new world of music that I could have never possibly dreamed of.”
“These all sound like good things, mate,” Charles says, climbing off of his perch on the desk and settling into one of the chairs normally reserved for clients. “Why don’t you play anymore?”
“I am getting there, Charles,” Edwin says with mock irritation. In truth, he is skirting around that exact issue. “Please allow me to tell me my story in full.”
Charles raises his hands in mock surrender and mimics zipping his mouth closed, smiling fondly.
“I regrettably admit that I allowed myself to become too comfortable while working with him,” Edwins sighs, closing his eyes in shame. “After a number of months working together in secret, he invited me to perform in a speakeasy that his own jazz band frequented. I foolishly said yes, under the impression that we could keep the performance under wraps.”
Charles’ expression sobers as Edwin continues, seemingly beginning to understand where the story is headed.
“The performance I gave was some of my best work,” Edwin says softly, picking at the sleeves of his button-down shirt. “The audience was full of the kindest people I had ever met, and I truly felt as though I belonged for the first time in my life. I was able to be myself, and the people there not only encouraged it, they celebrated it.”
“Word got around about your performance?” Charles assumes gently.
“It did, I’m afraid. It made its way back to my parents that I had performed jazz compositions in a speakeasy, where I had been the only caucasian patron present. To say that it was a scandal would be an understatement.”
Edwin exhales deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“They sent me away to St. Hilarion’s two days later, citing my need for a ‘decorum adjustment’. I barely had time to say goodbye to Rose and William, and I never saw Sicily again. St. Hilarion’s had no piano, and there were obviously no instruments in Hell, so that performance was the last opportunity I was ever given to play.”
Charles looks at Edwin solemnly, visibly weighing his words.
“You reckon you’ll ever play again?”
“I am unsure,” Edwin admits honestly. “Maybe some time in the distant future. Right now, the idea of playing reminds me of everything that my life could have been, but was not.”
Charles nods in understanding, rising from his seat and walking around to Edwin’s side of the desk.
“I get it, mate,” he says, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll be more careful about bringing music up in the future, honest.”
Edwin gives him a dejected smile.
“No, you may speak about it as much as you like. I think it is time for me to face the music, as it were.”
The smile that spreads across Charles’ features convinces Edwin that the small amount of heartbreak that accompanies the subject is more than worth it.
Charles continues to speak often of his favorite bands, providing an opportunity for Edwin to begin participating in the conversations now and again. The revelation of Edwin’s painful musical past has brought them closer together, and Edwin has begun to find some pleasure in the various artists that Charles continues to share with him. The subject of music still makes his insides twinge with regret and yearning, but it lessens bit by bit after every conversation.
A few weeks after Edwin had divulged his harrowing story to Charles, Charles presents him with what seems to be a record, hastily gift-wrapped in plain brown paper.
Edwin raises an eyebrow at his partner. “What is this?”
“Open it,” Charles insists, pushing it into his hands. “Find out for yourself.”
Edwin rips open the paper, revealing an olive green record sleeve with a painting of a man seated at the piano on the cover. The title reads:
Scott Joplin Piano Rags
Joshua Rifkin, Piano
“Charles,” Edwin says slowly, not taking his eyes off of the record. “Where did you get this?”
“I asked a ghost that haunts the local record shop’s attic to help me find it,” he replies enthusiastically. “She said it’s the most popular recording of Scott Joplin’s rags that exist to date.”
He takes the record from Edwin’s hands and slides the vinyl out of its sleeve, placing it on the Victrola.
“I know you said you can’t get back to playing piano just yet,” Charles says placatingly, setting the needle in place. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t listen, does it?”
Edwin knows that he should protest, but as the jaunty rhythm of Scott Joplin’s Paragon Rag fills their office, he cannot find it in himself to do so. It feels as though, for the first time since his death nearly a century ago, a weight has lifted off his chest and he is able to breathe again. The music sinks into every fiber of his being, and the feeling of joy is so strong that his eyes prickle with tears.
He looks at Charles, eyes wide with wonderment, and the excitement on Charles’ face lights up the room.
“Not bad, eh?” he prompts, nudging Edwin’s shoulder.
“It’s perfect, Charles,” he says breathlessly, closing his eyes and allowing the music to wash over him.
“Thank you.”