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It was a bright June day, and Atticus Trap melted into his seat as the airline announced the next rows boarding over the intercom. Ellis and his parents had already left long ago, waving tearfully from their car as they drove away, so as line upon line of people were shepherded off into the aircraft it was just him and the upholstery. Comforting, sticky, and warm. Seconds dragged on into minutes, minutes dragged into hours, and as the hours dragged on in his skull he screamed for a diversion.
Since the day when he began his passport paperwork, Atticus had been nothing but bored. Bored learning the language. Bored talking things out with his family. Bored going over the plans with his sister and mother. Bored standing in line for the necessary vaccines, bored getting his tests taken, nothing but bored, bored, BORED! Atticus wanted to scream!
A summer retreat to a castle– or perhaps in this case, a villa the size of one– should be exciting! Invigorating! Adventurous! It should be anything, anything other than boring! But here he was, like an overripe fruit in an airline terminal, waiting to be allowed to board, running out of things to do and fermenting under the sun. He needed an out, a distraction, just anything that he could have been able to do, something to distract him from the monotony of his own mind. Slipping his headphones off of his ears, he looked around for something, or some one, to play with.
Just across from him, a couple talked passionately about the future, whispering about how they were both intent on coming back and founding a family. A few rows down the slowly emptying oscillations of pleather, he caught a man reading a romance novel about an office worker and his arcane lover. Behind him to the left, he caught a glimpse of a man in a suit making a final attempt to call home to his children before he had to shut up and get on the plane. As he scanned the emptying seats, noting the dregs of the waiting room, there seemed to be no shortage of people who had accustomed themselves to the dreariness of ordinary life. Their resolve was legendary, citizens pressing through the boredom with the resolve of soldiers of the ordinary. In a field of infantry, Trap was an anxious schizophrenic fly.
Atticus’s mind clawed at the edge of his skull, urging him, pleading with him to move, to act, to at least get up and walk around, maybe insert himself into the life plans of the couple, or maybe ask the man how he was liking his novel, or perhaps go ask how the executives kids were, or just something, anything, anything, so that he wouldn’t have to pick up his phone and run the battery down before he was even on the plane. Atticus’s mind screamed out for action; his heart screamed out for a miracle. In the end, where the body failed, the Spirit obliged.
As the herd seemed to thin, the dregs of the terminal closed together, personal reluctance overtaken by societal gravity. The man with the suit moved over near the couple, advising the two on their forthcoming tries for children. The man with the romance novel cried to another young man sporting a law book. And over time, as the group dispersed and gravity pulled, a young woman in scruffy woolen attire from the back of the room percolated up row by row until she was sitting directly next to Atticus.
Her loose gray hat over a rough wool overcoat gave the impression of a sheep that had been rolling around in an overflowing ash pile, a sentiment that spoke to Mr. Trap. Her eyes regarded him coolly as he glanced over to consider her, far from inviting but much less hostile than he had expected. More than anything she looked bored, a college aged child swinging their legs back and forth as their mother told them to stay still in service. He looked down at his own attire, a pleated linen jacket doing its best impression of a uniform for suburban dads, and twirled the cable from his headphones around his finger.
Resonance is a concept associated with oscillation, and social resonance is no exception. To put it another way, communication was all about the vibes, and at the moment Atticus’ vibes were stagnate. The will to socialize within Mr. Trap was vibrating back and forth between bravado and trepidation, resulting in a rancid mismatched tone. On one hand, he had the look about him of a deer in a hunting vest, which historically hasn’t meshed well with the aesthetic presented by a sooty lamb with a bob. On the other hand, she had been the one who approached first, giving him valid reason to initiate conversation. On yet another hand, just because someone approaches you doesn’t mean they want to talk, but in this case that was ignoring the hand that said that he had the initiative, which was in agreement with one more hand that said the risk was worth it even if the situation was unintended, but on the flipside not many people even like to be talked to in public by strangers, and yet on indeed even another hand, Trap had decided that he was overthinking the whole situation and he turned to speak.
Less than three words into his opener, his seat number was called.
The flight to Dusseldorf was much less boring for Atticus than embarking, but no less tormentous. Every few minutes, he imagined a potential conversation that could have transpired if he had only had the courage to speak out earlier, and turned it over in his head. The exchanges dragged on in his mind, burning through it until nothing remained. In the end, he found it sufficient to convince himself that he would meet the woolly woman while getting off of the plane, that all of the imagined stories and adventures which he had devised would finally come to pass and that finally some color would be given to his life, even if it were an ashen gray.
The fantasies were left fantasies, unfortunately, as Atticus unloaded his luggage reluctantly from the limo in front of his uncle’s mansion. His uncle, a balding man by the name of Leonard Finch, stood in a polo gazing upon his nephew’s state as he turned to give his enthusiastic greetings.
“Onkel! Ich bin fröhlich sie zu sehen! Es hat Jahren-”
Finch cut him off with a wave of the hand as he walked down to meet him, the blinding power of the sun reflected from his mirror shades.
“Yeah, yeah, you took German in High School, and you like to kiss ass. Anybody who looks at you can see that, no need to advertise it. Grab your bags and I’ll show you around. I have better things to be doing right now. Oh, and-”
Leonard stood man to man with Atticus and gazed disappointedly from behind his sunglasses.
“It’s ‘Ich freue mich,’ not ‘Ich bin fröhlich.’ No German would ever say something so stilted and clunky outside of extreme duress, and if you were talking to a German they would be laughing at you right about now. Your grammar sucks.”
Leonard began the trek up to the door, and Atticus followed, dragging his bags along the ground as he ascended.
“Well you didn’t have to be such a dick about it.”
“Me me meme me me me me me me me meme me- just shut up. SELIM! Get this man’s bags! He’s wheezing just holding them and it’s embarrassing me.”
“As you wish Master Leonard.”
Trap was unsure when the man appeared, or when they had collected his bags, but much as he was combative towards his uncle’s ways he was grateful for the help. He flashed the manservant a thumbs up, a gesture which was responded to by the butler in kind, followed by a complex series of motions with his hands describing their thoughts towards their employer in exactness.
Selim was a good man.
Stripped of his weight, Atticus stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket and followed Finch into the complex. The gate was large and ornate, carved and filigreed with gold, an ostentation that melted perfectly into its surroundings. The building itself was a renaissance manor home, designed and constructed in the shape of a Roman country house, but there was an odd uncanniness to it. Even though the courtyard was in the right shape, and the walls were the right color and height, there was something off about the whole construction. Trap couldn’t put his finger on it, but to him the building felt as if it had been constructed in the shape of grandeur without any greater logic, a recreation with no greater aspirations. The Architect must have had no soul.
Maids and butlers bustled past Finch unnoticed, tidying and preparing a way for the master’s kin. Amidst the hustle and bustle a red haired girl in a black uniform relieved Atticus of his coat, and as he searched for them in the clamor he noticed that Selim had disappeared with his bags as well.
He scowled lightly in the midmorning sun, and made a note that he would have to track them down. He had no guarantee that his luggage would make it to his room unaltered; he had good reason to ensure that it did so.
Across the courtyard and into the manner proper Finch led Atticus, explaining his responsibilities and duties as a resident of the mansion for the time being.
“You are to awake every morning at or before 9 am sharp, and be dressed and presentable for breakfast. I expect you to shower each night in an attempt to keep your natural stench off of the furniture. When you are in the outer world you are free to wear whatever, but while you are here you must wear the cloth that I provide for you in your dresser.
“I may be taking you on for the summer out of the kindness of my heart, and housing you out of the love that still remains for my younger sister, but there are appearances that must be kept. Is that clear?”
“Yessir.”
“I’m sorry, was that clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. This is the library; you are free to visit here on your own time. The computers are set up for whatever you may wish to do, but please keep in mind that the network in this building is monitored. If you end up feeling particularly ‘pent up,’ contact the maids and they will see to it that you are taken care of. Do not, under any circumstances, try accessing anything of that nature from the internal systems. Am I clear?”
Trap rolled the statement around in his head for a moment, considering the implications.
“Yes, sir.”
“Acceptable. Aside from those restrictions, I am rather lenient on what you accomplish with these resources. If you need anything further, I have a good relationship with the local university; I’m sure that they would satisfy your curiosities. What were you studying again?”
“Engineering. Sir.”
Leonard looked back at Trap and sighed.
“Look, kid. This isn’t a military base. I expect you to follow common decency and give me respect but you are not a private and I am not your commander.”
“Yes sir.”
“Did I fucking stutter.”
“Yes Uncle Lenny.”
“Good enough. Up ahead is my study; if I am here, and we are not eating together, I can probably be found there. I have my own books in there which I am willing to lend you, but you must never enter without my permission. If the door is closed don’t even bother. If you break these rules, there will be consequences. Don’t test me. Not even my sister could shield you from the consequences.”
They passed further onwards down the hallway, soft strokes from a piano floating softly towards them as they progressed through the manor. Coming to a drawing room, or perhaps more accurately a drafting room, they entered. On the far walls sat windows looking out over the Rhine, with cushions and an easel that looked freshly vacated; on the near walls sat books. Hundreds of books. Atticus wondered if Lenny had ever read them. Atticus wondered if Lenny even knew they existed. Atticus diverted his mind to better things.
“This is the public studio. I lend it to students who show promise from time to time. I would normally not be inclined to extend such an opportunity to someone like you, but if you feel the inspiration striking you there’s a room to the right for paints and canvas. I will disregard the necessary vetting of your work, but at the end of the term I will be taking any expenses out of your paycheck. Please go easy on the expensive pigments.”
The Piano grew louder as they continued their journey, landing in a high vaulted hall with a glass wall and a long table. Flourishes of color were painted over hues of silence, and a ring interrupted the recital with a call from Finch’s pocket. Finch picked up the phone, and spoke a muffled phrase into it while turned away from Atticus. The call dragged on, stunted phrases cutting into the acoustic finery.
Trap took the opportunity to look around at the ostentatious chamber and fidget. His mind reflected on his waiting in the terminal the day prior, and the waiting on the plane, and the waiting to be picked up, and the waiting to arrive at the manner, and now he remembered all of the waiting that had to have happened before that, like the waiting for the passport, and waiting for the visa, and waiting for-
The call ended. Finch turned back.
“Looks like I’ll have to cut this short. SELIM!”
The omnipresent butler in black showed himself again.
“Yes Master.”
“Keep this man out of the…. ‘off limits’ areas. Tell him tomorrow what I’ll be expecting of him while he’s on the clock, and get him into the system; don’t bother talking about compensation. He already knows the pay.”
“As you wish.”
“Nephew, for the rest of the day you’re free to do whatever as long as you don’t get into trouble. Feel free to go out on the town. See some sights, meet some ladies. Expect me to be back for dinner, but go ahead and eat if I’m not.”
Finch bowed as he left, a hard smile on his face but frustration leaking into his step. The piano played a handsome tune, and in a flash, Uncle Lenny was gone. Selim patted Finch’s shoulder and jabbed his arm a bit.
“You look like you’re about to pass out, my friend.”
“Just the jetlag. It’s nothing.”
“You say nothing, but I see different in your eyes. I’ll see to it that your room is stocked with coffee. Is this your first time in Germany?”
“It’s my first time out of the US, outside of Canada.”
“I see. Well, it’s good to stay awake but it might be good to go do something simple for today, like unpacking.”
Atticus remembered the jacket, and the laptop. If his uncle hadn’t bothered to vet them, they should all still be in his rooms; if anything had happened to them……
“Sounds like a good idea. I’m a bit exhausted from the ride over here so I think I’ll wander around for a bit first, though.”
“An understandable choice, but first some words of warning. Don’t get into trouble, don’t drag trouble back here, and don’t harass the maids. They have enough to deal with. You may be the master’s nephew, but if I hear one word I’m not afraid to risk my employment here to clear my debts. Am I clear?”
Selim was a good man; Trap, a weak one. He grinned weakly and replied.
“Don’t worry. I haven’t got the nerve.”
Selim bowed gratefully, and smiled.
“You’re free to examine the second floor at your leisure, but I’d recommend not exploring the manor grounds without a guide. Some things are better left alone.”
“Note taken. I‘ll keep to the path.”
Selim smiled again and walked off, leaving Trap alone with the piano in the grand, empty space. He paused for a moment, fidgeting side to side, tuning out the reverie that filled the air around him, but as time went on he stilled, and the sensation of sound wafted around the ostentation to drown it out. The din of the workers faded into the background as he waded further into the melody, silence painting a canvas upon which nuance was layered. He lingered a little longer, the moment dragging into hours, day pulled into night, and then it was still. With its last note the soul left the building, and the fire returned to ash.
Atticus found himself standing there as it ended, stunned. He wondered how long he must have just been sitting there, gawking out at space, looking silly. Such was the power of music, he supposed, capable of filling a room to bursting while leaving space for humanity, but what had just been played seemed more than that. There was an elegance about it, an understated emotion to it. It was a song of ambiance, yes, refusing to draw away from the surroundings, but it was a song of defiance as well, refusing to give in to the atmosphere either. Who would have played it, he thought as he climbed the stairs, who could play it?
Was it a dapper young man, a tortured artist in the house of power? Was that femininity he detected, the refined grace of an older woman behind the keys? He dreamed, cooking up all sorts of fantasies about the person behind the music. His notions of reality were tested as he arrived at the Steinway, just as the pianist was about to leave.
The impression that Trap had held of this woman upon hearing her performance vanished upon first contact, the veneer of sophistication sanded off by an honest looking pianist. While the music was refined, and the player set in fine regalia made out in the appropriate fashion for their station, the look just didn’t seem to fit the woman. As opposed to a panther prowling about in silk, the creature gave more the image of a cat shoved into a laundry basket. She caught his eye, looking down as she leaned to pick up her music from the stand. There was a fire in her vision, and also a hint of….
Recognition?
Atticus struggled to remember the connection, before it hit him in the head like a brick through a window. It was a miracle he didn’t collapse.
“How was the flight over?”
The woman in black smiled, a subtle change in her posture.
“Nicht schlimmer als deiner.”
The gears in Trap’s mind whirred, struggling to pull out the meaning of the individual words but assuming it meant something catty. Unable to continue in German, he responded by doing his best to lean against the Piano and draw up a speech in English to provide an adequate response. His mind spun with possibility, his feet slid on marble. His fall happened only three words into the exchange, its finality punctuated with the thud of body against tile. Was a shame, to be honest; It was shaping up to be a fair monologue, or as fair as anyone could make given the situation.
Ignoring the gravity of the situation, the Pianist doubled over with laughter, throwing her head back and howling over the sheet music before extending her hand to the beleaguered collegiate. Reaching up with his own arm Trap grasped her and pulled, gingerly lifting himself until he stood face to face with the woman and gazed upon her. The fire in those eyes could have burnt the seas to cinder, and as she clasped his hand in hers, he felt fate tugging at him from beyond the veil.
A second slip and thud later, and fate found both him and the woman on the floor, cackling loudly. Once the two had untangled and collected themselves a long time later, was it fit for the two of them to begin their conversation again.
“So, plane boy, what’s your name”
“Atticus. Atticus Trap. I didn’t think you were a pianist.”
“Ich mache viele Dinge, die beeindruckender sind als das, Herr Trap. Viele Dinge.”
“Ich mache auch viele Dinge."
The woman’s eyebrow lifted a bit at this remark.
“You speak German?”
“Ein bisschen.”
“Ein bisschen ist besser als viele Amerikanern.”
She smiled, and Atticus used the pause to think through his next move.
“Ein bisschen ist besser als nie, ja, aber mein bisschen ist ein klein bisschen.”
“Only a ‘small small bit’ indeed. Do you not even know how to say ‘nothing’ in German?”
“No. I’m rather stunted oratorically, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I’m guessing you’ll fix that soon enough. How long did you say that you’ll be here?”
“I’ll be here until August at least, volente dei. If Uncle Lenny lets me, perhaps until December. I’m considering doing my next semester at the university even if he doesn’t pull through, although it would certainly be a bit harder, having to worry about where I’m staying…..”
Trap trailed off, and the woman collected her thoughts.
“You’re a student? What for?”
“Physics. Engineering physics.”
“I see.”
The pianist did the calculation in their head, parsing the words that he had said.
“So a sort of…. Polymath program?”
“Give or take.”
“Does it interest you?”
Trap shrugged.
“I guess. I’ve always been more interested in music and stuff, but… well, music doesn’t really pay the bills.”
“And the… Engineering Physics… does?”
“It’s flexible, at least.”
The woman got back up and stretched, thinking a bit before adjusting her dress and sitting back down at the piano. Her hands struck a chord, an arpeggiated porcelain chime that sent shivers down Atticus’s spine. She turned to him as she stalled, lingering on one last note before moving on.
“Herr Trap, have you ever played piano?”
The question was rhetorical.
The sound of the piano crashed against Trap, its strings coming to life with a tone discordant yet rapturous. Sheet music falling from stand to floor, Atticus had wondered if he had ever heard such a harsh and wondrous noise in his life. With the left hand she played clips of thunder, and with her right she slammed the keys into sundering cracks of light. The song was chaos and cacophony, bitterness and sorrow, but amidst all of the articulated pain and disorder there was no tile and piano, only her . For a moment the woman had transcended the ordinary, sitting not as a simple girl but a fragment of life itself arrayed in black regalia. In that moment, she was as terrible as the storm, and as bright as the dawn that shall come in the morn.
In this moment, she was radiant.
And when the moment ended, and all was still again, and the girl returned once more from a fearsome angel to a cutting woman in a sagging suit she looked at him and smiled, and with breath heavy from her lungs she curtsied and sat, a devilish smile on her lips.
“Is that flexible enough for you, plane boy?”
Atticus stared for a moment, taken aback, and struggled to find his words. In the end, there only seemed to be one phrase worth saying.
“What did you say your name was?”
The pianist laughed and threw back her head at this question, and standing up leaned herself against her instrument as he had tried to do so before.
“Herr Trap, my name is Heide Schwarz, and you would do well not to forget it!”
And fate tugged at Trap from the veil.