Although the blinking "I" would like very much, disingenuously, to move on to lighter things, get back to his music, resume the tale of Linda, Mara, and Xenia, snap a few more candids of the minds that did the guiding, the Overarching Eye cannot turn away from that scene in the men's dorm with John Goode.
Goode was a complex man, neither good nor evil. The product of an earlier phase of the American academe, he was, on the surface of it, a married Professor with an adolescent child. He had a few books out even then, and was a well know pedagogue. Beneath his respectful surface loomed, as we have already seen, a less acceptable proclivity and lifestyle. All involved were aware and complicit. The pedagogue earned the bacon. Did the pedophile, the pervert risk all? Certainly, academic employers learned of these goings on and turned up the heat. Certainly, the term long-suffering could be applied to his wife. None of us are without sin. That is the foundation of Christian charity. Even if one can't buy that equation, it cannot be suppressed that one's nature cannot forever be suppressed without grave consequence to the psyche. Besides, the very things that made Goode an eccentric were the things that made him great. He was a great scholar. He was a great teacher. He was generous and sensitive (to a point). He was respected as an artist, and could hold his own as a musician. Through his writings he has brought the gift of music and culture to a very wide and appreciative audience.
Cal visited his studio, having been referred by his neighborhood piano teacher. There was a first time, when the wall of books that separated the waiting students from the one at the second piano in Goode's studio was a monolith of unimaginable cultural wealth. The sounds of the lesson in progress, a Chopinzee working up and down the scales and arpeggios, set the stage for the scary meeting that awaited. Cal was looking for lessons in composition. He already had a matron who assigned him pieces. In fact, his musical education was typical and substandard. His piano matron could barely play the instrument herself. She paired him with rapidly developing girls, had them play duets, and dressed him in a wig for little in camera recitals. She spoke of the Great Composers, passing down hagiographic or inaccurate anecdotes with the relish of a schoolmarm. "Mozart could not cut his own meat, so delicate were his fingers." Bullshit. So there he was, his Beethovenesque scores in his notebook of manuscript paper, in his still youthful scrawl, ready to brave the lashings of John Goode. From the studio came laughter. Laughter and voices drawing near...
What were Cal's first impressions? Goode was short and bald. He had a goatee. His face was red, cherubic, and grinning. He held out a hand and said,
"Welcome! You must be Cal! I've heard so much about you from Grace."
"Very good to meet you, sir."
"Please. I'm John. We're dropping formalities right up front. We're all on the path. I want you to be comfortable. Grace tells me you're interested in composition. That's fabulous. Let's get right to it! Show me your stuff!"
Cal awkwardly handed over the notebook, and Goode took the little collection of scores and spread them out on the rightmost of the two grand pianos. He sat down at the keyboard and began to look through the book. He turned pages slowly, giving the music the respect that it did not deserve. He was looking for evidence of talent. He was scanning for a piece he could competently play, one that had a 'way in' to the personal matter of getting under a young artists' creativity and offering meaningful, constructive criticism. After a moment, he discovered something perfect for this. He began to play it. After a while, he began also to sing, and, alternately, to make staccato sounds under his breath, all in time with the music. He brought Cal's clumsy notes to splendid life in the book-piled room. In fact, this would not have been possible if this boy had been without gift. Goode took this chance in these meetings. But not only did this boy's composition betray a phenomenal absorption of harmony; it had evidence of some sense of craft, an idea about dramatic form. But the piece was an imitation of a well-known piece. It was, he thought, suppressing a laugh, very much under the influence of Schumann's Novelette, opus 21, number 1. This gave him the 'way in' he needed.
"Good! Strong harmony, episodic form, and, as a plus, it's a very readable score."
"I was sort of making fun of a piece I heard on the radio in the car. I had to pull over, I was so blown away."
"Yes, the Schumann Novellette."
Goode now played the first theme of the Novellette, from memory, perfectly competently.
"A great piece. We can imagine Clara playing this, enchanted with her husband's facility. Like yours, it has a novel harmonic approach."
"Is that the meaning of the title?"
Cal was astounded by this lesson already, even if now it fell to pieces. Goode had instantly identified the mystery piece that Cal Hunter had heard once and parodied. This emerged as the two of them bantered about the parody and its precursor, and Goode, with his beautiful sensitivity realized that a boy who could hear a piece once and take a stab at parody was someone who had been tragically underserved by the 'middlecrass assitude.'
"Well, that's a good question. I think we assume that it's a bit of a pun, since Schumann was being 'novel,' and very much interested in the novel. It was a new literary form at the time, and he was intoxicated with Goethe's 'Werther,' among others."
Yes, we know that this is more bullshit. Observe with us how the older man immediately begins to seduce his young student. He assumes that the boy knows nothing of "The Sorrows of Young Werther." He hopes to instill a curiosity about the budding literature of desire and tragedy, of youthful longing for the person of greater experience (or merely older), and the aspect of desire in an unacceptable social context. He will answer questions and in the responses he will learn about his new charge. Not very deep in Goode's mind is the parallel appraisal: is this boy straight? He has immediately been impressed by Cal Hunter's youthful beauty and the radiance of his earnestness. He rejects mentioning Oscar Wilde. Besides they're talking about Schumann. He is wrong, however about the boy's knowledge of 'Werther.' As it turns out, he's a member of the German Club, which shares quite a few members with the literary crowd. We have seen in the narrative how Heidi's brother is in this bunch. They're all in this cultural pocket together. "They're all stars, and they know that."
"Actually, sir, 'Werther' predates Schumann by at least a few decades. I don't have Schumann's dates at the tips of my fingers, but 'Werther' is 1787. It's one of my favorite books.
"I so glad you know it."
It's Goode's turn to be astonished.
"How's your German?"
"Nicht fliessand."
Goode laughs. He's a German scholar. But this is not the right road, nor the right time.
"So, your piece. It's not so much a parody as an homage. I don't want to get bogged down in your motivations. I want to look at the details. I want to show you ways to strengthen your intention by bringing out specific details...
On a fresh sheet in the notebook, with a bold, soft pencil, he begins to teach.
Goode's teaching is deep and real, certainly not a sham of any sort. Cal learns much at every lesson. Goode, for his part, takes care to keep his lusts under wraps. Scenes from the subsequent lessons include:
"I've got a great idea for a piece."
"Do tell, my friend."
"The Sinking of the Titanic for Orchestra and Chorus. It's like Penderecki, with smears of sounds representing the sliding of the chairs and stuff, crashing into the bulkheads."
"Sounds noisy. What else are you working on in that notebook of yours?"
"Take a look..."
"Oh. Here's one. 'An open letter to love. A tone poem that depicts the ache of unrequited passion.'"
"Does that seem promising?"
"Does it ever, and don't they all!"
On one occasion, he's passed on his way in by a nervous fellow on his way out. The man walks past Cal in the anteroom, with his head bent, literally wringing his hands. Cal enters the studio.
"What was that all about?"
"That fellow is a student of mine from the college. He's got to find a job, and he's never had a real musical job before. He wants to accompany ballet lessons. He's getting some coaching on his reading."
"Poor fellow. I gather playing for dance is very degrading."
Goode was jovial, but he had a core of molten lava. He could scald you with his scorn when you spoke out of turn about things beyond your knowledge.
"Do you know that for a fact?"
"No. Of course not. I got it from a movie."
"Right. Well, I've never played for a dance class in my life, but I'm assuming it takes impeccable time and really good reading skills. These are things that you yourself lack. You have seriously substandard reading skills, and when the time comes, I wonder how you will do in the very competitive market for musical jobs."
On these scalding occasions, the lessons were very stiff. Cal Hunter did not take being caught out lying down. His response, especially at 16 and 17, was to frost the offender out. Frosting Goode out in a lesson was very effective because his whole philosophy revolved around empathy.
"You are being incredibly prickly and stubborn. I suggest we quit for now."
"My hour isn't up."
Yes, I think we're finished here."
Eventually, Goode asked Cal out on a movie date. It was weird, but Cal was flattered and he went. "Death In Venice," based on the novel by Mann, told the story of a Mahleresque composer who fell in love, in Venice, with a beautiful young man. The significance of this tale was lost on the beautiful young Mr. Hunter, but he got the idea eventually, and recalled the flick's undertone in retrospect.
As a next step, Goode began to solicit Hunter's services for things around the house. Cal met the wife and the daughter. He was invited over to fix Goode's stereo.
"Something is not right with that thing."
"Well, I'll have to dig it out of the bookshelf and check it out."
Then he was making tapes of records. Soon, suggesting rock/pop items for Goode to listen to.
"The Harnoncourt is great."
"I liked the Lightfoot better than the James Taylor. Much better songwriting. Great sense of the craft. Say, would you like a beer...oh. Sorry. You're probably not old enough for that yet. Are you?"
"I find alcohol too bitter."
And so it came to pass, little by little, that Goode began to work Cal Hunter into his life more and more. He began to schedule Cal's lesson at the end of the day, so that the two of them could have the studio into the night. He began to teach the kid to like alcohol by using liqueurs. Cal would sip a White Russian or a Brandy Alexander until he was good and loose. They'd talk about Boston, The Cape, Don Davis, and all the many others that circled that star.
One evening, Cal found Goode in the studio with Hillary Smith, his future piano teacher. They were playing a Casella Duet, and the sound was fantastic. They got to the double bar, laughing and full of great spirits. For a moment the pure joy of making music opened up like a pit that might swallow him whole. He knew before his life in Boston rubbed it in that his sight reading was substandard.
Goode finally, as he closed the deal that his project involved, began to take Hunter downtown. They went to Mr. Henry's bar. They checked in to Hotels, name of Smith. In these rooms, they spoke of the sacredness of the homosexual bond amid the tawdriness of its deceptions. There was no sex in these rooms. Often, Goode would hook up and send his young protege home with cab fare. For Cal, Goode's connection to well-connected and respected musicians was, at least at the outset, an intoxicating fact. Cal resolved the dissonance of his disconnect between Goode's sexual proclivities and his own by examining the many creative contributions by homosexual artists. He thought of it as an arts cult. He wanted in. He reasoned that if the price of entry was merely to have an orgasm with a dude, then that was a small thing to learn how to enjoy. He was learning to like booze, was he not? In the end, he wanted, as the narrative suggests, to be Davis worthy.
