Preface

Calbraith Hunter, Acid Art, 1976, ex. 7
Alleged to be a portrait of Lucy Tennant.

[The future harbors its many mysteries. It takes some imagination to see into it. I am the omniscient narrator of this novel, and I know all about it. How much I can share with you is open to debate. There is a limit to how much you, humble reader, will allow yourself to believe. I’ll tell of more as we go along. For the moment, we look in on a small gathering of scholars not yet born from where you sit.

It’s a Symposium of Hunter Scholars, Mid-Winter, 2527. In attendance: Eve and Number Three of Brattleboro, Number One of DC, Number Two of Albany and His Mistresses, Elspeth and Andrea. A cozy gathering in the dancing candle light, ages and ages hence. They’ve gathered this way before. Beside the fire, they speak informally about the purpose and progress of their work. The men use numbers rather than their proper names. This is one of the trappings of the academic tradition they practice. The women, on an equal footing in this society, use the names they’re given or have taken on in reflection of their interests or personalities. Much about this future will seem strange to you. Some of it will fit right in with what you believe about humanity. Let them speak:]

   “Hunter scholarship is a blueberry patch just now,” said Number Three.
   “Mostly attributable to the materials you’ve unearthed.”
   “Thanks, One. If not for you, we’d have nothing.”
   “Eve?”
   “Oh, I agree. We sing and shout.”
   “Crank up that Edison and put that record on again!”
   “I don’t know, Two. It’s getting fainter and fainter. It’ll be spring before I can get back down to make another cut.”
   “We could sing the madrigals.”
   “Sure, Eve, we could. But I’m inclined to sit and talk.”
   “It’s all the talking that creates the bog. Number Two, we get so bogged down in speculation. All we really know is that somebody made this music many years ago. The legends and stories, the so-called ‘Boston Tales,’ it’s impossible to tell the truth from any of it.”
   “You know it’s true, we really have no idea who Calbraith Hunter was, or what he really did.”
   “Elspeth, you had that story about his red-headed muse, the one that used to paint the color on right out of the bottle.”
   “Oh yes! I love that one, though it’s not a Boston story. Much further out in the “Book of Babes.” She accused him of making things up all the time. She said he was a pathological liar. A bit of a braggart. The red-head, that’s my juice.”
   “So true, lady El, so true. You wear your fiery tresses well!”
   “Andrea? What say you?”
   “The narratives are, one feels, partly things that happened, straight up, and partly things that happened highly embellished, and partly a pack of lies.”
   “Fiction.”
   “Right. But Hunter calls the whole thing fiction. A novel. He gives himself carte-blanche…”
   “Ha! The white card! Love that lingo!”
   “…To invent.”
   “The music is the claim to fame.”
   “Not for every taste. Eve here likes it, it makes her ‘sing and shout,’ but some can only yawn. And barely stifled.”
   “I’m a yawner when it comes to the music,” says Elspeth. “I am a fan of the narratives, and am glad, Number Three that you’ve worked so hard to put them in order and bring them to light.”
   “I bow to you, my darling El. But I can enjoy the music.”
   “You can actually play the music.”
   “You make me blush.”
   “He makes me sweat.” Eve’s indeed blushed and sweating by the small fire.
   “I think the public likes the stories. I hear them told in surprising places.”
   “They have their place. They enchant the past and make it seem so close.”
   “Not bad for a pack of lies.”

[So they sit and talk, batting back and forth a favorite topic, the shuttlecock of Calbraith Hunter’s work. Yet I can tell you that he’s only in their minds because of luck and twists of fate. So much was lost. I can tell you that the public they speak of is a very small one. There are just not many humans left. The joy they take in ancient music, in music history, is uplifting. Let us turn now to an edition of that labor, The Third Person’s little volume, a parchment bound with twine, the first person narrative of Calbraith Hunter, with interjections by the editors. I’ll be interjecting too…]

The Audition Part 1

Calbraith Hunter, Acid Art, ex. 6, circa 1976

In the Fall of 1972, Dad and I flew to Boston for the audition. I'd applied to several other music schools. I wanted to go to the one that was in a place that was imbued with history, far enough away from home that it would be an adventure, and somewhere I'd already been a few times. I passed up the scholarships from Peabody and Oberlin and decided to try out at a school I'd have to pay for.

From Logan, we took the subway to South Station. Just being in a subway station was an adventure. The squealing metal wheels, the clattering coaches, the grafiti, the smell of junk food and piss...already my eyes were wide. I approached the grey-haired man at the info kiosk. I stared at the map. I saw an octopus in four or five colors. The way did not leap out. I'd better ask.
    "I'm trying to get to Symphony."
    "Pok Street. Green Line."
    "Right."
Another hard look at the octopus. I see no Pok Street.
    "Pok Street?"
He's counting tokens or something, not looking up. He nods.
    "I don't see any 'Pok Street .'"
He's looking at me now, exasperated, shaking his head on the bull-like neck.
He's opening the gate to the rusty booth.
He's coming around, pushing me aside, pointing at the map.
I catch Dad out of the corner of my eye, standing back, letting his foolish son have his big city adventure. Dad already knows where this is going. He's also shaking his head with a half grin on his face.
The pudgy grimy fingers are stabbing the plastic lamination over the word...
    "Park Street."
Welcome to New England.

The Audition Part 2

The Back Bay Boston YMCA

We emerge from the tunnel into the dim light of early evening. I'm holding my map, but walking in no particular direction, looking in all directions.
    "Huntington Avenue," says Dad.
    "Where's the Conservatory?"
    "What does the map say?"
    "I don't know. Let me see."
I look, but I can't think just now. It's Boston. Wow. There's Symphony Hall across the street. Koussevitzky, Slonimsky, and Tilly Thomas. I daydream of being inside that hall, listening to one of the great orchestras live. And who knows...I have the deep abiding fantasy that I will have many triumphs here. There's the Mother Church. That's the I.M.Pei reflecting pool, where everybody appears to be walking on water. Nice trick. Later, on LSD, I'll think of the globes surrounding the street lights as the eyes of God, and I'll take to calling this Mary Baker's concrete tit. But that's the future, and just now I'm lost in the unfolding now. I take a single step in that direction, but Dad's grabs my shirt and pulls me the other way.
    "I think we want to go this way..."
    "Uh, OK."
Aren't we we're walking in the wrong direction? By the time we get to Gainsboro Street, passing the New England Conservatory, which, by the way, I had applied without success, I'm dubious about my father's understanding of the city and have got my nose back in the map. Another paternal tug on the fabric of my jacket stops my automatic forward motion.
    "Here."
He's pointing at the big red sign that says YMCA.
    "We'll check in, leave the baggage, then go looking around."
Dad's a man of few words, whereas I'm a man of many words. It's always been that way.

The next morning, at 8:30 AM we're making our way from the Y to the Boston Conservatory. It's my first stroll up Westland Ave., and as usual, the denizens of the street are out working it. Dad's tug gets my attention. He's pointing at two women in short red skirts. They look chilly.
    "Prostys." He means prostitutes.
    "Yup." We have these back home in D.C., too.
Now, running up to us from behind, comes the first of an endless parade of Boston panhandlers. Before I can angle out of the way, he puts a tattered piece of paper in my hand.
    "Hey, I just got back from 'Nam. I gotta get to Brighton to see mah kid. I ain't seen 'im in fo' years."
I'm slow on the uptake. Dad's rocked back on his heels to see how I'm going to deal with this. His educational style is college of hard knocks.
    "'Nam, eh?" I'm looking at the grimy fatigues.
    "Uh huh. I gotta get up to see my boy. I jus' need a few bucks fo' da bus."
    "Ah. You want money."
    "Jus' a few bucks. Fo' da bus."
    "For the bus? Are you sure you're not just looking to score?"
    "Hey! Don' dis me, man!"
    "I'm just curious..."
    "Curiossidy kilt da cat, man...I jus' wanna few bucks."
    "Well, what's your name?" I look for a second at the scrap of paper, and hand it back to the man. His aroma is starting to get to me.
    "Me?"
    "You're..."
    "Charles Huntington the Third."
Now another pair of pedestrians, elderly women with shopping bags, approach us.
    "Hey, Sammy, leave the boy alone!," one of them yells.
    "He's got better things to do today than fool with you!," yells the other.
    "I'm Huntington numbah three..."
But his pitch is defeated for the moment. He's distracted now by another pair of people on the other side of the street.
    "Nice talkin' wid ya...gotta run..."
Dad's shaking his head.
    "What?"
    "Let's get on with it..."

The Audition Part 3

The Boston Conservatory's Original Building, 8 The Fenway

The actual audition is strange. It takes place in a big auditorium, with just me on the stage at an ornate grand piano. Out in the hall, close to the stage, is a little table. There are three people at the table, one of which we've already met. We were escorted here by the President of the Boston Conservatory, a big, bald-headed guy named Gianini. He's been keeping up a steady chatter since we knocked on the door to his office about fifteen minutes ago. He's welcomed us to Boston, to the Conservatory, and asked about our trip so far. Had we seen Symphony Hall?
    "From the outside," I mutter. "We met Charles Huntington the Third."
    "Who?"
    "He's joking. It was some bum," says Dad.It's not much of an ice breaker.   "Well. You be careful out there, you hear? Let me go get Harriet and Ruth, some members of the piano faculty who are looking forward to meeting you and hearing you play. Then we'll go on up. You can wait here."
Looking around his office, at the pictures on the wall of his predecessors, at the pictures of the notable alumni, none of whom ring a bell with me, I feel strangely calm. I've heard stories from my own piano teacher about the legendary Albert Aphin, who was such a tightwad that he refused to replace an ancient vacuum cleaner. My thoughts settle like dust on the paneled walls. Dad is sitting with his hands across his lap. He's grinning. I grin back. I hear voices. Yes, Gianini's back with two dykish looking women in tow. We all shake hands and pile into the rickety elevator. In the auditorium, Gianini points me in the direction of the stage and the piano. The women sit at the table, Dad takes a seat in the back of the hall where there are folding chairs in neat rows.
    "You get the seat of honor," says Gianini, pointing.
    "The hot seat," I mutter.
I ascend the short stairs to the stage floor and take a seat on the piano bench. I've never really figured out how to adjust one of these things. I fool some with the big black knobs.
    "What do want to play for us?, calls out one of the piano teachers.
    "Um, I'll start with Schubert."
It's nothing fancy, just two little German Dances. It goes OK.
    "Lovely! Let's hear the Beethoven."
The 'Beethoven' is the Sonata, Opus 13, "Pathetique," First Movement. I've been obsessed with this piece for at least three years. I still can't really play it. I'm defeated by the tremolo in the left hand. I start out OK, but of course, I fumble the tricky virtuoso passage that bridges the Grave introduction and the Allegro. I can sort of play it moderato, but allegro, con brio, is not happening. Ever. Or certainly not now.
    "OK! That's enough!"
The piano ladies put me out of my misery. After a bit of chatter, Gianini dismisses the women and ascends the stairway to the piano. He asks me to get up, and he sits. He covers the keyboard with his big arm, covered in suit jacket. His gut is pouring out in its white shirted splendor, and his tie is just shy of the keyboard as he leans forward.
    "Now, I'm going to play a few notes. I want you to sing them back to me."
He plays a major second.
    "It's a major second," I say.
    "No. Don't tell me what they are, just sing them."
    "I'm not really a singer."
    "That's OK. Do your best."
In a faltering voice I match the pitches as well as I can.
    "Very good."
He plays another chord, lower on the keyboard. I warble, very uncertainly. There follows more chords, more uncertainty. At length, Gianini says,
    "Now, can you name these pitches? Just name the notes? He plays two notes in succession.
    "No, I don't have perfect pitch."
    "OK, the bottom note's an F sharp. What's the top note?"
    "Uh, an A natural." He plays a three note chord.
    "A is on the bottom."
    "A, C sharp, F. Or E sharp if you prefer." He gives me a dry chuckle, but immediately plays a cluster.
    "C is on the bottom."
    "C, D, E, F, G. I think. I don't really know, it's a cluster."
    "OK. That's enough. We're done."
    "Well, don't you want to hear my own piece? I'm auditioning as a composition major, after all..."
    "No. It's OK. I've showed your materials to the composition staff. They'll look it over and we'll talk about it. Go on out and enjoy Boston. Watch out for the drunks. Very nice to meet you, Calbraith."
I hate the sound of my full name. I was named for an aviator. Dad's an aircraft mechanic. He never had the courage to fly.
    "You can call me Cal."
    "OK, Cal, good to meet you."
Down we go and out. Dad's waiting at the door.
    "Well, did you get in?"
    "We'll find out, I guess."
    "I guess.

I had the impression I didn't make the cut. I should have worked up a piece I could have actually played. Those clusters he had me singing and naming...what was that about? It all seemed like a trick of some sort. The idea that he didn't want to hear me play my own work seemed like an indicator that he'd already made up his mind. I knew my teacher, who had been a former Dean, would give me a good recommendation. My teacher was a well-known homosexual wing nut whack job. Was that going to do the trick?

My letter of acceptance arrived in the mail about two weeks later.

History Part 1

Every webinovel worth its bandwidth deserves some savory backstory and a dose of personal philosophy, misguided and uninformed.

In High School, Cal experienced first hand the well known and much analyzed "wife-whore" literary theme. That is not to say he had a wife or paid for sex: it is rather meant to signify that he "fell in love with" a woman and "had sex with" a woman, and that it happened to be two different women. That is not to say that he had actual sexual relations in high school, in the sense that he 'went all the way.' Neither is it to say that he had any real idea what "being in love" meant. High School is one of those proving grounds that suggests the dimensions of the life that will follow. Issues that develop in the halls of learning as a late adolescent shadow the terms of later learning. The curriculum is set at this time. The whole syllabus is sketched out, and it is not a trivial thing.

Cal's love blossomed out of a chance encounter in a theatrical production. He had been rehearsing for months for a concert at which he would present one of his new pieces to a public that included his friends, his parents, the parents of his friends, his teachers, his mentors, his classmates, if any could be persuaded to attend, and such members of the general public that had interest in the doings of a huge public High School. His rehearsals involved getting keys to the orchestra pit where the grand piano was stored, assembling his little band of musicians and working on "the piece." The person 'in loco parentis' for this activity took to calling Cal "Penelope Pit Key." The County had gone big into the spending on this High School auditorium. It featured a deep stage and a full counter-wieght fly gallery so that flats could be built and flown just like on Broadway.  The lighting system was not quite state of the art, but it had sufficient room to grow. It was on the sound system that the real corners got cut. Mr. Penelope Pit Key was actually hired as a librarian. It had emerged in faculty discussions about who might be responsible for theater tech, since the County was not going to hire a specialist, that 'Will Johnson should do it.' He'd been the technical director at Arena Stage for god's sake before that venerable house fell on bad times and had its Federal funding cut.

So out of the library and into the theater Will Johnson went. It was a very good fit, except that, well, you know how theater is. It sucks out the lifeblood and becomes an all consuming obsession. Those that signed up for Johnson's Theater Tech course were not just squeaking through French II. No, they were in it for the duration, having the time of their  lives. There was a team scouring the city for used but still useable lighting equipment. (The afternoon they hauled that old carbon arc spotlight up into the booth and sat there taking inventory of it was one of those unforgettable times. Many went on to solid careers in theater. Many would later shoot the breeze, recalling Johnson's manner and the magic of the moment that they struck the arc and blazed that cold blue light across the hall. How that instrument smelled as it smoked! How hot it became and how quickly so! How they switched from calling it "Suzy Spot" to the "Cold Frigid Bitch!") There was a team working on the sound system, and this was the team that Cal was on. He was a lackey on the crew, running around on errands for wire, running up to the booth, down the stairs to the backstage wings, and back around to the front of the house for the endless hum check.

It was not all guys in Theater Tech. So it came to pass that during the rehearsal period for the "Magic of Light" show, during the run of "Skin of Our Teeth," that Cal encountered Adelle backstage at the patch panel.
    "Hey, Cal."
    "Hey, Adelle. Liking that job?"
    "It's a job. Ha!"
Awkward staring at anything but that.
    "Are you working on the show?"
    "I'm working on my show."
    "What show is that?"
    "'Magic of Light.'"
    "Oh that. Pretentious name."
    "It's worse than you think."
There's that laugh. It sounds like maple syrup. It could melt through cement.
    "How so?"
    "I think..."
    "'Therefore you are?'"
He was going to say, 'I think that I'm supposed to provide the magic,' but he thought better of it.
    "I think I need to find Johnson and see about using the piano tomorrow afternoon."
    "Tomorrow afternoon there's a lighting pickup. I have to get out of French to do it!"
    "We can rehearse in the pit with the trap doors closed and no one in the house or booth will be the wiser."
    "Except for the noise."
    "Have you heard my noise?"
    "No...hey. Sorry. I...have an...
    "Acid tongue?"
Interrupted by instructions over the headset. She turned back to the panel and started patching up the next cue. Cal wandered off, thinking nothing of it. It was not love at first sight.

History Part 2

At the same time, Cal was hanging out with a girl from "POTC" (Problems of the Twentieth Century, an actual course). She was the stepdaughter of a pair of diplomats, and she had a peculiar upturned nose. She held her books in front of her chest, covering her small breasts, and she walked alongside Cal between classes, chatting him up. Then, there were long walks along the creek. ("By old Sligo's slimy waters, there's a putrid air...") The Litman's lived in a creek-side villa (is it a villa, or just a Colonial on stilts?), way up in the trees, up a steep, quite a panting climb from the winding walk. Linda leads him here after a month of walks and talks. She offers him a lemonade, and they sit on the verandah (or is it more of a sunroom?) overlooking the creek. They've been talking about his favorite topics, Neitzsche and being raised a Baptist.
    "So. You were saying?"
    "Mmmm. This is good! I forgot totally what I was talking about..."
    "Baptism. Breaking the rules. 'No cards, no dancing...
    "No sex."
    "None?"
    "Well...there must've been some. Here I sit."
    "You're funny."
A pause.
    "And Neitzsche," she prompts, "which I don't quite get."
    "'If I am struck in the cheek, instead of turning the other one, join in the striking.'"
    "Um hmm."
    "What's the part you don't get."
    "I guess I don't get what that has to do with Baptists."
    "It has to do with overturning the prevailing structures. Which, in my case, has to do with being brought up in the Church with all of these strictures."
    "Structures. Strictures. How do you plan to stage the rebellion?"
He is so thick. She's stopping short of showing her chest, though she's undone the top button. He does not see that she's already completed the argument and is ready to jump to the next obvious step. Obvious only, it seems, to her.
    "Well. I don't really give a shit about playing cards. I hate games."
    "I hate games too."
    "As for dancing, just give me a good slow rock and roll groove and I'm there."
    "Yeah, me too. I don't think there's a lick of rock and roll in this house. Plus, Paul's kind of picky about the stereo."
    "Paul?"
    "My step father."
    "What's it like having a step father?"
    "What can I say? It's all I've known."
All of a sudden, he feels her passion. He feels it in his thighs and his cock is stirred.
    "Look," she almost whispers, noting his arousal, "would you like to see the rest of the house?"
    "Sure."
He thinks this will take his mind off of his predicament, but he wonders how he's going to stand up and not look ridiculous. She's totally aware of this, and deftly solves the problem by creating a diversion.
    "Wait here just a sec. I'll put these glasses back in the kitchen."
He sits and thinks of death and dismemberment, of how he's flunking French, and how his music is going to make them laugh and cry both at once. When she returns, he's vanquished his boner and is standing.

The first stop on the house tour is her bedroom.
    "Come. Sit down here."
She pats the edge of her bed. Soon, they're on their sides, facing each other. Kissing is too intimate. They find each other's fingers. The fingers find the shoulders, then the neck and down the back. He finds the top of her jeans. She unbuttons hers and rubs his hard-on through the outside of his until his wetness has stained the cloth. He works a hand down the crack of her ass and, taking the Southern route, finds her warm, wet desire. She shudders.
    "It's OK?"
    "Oh."
    "OK?"
    "Yeah."
But downstairs there's the sound of an opening door.
    "Shit."
    "What?"
    "My Paul and Julie are back. they've been gone for weeks, and they pick just now to show up."
    "Uh. Gone for weeks?"
    "I'm a latchkey kid."
The phrase is so far out of his experience he has no reply. From downstairs, a fluting voice yells up.
    "Linda!?"
She turns her head away from his and yells back. She's unfailingly considerate, her class act nearly lost on clueless Calbraith.
    "Yes! I'm here! I've got a friend over!"
    "OK, dear! Take your time! We're just checking in!
The shouting is over, and so is the breaking of rules. For the moment.