Resolving Things Like Gentlemen

I’m not sure how long I’ve been locked in this dungeon, but I’ll never eat salad with the big fork again.

I only got about four bites into it before the ruckus broke out, and I’m starting to drool as I eye the fresh dead rat plopped on the floor between me and the stranger.

“Perhaps we should resolve this like gentlemen,” he said. “No need to resort to pugilism.”

It was obvious the man was truthful about reaching a civil agreement, because he was clearly a gentleman, as illustrated by the fact that he had a fine mustache not only above his upper lip, but one on his chin as well, covering his cheeks and jaw. Also, anyone who uses the word “pugilism” doesn’t actually practice it.

“Hmmm,” I thought. “How about a gentlemen’s battle of talents? I’ll put on my best show, and you yours. I trust we can judge each other objectively?”

He agreed, and we spent the next several hours or days perfecting our acts in opposite corners of the cave, until finally we decided it was time to duel.

We drew straws, dictating he would go first.

I was mesmerized.

The stranger had fashioned for himself a tiny grand piano (a “good” piano) using the bones of former prisoners and some slivers chipped off the wall of the cave. He sat in the middle of the floor, hunched over with a pale light streaming across his face.

Magnificent dissonance, then a pause as my chest became heavy and my ears ached with anticipation.

Gorgeous, lilting melody. Full chords with heart-wrenching phrases drifting through the air, reverberating off the walls and drenching my thirsty ears with joy.

It was Chopin.

I stared, dumbfounded by the miracle I was witnessing.

When he finished — fading off with a faint trill, hinting at the inconspicuous beauty that will remain floating throughout life after this sonata has brought it all to the forefront — I waited, hoping to savor this fine performance for as long as I could hear it in my mind, then burst into applause.

“Thank you,” he said, “thank you. I’m glad you liked it.”

It was a tough act to follow, but I had spent the rehearsals strengthening my calf muscles and doing cardiovascular exercises up and down the dungeon walls, swinging from the chains and doing pull-ups on the vacant stocks.

I was in good shape, and the ballet slippers knitted from the hair I’d hacked off were tightly woven and sturdy enough to protect my feet from what would be my most physically and emotionally demanding presentation to date.

I began slowly, sliding daintily across the dirt floor, leaving only glimpses of my solemn face through the shadows, drawing the attention to the poetry improvised by my feet. I was delighted to see the stranger’s eyes light up, as he clearly caught my subtle references to Ambrosiani and Balanchine.

As the tension built, my feet began to fly briskly across the ground, then across the walls as I summoned acrobatic powers fueled only by my want for that dead rat.

I closed with a tragic bodily lullaby, a metaphor for the final sleep we all fear, but must face.

After my bow, the stranger was crying and clapping his trembling hands with all energy.

“That was marvelous. I… I don’t know what to say. Such a gift!”
“It was my pleasure,” I said. “Well, who won? Who gets to eat the rat?”
“I have no idea. Do you think it was a draw?”
“Definitely.”

We sat down cross-legged on the floor ready to share the rat as worthy opponents would, but as I reached to snap off a leg, the man grabbed my wrist.

“Wait,” he said. “I’ve a proposition.”
“I’m listening.”
“This recital, this was much more than something one would experience in a concert hall or opera house. What happened here was bigger than ego, bigger than love. What happened tonight was life. Real life — something tremendous.”
“You don’t suppose we collaborate, do you? Take this on tour?
“No, of course not. They would never understand. They would taint it.”

He breathed heavily and grinned.

“We’ll perform here forever, for our own pleasure. Do you honestly think there’s an audience out there to appreciate real art anymore? Bah!”

I meditated on this for a minute or so.

“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “We’ve actually found it. There’s no denying that this is that. And I’ll be damned if I let it be soiled by greed and criticism from blind fools.”

I gleefully reached for the rat again, but stopped myself.

“I wonder what will be left to live off once this is gone.”

A slight drop, then: Revelation.

“This right here,” he said, “is a male rat. And I saw a female scurrying over by that hole just a moment ago. If this one is fresh enough, we just might be able to harvest its seed and impregnate the other.”
“Are you suggesting…”
“Rat farm, gent. Rat farm!”