An unexpected call noir/striking a chord (e.d.jmmusechron)

I spend hours at that keyboard afterwards. Losing track of the hours ....

for days after sit there....

the memory of my Beethoven recital haunts at me and finally have to leave that room.... that secret, hidden room behind a cracked wall .... and avoid it awhile

I received two first prize awards. I remember looking at them as a child; taking them out of the drawer they were hidden in, in my mother’s nineteenth century wood-carved, antique secretary. They were never displayed, they were tucked away so as not to upset my sister or irritate —him—

why do I think of this now? I find I wonder what ever happened to that old heavy piece that was as tall as the ceiling and as wide as a single bed. It cost a fortune, was my mother’s prize possession. It had so many hidden, secret drawers.... secret keys.... the writing desk folded out and two wood levers pulled out to support it. Dark walnut, always polished to a deep shine and two screen doors opened that would lock with old skeloton keys where two silk wine colored tassels hung. It was such a magnificent piece, it came everywhere whenever we moved across the ocean —twice.... my wild extravagant mother with her weakness for antiques and fine things, she had such regal style 

that was why the drum table always blended right in. You would never know it was actually a key to a safe, but then even the safe is a camouflage; hide it in plain sight ....it just looks like an old sea captain’s trunk and was always shined to a high polish as well but served as a coffee table, nobody ever would think it actually opened; the perfect ruse

these thoughts that haunt .... 

But the music .... it seems to echo in my mind, evasive and elusive ....driving me mad

I used to pretend to read the notes as my piano teacher slammed her stick, hovering over me, shouting for perfection. She terrified me. I couldn’t let on that I could not see the notes on the page and just would memorize her first demonstrations of a new piece; know when to turn the page .... I mean, sure, if I looked hard at the page —if I blocked out the other chords and, I could figure out what they were.... but, it just seemed an annoying step to do when I could just remember how to play them, that was so much easier and more fun and they made better sense once you understood the composer’s mood. No, I never had much patience for symbols because they don’t stay still, move around so much and just cause motion sickness

I can hear the music still in my mind ....

but then it seems I’m losing my mind.... overwhelmed by fears, real or imagined ailments that I think I might have and stuck here isolated, that I become obsessed over and find myself filled with outrageous anxiety 

so tempted to escape the prison.... “shit, I’m losing my mind ....” I say out loud.... thinking: what if I die down here? no one would know ..... and spend hours with such dreadful fears of this ....Until it reaches a point I get a migraine. 

I go back up to the dungeon to do my Cabaret work on orders and setting up shipments through distributors and reading the mindless nonsense in the chat room to distract my mind from fears and serious thoughts that make me sad....

Some time after hours of this my mobile phone gets a call. 

But it is the other number, not Jörn’s new one, but the first one I received the call from when he and Willem were being held

I welcome the distraction and hesitate a moment wondering if I should but then think Jörn would have said something about it, I take the call

“hallo, mijn oude vriend, de ochtendschemering wacht!”

“Willem?!”

“I am just calling to check on you— Jörn is catching a flight but he wanted to make sure things are ok,” he says

“Ok?” I ask and find I doubt it but keep it to myself, “why, where is he going? What’s going on?”

“Listen, I have been wishing to talk to you a little. Some things we never got to. They have been on my mind... things from your past ....well, maybe we catch up another time with all that but ....I feel I should level with you about some things,” he says now. I hear sounds in the background ....swooshing sounds of motion, he must be be driving 

“What do you mean, level?” I ask

“Let’s just say —I feel I owe it to your grandfather.... you remember it was he who first hired me years ago,” he says

“Yes, I know.”

“He was a good man, he was concerned for your safety, you know? So.... I don’t know .... I get the feeling —you don’t know if Jörn is ....well— how can I put this? It is not my business, but.... maybe I feel like I owe it to grandpa, right?”

I take a deep breath of dread,

“you think he’s deceiving me?”

“I didn’t say that, that isn’t even what I am trying to say. No, it is actually something else. I don’t know but, well maybe, I think, you should know something ....”

“What are you saying?”

“Jörn does not let on about things —what is that expression? Ja, dat is het—he ‘plays it close to the vest’ which is good for spy work but I think sometimes not so good in other parts of life,” he says

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he takes chances I worry about ....”

“Can you please tell me what you’re trying to say? Chances how?”

“I didn’t get it at first ....” he hesitates and takes a moment to take a long breath. He lets out a sigh, “let me just explain something. I have known Jörn a long time now. We have worked together for years. Other cases. I have seen how he works....” and again there is another pause 

I had been sitting at the desk on my side where I do my computer work with orders, but now I get up to pace nervously between the two desks and then go the other way, stopping in all the places Jörn usual would to shuffle through things he’s looking for. I pace to the filing cabinet and then to the mini fridge

“And?”

“I remember the day he first saw your picture ....”

And something in Willem’s voice makes me need to sit down. 

I wait

“From that moment on .... something changed ....”he says 

and I feel that chill; the same chill from the first time I saw Jörn,

“When he saw my picture.... you were there? What do you mean....Changed?” 

“About him.... “ he says, “after that he .... well.... he demanded to be put on the case, because, you see, really, it was first my case .... but he wouldn’t let it go.... “ he stops as he seems unsure of whether to say more, “I thought maybe he knew you from somewhere— so strange really .... well, I am just saying .... ever since .... well.... I just thought you should know this....” and then there is another heavy sigh ....and then silence 

After the call ends I find I am somewhat stupefied. I have never really thought that ....

But before Willem ended the call he said one more thing,

“it just is not like him to take foolish chances so.... I guess I am telling you so.... maybe to just know this.... and if any reason —you can use this number to reach me, ja? —dat is alles. I should be in your area in a few days, so—voor nu tot ziens.”

At first I get up to pace back and forth as a million thoughts seem to take my mind in all directions 

and then stop myself from pacing and find myself just staring at nothing for a very long time 

....and only realize I have been standing in front of the filing cabinet that conceals the secret cabinet in the wall and remember how to open it

knowing what is inside ....

I am compelled now to open it.... 

and once opened

sit down on the floor.... and reach deliberately for the passports. I pick up each one, open them to the photo page and lay them all out in front of me— no, not even do I care what all the names say and all the fake, different nationalities.... made up names and identities, the slight nuances of disguises in the photos ....  I am by now so used to knowing what he does.... it’s just a job to him....

And so just stare at the photos .... and don’t at all care .... because it is him that I look for .... the one there within ....such eyes.... it is not so much just his eyes but what is there behind them that I see ....and have known ....even though I have been ignoring .... it is always there

sitting there I stare at the photos, at his face, this man with the vampire eyes from dreams .... and ....  long for him .... run my fingers over the photos and across his features, wanting to touch him because of the ache of how much I long for his face, long for him

And again that question which haunts the way he haunts my soul, why now?....that he should come into my life now.... what purpose does it serve .....? when after years of wandering and lost dreams should he arrive and disarm my well constructed walls.... what is it for .... that we should meet now? 

for something that he needs? —something that I need?—something that goes beyond life and time?

Notes to a stranger Noir continues/never Rest the weary (e.d.jmmusechron)

....the madness of isolation and what it does to the mind 

What part of the intellect are emotions, I wonder? For without them entirely there could be no compassion for life or survival even to one’s self I think. Would there be no ambition even .... ?

What part of the intellect are emotions? 

are they there to guide us? —rule us? or temper us....

unless it is all such a great, big accident 

we imagine gods sitting up there watching and pushing us around like games of chess

we imagine an infinite king with the ultimate say and the final ruling of judgement .... with just one wicked enemy 

And this is what I think about as I stand there staring at those two dominating objects in the room presiding like king and queen. Until I become aware there is something behind me facing the regal audience that is against the contoured wall. In the shadows. As the only light comes from the one just above over the other two but in the distance falls the shadows of the diminished light where yet are other things 

I go over to look at what it is as I am still thinking about the meanings of emotions and what the absence of ....might render .... chaos or the clarity of impartiality .... but for what ultimate ....purpose

A keyboard

             —plugged into the electric outlet .... drawn .... I go over to it

sheets of music .... sheets of music? 

I look at them. By now I recognize the hand that writes these .... even the distracted scribbles of notes of sequence all in pencil .... some scribbled over, scribbled out and over the markings of dancing symbols the letters printed over them 

E G B D F

then crossed out 

then: 

            313c

printed in the margin followed by 

            7 r a    ....added in ink as if in a sudden rush

—with a question mark ....?

313c7ra 

I catch my breath and find I’m overcome because I read Jörn’s other notes; first:

313= ELE?

I feel a wave of dizziness and catch my breath ....

he writes in ink: 

“It’s a lockletter”

only now I notice there is a metal folding chair in the deeper shadow and grateful for it quickly move over to it to drag over and sit down .... but have to close my eyes not wishing to let the waves of dizziness overcome me

and when at last I know they have passed I force a calmness to look back at his hacker’s notes; he writes beside this, “think like a dyslexic....” 

3 (times chord played one hand ) then 1

Up a scale and again: 

3 (times again) 

Chord change:C 

(Four notes played by four fingers) —4

313c7ra 

but no it is not altogether quite right, because I know this.... I know this .... I look around at all the other things. There stacked up on the table that holds the keyboard are books of sheet music, all Beethoven and my heart suddenly begins to pound loudly in my head .... breathe .... lay my fingers on the keys and squeeze my eyes shut 

hitting the wall Noir(Electra’s dictionary)

Even as, it is not a common occurrence, as it happens, because as I have known of other things ....when I saw him ....again it took me by surprise as I don’t think I really believed I really ever would —not here, not now and ....I don’t think I really believed it at the time. And— he was not who I would have ever imagined despite those dreams of the boat and ....the way he stared back at me in dreams with ....such eyes ..... those dreams ....which came at intervals throughout my life. I don’t really know when they began as they seemed to always be a part of my subconscious and yet I willed them away each time. They always scared me somehow 

So, it was 

no, not the first day I saw him....  when I realized because I was not willing to .... 

****

but it was long before that day in the elevator. 

I made the connection to the dreams only ....reluctantly and I think only did I when it nagged at my thoughts out of context of the day; just coming to my thoughts and ....haunted. He haunted me. Seeing his eyes again but, not dreaming, and in the present, even as there is such a sense of having always expected him that only in retrospect did it come to be apparent to me ....and then all the rest made sense 

even as ....it is quite impossible —how? 

....and the wondering over why and why now ....wondering even after all this time —what does he mean to me?

.....In the dungeon, now, I write these thoughts .... but more to stop them.... I do not want to let thoughts grip hold of me; grip hold of the emptiness and cause me to long for his touch—these thoughts I write 

as I sit in the dungeon watching the monitors survey the barn house 

I knew there had been hidden cameras in the house but the monitors never showed anything, that is, not until Jörn told me to get into the surveillance program in his computer in the cage, which now I have access to

I suppose before there had not been any purpose to spy on ourselves 

There are several of them there that come and go. Jörn also has access to viewing so he can watch what I can see on the monitors the same way he watches me in the dungeon. And by now I have become used to knowing they are there, far removed in the underground and removed now too by so many weeks so that it is something surreal to watch the house thus removed and so remote —and the odd angles make the colorless viewing seem less like real-time and more like a film 

What are they doing in there? What are they looking for?

I become more anxious now to get out of here. The thaw has finally come up in the mountains and I long so much to be outside again, long to hike and be among trees, breathe fresh air 

****

It is later when.....

 I go back down to the deep underground, where lately I go a lot to the gym as it is a good way to force discipline ....away from thoughts or —exhaust thoughts and to keep from climbing the walls or from slamming my head up against them 

I throw myself into an ambitious work out to force away thoughts and stopping only to take a short breath....

I don’t know what causes me to look at a section of the the dark gray painted wall that in the odd light looks cracked. I go over to it. No, that is not a natural crack, i decide as —I can tell— I mean, by now, I have become accustomed to these hidden doorways down here but even still.... this one is quite different yet.... I get this odd feeling

I look around me thinking  ..... and spinning around me looking at all the work out equipment thinking as my eyes peel all the surfaces .... there! I spot an Allen key!  —at the foot of a wall of weights and walk over .... there! —beside it a watch. I pick it up to study it. What’s it doing there? I’ve never seen it before, yet.... there’s something somehow familiar about it. It’s an unusual watch that —yes.... it looks like it is made of platinum by the way it glows in the light. I turn it over. On the back of the watch there is an engraving; a kind of indentation like —the shape of a keyhole? beside the insignia ....that I know —yes! from the pendant that he made me.... the tiny platinum safe with the dangling key that I have not taken off since that day.... The key?

The chain is long enough to see if it fits the tiny keyhole

And yet, all I do is just touch it to it and I jump! just as—a red light suddenly glows in the watch face but it is not this which causes me to jump but the loud click I hear from behind me that causes me to start

I spin around fast and bolt right towards the crack as —much more clear now it is revealed.... cracks wide now and comes apart .... I lean into the wall and push against the crack to open it wide and .... it gives away—yes— like another doorway..... another passage is revealed as a light clicks on as it opens

It is hard not to stand there with my jaw wide open staring at what illuminates within 

“Oh my god,” I say out loud to the otherwise empty room, “the safe and the table!” 

Backstory of how the spy fiction plot came about (truth is stranger than fiction)/weaving in the Plot with the purpose

 foundations behind the seeming fiction 

Part of the benefit of moving away from the US was that it allowed a great distance between my grandfather and us, which worked for the benefit of my mother’s husband. While things were never safe in that household for myself, my grandfather’s presence in my life had given me protection as up until our move away, he was a constant presence in our life back in Florida where I was born and where we lived until the move away; he came often to visit during the week and could be relied upon to always arrive every Sunday, like clockwork with a paper bag filled with bagels, lox and cream cheese and whitefish. He was always there, safe and reassuring and no doubt why I became a huge fan of old black and white movies as I spent every Sunday afternoon watching them with him on television and listening to him tell me stories of old New York. Looking back, I see he was the real presence of a father figure. And I always thought he was that for all of us in, what once had been, a very big family with extended members always showing up, arriving from their New York lives for visits.

I only realized more recently that he did not really take such a personal interest in all the family, nor all his grandchildren. Indeed, not to my sister and not to his grandson who was my aunt’s son. Only looking back now it seems clear that his two favorites had been Pat and myself. I think his particular affinity came from the fact of our sullied birth; the two bastards lacking a father. Either ignored or mistreated by the legal stand-ins. But I was ignorant of all this during the time he was alive. Pat who had been my idol of whom I had emulated as a young girl; the hippie who overdosed, older than me by a generation. Her own father had been a French soldier who disappeared after the war and whom never would choose to recognize her even after she found him in France. 

I suppose my grandfather feared I would suffer her fate, but soon after Pat died, just a few months after our grandmother had who had served as the family back bone and matriarch, these events which, looking back, I see, are what set into motion the desire for some break from that life we lived in that neat, shuttered, yellow house in Miami. And only now older have I really appreciated the way he singled me out as his favorite after Pat was gone because I never saw this until years after his death. 

I only half believed Willem when he said he worked for the CID that day he bumped into me at the bar in the Netherlands, producing that business card for me to hold onto— that is, until he mentioned my grandfather. It was by the second rum and coke when he said my grandfather would not approve of me drinking, and maybe that was when I started to believe him and bothered to hear what he was saying. The fact that he knew details; not just about who my grandfather was, where he lived, was from, his first, last and middle name .... but he knew about the shouting in the flat where we lived in Amsterdam; he knew how I’d often run away down the street to the local hotels to hide, finding my way to the bars inside to find someone to talk to and feel safe for awhile. I think what made me really believe Willem was not when he said I should call the number on the card if I was ever in danger at home but the fact that one day my mother told me someone came to our flat to warn my ‘father’ that what he yelled could be heard through the floor and .... with a warning, left his card

I had known my grandfather had a tendency to hire detectives; he had done it with both his wild daughters and enabled Pat to find her biological father. He was a very clever man, well educated and inspired me to learn world history as he said if we don’t know of our past, we ignorantly repeat it. He kept up with news and the world and would quiz me like a stern headmaster, sending my letters back airmail often with my misspells circled in red, which I did not much like at the time (a dyslexic’s shame) but, at least he paid attention to me and cared.

There were many strange and mysterious occurrences over those years too; the uniformed police who often would stop me on my way walking home after my journey from school to question me, asking about my ‘spy father’ .... followed home often from my wayward flights escaping home life..... Did I believe Willem was hired to watch me? ....I never forgot him and I kept his card, though I never dared call. But then, I didn’t have to. The shouting stopped. Leaving only the uncomfortable veiled threats of my ‘father’ but now said in lowered tones. 

The bugged phones at home; what was that about? The spy equipment I found in desk drawers; the papers in briefcases hidden in locked filing cabinets .... do I think he was a spy? Probably. A lot over the years that turned up supports the likeliness and the sudden exodus he left the Netherlands around the time of my assault  ....who I am, not just to acknowledge but to bring home a point; has something to do with a high profile person considered by many to be one of the most dangerous men in the world when he was alive, and he was but, I believe with all that I have learned of him, for good. Sure he had his weaknesses and his slightly wicked ways, but he was a good man who got in the way of a dominant political mindset he meant to liberate and they took him down with his vices to set back and disarm all his causes



More Thoughts of the Legend; an awakening

upon thoughts of identity, as in coming to terms with who you are, ‘knowing who you are’ and having the courage to acknowledge who you are and then accepting this to wear upon your sleeve in how one presents themself truthfully to the world they encounter 

this one aspect which goes with my exploration of a purpose in life that I suppose somehow I have found I feel obligated to serve; why I ever wound up with this so called ‘gift’ (or curse) of this obscure art of communication through artistic expression seems to place me on a personal platform compels me each day to search deeply to look inward at a massive collection of intentional research and experience that never felt like a choice but a mission ..... presses me to I guess underline what comes in those rare moments of epiphanies

to abandon this philosophical project to understand purpose would be like wastefully tossing away time labored over doing this and .... conclusions I reach ....just in the off chance these words blow across that allegorical subway floor like a leaf of paper from a notebook just into the right hands of a fellow traveler ..... I never had lofty ideas for myself, never wanted grandeur or fame because I saw what all that did to someone I .... am connected to but could never claim to be—not publicly anyway. that too was never my point

still, the things that went with all of that are part of why this Pandora’s box became this identity to do this so only for this reason do I mention it. to have to grow up being a secret.... it is so hard to feel one has the right to feel. to speak. to stand up .... for the self. no matter the horrors and injustices .... to live like someone erased; invisible; inconsequential 

why should that leaf from a notebook fall into the hand of some other lost soul? one example comes to me; it is because of what impact she did, and it was the very words of Charlotte Brontë, years even after her life ended. I think often what would have happened had she never written them, what if I never saw them .... it was her actual words that reached me when I read them that struck deep into my soul and saved me at the right time in my life when I needed saving. They could have been written by me as she said things I felt. though long gone as she was she is so vital for all that she stood for and this is what gave me courage not to lay down on that highway to wait for a truck like I had on that road on Bard campus days after my assault knowing who had been behind it 

but not knowing why 

well, no truck came that night. I did walk back watching the dawn come up. I did that night after night but I guess someone was watching over me 

the other day just upon waking, in between sleep and awake my mother came to me to explain and as wild as that may seem ..... I fully understood what I had been unable to before 

I don’t think that came from inside me, it came from somewhere else because I never understood it all and somehow now I can —even as I have said I forgave her, I guess a part of me still deeply hurt for what had always felt like her choice to abandon me to the cruelty I endured by her husband as she stood there silently allowing it all, turning a blind eye and then later cutting me out of their lives; holidays, her illness, even telephone calls ....shut out 

why? 

So, you see, when I woke up completely after that conversation between sleep and awake 

the fact that I understood it all .... maybe I feel it requires me to .... integrate this into .... whatever this exploration for the understanding of purpose, self, acknowledgement 

You see, it was not so much what she said to me .... you see, it was like I stepped into her shoes. I felt it from inside her. It made me understand what she really felt .... how? I don’t know. But we had a kind of telepathy when she was alive so, there is not the slightest doubt to me she felt it necessary I ought to know 

and I suppose I could list all her reasons but .... I think perhaps I would rather say about it that .... she grew up in different times and the choices she had to make in life are not how we live now.... so..... that is what I woke up to .... finally 

I think she was giving me permission to acknowledge who I really am 

and maybe I will burn all my words one day.... disappear erased from invisible , who knows.... blow away ....but this mission keeps calling me back

 

choices in shop windows 

she opened her diary to an old page, flipped the pages back to read, the ink was smeared in places and she read to herself the old words there. 

‘he said to me, “I can’t offer you romance but I would like you to be by my side, I need you to be the mother of my child and be what I need you to be, although I don’t love you and never will, will you marry me?”

she turned the page and then another. and another and another....why did she? she thought as she read each yellowed smeared page, why didn’t she keep to the bargain, be what he needed? She found more pages that came after years and more years, the risks, the safe choices and the words of despair swam before her eyes from other years, more and more words, faith given and chances taken of another 

the oppression of the room drew her out into the night. she drove aimlessly for hours finding herself walking past shop windows and looking in at scenes displayed then wandered down a side street of houses. And as she passed the houses, she saw scenes of families within, laughing families and living rooms warm and snug filled with life and, eventually, wandered back to the street where her car was parked but stopped and turned to look at the nearest shop window and walked over to it to look inside

she found it beautiful, like a painting, it had a glowing fireplace lit behind by an electric light. There was no one in this window, it lay there like a promise and she pressed her forehead to the glass seeing herself there surrounded in what wasn’t there

then walked back to her car

she returned home and found other diaries and one by one she burned them and then walked to her window and looked out into the night and caught sight of a young girl looking in, and so because the girl looked so lost she went outside to find her but when she got outside there was no one there so she went back inside

when she went back in she saw a message on her phone from a name off those burnt pages. it said ‘it wasn’t great but it wasn’t always bad even if we nearly killed each other, there’s safety in the devil you know’

the weight of life pressed heavy on her shoulders of things remembered and family lost and ugly scenes that weren’t there swam before her eyes

she went back to stare outside the window and the lost girl reappeared ....and stared back at her 

https://youtu.be/cqZc7ZQURMs

 

 https://youtu.be/g1OcnH1RyMg

From the novel A Spy in the House of Love, by Anaïs Nin

“She had lost herself somewhere along the frontier between her inventions, her stories, her fantasies and her true self. The boundaries had become effaced, the tracks lost, she had walked into pure chaos, and not a chaos which carried her like the galloping of romantic riders in operas and legends, but which suddenly revealed the stage props: a papier-mâché horse.”

—-Anaïs Nin