Fool School by James Comins Read Free Book Online Page B

they're trying to convince her
that her husband is not coming back, that she is alone, but she is
strong, a fire buffeted by the wind, and she maintains, year after
solitary year, tending her flame.
    I cannot sing it--there's a thousand thousand verses,
well, not really, maybe five, but they're long--but the melody is
familiar, I can play it on the recorder.
    There is a very different world inside your head--and
in the shape of your mouth--playing a love song than a bawdy
drinking number.
    It begins in the first note.
    It begins with breath. This is what Papa taught me. I
imagine myself six years old again, sitting on a hard stool on a
stage in one of Papa's bars in the châteauneuf of Tourum,
smelling the thick odor of woodsmoke and aged brandy and leather, a
field of old men before us, old men yearning for escape, for
renewal, and Papa speaks:
    "Your first note must be the breath before the kiss,
Thomas. It's a breath of knowledge, knowledge and desire, the
desire to touch a woman's soul, to grasp it, to entwine yourself in
it. See yourself sitting across from the most beautiful woman your
mind can create, the unobtainable woman, the perfect woman. See
yourself gathering all the flecks of bravery you have, preparing
yourself to speak. This is what you do before you play the note.
You gather your courage, Thomas, and--"
    A single, tentative note of longing, sustained,
breathy, exploring.
    "Next, now that you've broken through the silence,"
Papa is telling me, telling the audience too, "you must boast. You
must share with the woman the idea that you're a great man. She
doesn't believe you, of course--she's not an imbecile--" Papa
winks--"but she will feel hurt if you don't work to impress her."
Men in the front row laugh at Papa, feeling the wisdom in his
words. Papa plays a trill of notes, boastful, arrogant, a strange
departure from that first note.
    "And now," he says, "if you are very lucky, you may
speak to her. Through your words, you build love." He demonstrates,
beautifully. "And then, at the very last, you find the very
first."
    I don't know what that means.
    "It helps," Papa says, "to have a woman to look at
when you play. Here--" and he selects a man's wife from the
audience, asks permission from the husband, brings the wife
onstage, sits her in his lap. The audience roars, and the husband
looks drunkenly amused, tolerant. And Papa plays on the
recorder.
    In the great hall, I look at the ealdorman's wife,
with her Spanish eyes, dark hair, glowering eyebrows, and for all
that I know for sure she's a passionate woman, I don't find love
there. I feel fear of being hung for insolence. My neck itches.
    I close my eyes and play the first note, but my
thumb, anxious to scratch at the noose around my neck, slips, and I
squeak.
    Papa taught me: always pretend you meant to do it.
That's very important.
    So I wave the recorder around a little, laugh in the
Gallic fake style, and say loudly: "Inexperience!" Because that's
what Papa would say.
    The ealdorman erupts, his red face wheezing with joy.
Edward smiles. I may have fooled him. My neck is burning.
    I look at the ealdorman's wife, and she's not
laughing. I clam up and try again.
    Who am I to look at while I play?
    There are no other women in the hall, at least none
eating here. Further afield are scullery maids. I don't love them.
I can hardly see them. I look at the ealdorman's wife, and I can
feel myself wilting. I will be hung for insulting her unless I
begin to play right now, right away, I must start, I--
    I will be hung. My body vibrating, my throat closed,
my neck partially snapped, the world spinning on a rope, the voices
of children younger than me jeering below, the brisk cold morning
wind chilling my chafing neck as I turn, my body shutting down as
my breath ends--
    "Tom?" says Malcolm quietly.
    My body shakes--I may have been sleeping--how
long?--seconds--everyone is now looking at me--play it off, like
you meant to do it--I am consumed by Malcolm's ice-green