Variations on Babel by Ermanno Bemporad De Stefani
Chapter One My Need for Solitude
The recording session in Bayreuth that day was extremely long and tiring, but undoubtedly satisfying, even exciting. We were working on music by Wagner transcribed by other composers. I don’t love Wagner and I was therefore expecting a rather tedious session. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised by the beauty of the pieces the pianist was setting down. A reason for this apparent contradiction began to take shape in my mind as the pianist played. Wagner, in my opinion, is one of the most mediocre composers in the history of music. But when his threadbare ideas are taken up by others more gifted than he was, something good may yet come out of them. Rather as if a sculptor left an unformed piece of clay in his workshop and during the night his pupils, unbeknown to him, crept in and created a masterpiece that their Master could never imitate if he worked for all eternity. Wagner owed his fame to extra-musical reasons. He managed to present himself to the German people as a hero incarnating the authentic Teutonic values, one able to restore to new life the ancient glories hidden in the dust of history. In the following century another man, whose name is so repellent to me that my hand refuses to write it, did the same thing, with the result that history would never be the same again. I am digressing. The subject of my brief tale is not Wagner, but an adventure which happened to me that evening, at the end of the recording. So back to my story. When the session was over, it was proposed that we should all dine together at a small restaurant nearby. However, as often happens to me at the end of a long day’s work, I felt the need for a little solitude and silence. I said I would prefer to eat alone (though, as you will read later, I was unable to dine that evening!). My friends were not offended. We all said our goodbyes and I went towards my hotel, with only myself and my thoughts for company. Our recording had taken place in the Friedrichstrasse, while my hotel was in the Rathenaustrasse. The quickest way would have been to turn right into the Wilhelminenstrasse. But I preferred to take a longer route, heading towards the Stadhalle and the Ludwigstrasse. There was a thick fog, but that did not worry me. I know I have a good sense of direction and then, having nothing else to do, it would even be a pleasure to get lost in the streets of old Bayreuth. Which is exactly what happened! I found myself in a street I did not remember passing in the previous days. It was paved in porphyry and lit by a few lamps throwing out yellow rays that were scarcely able to penetrate the fog that got thicker every minute. The houses on either side of the street were very old but clean and tidy. After a few paces I saw, on the left, the windows of a
shop. Strange, I thought, it was the only shop in the whole street. How could it do business in such a well-hidden spot? As I drew nearer I realized it was a music shop. I saw through the windows a large number of shelves, all well filled with scores. I need hardly tell you that I was drawn in like a bee making its way among the petals of a perfumed flower. Inside everything was a complete muddle but – if I can put it this way – a well-organized muddle. I am convinced that any musician would have found the score he was looking for in the twinkling of an eye. The shop was no larger than the living room of a big house, the shelves went up to the ceiling and every space was well filled by this organized muddle. Thousands of scores were crammed into it. The only other piece of furniture was a desk serving as the shopkeeper’s counter, with two armchairs at either end. The owner of the shop was sitting in one of them. He was an old, man, maybe over eighty. He was wearing light clothes, in spite of the cold evening: a flannel jacket and trousers and an open shirt. His face was wrinkled, his hair long and grey. What struck me, though were his eyes, from which shone an expression so intelligent as almost to disconcert me. An intelligence and wisdom beyond the common rut combined with an almost childlike enthusiasm for everything around him. He was a man who feared nothing, who would have braved any danger to quench his thirst for knowledge and wisdom. For a moment I felt sorry for all those biologists who spend entire days deciphering our DNA to discover how we are made. All you need to do is to look a person in the eyes and in a flash you have understood everything! The old man smiled but did not say a word. It was a smile of encouragement, an invitation to take my time to look around, as if to say that the shop was all mine. I waited no longer. The desk was piled high with scores, the only free space being occupied by a bottle of water and a glass. Among the scores my gaze immediately fell upon a large volume, about four centimetres thick, bound in leather like part of a venerable encyclopaedia. Engraved on the spine was the following code: XV 34 XXIII
I opened the volume. On the first page I read a strange title, in a foreign language:
ABER TESIRNAG OLPUM NIST HMEANT STOTHE ROSEWU HOSTHE FEALC SFARO WAMTHE BEG ODSCH
But my biggest surprise came when I opened the score. On the first page was a copy of the minuet from Bach’s Sixth French Suite. A minuet in E major of twenty-four bars. But
immediately after was the first of thirty variations on the theme of the minuet. At the end of the thirtieth the minuet was repeated. I ought to add that, after many years dedicated to music, I have developed the ability to hear the notes in my mind without having to go to the piano. The music that “played” in my brain as my eyes followed the score was of sublime beauty, supreme, music by a composer with a talent equal to, or even greater than, Bach himself. I looked up at the old man, unable to say a word. “Do you like it?”, asked the old man, smiling. “I can’t even imagine who might have written such a masterpiece. Was it you?” The old man laughed almost childishly. “If only I could”, he answered. “There’s an incredible story behind this score. I’ll tell it if you wish”. I couldn’t ask for more. The old man seemed to want to share his strange tale with me. It was hot indoors even though the fog outside was getting thicker by the minute, so I slipped into the other armchair and listened to his story.
Chapter Two The Old Greek’s Tale
“I’ll start by telling you my name. I’m Panayiotis Angelopoulos and, as you can easily suppose, I’m Greek. When I was young I studied music assiduously. I wanted to be a violinist, but alas, I didn’t have the talent. The only way for me to remain in the world of music, therefore, was to move to Germany and open this music shop. Every year for my holidays I go back to Greece, a land I shall never cease to love. A land that gave to the world philosophy, science and the greatest of the Gods. And in order to explain to you the origin of that score that you found so amazing I shall have to start with a story involving some of the Greek divinities. “This is how it happened. After the death of the Aeolian King Cretheus, Pelias, son of Poseidon, now grown old, seized the throne of Iolcus from his half-brother Aeson, the legitimate heir. Since he had been warned by an oracle that he would be killed by a descendent of Aeolus, Pelias put to death every Aeolian heir he could lay his hands on, except Aeson, whom he saved for love of his mother Tyro. However, he kept him prisoner in his palace, compelling him to renounce to his inheritance. Aeson spent long, empty days in the palace, bereft of any comfort. In the end he begged Jove, Father of the Gods, to find him some pastime. Jove had always been fond of Aeson and agreed to grant him whatever he wished. Aeson loved music, especially that of the great Sebastian, the Leipzig Cantor. Aeson therefore asked of Jove that Bach’s soul, instead of being consigned to the Inferno, as was the lot of wretched mortals, should be entrusted to him. Jove agreed and
the Cantor has ever since then been Aeson’s companion in Pelias’s palace. The task Aeson set him was very simple: he was to write thirty variations on every theme he had written during his life. It need hardly be said that Bach undertook this task with great pleasure. And not only that. Since time in the world of the Gods passes more slowly than it does with us, the task has already been completed and it seems that the great Cantor is now writing thirty variations on every variation so far composed. “In order to conserve all these volumes, special rooms were constructed in Pelias’s palace. Each room is a rectangle of five metres by three. The smaller sides have no shelves, only the doors leading to the next rooms. On the larger sides are the shelves housing the volumes. 1,200 on each side, so every room has 2,400 volumes altogether. “It was my good fortune to gain access to the palace and to be able to visit this immense musical patrimony. That day, as well as myself, an almost blind writer, who told me he lived in Argentina, succeeded in entering. He, too, was amazed by what he saw. There is no contradiction in the fact that a blind man could see. I know many people with very sharp eyesight who are quite unable to perceive what is around them, so it need not surprise us if a blind man can see better than they do. He told me this vast library had given him the idea to write a story. Taking advantage of the lack of guards, I manage to steal this volume bearing the strange code of XV 34 XIII. It means it is – or rather was – in room XV, in the 34th place on shelf XIII.”
Many minutes passed before I succeeded in speaking. I could not believe such a tale. It was far too absurd for a rational mind like my own. But the fact remained that the volume was there before my eyes and that whoever had composed those variations, whether it was the spirit of Bach or the mad shopkeeper himself, was an absolute genius. I asked the old man if the score was for sale. He replied that it was and the amount he asked was next to nothing. Maybe he had remained unaware of the inflation inflicting the world. My wallet was in the hotel, so I asked if he could wait a few minutes, time for me to go there and back. He replied that I could take my time: he was in no hurry. I left the shop and rushed towards my hotel in the Rathenaustrasse. After a few hundred metres I was struck with a shiver of fright, almost of anguish. I had to stop. I had found myself in that street without knowing exactly where I was, I had forgotten to note the name or ask it of the old man. How was I going to find the shop again? Tormented by these thoughts I dashed into the hotel, grabbed the money from my room and tried to retrace my steps, starting from the Friedrichstrasse, passing in front of the Stadhalle and then turning into the Ludwigstrasse. I was in luck! I found the street, I saw the shop with the lights still on and, full of joy, I went in. A short-lived joy! Inside I found the old man stretched on the ground. Those eyes, once so intelligent and wise, had lost their light. I felt his pulse: he was dead. And as he fell to the floor he had brought with him the precious volume and the bottle of water he kept on the
table. To my immense shame I have to admit that my greatest grief was when I saw the water had made the score practically illegible. Only a tiny fragment of the title could still be deciphered. This is what I read:
E T E RNA LPU NIS HMENT TO TH OSE W HO STHE AL THE G ODS