Paternal Leave
Francis Fernandes
I can’t sleep, so I listen to Mozart.
Piano concerto no. 22, E-flat major.
That allegro that seems to go on forever.
I mean in a good way. In fact, I’ll listen to it anytime.
Even on my bike. Yes, I know. Everyone’s got
headphones on nowadays. No one listens to nature
and growling traffic anymore. And what’s this
about headphones on a bike?! Yes, that’s almost
as barking mad as Nietzsche running up to a horse
in defiance of the God-fearing, mud-splattered
thoroughfare and, with tears streaking down
his love-struck face (Nietzsche’s I mean),
wrapping his arms around the poor beast.
Yes, well, that’s just about the way I feel.
What can I say?
Except vehicles today aren’t as pretty. Not even
the S-Classes and Quattros. Plus they’ve got no hold.
Even Superman couldn’t embrace them fully.
You can tell as a cyclist I’m enamoured
with motorcars. (Did he say motorcars??) No, I don’t
drive. Don’t even own one. (Fear of road rage, eh?
Drunk drivers? Getting pulled over and questioned?)
Anyway, Mozart wouldn’t sound the same.
Even with the best Blaupunkt inside. But speaking
of eternal prodigies, that teenage daughter of mine,
always one to sing the praises of the marriage of Apple
and motorcar conveyance, well, for her my cycling
in the rain is an embarrassment. Soooo cringe.
Actually, we’re not doing much conveying these days.
As in talking. About this or other things. Lots of things.
Anything, really. Like the way we would, back then.
OMG. I get so nostalgic, you probably noticed.
But that’s just the way I am. (As Merle Haggard
used to sing.) Sometimes I think by Concerto 24
he’s starting to sound a bit like Beethoven.
Mozart, I mean. Just a touch. Except it’s more
the other way around. Ludwig coming after
Wolfgang and all. You can tell by the curls
he didn’t wear. His hair’s unruliness. He did have
some good teachers to model himself after,
before taking off on his own wild, gorgeous trajectory.
Now if she (my daughter, that is) decides
to do just that (pardon the bombastic allusion),
that’s fine with me. A cut from the old cloth
will take you only so far before you find yourself
in tatters. But look: they’re tearing down the statues
and tossing them into lakes at quite a fast rate
these days. They get so emotional about
the long-dead, it seems. So ticked off.
Nothing passes for grade. (Sorry, the vibe.)
The generals, the philosophers. Least of all
the music. We used to go to Mozart operas
together when she was small. That’s right.
And have a fine time. Sniggering and
rolling our eyes, we’d take passing shots
at Count Almaviva – the chump who tries
to highjack Figaro’s marriage. We’d applaud
heartily at the rousing arias. She asked me once
about Cherubino’s line I’m going mad for love
and what it meant... But, look, the point is that
now you are the villain – all the villains rolled
into one. The way you hit the wrong notes.
Wear your tired shoes. The way you pedal: how
it actually demonstrates Newton’s first and third laws
of motion. Although she wouldn’t directly
refer to him by name. After all he’s dead.
Be that as it may.
You understand, don’t you, your job now is just
to hang around. Stay out of the way. Just short
of leaving. Avoid the bumpers of those
boisterous Volkswagen Cabriolets. They know
the traffic rules better than you. (Like the new
Yield to AI Vehicles sign.) So let’em be. Be it ticked
off on TikTok or shouting obscenities in the streets.
Not coming home for dinner or not getting
dressed on weekends. Yes, just go on listening
to your Mozart. That allegro that really does go on
forever. As you stare into the chiming dark...
and imagine an insomniac Cherubino, years later,
with his own children, whispering to himself
that same line over and over again.
Piano concerto no. 22, E-flat major.
That allegro that seems to go on forever.
I mean in a good way. In fact, I’ll listen to it anytime.
Even on my bike. Yes, I know. Everyone’s got
headphones on nowadays. No one listens to nature
and growling traffic anymore. And what’s this
about headphones on a bike?! Yes, that’s almost
as barking mad as Nietzsche running up to a horse
in defiance of the God-fearing, mud-splattered
thoroughfare and, with tears streaking down
his love-struck face (Nietzsche’s I mean),
wrapping his arms around the poor beast.
Yes, well, that’s just about the way I feel.
What can I say?
Except vehicles today aren’t as pretty. Not even
the S-Classes and Quattros. Plus they’ve got no hold.
Even Superman couldn’t embrace them fully.
You can tell as a cyclist I’m enamoured
with motorcars. (Did he say motorcars??) No, I don’t
drive. Don’t even own one. (Fear of road rage, eh?
Drunk drivers? Getting pulled over and questioned?)
Anyway, Mozart wouldn’t sound the same.
Even with the best Blaupunkt inside. But speaking
of eternal prodigies, that teenage daughter of mine,
always one to sing the praises of the marriage of Apple
and motorcar conveyance, well, for her my cycling
in the rain is an embarrassment. Soooo cringe.
Actually, we’re not doing much conveying these days.
As in talking. About this or other things. Lots of things.
Anything, really. Like the way we would, back then.
OMG. I get so nostalgic, you probably noticed.
But that’s just the way I am. (As Merle Haggard
used to sing.) Sometimes I think by Concerto 24
he’s starting to sound a bit like Beethoven.
Mozart, I mean. Just a touch. Except it’s more
the other way around. Ludwig coming after
Wolfgang and all. You can tell by the curls
he didn’t wear. His hair’s unruliness. He did have
some good teachers to model himself after,
before taking off on his own wild, gorgeous trajectory.
Now if she (my daughter, that is) decides
to do just that (pardon the bombastic allusion),
that’s fine with me. A cut from the old cloth
will take you only so far before you find yourself
in tatters. But look: they’re tearing down the statues
and tossing them into lakes at quite a fast rate
these days. They get so emotional about
the long-dead, it seems. So ticked off.
Nothing passes for grade. (Sorry, the vibe.)
The generals, the philosophers. Least of all
the music. We used to go to Mozart operas
together when she was small. That’s right.
And have a fine time. Sniggering and
rolling our eyes, we’d take passing shots
at Count Almaviva – the chump who tries
to highjack Figaro’s marriage. We’d applaud
heartily at the rousing arias. She asked me once
about Cherubino’s line I’m going mad for love
and what it meant... But, look, the point is that
now you are the villain – all the villains rolled
into one. The way you hit the wrong notes.
Wear your tired shoes. The way you pedal: how
it actually demonstrates Newton’s first and third laws
of motion. Although she wouldn’t directly
refer to him by name. After all he’s dead.
Be that as it may.
You understand, don’t you, your job now is just
to hang around. Stay out of the way. Just short
of leaving. Avoid the bumpers of those
boisterous Volkswagen Cabriolets. They know
the traffic rules better than you. (Like the new
Yield to AI Vehicles sign.) So let’em be. Be it ticked
off on TikTok or shouting obscenities in the streets.
Not coming home for dinner or not getting
dressed on weekends. Yes, just go on listening
to your Mozart. That allegro that really does go on
forever. As you stare into the chiming dark...
and imagine an insomniac Cherubino, years later,
with his own children, whispering to himself
that same line over and over again.
|
Francis Fernandes is a writer and teacher based in Frankfurt. A dual Canadian-German citizen, his work explores memory, exile, and sound, and has appeared in Third Wednesday, Jerry Jazz Musician, Saint Katherine Review, The Brussels Review, and elsewhere. He is seeking a publisher for his manuscript on music and intergenerational experiences of belonging and loss.
|
