The Goldberg Variations

It had been one of those oppressively hot and humid South Coast days when it was an effort just to move about through the moisture-laden air. The promised southerly never arrived, but around midnight the mere breath of a breeze from the sea crept up the river and into the old house, which sat waiting in eager anticipation with all its windows and doors wide open. Even so, it was still too hot to go to bed.

I had been reading in the living room, but all I wanted to do when that breeze arrived was to sit in the dark on the back verandah and enjoy it. Searching for some music which, turned up loudly, would keep me company, I came across a tape which someone had given me of Bach's "Goldberg Variations" played by Glen Gould, that most eccentric and idiosyncratic Canadian pianist. It is not a recording I would have bought for myself as I do not particularly like Bach played on the modern piano, but Gould's interpretation, despite his habit of mumbling and singing along in the background, illuminates this simple melody and its thirty variations like no other I have heard.

When the time came to turn the tape over, a cup of tea seemed like a good idea. I was filling the kettle when I heard a gentle knock on the front screen door. A bit late for visitors, I thought. Probably one of the neighbours come to complain that the music is too loud. I didn't recognise the tall, lean man at the door.

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"Was that you playing?"

I laughed and explained.

"I must confess," he said, "I was passing and heard the music and I have been standing in your front garden listening. I have never heard anything quite like it."

"It's really rather special, isn't it. Would you like to come in and hear the rest of it?"

He nodded and I held the door open for him. When I introduced myself, he merely said, "My name is Julian. I am a poet."

I ushered him down the hall and into the living room which was dimly illuminated by my reading lamp. He wore a heavy, dark olive corduroy jacket, belted at the waist, thick tweed trousers of a nondescript grey, and sensible brown shoes. As his only concession to the heat, his soft cream shirt, with its wide collar and large mother of pearl buttons, was open at the neck. The long, fair hair falling over his brow accentuated the intense blue of his eyes and made him look young and vulnerable.

"I was about to make a cup of tea. Will you join me?"

He merely nodded again. I busied myself in the kitchen.

"Milk and sugar?"

"Yes, please."

I am not very good at British regional accents but suspected, from the little he had said, that his was Scottish overlaid by a good English education. I decided on cups and saucers rather than mugs. Having drunk my tea black without sugar for more than fifty years, I always leave my guests to mix their own brew. I set a small jug of milk, the sugar basin, and a plate with half a dozen biscuits on the tray beside the cups and saucers. When the kettle boiled, I exchanged the small teapot for the larger one.

"Help yourself," I said as I put the tray on the coffee table. "I'll just turn this tape over."

We sat and listened without speaking as we drank our tea. He seemed both thirsty and hungry. We each had a second cup, and he managed to squeeze a third out of the pot and eat all but one of the biscuits.

When the final variation ended and Bach returned inevitably to the original theme, he rose and said, "Thank you very much. I must be on my way."

I saw him out and returned to the living room as the last notes faded. As I set about tidying up the tea things, I was startled to find that only one cup, mine, had been used, the milk jug was full, and there were still six biscuits on the plate. I lifted the lid of the teapot. It was more than half full.

For several nights now, I have opened up the house around midnight and set Glen Gould to playing the "Goldberg Variations," but Julian has not returned. A pity! I would like to have heard some of his poems.