47 and 53.
“Let me play you something,” my father said and pulled out a record from about a hundred sleeves on the shelf above his stereo equipment: a Yamaha amplifier, a Lenco turntable, a NAD cassette player and his treasured Teac reel-to-reel. His movements were in slow motion as he placed the vinyl on the platter, but then he sent the stylus skidding over the first few grooves as he dropped the cartridge on the record.
“Why don’t you use the start button? It’s automatic,” I said. The noise was painful.
He frowned — whether in frustration over the accident or because of my comment, I couldn’t say. With his eyes closed he lifted his index finger, instructing me to shut up.
The first notes of the music came on. Bach’s Aria from the Goldberg variations.
He sat down in his armchair and did not open his eyes in the process.
The armchair’s upholstery was worn beyond repair.
The living room was enveloped in complete silence despite the music.
No words were offered and none was needed.
No speaking was allowed over music.
Once the Aria was over, he stopped the record player and put on another record.
The same Aria — this time on harpsichord. We were both quiet as he was changing the disks.
By now I was fancying a drink, the reason for my visit was not music. In fact, I wasn’t sure he understood why I was visiting.
My father went on to play the Aria seventeen times more. More vinyls and reel-to-reels and some cassette tapes, too. That afternoon we listened to a total of nineteen recordings of the same thing — mesmerising, debilitating and filling both us of with an equal amount of awe. And a sense of repetition, too, to be frank.
A Saturday afternoon after which I could have played the Aria by heart and blindfolded.
“There you go,” my father said once there was nothing more to be played, “Leave now,” he added.
With a firm hand he gestured towards the door.
He then roared, “Get out! Get the fuck out!”
***
And I clearly saw the desert, felt the burning heat on my arm, I was blinded by the constant sun and my only refuge was a Joshua tree. With him lost — no music, no damaged armchair — and me standing next to him yet unable to guide him or find my own way at all. Options were limited, no path to follow, a complete sense of abandonment enveloping an otherwise forgiving setup: the two of us without intentions, left to aimless loitering in a space not well suited for reflection.
