“Thanks to you.”
Ludovico smiled. “The least that I could do.”
Joshua’s mouth curved. “Come now. Do not undersell your generosity.” Wolfl gasped as Joshua’s head turned eerily toward him as though it was not connected to his body.
“Joshua! What brings you to London? You look well.”
With chin cocked to the side in a most unsettling way, Joshua hissed, “And you look like a murderer.”
Wolfl’s chin fell and he backed away in time with Joshua’s slow, methodical approach. “Murderer? What is this you speak of? Who has told you such? Lies!” He glanced to Ludovico.
“Not a murderer?” said Joshua, almost too quiet for the room to hear. “Just a thief, then?”
“Thief? Not I! Have you been dipping too deep into the wine? You always were one to wear it heavy.”
He backed Wolfl into the wall, ignoring the absurdities as he continued on his intended path of confrontation. “Dussek said for me what I could not, for I had wished to hold my tongue and let the heavens judge you, Joseph. And now he is gone, all because I did not battle my own fight.”
Joseph gulped and stammered, “Dussek? I’m not sure what you mean exactly. Poor fool. I had heard he…”
“Enough!” Joshua’s voice was a low roar, but wisely mindful of the sleeping servants. “You stole my sonata! Indeed, my very heart! And then you killed our friend in cold blood, just to hide your own thievery and preserve your sickly earned reputation by a society who does not see what you really are! How could you do it, Joseph? After all the time we’d been friends?”
“I… I…” Wolfl’s eyes darted to Ludovico as he did not want the truth to be told outside of those who knew it. And with someone of such high standing in society as Ludovico! “It is clear your friend believes you. But it is a lie, Joshua.”
Joshua sneered. “Do not lie to my face, for it does not serve you! Come now, Wolfl. Now is your chance to clear your conscience and tell all. Or will you not do right even at the end?”
Ludovico called out, “You can let down the play. Your audience is not one of fools. I had seen the sonata years previous to your swiping it. I know what you really are.”
Wolfl’s eyes flicked from one to the other. No escape, he discarded his act and shifted from confused innocence to jealous hatred for the composer whose cold breath he could feel against his skin. “You,” he sneered. “Joshua Cohen, with all your talent! Sitting in a room with no one to hear the notes! You would never have done what I did. You had not the courage to bring out to society what belonged to it. Inspiration is never owned by just one man. It is given him to share with the world! And I? I have never written anything like you. Why has MY muse not seen fit to bestow upon me the notes yours gives you nearly every day? When I have the ambition to steer the ship ashore–why is there no wind given for my sails? You have no idea what you have and your cowardice makes me sick!”
It was Joseph’s truth that he was not truly gifted, and kind-hearted Joshua felt pity swell for his old friend’s plight, so much so that he stepped away several paces, his head falling slightly. He looked tired and Ludovico watched in surprise as Joshua’s voice came softer, lighter, as he spoke. “Joseph…I do not know why it is that music comes to me so readily. I have always heard it in my heart and I am not to be blamed for what you have not been given. It’s not right to take the light of another only because it did not shine out from you. Do you not see how that is wrong?” He tilted his head to the side, his soft brown hair falling gently on his forehead, his eyes imploring understanding.
But Wolfl’s features darkened and he laughed. “Wrong? There is no wrong! There is only what we do and what we do not. Do you think there is a God judging us from a throne above our meager heads?” His fingers danced through the air. “Sitting amongst the clouds with
Ludovico smiled. “The least that I could do.”
Joshua’s mouth curved. “Come now. Do not undersell your generosity.” Wolfl gasped as Joshua’s head turned eerily toward him as though it was not connected to his body.
“Joshua! What brings you to London? You look well.”
With chin cocked to the side in a most unsettling way, Joshua hissed, “And you look like a murderer.”
Wolfl’s chin fell and he backed away in time with Joshua’s slow, methodical approach. “Murderer? What is this you speak of? Who has told you such? Lies!” He glanced to Ludovico.
“Not a murderer?” said Joshua, almost too quiet for the room to hear. “Just a thief, then?”
“Thief? Not I! Have you been dipping too deep into the wine? You always were one to wear it heavy.”
He backed Wolfl into the wall, ignoring the absurdities as he continued on his intended path of confrontation. “Dussek said for me what I could not, for I had wished to hold my tongue and let the heavens judge you, Joseph. And now he is gone, all because I did not battle my own fight.”
Joseph gulped and stammered, “Dussek? I’m not sure what you mean exactly. Poor fool. I had heard he…”
“Enough!” Joshua’s voice was a low roar, but wisely mindful of the sleeping servants. “You stole my sonata! Indeed, my very heart! And then you killed our friend in cold blood, just to hide your own thievery and preserve your sickly earned reputation by a society who does not see what you really are! How could you do it, Joseph? After all the time we’d been friends?”
“I… I…” Wolfl’s eyes darted to Ludovico as he did not want the truth to be told outside of those who knew it. And with someone of such high standing in society as Ludovico! “It is clear your friend believes you. But it is a lie, Joshua.”
Joshua sneered. “Do not lie to my face, for it does not serve you! Come now, Wolfl. Now is your chance to clear your conscience and tell all. Or will you not do right even at the end?”
Ludovico called out, “You can let down the play. Your audience is not one of fools. I had seen the sonata years previous to your swiping it. I know what you really are.”
Wolfl’s eyes flicked from one to the other. No escape, he discarded his act and shifted from confused innocence to jealous hatred for the composer whose cold breath he could feel against his skin. “You,” he sneered. “Joshua Cohen, with all your talent! Sitting in a room with no one to hear the notes! You would never have done what I did. You had not the courage to bring out to society what belonged to it. Inspiration is never owned by just one man. It is given him to share with the world! And I? I have never written anything like you. Why has MY muse not seen fit to bestow upon me the notes yours gives you nearly every day? When I have the ambition to steer the ship ashore–why is there no wind given for my sails? You have no idea what you have and your cowardice makes me sick!”
It was Joseph’s truth that he was not truly gifted, and kind-hearted Joshua felt pity swell for his old friend’s plight, so much so that he stepped away several paces, his head falling slightly. He looked tired and Ludovico watched in surprise as Joshua’s voice came softer, lighter, as he spoke. “Joseph…I do not know why it is that music comes to me so readily. I have always heard it in my heart and I am not to be blamed for what you have not been given. It’s not right to take the light of another only because it did not shine out from you. Do you not see how that is wrong?” He tilted his head to the side, his soft brown hair falling gently on his forehead, his eyes imploring understanding.
But Wolfl’s features darkened and he laughed. “Wrong? There is no wrong! There is only what we do and what we do not. Do you think there is a God judging us from a throne above our meager heads?” His fingers danced through the air. “Sitting amongst the clouds with
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