headed for the one place where he could almost always find fresh inspiration.
A small bell chimed overhead as Gerard pushed open the vintage stained-glass front door and stepped inside the used bookstore. He inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of ancient inks and yellowed paper, as a connoisseur of fine wine might appreciate the bloom of a vintage year. A sense of calm washed over him.
He made his way through the racks of books towards the register at the back counter, the worn planks of the floor knocking loudly underfoot as he walked. The store was mostly empty, only a single other individual browsed through the dusty titles quietly as Gerard made his way to the back of the shop.
The register was untended. Gerard sidled up to the counter and rang the bell, glancing through the small window in the office for a sign of the clerk. The rare editions that he had come to look through were sitting in a stack behind the counter, just out of reach. He wished the shopkeeper would hurry.
He rang the bell again, impatient.
“Mr. Faust?” A soft voice came from over his shoulder.
Startled, he spun about to find a young man wearing a hoodie standing behind him. He was dirty and unkempt, and seemed extremely nervous.
“Yes?” Gerard asked, trying to recall if he knew him from somewhere. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” the man said, slipping his hand inside his coat as he fumbled about for something concealed within.
Gerard wondered if he was about to be mugged. He knew he was being irrational, but his pulse still quickened as he pictured the floor of the bookstore covered in his own blood and guts.
The man located whatever it was he was looking for and withdrew his hand. He wasn’t holding a weapon, to his relief. Instead, the man tightly clutched a folded square of paper between his grimy finger and thumb.
“The clerk here said you were a writer, said that you drop by sometimes, said you might be able to help me,” the man said. “I need a professional opinion on something real bad.”
He offered the folded paper, his hand trembling.
Gerard took it. The stock of the paper was heavy and the grain coarse on his fingertips. Two words were written on the outside in exquisite calligraphy: Maazo Maazo.
“Read it,” the man said, insistent.
Now curious, he unfolded the brittle parchment-like paper. It appeared ancient, and he was careful not to rip it along the seams.
In the center of the paper was a single stanza, handwritten with accomplished penmanship. It appeared to be a poem, perhaps, or the verse of a song. Gerard read the first few words to himself and realized it was in a foreign language. It looked a little like Portuguese, but he wasn’t sure.
He looked up, puzzled.
“I don’t know this language, sorry,” he said, and tried to hand the paper back, but the man refused to take it.
“It’s not a foreign language,” the man said, a hint of derision in his voice. “It’s a new art form, one the world has never seen before. That’s why I need your opinion.”
“How can I give you an opinion on something I don’t understand?” Gerard said.
The man took a deep breath, clearly growing irritated. Gerard wondered if something was wrong with the man. He seemed off , somehow.
“You have to read it out loud ,” the man said, making clear he was stating the obvious.
“Words and music are inseparable,” he said, “no dividing line exists between one and the other. Music permeates every word ever uttered.”
His suspicions about the man’s mental state now seemed justified, and he looked for a way to make a graceful and rapid exit, as the man continued rambling.
“For this to work - for you to hear the actual song embedded in the words,” he said, “you have to speak them with your mouth. You can’t just think them in your head. Your vocal cords are the instrument on which the music of those words will be played. It’s the physical act of saying them that releases the music they contain.
A small bell chimed overhead as Gerard pushed open the vintage stained-glass front door and stepped inside the used bookstore. He inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of ancient inks and yellowed paper, as a connoisseur of fine wine might appreciate the bloom of a vintage year. A sense of calm washed over him.
He made his way through the racks of books towards the register at the back counter, the worn planks of the floor knocking loudly underfoot as he walked. The store was mostly empty, only a single other individual browsed through the dusty titles quietly as Gerard made his way to the back of the shop.
The register was untended. Gerard sidled up to the counter and rang the bell, glancing through the small window in the office for a sign of the clerk. The rare editions that he had come to look through were sitting in a stack behind the counter, just out of reach. He wished the shopkeeper would hurry.
He rang the bell again, impatient.
“Mr. Faust?” A soft voice came from over his shoulder.
Startled, he spun about to find a young man wearing a hoodie standing behind him. He was dirty and unkempt, and seemed extremely nervous.
“Yes?” Gerard asked, trying to recall if he knew him from somewhere. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” the man said, slipping his hand inside his coat as he fumbled about for something concealed within.
Gerard wondered if he was about to be mugged. He knew he was being irrational, but his pulse still quickened as he pictured the floor of the bookstore covered in his own blood and guts.
The man located whatever it was he was looking for and withdrew his hand. He wasn’t holding a weapon, to his relief. Instead, the man tightly clutched a folded square of paper between his grimy finger and thumb.
“The clerk here said you were a writer, said that you drop by sometimes, said you might be able to help me,” the man said. “I need a professional opinion on something real bad.”
He offered the folded paper, his hand trembling.
Gerard took it. The stock of the paper was heavy and the grain coarse on his fingertips. Two words were written on the outside in exquisite calligraphy: Maazo Maazo.
“Read it,” the man said, insistent.
Now curious, he unfolded the brittle parchment-like paper. It appeared ancient, and he was careful not to rip it along the seams.
In the center of the paper was a single stanza, handwritten with accomplished penmanship. It appeared to be a poem, perhaps, or the verse of a song. Gerard read the first few words to himself and realized it was in a foreign language. It looked a little like Portuguese, but he wasn’t sure.
He looked up, puzzled.
“I don’t know this language, sorry,” he said, and tried to hand the paper back, but the man refused to take it.
“It’s not a foreign language,” the man said, a hint of derision in his voice. “It’s a new art form, one the world has never seen before. That’s why I need your opinion.”
“How can I give you an opinion on something I don’t understand?” Gerard said.
The man took a deep breath, clearly growing irritated. Gerard wondered if something was wrong with the man. He seemed off , somehow.
“You have to read it out loud ,” the man said, making clear he was stating the obvious.
“Words and music are inseparable,” he said, “no dividing line exists between one and the other. Music permeates every word ever uttered.”
His suspicions about the man’s mental state now seemed justified, and he looked for a way to make a graceful and rapid exit, as the man continued rambling.
“For this to work - for you to hear the actual song embedded in the words,” he said, “you have to speak them with your mouth. You can’t just think them in your head. Your vocal cords are the instrument on which the music of those words will be played. It’s the physical act of saying them that releases the music they contain.
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