An Unexpected Duet

The disk jockey got his heart broken at seventeen minutes past three in the afternoon. He would remember the time because she called off things with him over a text. The twenty-six-year-old had worn his fanciest clothes for attending the orchestra. He was planning to do so with this girlfriend. Now, he had neither his partner nor his enthusiasm. 

He was the kind who often found himself running behind time. This caused particular concern when the gigs he was hired for could not begin until he arrived with his equipment, loops, and - if he was paid extra - his speakers too. 

Today, he left his home half an hour before he needed to. The florist’s shop around the corner of his house was just about to close, so he hurried down there to buy an elaborate bouquet. Its price was more than he could afford, yet he made the purchase. The orchestra tickets had eaten into his savings, which have never been enough for a man in his profession. 

He thanked the lady at the shop and stepped out into the street with a certain enthusiasm about the rest of the day, when his phone rung. He pulled it out from his pocket with his free hand. 

I won't be able to make it today, his girlfriend had texted. 

He placed the bouquet on the sidewalk such that the flowers were balanced on the side of his knees. What happened? 

I'm sorry, I won’t be able to meet you again. 

I’m not getting you. He stood there, looking at his screen, which soon engulfed his whole world. 

Then, his girlfriend told him why. And then, she no longer was his girlfriend. 

He looked at the words until they started to hurt. He thought whether he should leave the flower bouquet on the spot of the street where it had been kept. The weight of the bouquet was insignificant, but carrying it seemed to be a meaningless exercise. In the end, he carried it with him because he couldn’t abandon it right outside the shop he had bought it from. 

There was a park a few streets down the road. He checked his wristwatch – he had too much time on his hands. He checked the two tickets still rested inside his jacket – he had one too many now. He thought of throwing them away, but once more, he held onto them. 

Soon, he had entered the perimeter of the park. It posed as a pleasant contrast to the concrete which surrounded the rest of the neighbourhood. A handful of youths indulged in a game of football on the wet grass. He looked at the branches of the tree which acted as makeshift goalposts. In his youth, he remembered doing the same with his friends. Most of them were working at prominent firms now. He was the only freelancer amongst them, and the only one who frequented nightclubs for earning his living and not spending it. 

On the other end of the park, he saw an old man seated on the wooden bench there, glancing through the newspaper in his hand. Its seat was broad enough to support a healthy adult and long enough to seat two of them. After inspecting the bench, he sat down on its free end. 

He took out his phone and looked at the conversation he had just concluded with the woman who might have been the love of his life. Scrolling through the final texts they were likely to ever exchange, he realised it would be futile to ponder about the matter much more. He closed the phone and replaced it in his pocket. 

“You look smart, young man,” the gentleman remarked. On further inspection, he saw the disk jockey had dyed his hair, but it was suppressed with a formal comb. His ears were pierced too, but they did not support any ornaments today. 

“Thank you, sir.” He looked at the elderly gentleman himself. He was in his sixties at the very least. His face wore an expression of wisdom which one acquired along with the wrinkles. On his body was an unseasonal coat, but one sensed he needed it. The rain last night had made the atmosphere colder than one would suspect it to be around this time of the year. 

Nodding at the bouquet, he asked - “I suppose you’re going to meet someone special along the way?” 

“I was supposed to, but she’s bailed out.". He made no attempt to conceal the sorrow in his eyes. Unsure whether a tear might appear, he took out his kerchief to dab underneath them. 

”I also sense something unwanted has happened.” 

“Well, she’s bailed out of my life too.“ He laughed, but both knew there was no joy in his humour. 

“Ah well”, the old man said. He opened his mouth, but deemed silence to be the most worthy option he could choose. 

The silence was punctuated by the celebration of a youngster after scoring a rather impressive goal. The disk jockey resumed the conversation himself. “I had bought tickets to take her to the orchestra.” 

“Oh wait, you mean the one taking place in the hall near the metro station?” 

“Yes.” 

“They’re the country’s best according to most of the papers.” He looked at the one he was holding to communicate that its columns held the same opinion. 

“She said so too. I thought attending would be the best way to understand why people love it so much.” He took a glance at the bouquet, and adjusted the flowers which were falling out of their place. “I’ve never had an affinity for classical music, you see.” 

The old man now turned his full attention towards the heartbroken youngster, and crossed his knees just above the bench. “I’m a violin teacher,” he said with a smile. 

The young man suddenly felt uncomfortable for having made the statement without knowing the other’s credentials first. “Apologies sir,” he said. “I am a man of music myself. I understand why classical music is important, but I’ve never been attracted to it.” 

“A man of music?” he asked, eyeing up the heartbroken disk jockey again. He was not the kind who made assumptions, especially about people. Over the years, he had learnt they did more harm than good. Rather, it was a better ploy to let the situation guide one to better inferences. But the youngster’s association with the music surprised him. 

“I’m a deejay,” the young man replied, with a shy hand placed on the back of his head. At the same time, there was pride in his voice as he said it. He did what he did because he liked it, one understood. 

“I’ve never talked with one before. At a few parties and weddings of course, but never up close.” 

“Well, I am here now. Not going to the orchestra.” 

“Why not?” 

“The whole point of going was to be with her, at something she seemed to love so much. Maybe I would’ve grown to like it along the way myself, even though it was likelier I would fall asleep if it weren’t for her being next to me.” 

The violinist hung his head in thought for a few moments. Then he asked, “What makes classical music seem so unattractive?” 

“I appreciate the theoretical brilliance, of course, but I‘ve never been captivated enough to sit through two or three hours of people playing symphonies or sonatas.” 

“Have you ever been to classical concerts before?” 

“Ah well, when I was a child.” 

“And... did you want to go?” 

The deejay thought about it for a while. “I might have wanted to stay at home instead. My father was a music buff, and also had enough contacts to take his family places But whenever he took me along, there was always a cartoon on at that time, or it was my time to spend outdoors.” 

“You're a man of music, you say. Perhaps you never wanted to like it in the first place.” 

The recipient of these words looked at the bouquet once more. “Ah...” he said finally. After a further moment of introspection, he accepted, “Maybe I could give it another go.” 

The violinist could have said things, but decided not to. Instead, he chose to be more candid. “If I’m open with you myself, I understand why electronic music is so popular. But I’ve never been able to grasp deeper meaning in the works.” 

This time, it was the deejay’s turn to speak. He moved his hands around, propagated by passion more than conscious intent. “All popular music is meant to serve a purpose for its audience. Some music is popular because it’s good, while other music is good because it’s popular. Any tune which wants to make you dance while on the floor, in my eyes, is good music. Some of the greatest composers have borrowed from others, and often, themselves. I’ve heard enough classical music over the years to realise that. Then, the music was meant to be understood at a deep level, an engagement with the senses.” He looked at the violinist with a conviction in his eyes. “Dance music’s primary aim is to make your senses, well... dance. Then comes depth, which it may or may not have.” 

The old man nodded. It had been a point well put. 

”But I like depth in my music.” 

“Electronic music carries some of the most meaningful melodies you would ever hear. Have you ever heard a critically acclaimed electronica album?” 

The violinist nodded no. 

“I think you would like them very much. The instruments have changed. One uses processors and synthesised instruments instead of say, a viola or a guitar. But at the core, there are emotions, there is musical theory, and there is the same purpose of building an aesthetic atmosphere, even if with different tools.” 

”A beauty the likes of me might not find in it.” 

”I believe beauty always lies in things, one just needs to want to find it. I am sure there are pieces you teach and pieces you play which you do not like or think aren’t worth much.” 

”I do.” 

”Yet, you engage with them in front of a crowd. You try to put in your most passionate, genuine performance, to help them have a good time.” 

”I do.” 

“Similarly, there are certain things a deejay does for a crowd because without them we wouldn’t have the monetary resources needed to experience the joy of playing more personally attractive pieces in closed rooms. There is electronic music better than anything else out there. One just needs to lend an ear to it. For every drop ripping off someone else with the sole intent of making a profit, there is a beautiful melody constructed with some of the densest production a musician of the yesteryears could never imagine to achieve. Every genre seems to be a contrast from the others, yet all are built from the same foundations of theory and talent. Rather than being contrasting, I feel they are complementary to each other. Don’t you think so?” 

”I do.” 

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes. The conversation talked about the catalogue of the orchestra which would play later in the afternoon. Then, the violinist asked the deejay about his work. The two shared unexpected laughs and anecdotes amidst the petrichor. Working for a pesky organiser, a distracted crowd, and dealing with someone who had forgotten to switch off their phone before a performance were some of the problems both had faced. Whether one had a violin or a turntable in their hands, the essence of the job was the same. 

The deejay felt good. The conversation had taken his mind off the inevitable heartache of losing his partner. In another period of silence once it was drawing to a close, he thought things through again. His love was never meant to be, he told himself. A few moments without having to think about her had given him clarity. Whether this had been fuelled by a better vision of reality, or a sense of hopelessness, only time would tell. But he turned his attention to the violinist once more. Their camaraderie had been unexpected, but it lent both a new sense of thought towards music. 

He looked at his watch. If he wanted to make it to the hall before entry was closed, he would need to get going soon. After checking the presence of his tickets once more, he asked the old man, “Sir, would you be free today afternoon?” 

“I’m a retired sixty-seven-year-old man who hasn’t been married except to music. I’d say I am free.” 

The earlier surge of excitement had subsided. He felt nervous making the proposal. “Would you... like to come along with me to the show, if you are free?” 

“Well, I am free.” The violinist smiled. Sometimes, a conversation made more music than symphonies ever could.