Train Lines and Tall Masts

What he wanted was a music box.  Blue, with black trims.  He knew when opening the lid, it would sound like Spanish Cava wine bubbling in his nasal passages. Just like when he drank from the bottle, past midnight, watching the city in a blue veil, play classical music.  There was a single window looking over the city, and it was an old city.

He wanted to spit from the window.  To see how far Cava wine can go after losing its bubbles.  Like the music box slows down after the winded coil relaxes.  Perhaps because of the music. Perhaps due to the melody he, in his mind, had already written.  A melody now confused by the wine he drank from the bottle and almost choked on the bubbles. Yet, the coil relaxed, even when he was chocking.

The room was narrow, but plenty of space for the music.  The blue box, maybe lacquered and black trimmed would play its metallic variations.  No, this time, he winded the music box half-way, and it played Nocturne No 22.  His favorite of all Nocturnes.  And he drank again from the bottle, now almost half-full, listening to the music box now half-winded.  There was plenty of space in the room to fill the old city with the Nocturne he liked.

And he sat down by the window, holding the music box as he would hold tired feet in his palms.  Someone else’s feet, without counting the toes.  It is difficult to count toes when there are bubbles in your nasal passages.  When the wine tastes as a substitute for other wines.  The ones that taste like the sea and evening breeze on the Mediterranean.  But the room was narrow and had enough space for not worrying about the wine. Still, a Veuve Cliquot would have saved the night.

What he wanted was a blue music box and a dozen dried figs to hear, in his mouth, the tiny seeds cracking under his teeth, in the cadence of the Nocturne No 22.  Figs, bubbles and the blue box!  Then, from the single window looking over the old city, he would spit to see how far Spanish wine can fly when mixed with dried fig seeds.

… When the bottle was half-full, he closed his eyes and opened the lacquered lid of the blue box. Slowly.  Placing both his thumbs on the black edges.  To realize that he had forgotten to rewind it first.  Blue music boxes do not play metallic Nocturnes if they are unwinding. Or unwound. So, while listening to the classical music from the streets of the old city, he placed his index and thumb on the tiny ears of the winder.  Clockwise.  And it was wonderful melody!

November 23, 2012

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013