***********************

THE GOLDBERG VARIATIONS

by Blue Mohairbear

July '99

***********************

Aaaaah.

That's nice.

A shower. A flickering fire. A whisky. Music.

I lean back, take a sip of the golden shimmering liquid in my glass and close my eyes, while I let the wonderful notes of the Goldberg Variations wash over me and soothe me. Bach is always like balm for my stressed soul. Especially when it's Glenn Gould at the piano. And, most especially, after a day like this. A Mulder-day.

No, I don't want to think about it any more. About him. I've shouted at him, he's yelled at me, green-hazel eyes blazing, and then he went and slammed the door. He looks like an angry cat when those almond shaped eyes of his become slits. And he can hiss, really hiss. Amazing. He hissed, I bellowed. But he deserved every single one of my bellows.

I couldn't believe that budget report he placed on my desk this morning. He has lost his gun and his cell, and he has turned an almost new rental car into a heap of scrap. *And* he's tried to blame all of it on some sort of supernatural being living in the cornfields around that village. Damn. I don't know why I still put up with that man. He annoys the hell out of me. He is stubborn - aaah. This is nice. The fugue is so calming and stimulating at the same time. Glenn Gould was a fucking genius. Just listen to him humming to himself while he plays. Sounds oddly soothing. Yeah, go away, Mulder. Just go.

He was a strange guy, that Gould. Well no, not exactly strange. He was extremely talented. A gifted child. He was extraordinary. Went his own way, gave a shit about what people thought of him. A real non-conformist. Famous for his eccentricities. I think some people found him a bit spooky because he was able to see things in the music they couldn't see.

In his mid-twenties, he was greeted with kudos in concert halls all over the world. A hell of a career. A hell of a brilliant and outstanding young man. And then he threw it all away to follow his quest. The Truth Of The Perfect Music. Retired into some remote recording studio to compose and experiment.

Now listen to that. How does he do that, playing at such a tremendous speed? I'll never understand how anybody can move his fingers that fast. And he plays it all in his head. The man had an eidetic memory. He played a certain piece a few times and then never again needed the score. There, he's humming again. People called him weird because he did that. I like it. It sounds kind of comforting.

Ah, hmmm. This Midleton sure is fine stuff. I think Jamie is going to Ireland next month. I'll have him bring me at least one more bottle.

The older he got, the less he trusted people. He got sort of paranoid. Didn't shake hands with anyone for fear of getting his bones squashed or catching a cold. Some famous man, I don't remember who, I think he was a conductor or a composer, once said about him: "That weirdo's a genius." And that he was. A genius, but a troubled one. A lost soul. Alienated by his outstanding brilliance and by his quest.

He communicated only by phone. Even his closest friends - and there were only a few - sometimes didn't get to see him for months. Had there been cell phones in the 70s, he would have had several of them. As far as it's known, he never had a relationship with a woman. Whatever that might say about such a rare man.

When I saw him for the very first time, on TV, I didn't know what to think. Yes, I know what I thought: Who's that weirdo? Slouched in front of the piano on that collapsible bridge chair his father had built for him, bending low over the keyboard, totally consumed by the music he was playing, humming to himself and always one hand conducting the other. Absurd. I was surprised when he finished and got up.

There stood a tall, lanky guy with a shy smile. Dark hair, almond shaped eyes. The nose a bit too big, maybe, but a nice mouth with a full lower lip. Very handsome. Handsome.... yes... hmmm... the whisky is good. I love it when I can feel it flowing down inside of me like hot smoky honey and spreading a liquid fire in my stomach. Good.

And he was funny. You wouldn't believe the quirky humor the man had. Not to mention his lively imagination. He created several fictional characters whom he impersonated himself, getting all the dialects correct. British, German, French, he could do it all. He interviewed himself on the radio, pulling his own leg until it popped. He loved animals. As a kid, he had many pets, including a fish tank in his room. The fish were called Bach, Beethoven, Chopin and Haydn.

He must have been hell to work with sometimes, with that obsession driving him. Lots of people got annoyed with him because he just refused to fit into a scheme or to follow rules. But I think this refusal to follow rules was part of what made him so unique. And the people who could appreciate that uniqueness loved him. Adored him. Funny, me liking someone who refuses to fit in, isn't it.

He died shortly after his 50th birthday and he knew he would. More weirdness. He always said he wouldn't live past fifty. Well, I intend to do my best to keep Mulder alive longer than that, even if I'll have to tie him to the bed and---

Damn!

Whisky in your windpipe *hurts*.

Damn you, Mulder. What are you doing in my head again? I was just beginning to relax. I managed not to think about you and your annoying behaviour for...

For not very long, I'm afraid. For... not at all, I'm afraid.

Okay, Skinner, breathe. Slowly. In and out.

I wonder if whisky stains in the carpet are hard to get out.

One of my friends once said "Mozart is God and Bach is his son." Well, I disagree. *I* think that Bach is God and Irving Berlin is his son. Bach is balm for my stressed soul, yes... but at the moment, even good old Johann Sebastian can't take me back to that blissful state of dreaming I was in, philosophizing about Mu-... well, *Glenn Gould*.

I wonder if Mulder would like to listen to the Goldberg Variations.

With me.

Here, in front of the fireplace.

In my arms--

Okay, Skinner. Stop it.

Well, and then there are the two- and three part inventions we could listen to...

Jesus.

What am I doing?

This calls for another whisky and it'll have to be the *really* good stuff. Let's see... well, okay. Let's have a glass of the Macallan. 25 years old. Mulder, you don't know what you're doing to me.

Well. Fine.

I'll have to think through a few things, it seems.

A weirdo who's a genius. Yes, I think that would be worth pursuing.

How weird am I, then?

Seems *I'm* the one with a quest to follow now.

~~THE END~~