Devil’s Music

As the two were chatting quietly, the auditorium began to fill up gradually. When about two-thirds of the seats were filled, Carlos noticed President Herald Winston receiving applause from the already seated audience as he made his way to his seat. He nudged Norman and said in a subdued tone, "Did you see the public service ad Kay shot in Nepal?"

Norman nodded towards the back of President Winston's head, to which Carlos, looking surprised, replied, "I was honestly worried when I saw that the top bidder in the advertisement auction was the U.S. government. I thought they might be trying to use Kay for political purposes. But seeing that wasn’t the case surprised me even more. I wondered if that was all they intended to do with the money."

"It could be one of two things," Norman suggested. "They either approached Kay with good intentions from the start, or their minds changed after meeting her."

"I'd bet on the latter. The U.S. is not so simple," Carlos mused.

"Either way, it's good for everyone if the outcome is positive," Norman laughed.

"Indeed, it's fortunate. Oh, looks like the seats are all filled. The performance will start in five minutes."

Carlos leaned back into the sofa, his eyes filled with anticipation. Norman pulled out a notebook and pen, which caught Carlos' attention. "Why do you have a notebook out?"

With a sheepish smile, Norman clicked his pen, "Ah, it's a habit. I like to write down moments that move me and scenes I want to remember."

Carlos leaned back again and interlocked his fingers over his stomach. "The life of a music critic must be tough. Unable to simply enjoy the music because you're always analyzing and writing something down."

Norman chuckled in agreement. "I do wish to just enjoy it. But I regretted not doing this after the last concert at the Bronx. I couldn't find the words to express the emotions I felt that time later."

"Understandable. Do as you please, then. Ha, looks like it's starting."

Norman turned his head towards the stage as the curtains slowly began to open. The audience, sensing the beginning, started clapping, and Carlos joined in with a smile. Unlike typical concerts, this was an opera, so there were no shouts or whistles, only the sound of applause filling the opera house.

The stage, now fully revealed, depicted a rural scene from the 1920s, featuring desolate fields and a lone, shabby house barely recognizable as such, suggesting the extreme poverty of a farmer's life. A small rice paddy was in front of the house, and at the back of the stage, a circular mirror covered with a white cloth drew attention.

As the applause died down and the audience quieted, focusing more intently, a shadow of a woman's side profile appeared behind the cloth covering the circular mirror. The audience's focus shifted from the woman's silhouette to a middle-aged Black man emerging from the decrepit house, carrying a plow to work the fields.

The man worked the field for a while, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with his hand, looking up at the sky and sighing deeply, indicating it was very early in the morning. He picked up the plow again and began working, singing in a weak voice:

As the dreams and kisses of dawn fade away,

Only the undulating desert remains, its vastness

Pressing down upon me with its immense weight.

In the whirlwind of painful history,

The tender effort and passion to enrich life

Always become greater despair, consuming me.

As the man despondently sang and worked, a woman's voice from behind the cloth, both coarse and exquisite, spoke as if singing:

"I was the daughter of a father who endured the Red Scare that devoured America in 1918 and returned from World War I. Mississippi in 1927 was bitterly cold and hungry."

Suddenly, the man slammed the plow to the ground, drawing all eyes to him as he began an impassioned song:

I went to war for my country!

I went to war for my family!

And where is my place in the homeland I returned to?

Have you seen the horrors of war? Why is it

A problem to oppose it?

Why must I be oppressed and constrained, without a job,

Forced into the countryside?

I have committed no crime but sacrifice for my country!

Carlos whispered into Norman's ear, his gaze still fixed on the stage, "I don't know much about American history. Can you tell me why this man seems to have trouble finding a job after returning from the war?"

Norman nodded slightly without taking his eyes off the stage and explained, "In 1918, America suppressed and confined those who opposed the war or were seen as disruptors to the war effort under the guise of the Red Scare. Most of these were soldiers and intellectuals who had already participated in the war. After returning, many couldn't find

jobs because of their anti-war stance and ended up as tenant farmers working someone else's fields. This might be the story of Professor Leontine Price's father."

Realizing his questioning might be interrupting Norman's focus, Carlos nodded vaguely and turned his attention back to the stage. Onstage, a Black woman appeared, and the man, despite their hardships, smiled and hugged her, continuing to work tirelessly. The stage mechanism showed the sun setting and rising repeatedly, and soon, a baby was cradled in the woman's arms. The man looked joyously at the newborn, and the cycle of sunset and sunrise continued. When the woman stepped out of the house again, she was holding the hand of a boy about ten years old.

The boy ran around the rice paddy with an innocent smile, while the couple watched him with happiness. As time passed, represented by the sun's repeated rising and setting, the man kept working, and the woman changed her clothes progressively, indicating improving circumstances.

The shadow of a woman appeared again behind the curtain at the back of the stage, speaking as if singing:

"When I was born in 1927, my father, mother, and brother were happy. The rapid economic growth of America until 1929 provided my father with a comfortable life and leisure. On the day of my birth, my father offered blessings in all the words he knew to the gods for me. But two years later, we faced another crisis."

The stage darkened, and the moon rose, illuminating a scene where a young Black girl, around three to four years old, sat on a small rock behind the rice paddy, eating a boiled potato. She pushed the crumbs around her mouth into her mouth as if they were precious, then began to sing:

My hands and feet are frozen, my flesh dying black,

In the mountains, I'd rather pick happy flowers than

The wild baskets of lantern flowers and acorns, for

A single potato fills my hungry belly more dearly.

Carlos sat up straight in his seat, exclaiming, "Ah, what a voice for a child!"

Norman shook his head, "It's not the child singing. She's just moving her lips; the actual singing is coming from Leontine Price behind the curtain."

Carlos, calming his startled heart, leaned back with a sheepish smile, "Julilliard, where geniuses are as common as dirt underfoot, everyone seems like a genius, ha."

Leontine Price's exquisite voice filled the darkened stage again:

"That was the age.. when the song found me. I didn't know where it came from. Whether it came from a cold winter dawn, or the frozen Mississippi River, I couldn't tell how or when it came to me."

A moment of silence followed, then her voice continued, "No, it wasn't a voice, nor silence, nor words; it called to me one day from some street. From the barren hills of Mississippi, from among the barren tree branches, from the church I followed my mother to, suddenly among strangers, from the intense flames after harvesting and burning the straw."

As the lights came back on the stage, a ten-year-old Black girl was seen crouching, digging the ground with a hoe, constantly putting something in her mouth, dirt smeared around her lips. She collapsed to the ground after a while, looking up at the sun and singing weakly:

I long for warm bread, steaming hot,

Without butter or strawberry jam, just a piece of bread is enough.

If I had even a single piece, I would give it to my father,

Who works till dawn every day, and to my mother,

Who sews for me and my brother.

I'm okay. I can live on their laughter instead.

Tears began to form in the eyes of some elderly audience members, likely reminiscing about their own difficult times. Carlos, not having lived through that era but born to a poor Mexican farmer, felt a similar emotion, his eyes trembling as he focused on the stage.

The voice behind the curtain narrated again as the pitiful sight of the poor girl gazing at the sky was shown:

"In 1929, when I was two years old, our gradually improving family situation collapsed with the Great Depression on October 29th. My father took us by train to the factory town of Detroit. Fortunately, he found a job, but there were too many workers seeking employment, so we couldn't even make enough to feed our family for a month. I had no choice but to go up the mountain and dig wild roots. And that day, I met music."

As the girl continued her work, a beautiful man in white clothes appeared behind her. The audience began to whisper among themselves as he appeared, causing a stir in the opera house.

"It's Kay."

"Is that really Kay?"

"He looks so beautiful, like an angel."

As the murmurs subsided, Kay looked down at the girl who was busy working and spoke.

>

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