Prime Hector; or, Mozart Revisited

“Music, even in situations of the greatest horror, should never be painful to the ear but should flatter and charm it, and thereby always remain music.”
                                                                                                            —Mozart


I.


         That Prime Hector had an uncanny ability for music, and that he thus was always widely considered a prodigy of Mozart or Beethoven, earned him a reputable reputation. Prime Hector, even to the most obscure of “anti-musical followers,” was a common celebrity; every volume of music he composed and published was in a home or shelf; that is to say, about one-thousand or so musical compositions in the span of ten years, and all who listened to them absolutely fell in dire love  That Prime Hector’s art was his protégé, which earned him a spot in the symphony orchestra at the  L'Atrio grande di Musica in Rome and the Kabaret in Prague, made him world famous.
         Prime Hector was scheduled to give a live performance in Vienna, Austria about two nights ago. I booked a flight to Vienna the day after I heard the announcement on the “picture box” at my abode, and rented a book on Mozart at the local “book hut.” I had the serendipity to meet a contemporary of Prime Hector at a rural section of downtown Washington, D.C. that same night. This contemporary, named Amadeus, followed me from the “book hut” to the train station under the street lamps. As I walked passed the onlookers and innocent bystanders, I noticed several murals on the brick wall to my immediate right—murals of Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, Vivaldi, Handel, Purcell, and other composers. Their towering figures made me feel intimidated and saddened. I halted at the train terminal where Amadeus met me.
         My interlocutor was dressed in a red overcoat with green knickers, black shoes, and hair that looked like the stereotypical British hairstyle, complete with curls at the cusp of the ears. He earnestly bowed to me, and I did likewise, and he exposed a white, gloved hand, as  a symbol to shake mine, and as a sign of gentlemanly aptitude.
         “What brings ye here, my lad?” he asked me, a slight smile upon his face.
         “I am off to Philadelphia. I have to catch my flight to Vienna. I am going to see Prime Hector perform his own sonata in two days.”
         “Ah, yes ” he boasted, raising his index into the sullen, dry air. “Prime Hector is fabulous  Have you heard his Symphony No. 56 in C Minor, 3rd Movement?”
         “Can’t say that I have,” said I. I took off my brown trench-coat, sitting down on the wooden bench. I heard the passengers grumble in solitude, awaiting the train. Amadeus sat beside me, folding his hands, still bearing that despicable smile.
         “For shame ” said he, again raising his index. “Ah well,” he continued, bowing his head. “Prime Hector is miraculous  I have learned many a good thing from him. He knows music, and he knows it well. I know everyone compares him to Mozart, but by God Almighty, I swear he is the reincarnation of the composer ” When he said his boast, he jumped from his seat and did a series of cartwheels and short dances. The onlookers looked at him as if he were stark-raving mad.
         “Mr. Amadeus,” said I, interrupting his madness. “Shall you travel abroad with me? I wish to learn more about your teacher.”
         He ceased his crazy escapade, and stared at me with the most-horrific of stares that every could have existed in this dismantled planet of ours. His green eyes stared at me coldly, and his lips twitched; his brows followed suit, and he clenched his teeth.
         “Oh dear no,” said he. “I can’t possibly do such a thing  Tsk, tsk  Shame on thee  I am off to Budapest where they are playing Le Nozze di Figaro, another of Mozart’s fabulous works ”
         Just as the headlight of the train shined forth from the black firmament, Amadeus laughed hysterically as the steam form the engine exalted. The thick, suffocating foam engulfed him, the laughter continuing. I coughed hard. When the smoke cleared, my interlocutor (strange fellow ) was nowhere to be seen. Unbeknownst to my consciousness, the bystanders boarded the train. I did so after I searched the station terminal for any sign of departure; however, my serendipity failed me this time, for Amadeus seemed to have disappeared without a trace

         Boarding the train was like an invitation to an unspeakable hell. The conductor, who was standing at the entrance to his vehicle, stood completely still—tall, erect, frozen like a marble Greek or Roman statue. His uniform was navy blue with the golden buttons and strands. His hat was also navy blue, erect, like a toy soldier’s. His mustache twitched, his gloved hands rising to accept tickets. When I approached him, he placed his meaty hand on my chest, and coughed slightly.
         “Bonsoir, Monsieur,” said the conductor. “Do you have a ticket?”
         “Indeed, sir,” said I. “Why was I stopped from boarding?”
         “These people are heading toward the city of  amour fraternel,” he replied. “It seems that you are going out of zee country.” His exquisite French accent definitely sounded as if he were from France.
         “Yes, sir, but I need the train to Philadelphia. My flight is from the Philadelphia International Airport, and from there, I am flying to Los Angeles. The flight from L.A. will take me to London, and then to Vienna.”
         “I see, Monsieur,” said the conductor. “Je suis désolé.”
         “It’s quite alright,” I consoled, giving him my ticket. “In these days, I don’t question the actions of our government. After all, ’twas foreigners that destroyed our country.”
         “Which?” asked the conductor.
         “The Iranians,” said I. “Nuclear war about five years ago. The President termed it ‘World War III.’”
         “I see,” said the conductor.
         I boarded the train, thinking about the French conductor. Outside, the people were walking by. The White House was in the distance, still glowing its infernal glow. Oh how sad it was  The people walked by, bowing their heads in disbelief. Protestors with signs stood outside the President’s house, screaming for his head. The sky above us all was forever dark, the sun never shining  I remember, plain as day, when the President declared war on Iran. They came here, fully armed, and ransacked all our homes—murdered and raped innocent women—hurt the poor children—and then came the massive blow: the nuclear bomb—the very same echo from the days in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Revenge. The Iranians overran us. We attacked their homeland as well, but Russia and China intervened, and we were stuck. The French sent us aide and troops; the British consoled, but nothing worked. We ate our pride. We paid for our mistakes. And now, we are a puppet government to those damned fools
         The train’s engines sounded, as did the horn. I rested my head on the rest, closed my eyes. I dreamed. I dreamed of Prime Hector and his music. I dreamed of the days when you could be proud of America, when “being American” meant something. I dreamed of literature, movies, and my past loves. When I could no longer sleep, I flipped open my rented book on Mozart, and read it with fervor. The light was dim, but I managed, nonetheless. I left the Capital at approximately twelve that morning. We passed through Baltimore at around two, and entered southern New Jersey at four. Philadelphia was on the horizon.
         In order to pass into Philadelphia, you have to cross the Walt Whitman Bridge. Since the day the Iranians destroyed all of our technology, trains have become the only source of transportation—the old kind, that is. Not like a subway train, but the “old-style ones,” like in old western movies. Trains these days could travel on the roads if they wished, but most stayed on the tracks. So, my ride had to halt entering Philadelphia and I had to walk the rest of the way—across the bridge into the city proper, then to the airport. The train halted. I rose, and I thanked the French conductor kindly for the ride, and paid him a nickel (that’s what conductors took these days).
         “ La bonne chance sur votre voyage,” he whispered.
         I stepped onto the bridge. I looked up at the massive pillars, which reminded me of the Roman columns on the Coliseum. I saw the carved portrait of the immortal poet staring off into space. My footfalls echoed against the cement pillars; my breathing was raspy. I saw other travelers walk by me. I consulted them, and they did likewise. I noticed an elderly gentleman walking his Labrador. The dog lolled its pink tongue. The man tipped his hat to me, and I waved.
         “Sad days these are,” said the man, passing.
         “Indeed,” I replied. “It’s though, right?”
         “Certainly,” entertained the man. “I get up every morning thanking God that I am still alive. War is a bitter end to things. Goodnight, sir ”
         Crossing the bridge, I felt saddened by the people. The dark sky never shined, and the clouds were always black. However, my spirits never sank; I walked through life always wanting meaning in things. As I crossed the bridge, looking up at the lamp lights and listening to the horns on the trains, I wondered why this was meant to be. Was this the end of am empire? Were Americans doomed like the Romans? While I wandered, I kept repeating the notes of Prime Hector’s Fugue in B Major through my mind. I crossed half the bridge. Down below was empty—no cars, buses, trucks, or schoolchildren. Just blackness  Empty roads  Utter silence  I crossed over Transfer Gap Road (a division of the bridge), into the city of Philadelphia. I saw thousands of buildings in the distance, but not one beat to a pulse—no life, no spirit, no soul
         Like the air gusting forth from an angry trumpet, I ran the rest of the way. I ran like something was chasing me. The airport was only a short distance. I stopped for a coffee and muffin. Eating on my way there, I purchased a newspaper from a teller at the corner of Darkness Grim Boulevard, and entered the airport terminal at five. I sat in the lobby, constantly staring at my watch. My flight was for six. I would arrive at Vienna at three in the afternoon, Greenwich Mean Time, or GMT.
         I saw a little girl holding her dolly tightly in her arms. She cried, and her mother consoled her as her father brought over a package of M&Ms.

         I think of music as a strand of hair or grass. In order for it to make sense, all of the notes, pitches, tonality, melody, and harmony must “flow together.” That strand, if you will, is a staff, and noted upon it are clefs and circles, signifying pitches. Music itself is hard to write. I consider it a “science.” I took Music Theory in college, and aced it (you could say that serendipity was with me then). Music is relaxation for the soul. It’s what the soul eats. I remember long days at home, when the rain used to pour, surveying various musicians and composers. I was particularly fond of George Handel and Johann Sebastian Bach. In Music Theory, however, it is more “mathematical” in scope, and it requires intense research and thinking skills.
         When I think of music, I think of Italy, France, Austria, Britain, and Germany. Those countries are where all of the great composers originated. Musical terms, such as a capella, piano, mezzo, forte, and the suffix “-issimo” are all Italian words. France had Romantic music, and was very much medieval—chants, more or less. However, when a student of music thinks of composers, Mozart and Bach ring a bell. Austria has produced many a good composer, which is why Prime Hector is performing there. I don’t blame him. His music is very similar to Mozart’s, but he also combines Beethoven and Bach—which, my dear friend, is quite alright. I like a little of all three. The media (what is left of it) compares him strongly to Mozart. I don’t see the connection well. Maybe I haven’t “fully” noticed the craze.
         The flight into Europe wasn’t as long as I expected. Turbulence was prevalent, but I slept most of the way there. I heard rumblings of terrorists boarding the flight, or how the French should have helped more during the war. During my waking hours, I saw a man on fire—his head and hands erupting in flames—taking a seat. Strangely, nothing else caught on fire. I saw many foreigners on the plane, most of them from the Czech Republic or Hungary. All of them, except me, were listening to Prime Hector’s music on their “music phones” or portal radios. I read my book mostly. The pilot announced that we would land in Berlin shortly.
         “Austria has a rich history. Prior to the “war against Hitler,” it was a dual monarchy with Hungary. The Austro-Hungarian Empire comprised of Austria, Hungary, the Czech and Slovak nations, part of Germany, Ukraine, Slovenia, Croatia, and Poland. Most of the country spoke German, and it practiced Roman Catholicism. During the Great War, it sided with Germany to combat the Serbs, who assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the heir to the throne of the dual monarchy. After the war, all the nations previously mentioned were formed.
         “During Hitler’s war, Austria was annexed by Germany, and Hungary was made into a puppet Nazi state. Hitler himself was Austrian, and felt that his people were just as German as anything. After Hitler was defeated, Hungary was converted into a Communist state, and Austria remained democratic. As you well know, Austria produced the infamous Mozart, whom inspired our beloved Prime Hector...”
         That brief history I learned while I stayed in Budapest. I went to the local historical society. Interesting place. During my stay, I learned some Hungarian, and engaged in some small escapades. I met the President, ate exquisite food, and made my way to Austria. Technology sure has transformed the globe  There are “air-cars” and teleportation devices  Time travel exists  In the Austro-Hungarian news network, there were rumors that the Austrian army successfully defeated Hitler, and his Third Reich imploded from within  Lovely  As I entered Austria, I noticed the large marble statue of Prime Hector’s mentor in the alley leading up to the musical auditorium. It was a massive statue, towering over me—I would say about fifty or so feet in height. Mozart stared over the city of Vienna. I wonder what he would think of its new technology.
         “Prime Hector ” chanted the onlookers. “We must see Prime Hector ” As I walked up to the million stairs, I wondered what Prime Hector looked like. He had such a massive appeal that I compared him to Hitler in popularity. I think he looks like Beethoven. I swear that the Austrians love him so much that they would make him chancellor  Everyone was screaming and yelling up the stairs. The starry sky above me (oh how wonderful it feels ) twinkled with delight; I smelled the fresh air  Freedom  No more corrupt smog  And now, as I walked up the steps, the Austrians chanting their tunes, I thought of Music Theory, and how music fits together like a puzzle.
         Quote Victor Hugo, “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent.”
         Treble clef. Five pitch-notes rising then falling—undulating, like a whale. Quavers, breves and semibreves, semiquavers, beamed notes, flats and sharps—all note the staff, the confusion whispers  The black symbols, dotting the page, sing—and then—
         STOP  Thus ends the musical notation.


II.


         Prime Hector stands on the stage, hands raised, coattails touching the floor—
His hair, lithe and wild, flows with the music as it travels through the air,
And the orchestra sits in front of him, instruments ready, peel the stare,
As he awaits the cue of the harpsichord or the French horn.
For, like Beethoven, he rises above, taller than a statue,
Type of the Antique Rome  Rich reliquary and thus
Contemplation left to time by pomp and
Power, which ridicules those who
Hate, and the grand Austrian
Orchestra is silent,
Ready, set,
Go
         The harpsichord plays, the conductor calls forth the noisy firmament
         The sound wells, like a balloon ready to burst forth the hydrogen air, like a cloud
         Instruments playing in unison, the orchestra calls  The treble clef begins the staff,
         Then the notes follow suit as the great Prime Hector summons forth the wind, oft,
         I hear the sounds of the trumpets, drums, and woodwinds—violins, cellos, and
         The French horn  Oh how the music flows, like the water, ever so soft and
         Quiet—the notes undulate, the music fits like a puzzle; and while I watch,
         I see Prime Hector turn, ever with such excrete force, that I can see
         His every move—his flashing eyes, his floating hair  Like a demon
         Summoned forth from the fiery crypts of Hell, Charon the
         Ferryman. Get ready to pay your due, for he’ll keep
         You in his crazy boat, and, like a god or siren
         Shall Pluto, the king of the dead, cry
         Forth from the darkness grim
         As he wishes for coin,
         Weave a circle
         ’Round him
         Once
         Oh  How he sees me sitting there, staring off into oblivion, like the grand opera.
         His hair  ’Tis true  It floats—wavy—like the waves, gray like the thundering clouds
         His eyes—flashing—a dark blue, staring, watching, waiting, blinking, as his men
         Weave the music together like a thread.
         His face, demonized, old, ancient—like Beethoven—Austrian sentiment
         Cleft chin, decaying, yellow teeth—a crooked nose. His smile, truly evil, the Horrid spirit of those who lived before him  And thus, while the music calls,
         He sees me, knowing that I adore him, but alas  His frame, chubby, not Obese: his clothing: dark purple overcoat, red vest, white shirt—blue tie  Purple knickers, brown loafers  Coattails swaying on the tufted floor, his Height, ’tis true, short—like a midget, but altogether appalling and lithe
         His spirt alive and well, showing forth his love for music, oft  Cadence
A beautiful woman with a dulcimer, sitting in front, all alone, wearing the most Beauteous of dresses; her black hair, touching her shoulders, her long fingers stroking the Strings as the instrument stands erect  She strokes it, holds it, whispers to its notes; the Dulcimer, quiet, awaits the woman’s calls—and it sings to her, singing the most lovely of Notes: those of Prime Hector, immortal god, whom watches its every move—it’s fast, Peculiar as the woman still strokes its handle—but alas  The woman plucks the strings And caresses her instrument as it sings  She brings it closer: she leans her head back, the Notes coming forth from her throat as the dulcimer sings loudly  The whitewash Backdrop falls 
The white curtain calls
The damsel with the dulcimer singing,
And they, together, ever so cringing,
As they sing aloud, full, alive, moaning,
As Prime Hector’s men call forth the groaning
Of their instruments: each alive and benign,
Beside the corpse of Mozart the divine
Prime Hector, the immortal god true,
Shall stop when given the correct cue.
         Prime Hector, leader of the orchestra, lend me your ear;
         For in this grave country, a massive history shall you hear
         The Austrian army marches, marches, marches on as he,
         Mighty Hitler, the Devil, rises forth from the frothing fire, see
         How thus he controls all he encounters, the Devil, sneaky, cold,
         Shall die from a desperate attack on France, so bold
         The Italians, under Mussolini, hide and run from Stalin—
         Man of steel, they control Abyssinia, which is in
         Africa—place of Kublai Khan, Coleridge, English poet
         Japan awakens, kamikaze, and you don’t know it
         America rises, bold, attacks, Germany at war
         She joins Britain in the attack, northern France, crosses the bar,
         Into Normandy, D-Day, the Allies win 
         But oh, Communist sin
         Cold War comes, Korean war, Viet Minh.
         Iraq—cultivator of civilization;
         Mesopotamia, the God from Heaven—
         Heathen, the Devil, Bush, the President,
         Declares war on Al Qaeda, confident
         In sure-handed victory—alas  British withdraw,
         Australia stays, New Zealand, Poland, et al.
         War on Muslim extremism, it is true
         And how we all feel a little blue.
Prime Hector the divine, speak to me, for I love your music.
It flows by, like the waves, whence did your talent come, my sir?
“From God. ’Twas a gift I was given, and thus acoustic
Is the great Beethoven, from whom many a day I learn’d astir—
Moonlight Sonata—his symphonies  Thus exalted, Mozart was my man;
My idol, stark learner, musical prodigy, am I  I learned his music well,
Music theory, mathematics, Mozart’s classics, spread, like a fan
Over many years of music and talent; alas  I speak of my eternal hell ”
         Prime Hector—he speaks—he leans forward, conducts the orchestra:
         He moves his staff, wave-like, undulating, summoning the end—
         It swells—it grows—large—like a balloon—and doe re mi fa so la
         Ti doe—doe re mi fa so la to doe—doe, a deer, a female deer, fa, the bend
         In the road, ti—a drink with jam and bread—and that will
         bring us back,
         back to
         doe
         So doe
         Doe: a deer, a female deer;
         Re: a drop of golden sun;
         Mi: a name I call myself;
         Fa: a long, long way to run;
         So: a needle pulling thread;
         La: a note to follow ‘so’;
         Ti: a drink with jam and bread;
         And that will bring us back to doe—
         And Prime Hector, sweating, his music glory,
         Exemplifies many good musicians of yore
         But alas  He leans, he pants, his screeches—
         And when the instruments stop playing,
         Lithe, quiet, the crickets call:
         All things silent, gone
         Is the Great God
         Who makes music
         That all love.
         And
         he,
         the
         great
         musician—
Was dead


III.


         That Prime Hector died was truly a shocking experience; that he died with such a tragic ending is ever more appalling. No one would have thought that Prime Hector could die, let alone die while he conducted a performance. The mere fact that he tragically died while conducting will forever be shrouded in his mythology; his image, forever printed upon the stars—a constellation, like Orion or Ursa Major, that will forever look down upon this gloomy, desolate, technological planet of ours.
         “Modern” Vienna really fascinated me. The see-through shafts in the sky (the “streets” for air cars) twirled like a roller-coaster. To make my trip easier down the steps, I used the teleporter beside the entrance (and, quite frankly, I should have done that prior, but I figured to look more “common” than “modern”). I toured Vienna during my stay. I ate exquisite Austrian cuisine, and enrolled in the historical society. I also took up the violin, and, during my escapades, learned even more about Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. During my stay in Vienna, I decided to book trips to the cities of Prague, Budapest, and Paris. I never visited the Czech Republic before; I have, however, slightly visited Hungary during one summer in college, and my mother took me to France when I was a child. 
         Over the course of the evening, I learned the cause of death of poor Prime Hector. On the picture screen throughout Vienna, the news reported that Prime Hector succumbed to “inflammation of the aorta, and died from congestive heart failure.” Poor fellow. It’s a crying shame that such a great composer had to die in such dramatic fashion! Much like Hamlet or Romeo: suicide by means of madness, or murder by means of true love? Shakespeare died on his birthday; Julius Caesar and Mark Antony were both murdered. So by which means did Prime Hector had to die? Naturally? I think so. Death is such a grim figure. Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Night’s Plutonian shore! I quote Poe, of course. Poe was the master of the macabre and madness. Much of his symbolism involved death or madness. Franz Kafka used madness as a means of philosophy. The great Don Quixote died by “natural causes”—but succumbed to bitter madness.
         Journeying to Prague, I happened upon my acquaintance, Mr. Amadeus. He was walking through the streets of Zd’ar nad S zavou. He bowed to me as a sign of greeting, and I did likewise. Many Czech bystanders watched us—others just simply ignored our conversation.
         “So, kind sir,” said he, smiling charmingly. “Did you enjoy Prime Hector’s show?”
         “Indeed,” I answered, also smiling. “Quite the composer he is.”
         “My teacher was wonderful,” he sighed, sinking his head low, as if in sadness. “I heard he died after the performance.”
         “Sadly yes,” I replied, shaking my head. “Aortic dissection.”
         “Pity,” said he. “Prime Hector deserved a better death.” At that quote, he folded his arms, turning his head slightly. He frowned and looked off to his right, above the street lamps, into the sunny sky. “His soul now rests with Lord Jesu.”
         “After the performance,” I interrupted, “they compared him fully to Mozart. ‘Mozart in Beethoven’s body’ was the rumor around Vienna. It’s a shame, for such a great composer is said to have copied his idol’s work.”
         “Eh,” said Amadeus. “If they say so. Prime Hector is the best of the best! His son, however, would most likely follow his father’s footsteps—if not for his Polish heritage.”
         “Prime Hector has a son?” I ejaculated.
         “Indeed,” replied Amadeus. “Deus Hector, or Hector II, whichever you prefer. He lives in Warsaw with his mother. Hector II uses Bach’s music as his inspiration. He has mighty aspirations for such a young fellow.”
         In Prague, Amadeus taught me everything about Prime Hector’s life. He was born in Berlin around 1999 to poor parents. They moved from Germany to France for a few years, and when young Hector was an adult, they moved to Austria. There, Hector learned of his ability in music, and took up Mozart. He lived in Vienna ever since, where he gained international fame. He met a Polish girl in Budapest, and Hector II was born in Vienna. Thenceforth, Prime Hector established his global, musical empire—from Vienna to Istanbul—in the matter of two years. His music eventually reached the United States, where he gained eternal fame.
         A statue of the late Prime Hector was erected in Vienna a couple days ago. The statue measures about sixty feet in height, and is made of marble. It towers over his homeland, much like God does to Earth—watches, and does nothing; His duty is done, but He waits for the right moment. That Prime Hector’s soul still exists is a matter of debate. However, for the Austrians, they will miss him dearly; a sly, charismatic, noble leader waiting in the wings of destiny.
         Leaving Prague, I met an German train-conductor in Vienna, where I was to catch my plane back home at two hours, thirty minutes in the afternoon. He stood stark still, looking at me, and then, warmly smiled, as if I were a friend.
         “Guten Tag, Herr,” said the conductor.
         “Hello,” said I, handing him my ticket.
         “Wo gehen Sie?” he asked me.
         “Back home to the United States,” I replied.
         “Hmm,” said he. “Wat shall ye do there?”
         “I am taking violin lessons,” said I.
         “Haben Sie Wichtigst Hector genossen?”
         “Oh yes,” I replied, boarding the train.
         “Hmm,” said the conductor.
         “Say,” said I. “Have you heard of Amadeus?”
         “Was sagt Sie?” asked the conductor,
         “Have you heard of a fellow named Amadeus?”
         The conductor stared at me for a brief while. The train’s horns sounded, and we both boarded, but the conductor, solemnly, placed his meaty hand upon my shoulder; his thick mustache waving in the cool breeze—his stare, while noble, frightened me to bitter death. And while I enjoyed my journey, I shall never forget, for the rest of my life, what he said to me that day—those haunting words forever shrouding my mind, and whispering in my dreadful dreams.
         “That fellow Amadeus you speak of,” began the conductor, “is a deadly spirit. He corrupts souls, and makes them obsessed with music. We in Germany and Austria call him the ‘Music Banshee.’ He resembles Mozart, yes, and bears his middle-name, but don’t be fooled. You’ve been infected, I’m afraid. He’ll haunt you for the rest of your years, unless you destroy every Prime Hector song and album that you have—released from an eternal prison my Prime Hector himself, this ghost possesses people; and, if I were you, run—and don’t stop running, for nothing can escape the wrath of Prime Hector’s guilty conscience—and alter ego!”
—Above quote translated from German by the narrator.