Not long ago I got infected with an accordion fever - a sudden peculiar craving to learn to play this instrument and employ its warm soulful voice in some innovative method for my songwriting. I have never before held an accordion in my hands, though somehow I was absolutely certain once the straps come over my shoulders and its folded flesh comes undone, a solid melody will emerge from under my fingers almost instantaneously. What's said is done, and a friend's father--a former jazz musician--has graciously allowed us to rummage through a barricaded room and retrieve an old dusty suitcase with silver velvet lining, which, as I was informed, has not been touched in years.
The moment the pearly-white beast was released out of its cage, I was in love. I took it in my arms, re-adjusted the straps, and ran the fingers of my left hand through a number of random bass buttons, to get a sense of its harmonic structure. The right hand found itself on the piano keys effortlessly and without so much as a moment's hesitation. The very first melody to come from under my fingers was a strange waltz-like tune I came up with viscerally and naturally, as though I have been playing it all my life. Initially, I had not given it much thought--God knows where these melodies in us come from-- and I simply played it over and over again, until comfortable enough to produce a solid tune with some sense of certainty. And yet, as days went by and I was unable to move on to anything else, I have begun to wonder. What is this tune? Where did it come from and why is it trapped so stubbornly inside my head?
Simple and sweet, yet hauntingly beautiful waltz reminiscent of old Russian melodies written in the 30s or 40s of the passed century; the sort of tunes that were frequently utilized in the old Russian films about World War II - the kind of melodies to which, as I always imagined, our young grandparents danced to on warm summer nights back then, sang along with the crackling sounds of turntables, and fell in love. Plain waltz, three chords on three-quarters... and one two three, one two three, one two three, one... Pam-pah-ram, tram-pam-pam, tram-tah-ram, tram-tam-tam...
I had fallen asleep this afternoon, and it all came to me in a dream, rather, HE came to me. Vividly and unexpectedly, I remembered it all...
* * *
Once there lived a man by the name of... Actually, to tell you the truth, I don't really remember what his name was, but that's hardly relevant. He was an old loner and a drunk who occupied one of the 6th floor flats of the apartment building I grew up in, the type of edifice that belonged to that very special era of the 70s' Soviet Russia, when new buildings appeared in horrendous excess all over the communist terrain, bearing painful resemblance to one another by sheer lack of artistic design and architectural ingenuity.
As a child, I was rather terrified of this man. I particularly dreaded running into him in the late evening hours, when, walking home from my music lessons, I'd see him sitting relentlessly in the same ol' spot on one of the worn-out benches in front of the apartment building. There was hardly a day when, upon returning home alone, I had not thought about him, be it a mere anticipation of another outlandish interaction, or my unwavering inventing of new ways to flee his company. Whenever I was with the elders, he hardly dared to give away our acquaintance--not so much as a sign or a word of greeting--albeit, perhaps, an occasional sly wink which he'd throw at me surreptitiously from underneath his unkempt greasy bangs. He knew I would turn my head, and I did - every single time. And yet, soon as he witnessed my walking alone, especially during the darker and colder months, he always attempted to catch my attention with a prickly remark, an obnoxious whistle, or some silly pop tune incorporating my name. For the most part, I managed to sneak right passed him, and, trying not to glance back, ran up the stares with all my might, breathless and petrified, always thinking that he may follow.
Undoubtedly there were moments every now and again when he managed to catch me by the hem of my dress or by my long pony tails; and then, exclaiming victoriously into the night, muttering words half of which I could not make out, he would put a dirty frayed sleeve of his sweater around my shoulders and pull me close in a pitiful drunken attempt of a hug. I cannot tell you now whether he had it in mind to molest or befriend me, and these were surely not the questions I had in mind at the time. I simply knew the old man was there, and I was looking for ways to avoid him: to avoid the stale odor of urine on his clothes, to avoid the scent of alcohol on his breath, his tattered sweater, his dreadful gibberish, and, most daunting of all, his asinine stare. Often it seemed as thought our little interactions, if they could gave been called that, were the most exhilarating moments of his day; at least such were the signs revealed to me by shrieks of delight and amusement he'd let out--had he, in fact, managed to catch me--and expressions of absolute triumph on his grubby face.
Indeed, the old man was my true childhood nemesis. I didn't know what he wanted from me, and I could never understand why he chose me out of all the other kids in the neighborhood to pester. I also never understood why I didn't tell on him. It seems now nothing could have been easier than to complain to the elders and put an end to our ghastly interactions; and yet, something in me bore immense pity and empathy for this creature and held me back every time. True, he distressed and exasperated me, and yet, as all things out of our grasp of understanding, he fascinated me.
Tattle-telling seemed an act of disloyalty, though disloyalty to what precisely, I could not tell. Perhaps it is because he was a loner--I was a loner too--and we both knew it; or perhaps because I have never seen anyone, at least in the vicinity of our neighborhood, tossing him a kind gaze or caring to ask him how he's been, and whether he may need anything. Kids threw stones at him, dogs always barked viciously, sensing him from a mile away, and adults shook their heads in utter disapproval, turning away in apathy and repugnance. Of course, how could they not have - he was a true disgrace to the neighborhood, a "bad example to the children," and, all in all, a dark spot on the "cloudless skies of our blissful childhood," for which, if I recall the song correctly, we must have been thankful to our "beloved Motherland" and "grandpa Lenin."
There were two more reasons that elevated my curiosity toward him further yet--two more objects to be exact--a long black pipe with some pungent tobacco that he never took out of his mouth, and an old accordion, which, by all appearance, has seen far more than its share. The old man didn't play the instrument as much as he puffed on his pipe, but there was this one particular melody that he carried on over and over again--sitting there in a cloud of smoke like an old magician--until a random head popped out from a window above, and, from the safe distance of a window seal, yell its unyielding "shut the fuck up!" The tune was a waltz, the one, to which I always imagined our grandparents danced, sang along, and fell in love. A simple three chords on three-quarters war-time type song... and one two three, one two three, one two three, one... Pam-pah-ram, tram-pam-pam, tram-tah-ram, tram-tam-tam...
I must have been around 12 or 13 years old when the old man died. When the four burly neighbors carried his body in the casket downstairs and through the courtyard, the street as well as the benches in front of the apartment building were empty - an absolute miracle in and off itself, given your typical Russians' fondness for hefty and hearty gatherings--regardless of their purpose and source--as long as it perpetually allows them a chance to gossip or engage in bizarre mass rivalries. Be it a wedding, a funeral, or a mere road-type accident - more often than not the contents of our entire edifice were out on the street, drawing additional unsanitary attention of the folks from other neighborhoods in its two- mile radius.
The man had neither friends nor relatives. No one came to say goodbye. I saw the whole wretched procession through the kitchen window, and, seeing that no one cared so much as to accompany the old drunk on his last journey, ran outside to make it seem as though he did know somebody; but my grandmother, enraged by my disappearing act, and, perhaps likeliest of all, out of disapproval for any indication of my kinship to the man, demanded through the window that I return home at once. His body was taken through the yard and into the cemetery, stealing away with it another disposable man's worthless existence, the pungent scent of a tobacco cloud, the stale odor of urine, the vicious sound of barking dogs, and the melody of an old waltz--the only tune he knew how to play--which no one cared for anyhow.
* * *
I have not thought about the old man in over 15 years, and, likely, I would not have remembered him now either, had it not been for this strange melody that came from under my fingers so viscerally and naturally, as though I have been playing it all my life. Simple and sweet, yet hauntingly beautiful waltz reminiscent of old Russian melodies written in the 30s or 40s of the passed century; the sort of tunes that were frequently utilized in the old Russian films about World War II - the kind of melodies to which, as I always imagined, our younger grandparents danced on warm summer nights back then, sang along with the crackling sounds of turntables, and fell in love. Plain waltz, three chords on three-quarters... and one two three, one two three, one two three, one.