Ambrose Ibsen [Ibsen - Stirrings in the Black House

C opyright 2017 by Ambrose Ibsen

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I haven't got too many firm memories of my Uncle Gustav, but you know which one tends to stick out most for me?

It's an old one. I was probably fourteen or fifteen years old, and was performing Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 20 in D Minor at a university hall; my first real performance since taking up formal piano lessons at five. Truth be told, I don't remember the performance very well. I'm sure that I played well enough to impress the adults in the room, and that I received a lot of applause when all was said and done. Winning over your run-of-the-mill classical music listener, the sort who can't differentiate between a Bach and a Mozart playing overhead at the grocery store, isn't a hard thing to do if you play quickly, and with confidence.

But you know who you can't fool? A trained ear. A maestro.

What I do remember about that gig, with the utmost clarity, was the cold way my Uncle Gustav, a composer of some renown, merely shrugged when it was through. My mother had begged him to come, had wanted for him to lavish some praise on his only nephew, who was himself a budding musician. His advice to me after that performance? Study hard. Piano will make a fine hobby for you, but you've no career in music, lad.

Looking back on it now, maybe I should've listened to the man.

I beat myself up after that, practiced harder than I'd ever done before, but Uncle Gustav never did bother coming to any of my other performances. Even in my university years, when I was tagged as an up-and-coming talent and words like virtuoso were thrown around, he acted like I didn't exist. He was busy touring the world then, conducting for the Boston Orchestra and the New York Philharmonic, and spent his precious off-time composing his own works.

He never married, never visited on the holidays. I don't think my parents and I even got a Christmas card from the guy in all those years.

That was why I was so shocked to hear that he was leaving me a house.

It was a cold and rainy day in the fall when Gustav died. Like every other milestone in the man's impressive life, my parents and I first heard of his passing on the news. He'd been on a plane bound for Vienna, where he was planning on recording with the Vienna Philharmonic, when he was taken by a sudden stroke mid-flight.

There was a funeral service. My parents and I couldn't afford the plane tickets to Vienna and had to watch it live-streamed on the internet. Somehow, I don't think Gustav minded too much. There were more than enough high-profile mourners in attendance to offset our absence.

A Mr. Sherman Randall, a lawyer hired as executor of Uncle Gustav's estate, got ahold of us a few weeks later. To my mother, his only sibling, he left a small sum. And to me, his only nephew, he left something most unexpected.

Your uncle was in possession of a house out near Portland, Oregon. It's a two-story place, just outside the suburb of Newberg. A somewhat rural spot. Emil, your uncle wished to leave that residence to you. I understand he used it as a home during his breaks in conducting, and did much of his composing there. It is unfurnished, but he stipulated in his will that it should be left to you upon his passing.

I couldn't believe my ears. My uncle and I had seen each other three or four times in my entire life; he probably wouldn't have been able to pick me out of a lineup, frankly. That he'd left me something in his willa house, no lessincited in me a strange mix of feelings.

Chief among my feelings at this bequeathal was happiness. For the past few months, I'd been having financial troubles, owing to my lack of work. An infamously blown performance had left my professional status reeling and my confidence lacking. I hadn't been able to land a new gig since suffering a nervous break during a one-night performance with the Baltimore Chamber Orchestra, where a niggling wrist injury and an over-dependence on Percocet had seen me botch Chopin's Nocturnes. This inheritance meant that I now had a place to live, and the minute the ink was dry I jumped ship on my studio lease, more than one month in arrears, and packed what I could into the trunk of my Civic.

But there were other feelings that accosted me, too. As I sat there in disbelief at the lawyer's office, I wondered just why the hell the man had left me a house in the first place. I hate to sound ungrateful, but seeing as how Gustav and I hadn't been close or friendly, my first question was, What's wrong with the house?

The lawyer assured me the place was in good working orderif not a little dustyand that, despite the lack of furniture, there was something included in it. There is a piano in the house that is yours as well, Emil. The will makes no direct mention of the model, but as it was owned by a world-class composer, I expect it's an exceedingly valuable piece. Do take good care of it, young man.

Papers were signed, perfunctory handshakes given all around and items changed hands.

That was how I came to inherit my Uncle Gustav's place, the Weatherby House.

My parents and I went out to lunch after that fateful meeting with Mr. Randall, and my mother spoke kindly of my notoriously churlish uncle in ways she'd never done while he'd lived. You see, she told me, her small hands dabbing tears from her cheeks with a napkin, your uncle did care about you. He recognized your talent after all these years, Emil. He wanted to look after the next generation of musicians in our family. He was a good man.

I was in no position to argue, having received a free house and piano from him, however I was in no rush to canonize my uncle, either. I'm thankful, I admitted. I've never been so far out West as Oregon, but maybe it'll be good for me. Lawyer said the house is a little out of the way, so perhaps I'll be able to get myself sorted out there and get back to the piano. I flexed my hands, gave my wrist a slight turn and stretched my fingers one by one. The soreness was gone, thankfully. And so was the last of my Percocet. If I was ever going to return to the piano, now was the time.

It didn't take me long to pack. My clothes, computer, numerous books on music theory and the mattress of my old futon got tucked into the Civic on a cool autumn day and I exchanged long hugs with my parents, who urged me to drive safe and get back to practicing my playing. The two of them wanted to see me succeed so badly; though they never said it outright, I knew they'd always wished to see my name in lights like my uncle's had been. Raising a concert pianist is neither a cheap nor simple thing, and both of my parents had undergone a great deal of hardship in fostering my skill over the years. Paying for instruments, lessons, funding travel to different performances had been a drain on the family for about fifteen years. I was twenty-three years old now, and felt like I owed them, majorly.

Checking my phone for directions every twenty or so miles, I hopped onto the expressway and started driving west. It was a grueling drive; 48 hours, roughly, coming from Rhode Island. I stayed a night in a budget motel and broke up the trip further by taking hours-long naps at highway rest stops. Finally, more than three days after setting off, I arrived in Oregon.