Main > Series > Chapters > Fame Annual 1984 > Dedicate to the One

Angelo Martelli sat behind the wheel of his taxi and watched his son climb the front steps of The School of the Arts and greet his fellow pupils with a cheery wave. Angelo smiled. He had been worried about Bruno of late. Professor Shorofsky had set a homework assignment - something about interpreting one of the classics on a modern instrument - and the young musician was becoming far too involved with it. He had taken to locking himself away for hours on end, searching for the perfection that only he felt was necessary, and it was starting to depress him.

     That was Bruno's trouble - Angelo thought - everything had to be just right. But this morning, as Angelo watched Bruno laugh and joke with Doris, Danny and the others, he knew that his son had pushed the assignment to the back of his mind - for a few hours at least. That was good.

     As he waved goodbye and pulled away from the side-walk, Angelo switched on one of his son's tapes and began to sing along. Today was going to be an enjoyable day, he decided.

     The streets of New York roared with the usual ridiculous amount of traffic Cars, buses and juggernauts poured out of the side streets and into the main flows with little regard for courtesy or safety. Horns blared deafeningly as early morning pedestrians causiously or suicidally negotiated the concrete canyons in their daily dash to work. Lights and traffic control monitors flicked on and off with ludicrous rapidity. Tempers began to flar.

     And in the middle of it all, taking everything in stride, Angelo Martelli picked up his first fare of the day.

     “761 East Seventy Fourth,” the business type declared.

     “Right.” Angelo clicked on his meter and pulled out into the lane.

     “This is one busy city,” the business type yelled over the sound of Bruno's tape. “I don't know how you guys can stand driving around it all day. I suppose the music helps.”

     “My son,” Angelo called back. “He recorded it.”

     “Really?” the business type said, bending forward. “My son's in band, y'know. Back in Oregon. That's where I hail from. Now there's a place where -”

     From that moment on Angelo knew that he shouldn't have opened his mouth. There was just some fares who you didn't start a conversation with. They were the talkers. Angelo had seen them before, on their way to important meetings, going on and on about anything that would take their minds off whatever fate awaited them, dragging drivers into idle chatter as if the taxi cruised along on auto-pilot. There was nothing you could do but nod and throw in the odd comment, that and keep your eyes on the road. You usually got by okay.

     But this morning was different. This morning there was a third party involved - an out-of-town driver, a lemming, a guy who thought he owned the road and acted as if he did.

     The caravanette pulled out right in front of Angelo just as he had turned to throw in an occasional understanding nod to his fare. He turned back just as his taxi came within a few seconds of impact with the other vehicle. Angelo jumped in his seat, slammed on the brakes and spun the steering wheel hard to the left. But it was too late. The taxi slammed sideways into the caravanette and rebounded into the centre lane. Angelo fought for control but the taxi was already well on its careering path of destruction. It spun to face the wrong way up the centre lane, collided with two cars, and was hurled backwards into the nose of the caravanette. The last thing that Angelo was aware of was the sound of buckling metal. Then his world exploded...

     The atmosphere in Professor Shorofsky's classroom was tense. All eyes were on Bruno Martelli as he squirmed in his seat behind the piano. For the third day running Shorofsky had asked Bruno to present his homework assignment to the class, and for the third day running Bruno sat in embarrassed silence.

     Shorofsky walked slowly over to the piano and frowned. Bruno squirmed some more. It was amazing how much of an aura of threat the old music teacher could radiate with that one little expression.

     “I trust,” Shorofsky said, “that your sudden inability to utter coherent sounds once again indicates that your assignment is incomplete. Would you care to tell me why?”

     “I'm - er - not happy with it yet,” Bruno said weakly. “Some parts still don't feel right.”

     “Some parts still don't feel right,” Shorofsky repeated. “I see.” Shorofsky pulled himself up to his full height and let out a deep breath. “Mr. Martelli. Much as I admire your unflagging search for perfection in all things musical, I must point out that such creative freedom is normally reserved for those who have attained a position of eminence in their chosen field and not for those whose span of years on this earth is generally less than most of the instruments in this classroom. Do I make myself clear?”

     Bruno swallowed, oblivious to the giggles from his classmates.

     “Yes, Sir, you do.”

     “Good. Then I expect -”

     Shorofsky trailed off as Elizabeth Sherwood appeared in the classroom doorway and beckoned his attention. “Professor,” she said, “could I have a word with Bruno Martelli? Outside.”

     Shorofsky was about to say something about it being highly irregular, but he thought better of it when he saw the expression on the english teacher's face. He nodded and motioned Bruno to the door.

     “I'll talk to you about it later,” Elizabeth said to Shorofsky as she closed the door.

     Elizabeth ushered Bruno to a quiet part of the corridor and sat him down. Bruno know instinctively that something was wrong. “What is it? What's happened?”

     Elizabeth sat down next to him. “Your father. There's been an accident...” She waited a few seconds while the news sank in and then continued. “His taxi was involved in a collision. The hospital notified us a few minutes ago.”

     Brono said nothing for a few seconds then stared blankly into space. “Hospital?”

     Elizabeth nodded. There was no point beating around the bush with Bruno. He was too intelligent for that. “It's serious, I'm afraid. Your father's in intensive care.”

     Bruno took a deep breath and looked at Elizabeth. “Can I see him?”

     Elizabeth placed her hand on Bruno's arm. She could feel him shaking. “Of cours. We'll go right away.”

     Bruno and Elizabeth arrived at the hospital twenty minutes later. A young nurse escorted them between the rows of easy-observation glass panels that made up the intensive care ward and into the booth occupied by Angelo Martelli. The nurse stood unobtrusively in a corner while Bruno and Elizabeth approached the bed. “I can only give you two minutes,” she said.

     Angelo lay immobile under a crisp white sheet. His eyes were closed. All around the bed were the banks of complex monitors and life-support systems that were necessary to sustain life in a body that was temporarily unable to do so for itself. Bruno stood stock-still, staring down at his father. The only movement in the room was the screens of the ECG and EEG machines that were positioned above the bed. The green blips moved slowly but steadily across the illuminated lattice graph.

     “Pop,” Bruno whispered. “Hey, Pop.”

     Elizabeth put her arm around Bruno's shoulder. “He can't hear you, Bruno. The doctors say he's been in a coma since arrival.”

     Bruno let his hand move up to the intravenous drip bottle that hung suspended from a stand beside the bed. He traced his fingers down the feed-tube and let them gently rest on his father's arm. “He's all I've got, you know.”

     Elizabeth smiled. “I know.” She pulled Bruno towards her until his head was cradled on her shoulder. The nurse discreetly signalled that their time was almost up. Elizabeth nodded. “We have to go,” she said gently.

     The journey away from the hospital was a silent one. Bruno had protested when the time to leave came, saying that he wanted to stay with his father, but Elizabeth and the nurse had eventually persuaded him that he could be of no help and would only have been in the way. Bruno had finally agreed to let Elizabeth drive him home.

     “Are you going to be okay?” she asked as she dropped him off at the Martelli house.

     Bruno nodded and opened the front door. “Thanks for your help, Miss Sherwood.”

     “Will we see you in school tomorrow? It might be for the best. Take your mind off of things...”

     But Bruno was already half-hidden behind the door, already lost in his thoughts. “No,” he said as he closed the door all the way. “No, I don't think so.”

     The School of the Arts was as hectic as usual the following day. Elizabeth was plunged into a series of classes that she had been dreading but which actually turned out to be quite enjoyable. Only one thing marred an excellent debating session on the classics versus modern literature - the conspicuous absence of Bruno Martelli. Elizabeth found herself continually glancing at his empty seat and realized that she was more concerned about his welfare than she had first thought. It was that realisation that caused her to speak with Professor Shorofsky after class...

     “You want me to visit the boy?” Shorofsky queried.

     Elizabeth nodded. “You know Bruno as well as I do, Professor. You know how introspective he can be. If we leave him alone at a time like this, all sorts of things will sart going through his mind. He needs to be kept busy - and I think that you're one of the few people who can get that through to him.”

     “I would not rely on this old man too much if I were you,” Shorofsky sighed, “but I will try.”

     “Thank you,” Elizabeth called after Shorofsky as he disappeared up the corridor.

     “No need, no need,” Shorofsky muttered to himself. “I care about him too, you know.”

     It was dark by the time Professor Shorofsky arrived at the Martelli house. There were no lights on inside the house and no one answered the door when Shorofsky rang. The old man shivered in the cold night air and rapped hard on the door itself. It swung open before him.

     The house seemed to be deserted. Shorofsky moved through the dark, cold rooms searching for a light switch. He had just located one when he spotted a thin line of light filtering out under a door at the base of the stairs.

     Shorofsky opened it. A flight of steps led down into the basement . . . Shorofsky negotiated the steps to find Bruno sitting in an old chair in the corner of the basement. A crumpled bag of half-eaten potato chips lay beside him. He looked as if he hadn't slept since Elizabeth had left the previous day.

     Shorofsky sighed and perched himself on the edge of the table. Bruno did not seem aware of his presence.

     “Shorofsky does not journey three-quarters of the way across town to be ignored,” the old man said suddenly.

     Bruno started, suddenly aware that he was no longer alone. “Professor, what -?”

     “I came to find out how your father is,” Shorofsky went on. “I expected answers from Bruno Martelli, not a living corpse.”

     “His - er - his condition is unchanged,” Bruno said falteringly. He straightened himself up in the chair. “I've been calling every hour.”

     “Ah,” Shorofsky declared. “And what have you been doing between hours, may I ask?”

     Bruno shrugged noncommitally. “Sitting . . . thinking . . .”

     “Sitting and thinking,” Shorofsky repeated. He pointed to the bag of potato chips. “And starving yourself half to death by the looks of things.”

     “Professor, I don't understand what you want . . .”

     Shorofsky slid down off the table and moved over to Bruno's synthesiser. He picked a sheet of music off the top. “I want you to keep yourself occupied, take your mind off things. Do you not think that one Martelli in the hospital is enough?” He dropped the music in Bruno's lap. “Play me something.”

     “Professor, I really don't feel like -”

     Shorofsky held up his hand. “Look at yourself, boy. How do you think your father would feel if he could see you now?” He gestured towards the synthesiser. “Play me some music,” he said gently.

     Bruno strode reluctantly up to the synthesiser and sighed. He switched it on and began to play. Shorofsky settled down in the chair. The music that flowed through the basement was that of Bruno's homework assignment, an electronic reworking of a classical medley. As Shororsky listened he realised just how much talent Bruno really had - the boy had magically transformed a standard piece into something personal.

     Shorofsky smiled, the music conjuring feelings that he had thought long forgotten. He was strangely disappointed when the music trailed off.

     “That's as far as I've managed to get,” Bruno said. “I don't think I'll be able to finish it now that my father -” Bruno stood up. “It just doesn't feel right any more.”

     Shorofsky lifted himself out of the chair and walked to the synthesiser. Without saying a word he sat in front of the keyboard and began to play the piece of his own music. Bruno felt his throat tighten as the melancholic strains surrounded him. When Shorofsky had finished he sat for a few seconds in silence and then turned to face Bruno.

     “I composed that piece soon after fleeing Nazi Germany,” he said. “I had left behind all that was dear to me and was alone for the first time in my life.” Shorofsky stood up and walked to Bruno. “I know that I would never see my family again.”

     Bruno saw the pain in the old man's eyes and felt his heartache as acutely as his own. “How could you work at a time like that?”

     Shorofsky smiled wistfully. “Because music is the greatest tool for expression in this world,” he said. Shorofsky picked up the music sheet containing the unfinished homework assignment and thrust it at Bruno. “Don't betray yourself for your father,” He added. “Put down what you feel.”

     Bruno said nothing as he took the sheet and started at it. Shorofsky walked slowly towards the steps. “I expect to hear it when it is finished,” he said, as he started to climb.

     Bruno appeared at The School of the Arts in the afternoon of the following day. Shorofsky had just finished ushering out a class full of pupils when the young musician appeared in the doorway.

     Shorofsky smiled. “Is it done?” he asked.

     Bruno walked into the room and slid a cassette into the small tape deck that Shorofsky always kept on hand. He pressed the play button and stepped back as his composition poured out of the speakers.

     Shorofsky sat in silence throughout the five minutes that the recording lasted. “You have created something to be proud of,” he declared when it had finished.

     “I only wish my father could hear it,” Bruno said as he ejected the tape. “All the work I've put into it just seems futile while he's lying there like that.”

     Shorofsky stroked his beard, an idea forming. “Maybe,” he said slowly, “maybe he can.” He picked up the papers from his desk and moved towards the door. “Go home now,” he said to Bruno. “I'll call you.”

     Bruno received the call from Shorofsky two hours later. The old music teacher was at the hospital and he wanted Bruno to join him as soon as possible. He stipulated that he must bring the tape. Bruno made his way there to find Shorofsky chatting with a young doctor outside the intensive care unit. Shorofsky explained that he has arranged for Bruno to play the tape to his father.

     “You must understand, young man,” the doctor said, “that there is only a very slim change your father will actually register the tape at all. There have been cases where audio input - voices of favourite television actors or sports stars, loved ones, pieces of music and the like - have provoked a repsonse from comatose patients, but that is the exception rather than the rule. I must know that you understand that before I can possibly allow you to continue. Do you understand?”

     Bruno nodded. “Even if it doesn't work,” he said, “at least I'll have tried.”

     “Very well,” the doctor said. He motioned Bruno and Shorofsky through the door into intensive care.

     Angelo Martelli lay in exactly the same position he had when Bruno had last visited. Although his body was now healthy once more, his mind was still trapped in the dark limbo that existed somewhere far below the surface. There was no reaction as the doctor slipped a pair of earphones over his head and signalled for Bruno to give him the tape. Bruno did so and stepped back to stand with Shorofsky. “The tape is now playing,” the doctor said.

     No sound filtered out through the tightly clamped earphones and Bruno, Shorofsky and the doctor waited in tense silence while it played through once, then twice then three times.

     Bruno felt as if every second lasted an hour. The expressions of Shorofsky and the doctor reflected his own feeling of failure. The tape wasn't getting through to Angelo.

     The doctor signed and shook his head. “It's no use,” he said. Slowly he moved to disconnect the tape machine.

     “Wait!” Bruno cried. “Look!”

     Bruno pointed to Angelo's arm. Muscles were gently flexing beneath the surface of the skin. As the three watched, the flexing continued down the arm until one of Angelo's fingers lifted almost imperceptibly from the sheet.

     Shorofsky and the doctor looked at on another in congratulatory fashion before the doctor moved to the bedside and began checking Angelo's pulse and respiration. He smiled at Bruno. “Your father is on his way back,” he said. “The tape worked.”

     But Bruno wasn't listening. He too was now by the bedside clutching his father's hand and waiting. Waiting for the moment when he opened his eyes . . .