Down Where The Crickets Play : Part 2

"My son, this is all a miracle without equal. I am sure that it is a blessing from above. The greatest of all grillos has arrived here in our own backyard. In our backyard. Can you believe that?"
His voice was filled with awe.
"This grillo is the greatest of all grillos."
"What's his name papa?"
"He says his name is El Maestro..."
"A grillo called el Maestro? Papa, is this not a madness. Is such a thing possible?"
Papa's eyes shone with a fierce brightness.

"No no. Don't think of him as just a grillo, anymore. He is the poet laureate of all grillos. He is the Gypsy Baron and the Socrates of the insect world."
"But Papa, what does he tell you that's so interesting? Why do you listen to him, all night long?"
"Why my son? You ask why? I'll tell you why. It's because he can tell me all about the secrets of the insect world. That is why. He has discussed the details of their philosophies and he has explained to me the essence of true insect creativity."
"But Papa, how will you remember everything?"
"Ah, my son. That's why I write. That's why I write all day long. I must finish writing down everything because every night, he will tell me more. Yes,I feel here in my heart that it is my duty to write it all down."
"That's good Papa. You are doing so much good Papa. We're so proud of you, Papa."
"But wait my son. I must tell you something. Nothing that I will ever tell you will ever be more important. Tonight is the biggest night that Bilhao will ever see. Yes, I can tell you this. There will never be such a night again."
"What do you mean, Papa?"

"Tonight el Maestro and I will play together. Tonight we will bring together, in our own backyard, my knowledge of music and that of el Maestro."
"But Papa, what do you know of music?"
"What, my son? Have you already forgotten? When we were in Mexico? When I played for the Alcotlpetl Gypsy band? When I played first violin for twelve years?"
"What kind of music did they play, Papa?"
"Oh, we played Carrillo's microtonal music. He was famous for this kind of music. He played a kind of music that the world out there has always played, since the earliest days. The Hindus, the Arabs and even the Greeks did so. Music that has been set aside. In fact, Carrillo used notes that aren't playable by a piano. And, do you know what? I think that el Maestro knows all those notes, the ones that we have forgotten, by pure instinct."
"Wow Papa, will you play your music once again, tonight?"
"Yes my son. Perhaps tonight I will give my greatest performance ever."
"On the grillo machine, Papa?"
"No no, my son, not on that machine. Not when I play with el Maestro. He told me that he wants to make it a night to remember. It will be a night of great music that will echo throughout our community. I may not offend him by playing on that simple primitive cigar box.
He wants me to take out my precious old Mittenwald violin while he will use those precious instruments given to him by God."

"You mean his long back legs, Papa?"
"Yes, those long back legs. But be aware that those legs are not just legs. They are beautiful instruments. One day we may see these legs and I can tell you now that we'll be astounded. Yes, tonight you will hear music that few people have ever heard before."

As the sun began to set, the excitement in the house began to build up to a fever pitch. The tension became almost unbearable. Papa could not come to rest. He restlessly paced up and down all day. He did a few routine exercises in his violin every now and then but his heart was not really in it. He was far too nervous.
When shadows began to lengthen, he walked over to the highly polished walnut cabinet in the living room, opened its doors and took out a bottle of Tequila. A bottle that was kept for special occasions only and had not been touched for a year. He poured a large amount into a glass tumbler and swallowed the contents in one gulp. Then a strange calmness came over him.

He took out a beautifully crafted violin case and slowly, with a tender loving care, removed from it an exquisitely varnished instrument. Then he walked out, with his precious violin and looking very purposeful, onto the back porch. There he sat on the same chair that he had been using every night since he had first heard el Maestro's majestic sounds.
We huddled silently inside the dark kitchen. No lantern was burning. We were all waiting for an event that we knew would be unforgettably awesome. We spoke only in whispers.

Then came the great moment. The moment when we heard the first sound.
El Maestro announced his arrival by playing a simple series of notes. Like those that you hear from coming from an orchestra pit, while the musicians tune their instruments, just before a concert begins.
They were no chirrp chirrp sounds. No no. They were musical notes of exquisite quality. Then the cricket played a short passage that ranged from a growl to a high C trill. One that any concert violinist would have been proud to play.
Papa responded by playing a sequence of low notes that seemed to be like an ominous rumble that one gets here before the earth shakes. It was as if he was telling his protagonist that he was now ready to accept any challenge. It was as if he was also telling el Maestro "be careful for I'm a most formidable opponent. I can make the earth shake."

As Papa rested his violin, he was amazed to hear el Maestro's response. It was recognition of the challenge but was at the same time an audaciously modified play back of Papa's composition. It was Papa's opening passage played initially as a slow funeral dirge and then with ever increasing excitement in a higher and then still higher key.
It was as if el Maestro was showing Papa that if a musician is truly creative then he should be able to use the entire musical scale to demonstrate his virtuosity.

Papa responded by playing a thrilling passage from one of his favorite Czardas. He played a piece that he had played many times and always to a tumultuous reception. He knew that no artist, in Mexico, had ever been able to match him as far as this piece of music was concerned.
Finally, in crescendo, Papa began to play up in the upper register of his instrument. For longer than a minute, he played twittering sounds like those of a lark. Sure that his skills were unmatchable, Papa lowered his violin and waited for a sign of surrender.

To Papa's utter surprise, el Maestro immediately repeated the whole passage that he had just played but this time with all chords transformed into separate arpeggio notes. This meant that el Maestro had recognized each note in every chord played by Papa and had played them back as individual notes with even more fire that Papa had mustered.
El Maestro was now beginning to show his prowess as a potential world-class microtonal expert and was able to introduce brilliant runs and trills far outclassing Papa's attempts.
In fact, I could see in Papa's face that he was listening in total fascination to music that he had never heard before. Later he told me that he had heard quartertones known only to microtonal virtuosos.

Then Papa it was Papa's turn again. He again paled a pled a complex passage in the lower ranges. To the fundamental notes, he added an array of overtones that enhanced the beauty of the piece. However, Papa's expression soon turned to one of incredulity. As he lowered his bow, el Maestro repeated the same passage but added five additional harmonics and even dared to slip in a few bars of dazzling pizzicato, finally ending with grand glissando that ended up in the high C's.

Papa was about to lower his instrument to applaud when all went silent. It was as if a powerful sound system had been suddenly switched off. It suddenly seemed as if the wood was now more silent than it had ever been before. Papa had immediately jumped up and shouted.
"Mama, bring the lanterns. Sons, bring more lanterns. I feel that there is something wrong. Our El Maestro is in trouble. Come on. Hurry, for God's sake hurry."
Our search lasted only for a few moments. It seemed that Papa knew exactly where el Maestro had been. He was right for there we found el Maestro. He was dead. He was lying on his back but somehow he didn't look unhappy.
We stood silently in a circle around him, while Mama went back to the house to find a small trinket box. She carefully lined it out with cotton wool.
That night we sat around the trinket box, while Papa played a haunting gypsy melody. One filled with an insatiable longing. His sensitive playing was a final tribute to a true el Maestro.

* * *

After Alfonso had completed his amazing and most touching tale, he handed over the trinket box with the mortal remains of el Maestro inside to the Professor. One of his daughters had taped a forest flower to the box that I took back with me..

* * *

In a Boston research laboratory we placed the body of el Maestro under one of our powerful microscopes. I was so amazed by what I saw that I had to call my colleagues and let each take a turn to do a brief examination.
The investigations are still ongoing but we can already say, with full conviction, that El Maestro's back legs and the lower part of his body had the same nut-brown color of many brands of the worlds' best violins.
Other amazing items of interest were his proudly held broad shoulders, his rather large head and the remarkably intelligent look on his face.
On one further matter, we all agreed. There was an obvious smile on the face of el Maestro.

Note:
The premise of this story may seem far-fetched. There is, however, some basis for it in the book "The Soul of the White Ant" by Eugene Marais. In this thesis, the author refers to the psyche as well as the sound making capabilities of insects. Maeterlinck, in 1926, wrote a work "The Life of the Termite" based on Eugene Marais' book.