"I'm very sorry. Could you repeat that?" he asked, leaning in closer, his ears letting in only a garbled sound, the meaning hidden from him.
The man that he was talking to (what was his name? They all sounded the same, like deep, dull low G's) gave him a smile full of pity, and spoke much louder, his lips smacking against his ear.
"I said, sear chap, that your music seems to have grown, flowered. Filled with passion," he told the great composer, a look of pride at the words that had just tumbled out of his mouth.
Beethoven nodded and smiled politely, "Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it so much. And I look forward to seeing you next time," and with that Beethoven made his way, slowly, from t he group of people who all wanted to tell him the same thing; that his music was still as amazing as ever, as moving, as emotional, as stirring as ever. The question they had neatly hidden behind was: how did he do it?
That he didn't want to discuss. With anyone. No one. How was he supposed to explain his explanation: that it just happened? Oh, he might have to use a hearing device, but most of the time he just knew. It felt right. And that's all he needed. That feeling that it was right.
His wandering thoughts were pulled harshly into reality and his glazed over eyes smacked back into focus as someone appeared in front of him. A smile graced his otherwise angry and furrowed face as he placed a light, airy kiss on the lady's hand.
"Ah, Beethoven. You are the gentleman," she told him, her bright blue eyes glinting cheekily at him (they reminded him of a high C, sharp and happy.)
"Am I not always?" he asked, his own eyes showing hints of fun.
"Well, the people that you have just left over there, stranded, think not," she told him, her dressed up fan discreetly pointing the group of aimless people.
"Ah, they will be just fine," he told her, placing his large, strong hand on her ruffled elbow.
Later that evening, as morning crept stealthily over the horizon show the faint sparkle of spring in an otherwise winter encrusted world. His hat placed low on his brow, his walking stick tapping quietly (low E's) against the sidewalk, he strained to hear them. Angrily, he sent out his broken sense, searching and feeling the sound. Maybe that way he would learn to hear it again.
Opening the front door he tossed the beautiful black hat in the general direction of the coat hanger. His jacket was thrown over the arm of a chair, the walking stick leaning against it.
Beethoven made his way to the piano, sitting tiredly along one wall, the keys caged up within the wooden cover he had placed before he had left. Sitting on the bench, he opened it, slowly, as if the beautiful black and white keeps would jump out and attack him for not being able to hear their voices anymore.
Once the lid was off he sat there, his hands folded in his lap, staring at sharps and flats and neutrals, presented in front of him in a perfect row, waiting. Waiting for him to play them. Endlessly. Effortlessly. Magically.
In a show of distress, his elbows crashed onto the pretty pieces, his hands buried deep in his hair, the notes ringing silently, but steadily. The tune of hopelessness singing through.