Chapter 8: Troubles
Donald sat in a leather chair in the complete darkness of a stranger's home. He squinted at his watch, but couldn't make out the time. It wouldn't be long now. He rested his hand on the pistol at his hip. Donald's job was more dangerous, but as he imagined George's scrawny frame trying to hike up a small mountain he was glad it was his. He had been growing restless anyway. The hunt was taking too long, and catching some smaller fish would keep him sharp in the meantime.
The sound of jingling keys pierced the silence. The metal sound of a lock mechanism rotating shortly followed. Donald's heart quickened, but he stayed where he was. A light went on in the hallway, and then the kitchen. The man began to make himself a sandwich and a glass of milk. Donald tapped his pistol impatiently, but resisted the urge to make the first move. Eventually, the man shuffled into the living room and turned on the light.
"Don't move," said Donald, staying seated but unholstering the gun.
The old man gave a yelp and dropped both the plate and the glass. The wood floor broke them both loudly and a large pool of milk expanded outwards. The man staggered backwards and pressed himself against the wall to keep from falling.
"Please," said the man, "take whatever you want. I've got money."
"I'll bet you do," said Donald. "Given how much your brother embezzled."
The man's face grew pale as his immediate terror shifted into a deep horror. Donald got the impression that he would have preferred a burglar.
"I think you've got the wrong man. I don't have a brother."
Donald laughed mirthlessly. "So say the records. That's why we didn't look for you after you broke him out of prison. But now we've got better records."
"Just put the gun down, and we can talk this out," said the old man.
"Yes," said Donald, keeping the pistol locked on the man. "Let's talk. We've already picked up your brother, and frankly I don't care what happens to either of you. There's only one thing I want. Where's the letter you got this morning."
"What letter?" asked the man, his voice going up an octave.
Donald sighed. "This is going to be so much more tedious if you keep this up. You know damn well what letter. The sheet of music. Why don't you go ahead and show me where it is."
The old man stayed silent for a long while. Donald scrutinized his face, trying to guess what he was thinking. Eventually, the man relented.
"How do you know about the music?"
"That's not your concern," said Donald.
The man's eyes widened. "Don't tell me you get them too? I'm not the only one?"
Donald started to answer, but he heard the faint sound of the man beginning to hum, and swallowed his words. Donald stretched out his gun arm and aimed the weapon menacingly.
"None of that, or I'll shoot."
The man gave a weary sigh. "Is my brother safe?"
"He's going back to prison. Unless…"
The man perked up. "Unless what?"
Donald smiled. "Unless you play my little game. I want you to keep receiving the letters. You funnel them to me every morning, and you and your brother can go free. You can't move from this address, but otherwise you'll be free to go where you please."
The man straightened up and took a step away from the wall. "That's a good deal."
"It is," said Donald. "I suggest you take it."
"Fine," said the man. "I assume you still want the one from this morning?"
"Naturally," said Donald. "Lead the way."
The man started to walk briskly towards the door that led to the basement.
"Slowly," added Donald, as he stood.
The man crept down the stairs to a small, dusty room filled with papers. Donald followed, squinting in the dim light of a low quality electric bulb. His attention was trained on the man, and he scarcely dared to even blink. The man opened the drawer of an old desk and began to rifle through the pens and papers within.
"It's just in the back here, inside a secret compartment," promised the man.
Donald's hand twitched, and he steadied it.
"Oh," said the man suddenly.
"What?"
"I forgot, I was playing it earlier and didn't put it back."
"Well, where is it?"
"Oh, right, it's just over there," said the man. He kept one hand in the drawer and pointed the other across the room.
Donald turned his head instinctively to look and realized his mistake immediately. He heard the click of a hammer cocking back. Before he could turn, he heard the bang. Outside the house, twenty police agents heard the sound of four gunshots in rapid succession. They unholstered their weapons and spat curses. It took them ten seconds to kick down the door and flood the house, checking their corners as they moved from room to room.
"I'm down here!" shouted Donald.
The agents piled into the basement.
"And you're late," added Donald, wiping a speck of blood from his cheek. "The fun's already over."
A body was spread on the stone floor in a growing pool of dark blood. His hand still clutched a small revolver. Donald returned his pistol to its holster and tried to calm himself. His body was still shaking like a pressurized can about to explode. Adrenaline coursed through his system, making his words faster and more frightened than he intended them to sound.
"Canvas the house. Rip up all the floorboards, look everywhere. We're looking for a sheet of music. It's a Whiteglove code they've been using, and it contains top secret intel. You see anything with a musical note on it, you bring it to me right away."
"Yes, sir. Uhh… what about the body?"
Donald looked down at it in disgust. "Leave it for now. We're on the clock here. Nobody goes home until we find that music."
George woke up sore and bitter. He had been having a lovely dream that he was drifting through a hundred ballrooms and listening to the sweetest music he had ever heard. In a brief moment of confusion, he awoke and remembered that the ballrooms were real, and just as quickly remembered that he couldn't hear them anymore. The harsh thrust back into reality turned the sweetness of the dream into poison, and anger welled up inside him. The previous day had been terrible. He spent most of it trying to find a government worker who could assist him in climbing a mountain, and after hours of vetting people at the Bureau of Interpreters and Assistance, he settled on the least terrible option. The young man had never guided a blind person before, but at least he vaguely understood the concept of blindness and seemed to want to do a good job. That was more than could be said about the others.
It was a two hour drive to the mountain, and George began the ascent by plunging his ankle into a hole in the ground and spraining it. The guide was apologetic for not pointing it out, but his assistance somehow got even worse from that point on. Overcompensating, he scarcely took his hands off of George for the rest of the hike and practically pushed him up the mountain. The experience was simultaneously painful, humiliating, and pointless.
George reached the top after an hour and a half of hiking, and waited around until it was dark. He listened as best he could to the sounds he heard for the next hour. Maybe Donald is wrong. Maybe there is an Organization and I'm their newest recruit. The words sounded silly even as George thought them. He heard nothing but crickets and squirrels. It really was just an attempt to throw them off the trail.
The hike down was even worse, because now the guide was blind too. He had forgotten to bring a lamp or a lantern, and as a result, the two of them tripped and fell into mud at least twice. By the time the man drove him back to his house, George was covered in bruises and scrapes, and had to remove several insects from his hair. Miss Claire made him a pot of tea while he nursed the blisters on his feet.
The next morning as he climbed out of bed, George tried to find meaning in his situation. He had promised Sophie that they would live together once this was all over, but even as he said it, he didn't know what the words meant. When what is all over? I'm going to be working for the secret police for as long as I'm useful to them, and they're not just going to let me go if I stop being useful. Ironically, he felt happier before Donald had agreed to his plan. When it was all just a romantic scheme he had cooked up, things seemed much more hopeful. Now that it was real, all George could think about was how trapped he now felt.
There was still an hour before the next letter would arrive. George sat in his writing chair and tried to think of a verse. He normally called Miss Claire in to receive periodic dictation, but this time he didn't even bother. He knew he wouldn't be able to write a single word, but there was nothing else to do. He tried to find something that would give him the inspiration to start writing again, and flicked on the radio. It only took a few measures of music before he turned it off. It only seemed like a reminder of the thousands of worlds he no longer had access to.
When the letter came, it only made George more angry. Miss Claire read it aloud.
Dear Mr. Goofenberg,
We were pleased to see that you made the climb as requested and hope you now have the requisite information to solve the following riddle. What is the sound of one hand clapping? Please ponder this, and deliver your response to Postbox 139 on Rivet street in the neighboring city of Carna exactly three days from now. Good luck,
Your patron, Organization Member #102
George scoffed and folded his arms. The sound of one hand clapping? Now they're not even trying. George had read that one in a book of eastern proverbs. It famously didn't have an answer. To stop sending him the songs was one thing, but to pretend that it was all for some greater purpose was just insulting. For the first time, George actually wanted to catch the composer, if just to give him a piece of his mind.
Twenty minutes after getting the letter, George heard the screech of an automobile's tires as it skidded, followed by a thud as it impacted the curb. He moved to unlock the door, and could already hear footsteps and heavy breathing on the other side. The door flung open, nearly hitting George in the face.
"What in the-"
Hands he recognized thrust a piece of paper into his arms before he could finish. Donald didn't even bother to close the door before ushering George towards the piano.
"I've got it," he said quickly, "time to get to work, Goofenberg."
"You got a page of music?"
"I'll read you the notes," said Donald. "Just play."
George knew that Donald was going after the other recipients, but he hadn't expected him to be successful so quickly. All he had given Donald was the list of their names.
"No guarantee that we'll get one tomorrow, so let's get right to it. Ab, sixteenth note. C, sixteenth note."
Donald listed the notes off and George fiddled with the keys until he had the melody down. The first time through it, he could already feel the fourth dimension calling him back. He nearly teared up at the feeling. He was back.
"You've got less than twenty four hours," said Donald. "I need you to find out which of those sixty four people are the ones we're looking for."
"I think I can do that," said George, "but I can't guarantee I can do it in one day."
George prepared to get a threat as his answer, but it never came.
"Then I'll do what I can to get you tomorrow's music. That means I won't be able to help you here, so I'm counting on you to make the most of this."
"I understand," said George, but Donald was already on his way out the door.
George felt a burst of emotions that he struggled to untangle. Relief was among them. Like a feeling that he could breathe again after having just been suffocating. But also fear and longing and determination. In a few ballrooms he heard the distant notes of Sophie's orchestra. He tried to focus on the mailman Thomas Kvarich, his first suspect in the list, but he felt himself listing towards Sophie. It had been over a week since he had spoken to her. They had a wedding to plan and as a result of his non-stop hunt with Donald, he had barely even seen his fiance. No, thought George. If I don't prove my usefulness, there's no future for us anyway. It has to be this way. George returned to the work.
Donald found his target in front of the giraffe enclosure, sitting on a stone bench. He was older than the man he had shot yesterday by about a decade, and had wispy gray hair and a frail build. Donald sat down next to him. The man glanced at him once, and then returned his gaze to the giraffes.
"I take it you're here for me," he said quietly.
Donald's instinct was to lie, but the man didn't seem like a runner, and he probably wouldn't have taken a weapon to the zoo.
"Yes," said Donald. "I thought I might find you here."
"I figured someone would come for me," said the man. "It was always just a fantasy. Reality had to catch up with me eventually."
Donald cocked his head. "Fantasy?"
"That the world could be better than it is. But it always snaps back, sooner or later."
Donald nodded solemnly. "The only difference between us and these animals is that they know they're in a prison."
The old man looked Donald solidly in the eyes for the first time. "I guess I'm not the only one who tried and failed to break the rules then."
"There are no rules," said Donald sadly. "That's what makes it a prison."
"How did you find me?
"Answer my question first," said Donald. "Why animals? I'm curious, is all."
"I like animals," said the old man. "They're kinder than humans. And they don't lie."
"Can you really talk to them? Using the music, I mean?"
"It's not really talking," said the man. "I'd say it's more like body language. But with hundreds of bodies you'd be surprised what you can get across to animals. They're smarter than we think."
"I noticed you didn't try again," said Donald, "after they caught the animals you helped escape."
"No," said the man, "I didn't. Even with these powers, I'm just one man. Nothing I do will abolish the concept of zoos. It was a lovely dream though."
"I'll give you five more minutes with the giraffes," said Donald. "Then I'll take you in."
"That's awfully kind of you."
Donald said nothing.
The next morning, he collected the man's letter and brought it to George, who looked like he had barely slept at all. Donald smiled. That was a good sign. George took the page of music wordlessly and got to work again.
"Any progress?" asked Donald.
"Nothing to report," said George. "But I'm getting close."
Mickey came through the door and exchanged a knowing glance with Minnie as he put his coat on the rack.
"Then you've seen already," concluded Minnie.
"Looks like we're down to seven," said Mickey, "Now that our gold bar thief is in custody."
"Come here," said Minnie, "join me for a game of tennis."
Mickey sat down on the couch next to her. "I won't be much of a challenge. You're far better."
"Then you could use the practice, and I need something to clear my head."
Mickey shrugged, and rotated to the correct slice. They affectionately dubbed it the tennis slice. All objects were completely flat planes except humans. Humans consisted of two parts, a rubbery sphere floating above six tentacle-like appendages. Each appendage ended in a kind of mesh that roughly resembled a tennis racket. Minnie had found it simple and amusing, and had now poured countless hours of practice into controlling the six arms and bouncing the sphere off of various surfaces.
Mickey took his position amidst the cloud of floating walls and made the first serve, awkwardly swinging one of the tentacles so that his ball rocketed across the 3D court. Minnie lept into action and sent herself flying to the top right quadrant. She could already tell where the ball would end up after the next three bounces, and her limbs moved like she was born with them.
"I don't know what we're doing anymore," said Minnie wistfully.
Mickey struggled to force his body to move, but predicted the bounces early enough to make up for his sluggishness. He returned the ball and kept the volley going.
"Don't say that. Your songs are going to change the world. They've already changed mine."
Minnie twirled like a squid and used the momentum to send the ball back in a graceful arc.
"When we started, I thought it would be simple. I thought we could just give this gift to the world one person at a time."
"We can still give it to them," assured Mickey, nearly missing the ball. "But we need to outmaneuver Goofenberg. We knew from the start that we'd have to deal with the regime, but we just didn't bank on him helping them."
"It's not only him, it's this Canardino guy too. He might not be able to use the songs as well as Goofenberg can, but he's relentless. What are we going to do, Mickey?"
"We'll deal with him, but Goofenberg is the priority. As long as he's still working against us, we can't expand our operation."
"I don't even know how we would expand it. You can't safely sneak more than ten letters into the mail. It all just feels so hopeless."
With this last comment, Minnie fired the ball with such speed that it bounced nine times before shooting past Mickey on the left. He dove for it but missed.
"One thing at a time, love." Mickey floated over and collected the ball. "We'll get through this."
"Can I give you some advice?" said Minnie. "You're using your arms like you only have two of them and the other four are extras. Stop thinking like a two armed creature and use all of your arms equally."
Mickey smiled. That was the Minnie he knew. He rotated back into the third dimension and put his hands on Minnie's shoulders, massaging them gently. She tensed, and then suddenly relaxed.
"Have you been training to be a masseur in your spare time?" giggled Minnie. "I never knew you gave such good massages."
"That's because I never did before," said Mickey. "This is something I've been practicing on myself at work."
He guided her fourth dimensional shoulders to face a slice that looked like a thousand giant snowflakes had collided with one another.
"This slice has something to do with where we carry stress. If you poke certain connections, it can release the tension in your muscles."
"That's incredible," said Minnie, trying it herself.
"Don't lose hope," said Mickey. "Even now we're learning things we didn't know before. The future is going to be bright, and I'll be right here with you the whole time."
Minnie smiled. A part of her believed him.
George arrived alone to the door of Sophie's apartment. It was a small, tidy little place on the top floor of a five story building. It was two in the afternoon, and when Sophie opened the door, her mood shifted from confusion to delight, and then to fear.
"I'm happy to see you," said Sophie. "Come in."
George entered, and Sophie prepared tea for them both. They sat out on the balcony to the sounds of automobiles, birds, and the whistling of the wind.
"You look terrible," said Sophie. "Have you been sleeping?"
"Not much," admitted George. "I need your help."
"Anything," promised Sophie.
"I can't say much, because it's top secret and I don't want to get you in trouble with me, but it's about this deal I made with the police."
"Right," said Sophie, stoically.
"I just wanted us to be together and to be happy, but I think I've made a mistake. Every option seems like the wrong choice."
"There are different kinds of wrong," said Sophie. "Some things are right for some people and wrong for others."
"No matter what I do, someone is going to get hurt. If I stop working for them, I'll go to prison and they won't let us marry. If I keep working for them, I won't have any time to be with you. I'd like to think it'll end after this case, but I know there will be others. If I solve this case, they know I'm useful, and they'll use me until there's nothing left."
"I don't pretend to know what you're going through or what the right decision is," said Sophie, "but here's something I do know."
Sophie cleared her throat and took on the tone of voice she always did when quoting poetry.
"Spring blossoms flower but for the death of other things. Does the falling leaf know its purpose? Can you hear the thunder and say that the lightning has no meaning because its life is brief? Strike then, as lightning, and blossom."
George frowned. His own words now sounded childish to him.
"You taught me not to dwell on the future or the past. They can force us apart, and they can even put you in prison, but they can't take away the meaning of your life."
"I don't know what my life means anymore. All I do is ruin lives. In trying to secure our future I may have destroyed it, and now, if I solve this case, I may ruin the life of someone who's probably much more important than me."
"Everything and everyone is important," said Sophie. "Don't get lost in comparing them."
"But I still have to make a decision," said George. "Somebody has to lose."
"I don't know who's meant to win and who's meant to lose, but I know you have a good heart. Do what you feel is right and don't worry about the rest. Anything that happens after that isn't up to you, it's up to fate."
"I don't know that I believe in fate or destiny anymore. Everything that happens these days just feels so random."
George listened to the hundred symphonies of Sophie's heart. He could already tell which poem she was going to quote next.
"As the north wind whispers to the eastern sea and scatters the leaves in its path, I know this to be true: this too is poetry."
Sophie leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. George knew what he had to do.