The Goldberg Variations: A Novel

By Andrew Grof

This seamless work of lyrical intensity mimics both in tone and substance one of Bach’s grand compositions. It centers around two friends who are reunited after years of separation through an accidental meeting in New York’s Greenwich Village—a meeting which becomes the catalyst for the nearly nonstop tale of the life and death of the mother of one, a holocaust survivor recently dead of cancer in New York. In the telling of the tale, recent as well as distant events are uncompromisingly exposed and historical as well as interpersonal connections at times painfully, yet always lovingly revealed. This journey of words is not without considerable risk to both the teller and the listener who is eventually joined by his girlfriend with little or no historical perspective. “The Goldberg Variations” as played by Glenn Gould is a recurrent theme throughout the novel, as it is one of the few pieces of music comforting the mother as she nears her end. This novel is a moving portrait of the past as well as the present, and in its grand as well as small scale becomes a successful exploration of the myriad ups and downs of human relationships.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sunstone Press
• Release date: Jan 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781611392142

Andrew Grof

Andrew Grof was born and raised in Hungary. After fleeing the communist regime with his family, he emigrated to the United States. He is the author of four critically acclaimed novels, all published by Sunstone Press: The Goldberg Variations (also translated and published by Argumentum Press in Hungary, 2014), Everyone Loves Ronald McDonald, Artists and Lost Loves. He currently resides in Miami, Florida after having retired from Florida International University as a humanities librarian and adjunct professor of English and Honors Studies.

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The

Goldberg

Variations

A Novel

Andrew Grof

© 2013 by Andrew Grof

All Rights Reserved.

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Book and Cover design › Vicki Ahl

Body typeface › Goudy Old Style

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Grof, Andrew, 1946-

The Goldberg variations : a novel / by Andrew Grof.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-86534-954-4 (softcover)

1. Experimental fiction. I. Title.

PS3607.R6343G65 2013

813’.6--dc23

2013015702

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For

Elisabeth and Caryl

Schaeffer the first to see his mother dead. He told me. I was the first to see my mother dead.

Schaeffer one of those people who disappear and appear as if at the drop of a hat, constantly on the move, moving through time, in and out of time, his work for the U.N. partially responsible, I’m in the middle of the Amazonian jungle,’’ he once called, I’m staring at a fertility goddess who’s staring back at me, but perhaps it was somewhere else, a different continent, a different jungle, truth is I could never keep up with Schaeffer, kept aware of his movements through mutual friends or friends of friends, from somewhere in the Andes he had once called to talk about silence, The silence overwhelming, he had said, there’s nowhere to go from here, he often reminded me of a deep-sea diver who surfaces only occasionally to replenish his supply of air, A man who stays put is as good as dead, he had once told me, our encounters haphazard, our conversations often brief and interrupted, Schaeffer rarely talking about himself, Schaeffer like some gauge, a measure of the passage of time as far as I was concerned, the near perfect example of survival in our rapidly changing times, often his words, his very tone as if from a distance even when we were walking or sitting together, The worst thing for a man is to lose possession of himself, he once said, in the end there’s nothing but that to fall back on."

I always had a tough time though separating fact from fiction where Schaeffer was concerned, his life a precarious balancing act between the two as far as I was concerned, or chance, in no one else’s company was I as keenly aware of the element of chance as in Schaeffer’s, this, our last meeting, nothing but chance of course, Everything must be named and precisely located in space and time, James, he had once told me, yes, but named and located how, through chance, of course, only through the element of chance, that afternoon the two of us named and precisely located on the corner of Fifth and Washington Square Park, but given different, just slightly different circumstances the two of us would have missed each other, the meeting would never have occurred, we walked on then, walked together, cut through the park the way we had done on any number of other occasions in the past, talking at first, but then any further talk unnecessary for a time,, only in Schaeffer’s company did silence have the equal weight, the equal importance of words, Schaeffer perfectly capable of stretching silence as well as words to their very limits, neither of us appropriately dressed for the late fall, the brisk weather, it hardly seemed to matter, we walked at a steady pace, my walk adjusted to his and his to mine, Schaeffer’s the more ambling, the more meditative of the two, whenever I had seen him at a distance in the past Schaeffer’s walk always as if aimless, directionless, Marie’s, yes, only Marie’s walk reminding me of Schaeffer’s, when we reached the far end of the park we cut left, headed east, circled the park before cutting right through again, returning it seemed to me, as if in a roundabout way to our point of origin, the exact spot where we had met, but we kept on going straight this time, passing right by one of N.Y.U.’s numbing buildings, its greyness starker, more immediate than the greyness of the skies, and still nothing, not a word passed between us, Schaeffer simply biding his time, it was up to him to continue, to start up again, some things can’t be rushed I told myself, certain words, certain stories simply can’t be rushed, an impossible distance to cover it suddenly seemed to me, wherever we were headed an impossible distance of time and space to be covered, but, My mother dead of uterine cancer, Schaeffer suddenly said, for the last six months of her life she lived like a recluse, a refugee from life, I was the only one allowed into her Upper East Side apartment, the only go-between between her present and her past, James, between her past and my present, James, the words taking over then, once begun the words taking over, pushing everything else aside, once past Waverly Place we were nearing a bar where we had met countless times in the past, something about the dinginess, the semi-darkness of the place attracting us, but now it suddenly seemed to appear as if out of nowhere, but all along, yes, perhaps all along we had been heading there without our knowing it, but its appearance still sudden, still unexpected, we descended the narrow stairs, Schaeffer leading and I following, we headed for a table beneath the window, the window high and tinted to allow only limited light, a limited vision of the street above, we ordered our drinks, the waiter’s movements awkward, tentative I noticed, his mind as if somewhere else, on something else, I had to repeat our order before he nodded and acknowledged.

Every time I entered her apartment I was pulled not just into her present but her past as well, Schaeffer continued, "not just the circumstances of her dying in the present but those of her life in the past as well, a witness, James, the only witness to her present as well as her past, all my life I had tried to keep clear, to steer clear of becoming a witness to my mother’s life in the past, to maintain a certain distance between my present and her past, but with her dying now, her dying in the present this was no longer possible, to be pulled into her dying, her present meant being pulled into her past as well, it was unavoidable, beneath the present, James, no matter how pleasant or horrible, but beneath the present lay all the unexplored layers of the past, I had no choice, James, to become a witness to my mother’s dying.

I had to become a witness to her life in the past as well, her dying in the past, and even her uterine cancer as if a symbol or perhaps the very essence of something else in her past, every time I listened to or addressed her I felt as though I were listening to or addressing her diseased womb, throughout this last, this seemingly endless phase of her life I tried staying away for shorter or longer periods at a time, now shorter, now longer, to put a distance between my mother and myself, between her diseased womb and myself, I accepted assignments in different parts of the world, the farther the better, in Lima, for example, up in the Andes, but no sooner would I arrive there than the urge to return, to rush back would become overwhelming, almost unbearable, I would finish my reports quickly, haphazardly, almost thoughtlessly, James, and then back, back I would rush to my mother and her diseased womb, to my mother and her present as well as her past."

Schaeffer paused, he realized he had been talking nonstop for quite awhile then, the words as if in danger of overwhelming not only me, his listener but Schaeffer himself as well, Another round, James? he suddenly asked, this was to be our third or fourth, both of us seasoned drinkers, although Schaeffer’s tolerance a bit stronger I’ve always suspected, when drinking steadily I would now and again be overcome by a feeling as if of falling from a great height, once or twice the inevitable crash in which all confusion and clarity suddenly blended before definitively disappearing altogether, I was nowhere near that state yet, the liquor as if still sharpening not dulling my senses, Schaeffer no doubt the same, at any rate ordering another round seemed a legitimate pause, a needed interruption, Schaeffer’s preference for talking in spurts that afternoon, I realized, rather than steadily, in any sort of measured fashion, what he needed to say, to rid himself of better done in discrete quanta than in anything resembling a flow, there could be no other way, periodic interruptions not only welcome but absolutely essential, just then Schaeffer asked what I was working on myself, Schaeffer one of the few people whose opinion I valued about my often futile attempts to expose, to get to the bottom of certain nagging political issues, just then it was the layers upon layers of deceptions and lies involved in our so-called rebuilding of Iraq, It’s impossible to make sense of a basically nonsensical situation, he nodded, at any rate this country has always been only about the present, its stubborn resistance to see, to comprehend and apply anything of the past to the problems of the present its weakness as as its questionable strength, for a moment, just for a moment Schaeffer as if talking about, leveling a criticism at himself, a way then, yes, I realized, his asking about my current journalistic efforts just a way of getting back to his mother and his mother’s death, Schaeffer could no sooner let that go than he could stop breathing or sitting where he was, sitting right opposite me, nothing but nothing would matter to Schaeffer, I realized, until he should fully tackle and get himself beyond his mother and his mother’s death, in some ways I felt the same about my Iraqi piece, I needed to finish, to get myself beyond it, but whereas my Iraqi piece could and had been put on hold on a number of occasions, the story of Schaeffer’s mother and her death would not admit of such postponements, it had to be confronted and told, examined and made clear that very afternoon, that very evening and night.

It was only when she stopped talking and I listening, or when I stopped talking and she listening that my mother and I truly communicated, James, Schaeffer continued. Music, James, our love of music in common, she retained it to the very end, but near the end she could only bear to listen to just two specific pieces and those by two specific performers, both at opposite ends of the spectrum it seemed, the height of the baroque and the height of the romantic, we had to listen to them repeatedly, just those two pieces by those two performers, listen to them over and over again, I didn’t mind, of course, they were always something of a welcome relief, but I could interest her in nothing else, nothing in between or after, nothing either classical or modern, just the baroque and the romantic, James, as you well know I go through long stretches, long periods of listening to nothing but Mozart and Bartok, James, Mozart and Bart6k like gods to me, my mother, of course, would have nothing to do with them, made faces every time I suggested, even mentioned their names, for the last few months of her life it was nothing but Bach and Gould, James, Tchaikovsky and Van Cliburn, James, and Gould playing only the ‘Goldberg Variations’ and Van Cliburn only Tchaikovsky’s ‘First Piano Concerto.’

Another interruption. It was to be an afternoon, an evening, a night of various interruptions of different importance and duration, all of them equally annoying and welcome, or some more than others perhaps, but I doubt that either Schaeffer or I could have gotten through the afternoon, the evening and that night without at least a number of these interruptions, if fully told the story of Schaeffer’s mother and her death could only be told against a background, a safety net of interruptions, Schaeffer and I well aware I think, up against nothing but the story of Schaeffer’s mother and her death neither of us would have stood a chance I think, in some ways the interruptions as necessary, as essential as the story of Schaeffer’s mother and her death while in others relatively meaningless, in the light of the story of Schaeffer’s mother and her death all the interruptions relatively meaningless.

Some sort of accident outside, on the street above, we could only guess by the noise outside as well as the commotion within, the sound of a siren coming from a distance then reaching and eventually stopping right by the door of the bar it seemed, a number of people, patrons rushing up the stairs for a look, Schaeffer and I not among them, we couldn’t possibly have been, some sort of vehicular accident with injuries perhaps or one, just a single person collapsing on the street above, we had no way to tell, our role as witnesses limited to the event being no more and no less than a chance and perhaps needed interruption, Nothing matters or everything does, Schaeffer nodded and I along with him, for a moment then, yes, just for a moment perhaps both of us tempted to leave our seats, our table and ascend the stairs for a look outside, it would have been tantamount to leaving the story of Schaeffer’s mother and her death, no mere interruption then but a kind of exchange of the past for the present, the story of Schaeffer’s mother and her death for whatever was happening outside, we stayed right where we were and waited for the commotion to subside, the siren to start up again and recede this time, the people, the patrons to return and descend the stairs once more, we didn’t even bother listening too closely to their comments, their exchanges, Schaeffer simply balancing, suspending the story of his mother and his mother’s death, he would soon pick up, continue where he had left off, throughout the afternoon, evening and the night after every interruption he’d simply pick up, continue where he had left off before.

My mother loved Bach and Gould, Tchaikovsky and Van Cliburn for different reasons, Gould’s playing of the ‘Goldberg Variations’ and Van Cliburn’s of Tchaikovsky’s ‘First Piano Concerto’ for different reasons. She loved Bach and Gould for a certain meditative quality, James, the human voice, James, with no apparent beginning or end, and Tchaikovsky and Van Cliburn for its opposite, the abrupt, the sudden explosion of the human spirit, the former simply whispering, talking while the latter as if shouting, spinning out of control, and it’s curious, James, that as a performer, a recording artist Gould could no more stop himself from humming, as if from whispering to himself as he played than Van Cliburn could from remaining absolutely still and attacking, yes, fully attacking the music, Gould, if you’ve ever seen him, just bent over his piano like some face down question mark and Van Cliburn, if you’ve ever seen him, sitting straight up, straight as a rod, James, my mother as if listening to Gould for his meditative humming which no recording has ever entirely erased and to Van Cliburn for his all-out, his ferocious attack, and something, yes, something else, James, for my mother at least some of the appeal of these artists had to do with their sudden fame and subsequent disappearance, both Gould and Van Cliburn becoming justifiably famous for these particular pieces they played and then disappearing, through circumstance or choice as good as disappearing from view, my mother fully aware of this, and with or without her consciously acknowledging it their lives echoed hers, both Gould’s and Van Cliburn’s careers and lives as if echoing something in my mother’s life, her appearing and disappearing acts, James.

From that point on in our conversation I could get neither Gould nor Van Cliburn out of my mind, but Gould in particular, Gould more than Van Cliburn, I had several of his recordings of the ‘Goldberg Variations,’ and on and off for the rest of the afternoon, evening and night I would not only hear but actually imagine and even see him playing them, Schaeffer’s own words as well as his mother’s life and death now and again blending, fusing with Gould’s playing of Bach’s ‘Goldberg Variations,’ I could no more help it than Schaeffer could help continuing to talk or way back then, back in the fifties Gould could help humming as he played, as far as visualizing Schaeffer’s mother the