Transmigration of the Sound - Prologue (Novel)

New York City, 1996

Arthur closed the Times’ entertainment section at the fold and set down his reading glasses to notice two rather-large, gray moths hanging from the wall above the nightstand. Across the room, they appeared motionless, as moths do, with their papery wings covering fragile exoskeletons. His first thought, admittedly, was to roll up the newspaper and smash the bugs; Arthur hated bugs with a fiery passion. But these moths sat so innocuously, in countless measures of silence, that Arthur began to take a liking, or at least a less-extreme disliking, for the simple insects. One moth was slightly larger than the other, and they sat contented, like a Duke and Duchess, side by side, gazing not at each other but at the audience of telephone and violin bow on the nightstand below. Arthur stood from his chair to take a closer look at the dusty pair.

As he approached, Arthur realized they weren’t even moths at all! There were two gouges that had blemished the pale, rock-colored wall--tearing up the paper and folding it back into roughly symmetrical, wing-shaped proportions. Alas, it was all a trick of lighting and imagination. Arthur mused for a moment about what event or accident must have occurred to damage the wall in this way: had an old fixture been removed haphazardly, a piece of furniture badly relocated, or some kind of forked object thrust into the wall for whatever reason? And why hadn’t the Hotel Lancaster just patched and painted over the wall’s wounds? Moth-phantasms aside, Arthur looked down at the nightstand and found the white bulb illuminated, indicating that a message awaited him, on the telephone.

“Hotel Lancaster, front desk, Betty speaking,” a nasal-voice answered.
“Hello, I’m in room 314. I see that I have a message.”
“Yes, Mr. Penrose is it?”
There was a pause between mister and Penrose as Arthur heard papers shuffling on the other end of the line.
“Yes, Arthur Penrose here.”
“A courier has delivered an envelope for you at the front desk. Would you like us to bring it up to your room?”
“No, I’m taking my dinner out this evening, so I’ll pick it up on my way down. ” he added a touch of gratitude for good luck.
“Very good, sir. Is there anything else we can assist you with today?” her question reeked of common-variety insincerity.
“No, I’ll be down shortly. Bye-bye.”

Arthur set down the receiver and felt his chest quickening. He grabbed his jacket from the doorknob, flipped the light switch in the room, and was out the door. The light on the phone went dim and the gray-black moths disappeared back into their invisible kingdom.
Betty, as her dull nametag displayed, handed Arthur a plain white envelope. Arthur took the envelope with a polite nod and sat on the leather couch in the lobby. He noticed a tear in the arm of the couch. Status quo, Arthur thought to himself as he turned over the envelope and slipped the letter loose. It was only a single page. Too short, too short. It must be a decline. The letterhead boasted the official stamp of the Philharmonic:

To: Mr. Arthur Penrose
Subject: NY Philharmonic Auditions

Hello again Arthur. My name is Barbara Haas--we met at the board auditions earlier this week and, after much review of the candidates, we would like to offer you the prestigious chair of our first violin. Please visit or contact our administrative offices to make an appointment or to speak with me personally. On behalf of the New York Philharmonic, I welcome you to our orchestral team.

Her signature was both neatly contained and expressionless--much like Ms. Haas herself had been at the meeting with the board of auditions. Arthur experienced a free-falling sensation in his abdomen that he hadn’t remembered feeling for a long time. Anne, I love you! Arthur pictured his wife as the existential beauty she was in their college years: black beret, black skirt, striped sweater, camera full of black-and-white. And now he saw the Arthur of the future: Arthur Rubius Penrose leading the thrust and sweet trilling of the New York string-machine. What Merlinesque wizard had intervened and turned Arthur into king? What glorious fortune! His head spun like a passage from Penderecki. His stomach grumbled as he mumbled to himself and flagged down a taxicab.