tampered | Log - Completed

Log - Completed

When: Thursday evening
Rating: G
Characters: Machi Tobaye (

machi_tobaye and Gren With-The-Long-Name (

notapreacher)
Summary: Machi comes to hear some jazz at Lux.
Log: Machi isn't sure if he's technically allowed in here. Bars aren't generally hospitable to small people like him, even when they're quiet, seated off to one side and don't try to order alcohol. However, Machi's at home at Lux - the sounds of the jazz band draws him in. Lux is far nicer than the club in Borginia his career started at, but that can be said about any place that followed any sort of standard of hygiene.

Still, it's a calm feeling of nostalgia as he listens. The band's better than most, then again, for a place with chandeliers that's hardly surprising. He doesn't really watch the band, just listens, eyes going unfocused behind his dark glasses. He turns his coffee around and around in his hands, not really paying attention to it.

The saxophone surprises him. There's sweetness and longing in those notes. Machi doesn't play wind instruments, wonders if it's different, breathing your soul into your tool rather than striking it softly. When the set's over, Machi stands up carefully. He wants to play that piano, but he doesn't have permission, of course. So instead he just lingers nearby.

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Playing with a band's different from playing a solo gig. First, there's camaraderie in numbers, a familiarity and comfort. Second, there's teamwork involved: it goes beyond any one player -- although there's no doubt Blue's the featured musician because it's his band -- and together they create something so much bigger than any individual component. And third... well, it's easy to get lost in the sway and feel of the band as a whole. Ride the crest of that wave, as it were, although he's never been surfing his whole life. But he imagines that's how it feels, at least a little bit.

After the set he heads over toward the bar for something to drink: playing's thirsty work, especially with this type of music. Being part of this band keeps him on his musical toes; it's a bigger variety and he likes it that way. There are only so many soulful sax pieces out there and sometimes... well, sometimes it's nice to be able to fade into the crowd.

Armed with his standard club soda with a twist, he nods to the... is that a kid? It's hard to tell.

It's also hard to tell if the kid can see him. Those dark glasses are either for looks or protection, and he'll wait and see which it is before he says the wrong thing.

Machi doesn't notice he's being looked at. He's a small person, always lurking in the shadow of taller adults, so he doesn't often realize when someone's paying attention to him. Besides, he's too busy wondering how long he could get away with plunking at that gorgeous piano before he gets kicked out.

Machi wants to talk to every piano. And this one probably has a lot of stories.

His hands are still sore from the curse yesterday. He flexes them, reaches them out. Is touching an instrument case like he can't actually see it, habit, to see with his fingers.

His dark glasses take up half his face and cover what little expression he may have. Hard to tell what he's thinking.

It's almost impossible to hear when he clears his throat; the noise level in the club is too high. He's going to have to try a different technique.

"Can I... help you with something?" He shakes the dark -- and right now, annoying -- mane of hair back from his face, trying to be as polite as possible without stepping on anyone's toes either literally or figuratively.

Machi jumps and flinches when someone speaks to him, hugging his hands back to himself. "Sorry. I shouldn't be touching. Just wanted to see... such nice set tonight." He almost forgets he needs to turn around and talk to people when they talk to him. He has no one to hide behind and he's very much wishing he did. Shyness is closing his throat. "I... should not be disturbing. Very sorry."

"Hey." He might be shaking his head, but he's smiling. "It's okay, really. I think pianos are all secretly designed to be embraced. It's something about the wood and the finish, don't you think? And never mind the black-and-whites: those just sit right out in public begging for contact."

As far as he's concerned, there really is no disturbing a piano. Only disturbing the crowd gathered around one.

Machi's fear melts like an ice cube in a microwave when it comes to the subject of pianos. "Yes! To touch one, it is always so warm. A breathing thing. Saying to you, please, tell my story. Tell everyone." With Gren's encouragement, he stroked his fingers along one polished side. "This one very nice. Good take care of. Play with good band. Jazz piano, she has different personality than classical."

Whoever this kid is, Gren likes his outlook.

"I'm Gren. You look like a fellow musician." A small one, but a fellow musician nonetheless. "I don't think we've met before."

In fact, he knows they haven't: it's just polite bar chatter, something he's very good at.

"Musician, yes. Since I small. Crawl up to piano, feet no touch ground, go... chunchunchun." Machi imitates the motions of himself, a toddler banging on a piano with flat fingers. "Then, hear hymn on radio, make it sing - tintintintin." He mimicks better technique. "Then I get job jazz club. Winning the bread to sleep on clean floor. Not so big. Little upright. Say, play boldly! Such light in my dark. Such light."

He pauses, embarrassed by his own outburst and suddenly troubled by the memories of everything that comes after that in the story. "I... just arrive. A week ago, I think. I on my way to press conference, now I am here. It is not bothering me. Darkness is same everywhere."

He's not quite sure what to make of that last statement, but for now he'll overlook it in favor of something else. "You're in a jazz club. I'm a little biased, but I think it's the best one in the City." There's a moment's pause; he looks from the kid to the piano and back to the kid, whose name he still doesn't know. Not too long ago, he remembers reading a story about some child prodigy blues harmonica player back on Mars. The details are fuzzy -- he didn't pay it too much attention at the time, but it was a couple months ago at least -- and shakes his head: it's irrelevant here and now.

"The owner of this club is a man named Ishiah. He's really great. If you're looking for work, you might want to talk to him sometime. I'm not sure what his stance is on hiring pianists now -- there was one who played on Saturdays, but now I have that night covered for him -- but you never know. And if it doesn't work out here, there are other clubs."

One thing about the musicians he knows is that it's a tight-knit fraternity: they help each other out whenever they can. Music is competitive, sure, but there's enough audience for everybody.

"I didn't catch your name."

Machi shakes his head violently. "No! No play for audience. No more, never." The aches in his wrist remind him of yesterday's curse. He rubs one absently. He loves piano. Maybe too much. "Machi Tobaye, Mr. Gren. Machi, you can say."

...okay...

So not everyone's like him. Not all musicians live to play their chosen instruments: he knows that. "All right. No playing for an audience. My mistake, Machi. How are you, though, playing without an audience? Just with one or two other musicians, maybe?"

If he has one obvious fault, it's being a little too passionate about music and he knows it.

"Might be okay. Not for awhile yesterday. Yesterday was curse. Play piano. Mozart's Sonata Facile K. 545 #1. Love so much, love so much I must play, I must being perfect. Play nothing but that. No pause, no sleep, no eat. Maybe 400 time." Machi can do the math without even thinking about it, dividing the approximate amount of minutes it takes for him to play the song into the minutes of the day. "I play until I fainting. Curse day over. Hands is sore." Machi sounds precariously near tears, eyes on a blank wall, face drawn shut. He's practiced exhaustively in his life, many times. There were times when playing was the only thing that got him through the day. But he was in jail for months before coming to the City and was out of practice to begin with. To spend nearly a full day playing a single piece over and over clearly upset him. The thought of not being able to play for awhile while he rests his muscles upsets him moreso.

"Oh! That's..."

...Mozart. That's a beautiful and familiar piece; he learned to play it on piano ages ago, although he doesn't really play it any more. He shakes his head: "Welcome to the City and its curses. That one yesterday got me too. I didn't like it at all."

And there's an understatement.

"You need another cup of coffee or anything?" At least he thinks that's what was in the cup on the table. "I'll buy you one before the band starts up again."

"I having curse where I think I magician, too. So scary. Everything. But what can I do? At least there is music in this place." Machi doesn't like the sympathy on Gren's face, so he closes his eyes, completely surrenders to blindness. "Coffee... it is fine with me. Not too sweet coffee. Everyone in America give me sweet things. I look like this, but I am not liking. I not child."

"Not too sweet coffee: okay." He likes his on the sweet side, but he's more of a tea drinker anyway. Pretty sure he can trust Machi now not to sit down and start playing the piano -- especially after what he just said -- he heads over to the bar and returns a couple minutes later with a fresh cup of coffee, a little bowl of sugar cubes and a tiny pitcher of cream on the side. Like some sax-wielding waiter, he sets it down on the table.

Machi isn't a child: that article he read about the harp player's coming back but in bits and pieces, like trying to remember fading fragments of a dream upon waking. There was something about his age too, but... he can't remember what it was.

Maybe next time he reads the paper he'll pay more attention. Of course, he won't be reading the arts section of the Callisto Courier at this place.

"Here. I haven't tried the coffee here to know if it's any good, but I hope it is. As if it was some kind of strain to bring the coffee over, he brushes a stray hair away from his own forehead and looks back to the stage. The length of set breaks with the house band aren't his to determine, so he has to keep an eye on things.

"Do you at least... like the music you're hearing tonight?" It isn't that he lives for appreciation from other musicians -- far from it -- but he does like to know. "Or anything you wanted to hear that we haven't played? I can suggest it to the band leader."

Machi doesn't look up when Gren returns with the coffee. After a moment, he finds the cup without looking, playing with it in his hands. He's staring into space again, that unfocused way where he doesn't even really see what he's looking at. He drinks the coffee slowly, letting it burn his tongue. "I am liking it very much," he murmurs. "It make me think of... back then. When I play in club. My happy moments then. We have no band, just me and the siren."

"The siren? You had a singer?"

It's a classic combination: torch songs need a singer and a piano and nothing else. Well, maybe they need a low-cut dress and some dim lighting. He has nothing against that classic jazz club archetype.

"Or did you mean something else?"

Machi nods. "The singer. Lamiroir, our manager give her name, siren of the ballad. Later, her beautiful voice is famous all over world. I too, become famous. But back then... that was happiest time. Even though I have no place to rest my head, her knee... that is fine with me." Painfully aware of how he's said too much, Machi falls silent and drinks his coffee.

The silence is a little uncomfortable: he remembers his soda and takes a sip of that. There's a story here, but he of all people understands the need for privacy and personal space.

Still, he can't help but sneak a surreptitious look at the not-child with the dark glasses. There might be a time and place for another little question-and-answer session, but this isn't it... even though the image painted by Machi's words is almost impossibly beautiful in a musically poetic sort of way.

"A different world." That's all he says: he's still getting used to the concept himself. And then before he knows it he makes the offer. "Anything else I can do for you in this one?"

Machi stiffens. That kind tone, that offering, he knows it far too well. And suddenly Mr. Gren seems far too accommodating. He puts the coffee down. "No. I have place to stay. Keyboard for playing. Couch to sleep on. Why you asking? What you want from me? I not play for club."

"Nothing."

Not everyone is soft or nice; not everyone needs something; not everyone has something to give. These are lessons he ought to know intimately but he winds up learning them over and over and over again, on an almost daily basis.

"I don't want anything. You do, but you hide it well."

And that's just fine: nobody owes anyone anything.

"Take care, Machi." If Gren's feeling confusion or disappointment or even concern, he doesn't let it show. He of all people knows help can be offered, but it can never be forced. He and his soda find their way back up to the stage; he goes about the very serious business of adjusting the sax mouthpiece to where it's going to be absolutely perfect.

It's easy to keep busy when music is there as a distraction and a passion.

Machi doesn't watch him leave. He's completely still, transfixed on some distant point while Gren's words echo in his ears. What could he possibly want? Machi really doesn't know the answer to that one.

He stays and listens to the rest of the set, then leaves, shivering in the night.

It's getting late and Klavier might wonder where he's been.

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Log - Completed

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