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There was something vaguely familiar about Bernie's song...maybe even something about Bernie himself... |
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By RAY DREYFACK
of TheColumnists.com
Bernie is an unusual young man. But who is he, really?
Bernie’s mom can’t
get the tune out of her mind. Mrs. Leonard has been humming it
for the past few days, since she first heard her 11-year-old
son whistling it. It’s a haunting melody with a kind of
blues jazzy overtone.
Bernie’s song.
His mom wonders where Bernie picked it up. The tune pops into
her head countless times during the day. Shopping, cooking dinner,
doing dishes, doing a wash. She can’t stop humming it. It
is driving her nuts.
Bernie’s song.
Where in God’s name is it from?
Bernie is a sixth grader. Contentious little kid with red hair
and freckles. He plays clarinet in the school band. Blessed with
a sweet tenor voice, he’s a featured soloist in the choir.
He bounces home from rehearsal at 4:30 PM.
“Hi, Mom, I’m home.”
His Yankee jacket is flung over a chair, more on the floor than
the chair.
“Bernie, hang up your jacket.”
He rolls his eyes. Parents are professional pests. He hangs his
jacket in the closet and heads for the Oreos in the pantry. He
sets two on the table, goes to the fridge and pours himself a
glass of milk.
Mrs. Leonard is at the counter chopping onions.
“How was choir practice?”
Bernie grimaces. “Yikhh. The wimp can’t get nothing
right.”
“Can’t get anything right. What did she do now?”
“We were rehearsing Hallelujah for the recital. She’s
supposed to be a music teacher and don’t even know where
I come in on my solo. When I try to tell her she don’t listen.”
“Doesn’t know, doesn’t listen. Saints in heaven,
Bernie, your grammar.”
The wimp in question is his music teacher whose screechy voice,
weird sno- colored hairdo, and hanging specs, make her look like
a creature from another plan, to hear Bernie tell it. His problem
is not only that Miss Joanna Batt teaches music at Jefferson
Secondary, she conducts the choir as well and in that role she
is a major source of aggravation in Bernie’s life. They
argue continuously and, teacher or not, when Bernie knows he
is right--especially if it comes to music--it would take a bulldozer
to move him. In a perpetual state of war with the old frump,
he is convinced she was put on this earth to make his life miserable.
His mom insists she’s just doing her job.
“Yeah sure, Mom,” Bernie snorts. “If Dad did his
job like that, he’d be fired.”
Mrs. Leonard sighs and shakes her head. “So what calamity
happened today?”
“She did it again. The old bat stopped the rehearsal cold
because she claims I came in a measure too soon.”
“Did you?”
“Mom, you know better than that.”
Bernie gives a fair imitation of his persecutor’s cranky
voice. “Young man, I will not tolerate impertinence in my
class. I am in charge here and what I say goes. If you don’t
like it, you can leave now, and good riddance.”
She had him there. He would never quit the choir and she knows
it. He is scheduled to play a clarinet jazz solo at the recital
in addition to his part in the choir. The wimp could get him
kicked out of band. That would be a total disaster.
Bernie loves music more than anything, all kinds of music, especially
jazz. The kids in school call him Music Man. The wimp calls him
troublemaker.
Bernie’s flinty insistence on speaking up for what he believes--to
adult or childoften gets him into trouble. His mom admires his
tenacity, but it worries her. She’s been summoned by Joanna
Batt more than once, and would never admit it to Bernie, but
secretly agrees she’s a wimp. Yet she is the teacher, and
Bernie the pupil. An 11-year-old boy must have some respect for
authority.
Music is Bernie’s driving interest in life. He loves working
with children and even helps coach the second and third grader’s
band. More than once he has inspired a disgruntled kid to keep
plugging when he had all but decided to quit.
Bernie finishes his milk and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. And
now here he is doing it again. Whistling that confounded tune.
Bernie’s song.
“Bernie, where ever did you hear that song?”
“I don’t know.
I didn’t hear it anywhere.”
“It had to come from somewhere for goodness sake.”
Bernie shrugs.
Emily bursts into the house, late for her piano lesson.
“Do you know what time it is? Your lesson’s in 10 minutes.”
“I know, Mom, I know.”
Emily is a sophomore at Fair Lawn High. Her piano teacher, Alex
Shopin, is an older man who once played with the Boston Pops.
Shopin. What a great name for a piano teacher, Bernie thinks,
even if it is misspelled. Emily shows promise, Mr. Shopin observes.
If she could only keep her mind off boys for two minutes, her
mom thinks.
Emily races upstairs to wash up.
The chimes sound minutes later. Mr. Shopin is always right on
the dot.
“Bernie, get the door, please.”
Bernie hop-skip-jumps to the door whistling his confounded song.
“Hi, Mr. Shopin.”
“Good day, Bernard.” Mr. Shopin is a formal soft-spoken
man with white hair and a matching mustache. Must be at least
ninety, Bernie calculates.
Emily comes racing down the stairs seconds later and seats herself
at the piano. Mr. Shopin is chatting with Bernie.
While waiting, Emily plays around with the keys, picking out--what
else?--Bernie’s song. Like her mom, it bugs her too.
That does it, Mrs. Leonard decides. The melody is getting under
her skin. She has to find out where it comes from. Emily wonders
too, but hasn’t the faintest idea.
Today Mrs. Leonard is determined to find out once and for all.
Mr. Shopin is a musical encyclopedia. If anyone can pinpoint
where Bernie picked up the tune, he would be the one.
When Emily’s lesson is done, Mrs. Leonard asks, “Mr.
Shopin, please do me a favor. Bernie, whistle your song.”
Bernie’s whistle is a bit thin, but the bluesy jazzy melody
comes hauntingly through.
Mr. Shopin listens intently and frowns.
“Bernard, whistle it again.”
He does a repeat performance.
Mr. Shopin is shaking his head.
Mrs. Leonard’s eyes are two question marks. “Do you
know what it’s from?”
The teacher rubs his chin. “It sounds somewhat familiar,
and yet--" His frown deepens. “I can’t quite nail
it down.”
He removes a sheet of manuscript paper from his briefcase and
jots down the notes.
“I think I can identify the composer. But I can’t pinpoint
the score. I’ll see if I can
track it down and let you know.”
Mrs. Leonard asks, “Who’s the composer?”
“I’ll let you know.” He seems a trifle nervous.
Three days later the Leonard’s
chimes sound at 8:00 PM. Emily goes to the door. It is Mr. Shopin
carrying his briefcase. She leads him to the rec room where the
family has been watching TV.
Mr. Leonard, a balding pleasant-faced man, has been relaxing
in the recliner. He rises abruptly and shakes hands with the
teacher. A corporate lawyer, he has had a hard day. He too has
been bugged about the origin of Bernie’s song, and is curious
as to Mr. Shopin’s finding. He offers the teacher the recliner.
“No, please I’d be more comfortable here.”
Mr. Shopin sits down on a straight-backed chair looking unaccountably
ill at ease.
“Were you able to solve the mystery?” Mr. Leonard asks.
Mr. Shopin moistens his lips. “Yes and no.”
“Yes and no?”
The teacher’s distress seems to increase by the minute.
“The moment I heard the tune, Lenny Bernstein’s name
popped into my head.”
Mr. Leonard said, “The famous conductor? The composer of
West Side Story?”
“None other. Lenny, as those of us who were close used to
call him. I knew him well. Bernie’s song is reminiscent
of his music. But that tune of his wasn’t composed by Lenny.
Not a note of it. Bernie’s song is original. Absolutely
original. It came out of his mind.”
The silence has become thicker than over-cooked cereal.
Mr. Shopin digs into his briefcase and removes an 8 X 10 photo
of Leonard Bernstein as a young man and passes it around.
“Can you see the resemblance?” he asks.
Bernie’s mom, dad, and Emily study the photo. They exchange
glances and shrug.
“See that tiny mole under Lenny’s left ear?” Mr.
Shopin said. “Bernard has a tiny mole at just about the
same place.”
Mr. Leonard frowns.
The music teacher turns to Bernie. “Young man, do I recall
correctly that you like jazz?”
“I love jazz.”
Mr. Shopin nods. “Lenny could be called a jazz addict. One
need only listen to 'West Side Story' to confirm that. Bernard,
am I also correct in recalling that you enjoy working with children?”
“Yeah. I love working with kids. I help out with the second
and third graders.”
Mr. Shopin nods again. “Throughout his career, Lenny’s
work with young people was of the highest priority. I remember
as if was yesterday. Just two weeks after starting with the Philharmonic,
he conducted his first Young People’s Concert. And I have
just one further observation.”
Not a sound could be heard.
"Their names.”
Mr. Leonard’s frown deepened. “Their names?”
“Leonard Bernstein. Bernard Leonard. Does the similarity
strike you as a rather unusual coincidence?”
Bernie’s dad stares at the teacher with scrutinizing, if
not alarming, intensity. He blows out his cheeks. “Mr. Shopin,
what are you saying?”
The elderly musician pulls in a deep breath and shakes his head.
“To be honest, I’m afraid to articulate it.”
©2004 by Ray Dreyfack.
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