Part 22 (1/2)
”How utterly tiresome.” Mukarrab Khan sighed and leaned back on his bolster. ”Music is a living art, Amba.s.sador. It's meant to illuminate the emotions of the one who gives it life. How can written music have any feeling? My Ustad would never play a raga the same way twice.
Indeed, I doubt he would be physically capable of such a boorish feat.”
”You mean he creates a new composition each time he plays?”
”Not precisely. But his handling of the specific notes of a raga must speak to his mood, mv mood. These vary, why not his art?”
”But what is a raga then, if not a song?”
”That's always difficult to explain. At some rudimentary level you might say it's simply a melody form, a fixed series of notes around which a musician improvises. But although a raga has a rigorously prescribed ascending and descending note sequence and specific melodic motifs, it also has its own mood, 'flavor.' What we call its _rasa_.
How could one possibly write down a mood?”
”I guess I see your point. But it's still confusing.” Hawksworth took another sip of wine. ”How many ragas are there?”
”There are seventy-two primary scales on which ragas are based. But some scales have more than one raga. There are ragas for morning, for evening, for late at night. My Ustad is playing a late evening raga now. Although he uses only the notes and motifs peculiar to this raga, what he does with them is entirely governed by his feeling tonight.”
”But why is there no harmony?”
”I don't understand what you mean by 'harmony.'”
”Striking several notes together, so they blend to produce a chord.”
Mukarrab Khan studied him, uncomprehending, and Hawksworth continued.
”If I had my lute I'd show you how harmony and chords are used in an English song.” Hawksworth thought again of his instrument, and of the difficulty he'd had protecting it during the voyage. He knew all along it was foolish to bring it, but he often told himself every man had the right to one folly.
”Then by all means.” The governor's curiosity seemed to arouse him instantly from the opium. ”Would you believe I've never met a _feringhi_ who could play an instrument, any instrument?”
”But my lute was detained, along with all my belongings, at the customs house. I was going to retrieve my chest from the Shahbandar when you intercepted his men.”
”Amba.s.sador, please believe I had good reason. But I thought I told you arrangements have been made.” He turned and dictated rapidly to one of the eunuchs. There was an expressionless bow, and the man left the room. Moments later he returned through the bronze entry doors, followed by two dark-skinned servants carrying Hawksworth's chest, one at each end.
”I ordered your belongings sent from the customs house this afternoon.
You would honor me by staying here as my guest.” Mukarrab Khan smiled warmly. ”And now I would hear you play this English instrument.”
Hawksworth was momentarily startled, wondering why his safety was suddenly of such great interest to Mukarrab Khan. But he pushed aside the question and turned to examine the large bra.s.s lock on his chest.
Although it had been newly polished to a high sheen, as had the entire chest, there was no visible evidence it had been opened. He extracted the key from his doublet, slipped it into the lock, and turned it twice. It revolved smoothly, opening with a soft click.
The lute rested precisely where he had left it. Its body was shaped like a huge pear cut in half lengthwise, with the back a glistening melon of curved cedar staves and the face a polished cherry. The neck was broad, and the head, where the strings were wound to their pegs, angled sharply back. He admired it for a moment, already eager for the touch of its dark frets. During the voyage it had been wrapped in heavy cloth, sealed in oilskins, and stored deep in his cabin chest. Not till landfall at Zanzibar had he dared expose it to the sea air.
Of all English music, he still loved the galliards of Dowland best. He was only a boy when Dowland's first book of galliards was published, but he had been made to learn them all by heart, because his exacting tutor had despised popular ballads and street songs.
Mukarrab Khan called for the instrument and slowly turned it in the lamplight, its polished cedar s.h.i.+ning like a great jewel. He then pa.s.sed it to his two musicians, and a brief discussion in Persian ensued, as brows were wrinkled and grave points adjudicated. After its appearance was agreed upon, the instrumentalist gingerly plucked a gut string with the wire plectrum attached to his forefinger and studied its sound with a distant expression. The torrent of Persian began anew, as each string was plucked in turn and its particular quality debated.
Then the governor revolved to Hawksworth.
”I congratulate your wisdom, Amba.s.sador, in not hazarding a truly fine instrument on a sea voyage. It would have been a waste of real workmans.h.i.+p.”
Hawksworth stared at him dumbfounded.