Gauche the Cellist and Other Stories Read online

  Chapter Two

  Later that same evening, Gauche returned home carrying a big black object on his back. It wasn’t really a house he lived in, but rather a run-down water mill by the river on the outskirts of town where he lived all alone, pruning tomatoes and plucking caterpillars from the cabbages in his small veggie patch each morning, before heading into town in the afternoon.

  Gauche went inside, turned on the light and opened up the black package. It was nothing; just that battered old cello from earlier in the day. After placing it gently on the floor, he quickly grabbed a glass from the shelf, scooped some water from out of a bucket, and gulped it down.

  He then shook his head, sat down in a chair and started to play that same music from the afternoon with the ferocity of a raging tiger. He continued to play and think as he turned the pages, thinking and playing, as best as he could, until he reached the end, starting again, playing goh, goh, goh, over and over and over again.

  Midnight had long since passed and Gauche looked as if he didn’t even know he was still playing, his face bright red, his eyes bloodshot; he was ready to pass out at any moment. Just then there was a knock at the backdoor.

  “Is that you Hauche?” cried out Gauche in a daze.

  But nudging open the door and slipping into the room was a large calico cat he'd seen five or six times before.

  It was struggling to carry a half-ripe tomato it'd taken from Gauche's tomato patch, placing it at Gauche's feet.

  “Aah! I'm pooped! Carrying that was hard work.”

  “What's that?” asked Gauche.

  “Just a little something for you. Eat up,” offered the cat.

  Gauche’s frustration from the afternoon boiled over and he began to yell,

  “WHO told you to bring a tomato here anyway!? Firstly, do you think I'm going to eat something you dragged in? And second of all, that tomato is mine! Look at that. You've picked one that's not even red. I bet it's you who's been chewing on the stems and digging up the roots. GET OUT! BLASTED CAT!”

  The cat arched its back and squinted at Gauche, but smirked as it replied;

  “Master Gauche, don’t get so worked up, it’s not good for you. Rather, why don’t you play Schumann's Traumerei? I’ll listen for you.”

  “Don't be so cheeky! What would a cat know!?”

  The cat was getting on his nerves and Gauche sat thinking about what to do with it.

  “Please, no need to be shy. Go right ahead. For some reason I can't get to sleep unless I hear you play.”

  “CHEEKY! CHEEKY! CHEEKY!”

  Gauche's face turned bright red and he yelled and stamped his foot like the conductor had done that afternoon, but then suddenly he had a change of heart.

  “Alright then, I'll play.”

  Curiously, he walked over and locked the door and closed all the windows, then picked up his cello and turned off the lamp. The light from the moon in its last quarter poured into the room.

  “What was it you wanted me to play?”

  “Traumerei, by Schumann the Romantic,” said the cat nonchalantly, wiping a paw across its mouth.

  “Oh right. Is Traumerei the one that goes like this?”

  Gauche tore up a handkerchief and stuffed it tightly into his ears. Then, with the ferocity of a raging storm, he launched into Tiger Hunting in India.

  At first the cat sat listening with its head cocked sideways, but then started blinking rapidly, and suddenly jumped backwards towards the door. It slammed into the door with a loud thud, but the door stayed shut. The cat panicked as if realizing it had made a-once-in-a-lifetime blunder, and sparks began to fly from its eyes and forehead. Before long the sparks spread to its whiskers and nose, and for an instant, it stopped as if being tickled and were about to sneeze, before suddenly taking off as if unable to stand still one second longer. Gauche was thoroughly enjoying himself, and played with greater and greater intensity.

  “Master Gauche, that’s enough. That’s enough! I'm begging you, please stop! I promise I won't interrupt you again.”

  “Shush! I’m just about to catch the tiger.”

  The cat was jumping around the room and clinging to the walls in a state of agony, leaving glowing blue marks wherever it went. Finally it started circling Gauche like a windmill.

  Gauche started to feel a little dizzy himself, so he said to the cat,

  “Ok, that’ll do you,” and stopped.

  Acting as if nothing happened, the cat said,

  “Master Gauche, your performance is really off tonight.”

  This annoyed Gauche even more, but this time he simply pulled out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth, and taking out a match, he asked the cat,

  “Are you alright? You haven't hurt yourself have you? Give us a look at your tongue.”

  The cat poked out its long pointy tongue as if making fun.

  “Oh, it looks a little rough,” said Gauche, before quickly striking his match on the cat’s tongue and lighting his cigarette.

  Stupefied, the cat swung its tongue around and around like a pinwheel as it raced toward the door, banging its head with a thud and stumbling backwards, coming back and banging its head with a thud and stumbling backwards again, and then coming back and banging its head with a thud and stumbling backwards again, trying to barge its way out.

  Gauche watched on amused for a little while, but then said,

  “Alright, I'll let you out. Don't come back, you silly cat!”

  Gauche opened the door, and couldn’t help but laugh as he watched the cat run off like the wind through the wild grass. After that he fell into a deep sleep and woke feeling completely refreshed.