Elephant Bones

Elephant Bones

Elephant Bones

Of the many things one could accuse Edgar Benoit of, having poor tastes was not one of them. This was evident in every aspect of his being – from his clothes, which where always in the latest fashion, to his home, which was perfectly decorated. The most perfect example of his good tastes, however, was his piano.
Edgar Benoit was a musician, the son of a baron, and he spent most of his money on a hedonistic life style. Yet every Saturday he would take his place in the orchestra, at his private, personal piano. It was made of fine birch, stained a deep black-brown. Mother-of-Pearl was inlaid in swirling patterns on the wood, and the keys were made from the finest imported ivory.
It was the perfect symbol for Benoit. It was elegant and self-indulgent, and also a tool for music, the only thing he truly loved. He’d make quite sure that his piano was in the room for his meeting with Galwyn Stone.
He knew very little about Stone, only that the young man was supposedly a prodigy pianist from Cwyrr, who had recently come to Duncourt to further his musical career. A friend of Benoit’s had heard the young man play at a concert, and convinced Edgar to set up a meeting with him.
And so Edgar found himself waiting in his own parlor for a man he knew nothing about. He had his expectations, though. He believed Stone to be the son of a noble, like most of the musicians he knew. He expected a refined, wealthy man of high fashion and good tastes, so he had brought out his most expensive china tea set for the meeting, and dressed in one of his finest silk suits. His piano almost served as a centerpiece.
With his head full of these notions, he was surprised by the man his valet let into the room.
The first thing that struck him was Stone’s age. He had been told this was a young man, but seeing him now, Stone looked as though he were hardly an adult. Then, Benoit noticed the low-class quality of the boy. Stone’s skin was sallow, his face and hands bony. He wore a cheap tweed suit and fingerless wool gloves. His dark hair was peppered with premature gray. In all, he looked more like a vagrant off the street then a celebrated musician.
The younger man awkwardly stood in the doorway, twisting a button on his jacket. He stared at the room, his black eyes wide, like a startled feral animal. He seemed to know, all too well, just how out of place he was.
“…Mister Benoit?” He eventually said in a rasping, hoarse voice.
“Mister Stone?” Benoit said in reply.
“The young man nodded, but did not come any further into the room. Clearing his throat, Benoit stood and approached the boy, wanting to be able to move past this strange and uncomfortable moment. He extended his hand to shake, which Stone took. Benoit was surprised by the strength of the boy’s brittle-looking hands.
“Well. Why don’t you come and sit down?” Edgar said haltingly, gesturing to a set of large, decorative armchairs and a small table set for tea. Stone only nodded, following him to the chairs. Benoit noticed a slight limp in the young man’s step. When the lad sat, he perched on the very edge of the seat, as though he did not want to contaminate it.
“Tea?” Edgar asked awkwardly, pouring two cups. Stone hesitated, but took one. He took a small sip, then grimaced.
“I’ll never get used to this.” He mumbled.
“Oh? Get used to what?” Benoit inquired.
The young man blushed slightly, not realizing that he was spoken his thoughts.
“Tea,” he said halting. “We never had tea in my home.”
Benoit laughed. “Didn’t have tea? Surely you’re joking. What kind of uncivilized house where you raised in that didn’t have tea?
The young man scowled, which made his skeletal face even more ghastly. He put down the delicate cup and saucer with a clatter, and stood up. “I should have known you only asked me here to insult me,” he spat. “Well, thank you, Mister Benoit, but I do not appreciate being made fun of.”
He made as though to leave, but Edgar stood, and blocked his way to the door.
“You weren’t joking?” Edgar said, his brow raised in what seemed like genuine concern.
“Of course I wasn’t. Why would I joke about my family? Or is that common with people like you?” The young man said angrily.
“….People like me?” Benoit repeated, confused.
“Yes, people like you!” Stone cried. “The rich! Nobles! The tea-drinking, arrogant upper-class that watch me play the piano and mutter in their seats about how in a million years they wouldn’t image a poor boy being talented!” The young man’s voice had risen as he spoke, so that when he finished, he was almost shouting. His slight frame trembled with anger, and his dark eyes were like a cornered dog’s – dangerous and desperate.
“Mister Stone,” Benoit said quietly, but with an air of command, “I must say, I do not know what you are going on about.” He looked directly in the boy’s eyes, holding his gaze.
“Did your friend not describe me as a ‘surprisingly brilliant mongrel’?” Stone said bitterly. “Because he used those exact words when speaking to me.”
“No,” Benoit replied bluntly. “I was told nothing about you, other then the fact that you were a prodigy pianist from Cwyrr that I had to meet.”
The two men’s eyes had been locked on one another, as though in a silent battle, but when Benoit spoke, the young man blinked and looked away.
“You had no idea I’m poor?” He murmured.
“None, until you began raving like a madman.” Benoit said. He returned to his chair, and continued in a calm, if somewhat condescending tone. “It seems you wish to have some sort of fight, and if you are sore over comments about your social standing, it is somewhat understandable. However, I did not invite you here to my home to mock you, nor did I invite you here to shout at me. If you are looking to fight with someone, you may leave my home immediately. However, if you are willing to be civil, you may stay.”
The boy’s fingers fidgeted with one of the buttons on his jacket. “You honestly didn’t know about me?” He asked.
“No.”
“And now that you do, you still want me here?”
“Yes, though if you keep on this dreadful subject, I will have you thrown out, without the option of staying.”
The young man was silent for a moment, weighing his options. Edgar wondered what he was thinking – the boy’s face was hard to read, as his features were neutral and empty, but his eyes still had that bewildered-animal look. Stone seemed to make up his mind, however, and once again sat in one of the armchairs.
Edgar picked up his cup of tea, and, after taking a sip of it, spoke. “Now, Mister Stone,” he said coolly, “I was told you were a prodigy. However, while I will admit you are young, you seem too old to be a prodigy.”
“Excuse me?” Stone said, confused. His host was acting more polite then anyone Galwyn had ever spoken to. It was as if their brief row had never happened. The young man did not entirely understand.
“What I mean to say is, what is your age? However, it would be quite rude of me to out-right as like that.”
“…I’m nineteen.” Stone said.
“Nineteen?” Benoit’s brow rose as he looked as Stone over his teacup. “I was correct, then, you are too old for a prodigy.”
Stone made as though to answer, but instead he suddenly coughed. It was a harsh cough, the kind that shakes the whole body and lasts for a good while. When his coughing finished, the young man cleared his throat and spoke, his voice even more hoarse then it already was. “I could be wrong, but… I think I’m called that because I’ve only been playing the piano for a year.”
Benoit’s eyes widened. “Only a year? Pardon my intrusion, but why would you wait until so late in life to begin playing?”
Again, the young man absent-mindedly twisted his coat button before answering. “I never thought I’d learn the piano,” he said, staring slowly, but speaking more animatedly as he went on. “My family is poor, so of course we never had our own piano. I’d never even seen one until I was seventeen, and took an odd job as a stagehand in a poorer theatre in Cwyrr. The piano was the only instrument they had, and its player wasn’t that good. But I liked the sound, and begged him to teach me.”
The young man paused, looking at his bony, spider-like hands. There was an odd look in his eyes that Benoit could not put to words.
“Anyways,” he continued, “not long after he started teaching me, he told me that… that I was a genius. Our lessons got longer and longer, and he would tell me that I was the fastest learner he’d ever seen. He’d make me play for his friends, and then they’d make me play for their friends… and eventually, I was asked to play in concerts, and finally invited here to Duncourt.”
The young man fell silent, the odd look gone from his eyes. Benoit studied him for a moment. The young man did not look in any way special or talented – in fact, he was really rather ugly, with his skeleton face and graying hair. Yet Edgar’s friend had gone on and on, and great lengths, to describe the beauty of his music.
“Mister Stone,” Benoit said, “I would like very much to hear you play.”
Stone frowned slightly. “Now?”
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind. You may use my piano.” He gestured to the ornate instrument in the center of the room.
The young man looked at the piano with narrowed eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, when suddenly another coughing fit shook his body. This one was much worse then his previous fit, and lasted much longer. Stone retrieved a course handkerchief from his pocket and coughed into it. Edgar thought he may have seen blood on the clothe, but it may have been his imagination.
When his coughing stopped, Stone carefully got to his feet. “I’m sorry, but… I’m really in no condition to play,” he said in his rough voice. “I… really should be leaving.”
Edgar eyed the boy carefully. The lad intrigued him, though he was not sure why. “Well, since you are cutting this meeting short, I insist that you dine with me.” He said.
“What?”
“I was informed that I simply had to get to know you,” Benoit said with a sly grin. “However, this meeting has been so short, I only know slightly more about you know then I did before. So I insist you dine with me so that I may finish getting to know you.”
The boy looked at him, confused and somewhat wary. But he made no objection or refusal.
“Come here tomorrow, at five o’clock.”
Galwyn nodded, and started for the door, staring at Benoit over his shoulder as he did.

* * * *

“Mister Stone,” Benoit said as Galwyn was shown into the dining room the following evening, “you’re late. I admit I am not familiar with the customs of Cwyrr, but if you plan to go on living in Duncourt, you must learn punctuality.”
The young man stood in the doorway, bewildered.
“Well, it can’t be helped now,” Benoit sighed. “Please, Mister Stone, take a seat.”
The boy was hesitant, but he sat down at the formally set dining table.
“I don’t like being called ‘mister’,” he said as he did, “you can call me Galwyn.”
The older man smiled warmly. “Then you may call me Edgar.”
“Alright.” Galwyn said, then briefly coughed into his sleeve. It was not as bad as the fits he had had the night before, but it was still rather unpleasant-sounding.
“Ah, that reminds me,” Edgar said, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket and extracting a small blue glass bottle filled with a white powder. “This is for you. Medicine for your cough.”
“…Thank you,” Galwyn said, taking the bottle. “But… why do you care about my cough?”
“Because I find you interesting, Galwyn. And because I find you interesting, I would like to become your friend. But I cannot stand to have sickly friends, so I want you to take that medicine and become well. Of course, only take it in small doses – it can be dangerous otherwise.”
“…Thank you,” Galwyn repeated, dumbstruck by Edgar’s generosity.
“You’re welcome. Now, tell me more about yourself.”
“Um, not to be rude, but I don’t really know anything about you,” Galwyn said haltingly.
“Oh, there is not much to know.” Edgar said, lazily waving his hand through the air. “I have lead a perfectly boring noble life. Thirty-six years ago, I was born to a baron. When I was twelve years old, I began learning how to play the piano, and now, I play in an orchestra. Of course, I have had my share of affairs and trouble-making, but they are dreadfully average, and not worth telling.”
Galwyn stared at Benoit in a mix of awe and confusion. Edgar was starting to become one of the strangest people he had ever met.
“Now, Galwyn. Tell me about yourself. What is your family like?”
“Ah, well…” Galwyn stammered, trying his best to ignore Edgar’s oddness, “my father was a factory worker. He helped build engines for steamships. He died in an accident in the factory – a half-built engine was being lifted to the second floor by a pulley, bit the line broke, and it fell, and crushed by father on the first floor.
“My mother tried to make money washing other people’s laundry, after that. But one night she took all our money, and spent it on whiskey, and… drank herself to… to death.” He trailed off, and quietly added, “I was their only child.”
Edgar raised an eyebrow. “This is most dreadful,” he said coolly, though there was a twinge of sympathy in his voice.
“After my mother died, I worked various jobs until I would up in the theatre.” Galwyn continued awkwardly, not sure how much more he should tell about himself.
“And now you’re here,” the older man said with a sly grin. “And if you are as good a musician as I have been told, you shall soon become famous. Once you become famous, you can begin to live the dull, dreary life of the rich.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Edgar.” Galwyn said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He spoke Benoit’s first name awkwardly, not used to being so intimate with someone from the upper class.
“I mean, Galwyn, that being rich is a thoroughly boring practice, and that being poor is an invigorating adventure.”
The young man’s bony face contorted into a deep grimace. “I wouldn’t say that,” he growled.
“Then we shall simply have to disagree,” Edgar said, smiling.
“You don’t understand. Being poor isn’t a good thing, it isn’t fu –“
“Ah, here we are,” Edgar spoke over the boy as a group of servants entered the room and laid food out on the table.
“Please, Galwyn, help yourself,” Edgar said coyly. “And when we are finished, I would very much like it if you would play the piano for me.”
“I’m sorry,” Galwyn said with a scowl, realizing that Edgar would not let him finish his argument. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel like playing for you tonight.”
“What a silly boy - what am I ever going to do with you?” Edgar replied, still grinning. “But, very well. I shall get you to play for me eventually.”

* * * *

On Saturday morning Edgar went to the music hall for the orchestra, as he always did. However, when he arrived there, he found the orchestra members to not be playing, and the conductor nowhere in sight. He asked a violin player where the conductor was, and was told we was in a practicing room, auditioning a pianist. Curious as to whether or not he was being replaced, Edgar went in search of the conductor.
He found him in a small room, its door open and a piano set up inside. A thin man sat at the piano, speaking to the conductor, his back turned to the door.
“Sir, where you planning on replacing me?” Edgar said, rudely entering the room. He was somewhat angry, and did not care if he was being polite or not.
“Edgar!” The man at the piano exclaimed, wheeling around to look at the door.
“Galwyn?” Edgar said, surprised that it was indeed the young gray-haired man.
“Ah, you two have met,” the conductor said. “That saves me and introduction.”
“Sir,” Edgar said, his brow knitted in confusion, but his anger subsiding, “I would like an explanation. Where you trying to replace me behind my back?”
“No, no, Mister Benoit,” the conductor replied. “Mister Stone here merely came to me and asked if I had any orchestral positions open. I told him I did not, but offered to let him audition for an accompaniment to the children’s choir.”
“I’m sorry, Edgar,” the boy said, color rising in his face. “I didn’t know you played here. If I had, I would have gone somewhere else. I didn’t mean to challenge you, or anything like that.”
Edgar’s anger had vanished, and he smiled. “That is quite alright, Galwyn,” he said.
“I’m sorry, I should go,” the boy said, getting to his feet.
“No, no,” Edgar said, waving a hand in the air. “You came here for an audition, so you should have one. The children’s choir needs a pianist. Besides, I have yet to hear you play for myself.”
Galwyn glanced at the conductor. “He’s right about the choir,” the man said. “By all means, go ahead.”
Galwyn nodded, and sat back down on the piano bench. He took a deep breath, gently laying his long, thin fingers on the ivory keys, and began to play. His eyes were half-closed as he playing, watching the music in front of him. His fingers flitted across the keys like a chased animal. All of his focus was on the piano, as though nothing else existed in the world but it, and him.
Edgar was stunned by the music’s beauty. It was like nothing he had ever heard before. He felt as though the sound had somehow become a part of him, and that if it stopped, he would also stop existing. Tears began rolling down his face, but he did not notice as he watched the young man’s hands fly across the piano.
When the song ended, Galwyn let his fingers rest on the keys for a moment, as though he were a part of the piano. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands and placed them in his lap.
There was silence in the room for a moment, for the men knew no sound could ever be as perfect. Then, slowly, Edgar because to clap. Galwyn looked up as the nobleman with his dark, wild eyes. His strange friend was beaming.
“Galwyn, that was amazing!” Edgar exclaimed. “Sir,” he said, turning to the conductor, “I shall start playing for the children’s choir. It is clear to me that you must put Mister Stone in the orchestra.”
“No!” Galwyn cried, jumping to his feet. “Edgar, you can’t give up your place! I don’t deserve it.”
“Mister Benoit is right,” the conductor stated. “That was some of the best playing I’ve ever heard in my life. I would be honored to have you in the orchestra.”
“But I can’t!” Galwyn said, the look of animal desperation creeping back into his eyes.
“Galwyn,” Edgar commanded, smiling, “if you do not take my place, I shall hate you forever.”
The young man dropped his gaze to the floor. “Alright. I’ll take it.” He mumbled.
“Splendid!” Edgar cried. “We must celebrate! Let me take you out to dinner.”
“I… I really shouldn’t. You don’t have to waste money on me,” the lad said quietly.
“Nonsense!” His friend said happily. “Now tell me, where are you staying? I shall have my valet pick you up at eight o’clock. And I won’t take no for an answer!”
Galwyn looked at Edgar with sad eyes, and sighed. “I’m at the Hotel D’champ,” he said, defeated. “Room Two-thirty-seven. E-excuse me, I must be going.” He hurried out of the room, avoiding Edgar’s gaze.
“Remember, eight o’clock!” Benoit called after him.

* * * *

“Galwyn, are you ready?”
It was eight o’clock exactly. Edgar Benoit was standing outside of room Two-thirty-seven of the Hotel D’champ, having decided to personally pick up his friend.
“Really, Galwyn, punctuality1 I told you about this, you silly boy!” Edgar said, knocking on the door. There was no answer.
“Galwyn, really now, I’m getting impatient!” He said after a few minutes of silence.
More time went on with no answer. Edgar knocked on the door again, and called for his friend, but there was only silence.
“Galwyn, open the door this instant, you’re making a fool out of me!” The noble said, turning the door handle. To his surprise, it was not locked. Timidly, he opened the door and entered the suite.
A sudden chill swept through him. There, lying on the floor of the room, was Galwyn Stone. Edgar rushed to the young man, kneeling by him. The boy was facedown, so Edgar carefully turned him over. The boy’s skin was ashen, his breathing slow.
“Quickly, get a physician!” Edgar shouted to his valet waiting in the hallway.
“Galwyn,” Edgar murmured, “Galwyn, can you hear me? What happened?”
The young man’s eyes, usually so full of life, where glassy. He tried to speak, but could only make a weak gurgling sound. Edgar was frightened, afraid his friend had somehow been attacked.
Then he spotted a small blue glass bottle lying on the floor not far from Galwyn. He picked it up – it was empty.
“Galwyn, you stupid boy, what have you done?” He whispered, his throat catching.
“….for…. y-y-you,” the young man managed to say around the horrible gurgling.
“What? Why would you do this for me?” Edgar exclaimed. “How is this in any way for me?”
“Y-y-you… you’re… p-p-par… p-p-pa…. part,” Galwyn stammered, blood rising to his lips in a thin foam.
“You stupid boy!” Edgar shouted, hot tears welling in his eyes. “It’s your part now! I wanted you to have it!”
Galwyn’s eyes widened in fear and sorrow, and he made more of the terrible sounds. Edgar regretted shouting, and gently stroked the boy’s graying hair.
“Galwyn…” he said softly. He did not need to finish the sentence.
The young man made a weak attempt to smile, and speak, but all he could manage was more bloody foam. Then, slowly, his eyes half-closed and lost their focus. His chest stopped moving.
Edgar heard footsteps in the hallway.
“Is this the patient?” A stranger’s voice asked.
“Yes… but it’s too late. He’s dead.” Edgar said quietly, not bothering to look at the man he assumed was the doctor.
“I’m sorry,” the physician said. “Does his family have any funeral arrangements?”
“He… doesn’t have any family.”
“Ah, I see. Well, the hospital can take him as a cadaver, then, and cremate him afterwards.”
“NO!” Edgar snarled. “He deserves better then that! Go away, I’ll see to his funeral arrangements.”
“Very well, sir,” the doctor said, his footsteps retreating to the hallway.
“You poor, silly boy,” Edgar murmured, stroking Galwyn’s hair. “You silly, silly boy. What am I ever going to do with you?”

* * * *

A few months after the death of the musician Galwyn Stone, Edgar Benoit stopped using his decadent old piano.
He had a new one built, even more lavish then the old one. This one was made of mahogany, stained a rich red-brown. Gold was inlaid in the wood, and plated on the pedals. A small, round, golden plaque was set in the wood above the keys, with a single word – Galwyn – etched into it in swirling letters.
The only things wrong with the piano were the keys. They were discolored, slightly yellow-brown instead of pure white. The texture of the ivory was softer and more porous then it should have been. There was a rumor amongst the orchestra that the builder had somehow used elephant bone instead of ivory by mistake.