2021-04-07 - Portlandia

Early Spring is only so-so for driving around in the Pacific Northwest. Some days you'll get a nice, clear sky all the way down the coast, while others it'll be nothing but rain and leaden clouds for the entire trip. It's a crap shoot if you're going to catch winter's last furious gasp of spring's stubborn arrival.

They're treated to a bit of both on the way down the freeway to Portland in August's Outback: it's raining at first, damp and miserable, but about twenty miles south of town the clouds break up and blue peaks through here and there. It's more thunder-stormy, less endless drizzle, with a light breeze to send the clouds along.

The I-5 sits in a narrow corridor of forest most of the way down; at times the route is flanked by farmland, hills bare from logging, towns about Gray Harbor's size, or a mix of all three. The further they go the more logging patches they see, until they finally meet up with the Columbia River and the forest recedes for a broad, clear swath of land leading down into the city.

Portland is a rambling city, even more so than Seattle (as if it were possible) due to its placement on top of a complex, hilly river confluence. Like Seattle, it sports an impressive backdrop: Mt. Hood dominates the skyline, sharply peaked and white with winter snow.

The reason for the trip is, among other things, Rachel (August's second oldest niece, and oldest daughter of his youngest sister Zelda) is part of a recital group performing at The Old Church. It only seemed natural for August to drag his chamber music friends along; Rachel will be ecstatic to see Itzhak and meet Ravn, August can inflict his family on Ravn, and they can all get out of town for a bit.

"So," August says as Portland rises up around them, "Zelda, Joaquim, and the girls will meet us at the concert hall. It's this cool old Church. After that we can get some dinner." And after that they can maybe check out the Thin Point. But, one thing at a time.

Ravn was surprised at the invitation -- but he certainly did not turn it down. He likes August -- and much as he tends to downplay his own involvement with the performing arts he has no illusions that Itzhak didn't tell the other man that Ravn is not only interested in chamber music but happens to be a trained classical violinist in his own right -- even if for some reason the Dane seems to not quite want anyone to know about it. Secrets are hard to keep in Gray Harbor -- particularly among that little network of people in the know that seems to somehow end up relying on one another a lot. Networks like that exist in all small towns, of this he is certain -- what's unusual is that in most places, they require seven generations' worth of residence or similar in order to be considered for membership.

He was headed towards Portland when Gray Harbor happened to him. This too is incentive -- he does want to see the city, even if his path evidently lies elsewhere. The family bit bothers the Dane slightly -- family is not too positive a word in his personal encyclopedia, but he is aware that most people probably don't feel the way about theirs that he feels about his (i.e., that the Atlantic which separates them really ought to be both wider and deeper).

"Sounds good to me," he agrees, lounging comfortably on the back seat and taking in the sights. Playing tourist is fun -- if there is one thing Ravn actually does miss from his vagabond grifter life, that's it: Never knowing what tomorrow's horizon will look like. It's part of why he rented a boat and not an apartment -- convincing himself that he has a choice. Even if he never actually does pull up the anchor and sail off into the wild blue yonder, he can. If he wanted to. Which he doesn't. But he can.

"Is there anything I should know in order to not embarrass myself?" It's an odd question, perhaps, unless one keeps in mind that the Jewish presence in Denmark has been rather diminished by a few unfortunate incidents in the middle of the 20th century, and Ravn might in fact be entirely clueless as to whether there are customs and concepts he should remain wary of. He vaguely remembers turning up at Itzhak's garage the first time, violin case under one arm -- after having spent at least an hour at the sandwich shop, trying to decide on what exactly constitutes kosher, and wondering if the other man observed kosher rules in the first place.

Itzhak has the window down as much as August and Ravn will let him get away with. If he could, he'd hang his tongue out like a dog. He insisted on picking music, which has mostly wound up to be classical, and which he will totally air-violin along with. Wrist snapping, big boot thumping along in time, dancing in the shotgun seat like a loon, he's having a great time. "You're gonna love 'em," he promises Ravn, after the good crescendo bit in 'Danse Macabre' is past and he can surface from rocking out. "They're awesome. Oh man. I'm excited." Nobody could tell that, Itzhak.

Of course he has brought his violin, and he's been open about looking forward to playing for everybody. But he hasn't tried to talk Ravn into it too.

August glances at Ravn in the rear-view mirror, trying to get a read on him for how to answer that question. Unable to come up with anything patently obvious, he says, "Well, Hanne and Xavier aren't married, but they live together and have a kid--the oldest, Eliza. They're not in town right now, so we won't get to see them." He flicks an apologetic glance at Itzhak. Sorry Itz, your Pharah is out of town for a game. "But it's a thing, if it comes up, that they're not married. We're all Jewish--ethnically, I mean, but secular, so no need to worry about kosher or anything like that." He pauses, ostensibly to negotiate the offramp which takes them off the freeway and curls onto an old-fashioned truss bridge over the Willamette River.

"And ah, none of them have the Art." Now he does look back at Ravn, directly. "So, no use bringing any of that up. They won't understand. I've been lucky, none of them have ever wanted to visit Gray Harbor. Sometimes I suspect they don't even realize that's where I live, they just all think Ellie and I live in Olympic somewhere."

Ravn brought his violin case. He didn't say anything about it, and he certainly did not draw attention to it. But he did, and perhaps on some level, that is a statement of intent -- or at the very least, leaving a door not closed.

He grins slightly at Itzhak's canine imitations and then looks back at August's reflection. "Right. No talking shop. I'm not really sorry about that to be honest -- it'll be kind of nice to get away from all of that for a bit. I have been doing a lot of selling the HOPE idea to people lately -- not going to lie, I feel a bit like a broken record." He grins slightly and then adds, "Honestly? I have no idea what it means to be Jewish beyond what I've picked up from Rosencrantz. We have one kosher shop in Denmark -- I looked it up, it's in Copenhagen."

"Eh, buncha rules. Mostly bein' Jewish is about following a ridiculous amount of rules." Itzhak is fidgeting full speed ahead--he probably needs a smoke. "You don't gotta worry about it. Not with them." About to launch into a high-speed lecture on the difference between being a secular Jew and a practicing one, he hesitates and glances at August. "Well, I guess I'll let Roen tell you about it. His family, after all."

August's mouth twitches in a sly smile. "Well, for one thing, it means getting eight individual socks in December." He has to work to not laugh. "And it was absolutely a thing to get into fights about in school." He clears his throat. "But really, we practice mostly as a reclamation thing. Following the traditions we can, when we can. Mom only found out when she was an adult--they're Roman Jewish, stopped practicing when they came to the states. Dad's family are Scandinavian Jewish, his grandmother was the last one to practice. So now we're just piecing it all back together." He shrugs. "It's kind of weird, trying to find a way to take it back, feeling like maybe you shouldn't. But, don't sweat bringing it up with them. Especially the girls; they want to know. Joachim's trying to teach them Ladino, so expect to get some of that tried on you."

This is one of the denser areas of the city, with each block perfectly squared off for some structure or another. A few blocks after the bridge, they reach their goal: the Old Church Concert Hall.

It's exactly as one would expect: an old church, classically North American Gothic in style, pale gray with white trim and asphalt tiles. The parking lot's a good three-quarters full already, making August's prediction that leaving early would be a good idea spot on. He positions them by the rear entrance, where family members are being allowed in so they can get seats set aside or saved at will call. It's not a long line, and the young man handling the table finds their tickets without a hitch, ushering them all inside.

The interior is just as church-like as the outside, save for the addition of the lighting rigs that signal this venue's current use. The massive pipe organ provides a lovely backdrop for the stage, on which a set of chairs and music stands have been set up. A black, concert grand piano sits to one side. Most of the people attending are casually or 'above average casually' dressed; anyone in something fancy is certain to be a performer. A few of the younger musicians carry their instruments like talismans of warding, knuckles taut, brows sweating.

"Now let's see if we can find them," August murmurs under his breath, scanning the pews.

"So being Jewish is essentially being a white conservative but without pork," Ravn notes with a hint of humour before getting out of the car.

Once inside he looks around with the kind of interest a historian will have in a religious building of old whether he is a practising believer or not (he isn't). The stylistic choices and the architecture have a lot of stories to tell when you know how to listen; that combination of gothic exterior and an interior that could easily belong to any Scandinavian Lutheran church, for instance, is uniquely American. The effect is oddly clashing to the eyes of a Scandinavian -- and at the same time, it makes a lot of sense. Danish churches, are more square and blockish in design, speak of times hundreds of years past where the bell tower very well might be that one refuge from invaders or feuding armies. They have narrow little windows for archers for a very real reason, even if no one thinks of them that way today -- and a great deal of them have been used exactly as intended, in medieval times and during the endless religious and nationalist wars of the Renaissance and up.

The last war on that theme ended in 1945. It's not that long ago that saboteurs were hiding supplies from the German occupation force -- in the church towers.

The American little churches are built for a different mindset. They are not defenses. They are statements of intent -- like the great gothic cathedrals of old, they reach for the skies to speak of the glory of God. The modest white little chapel of the American east coast -- it tells a different story; not of crossbows and firelights, but of taming the wilderness, of puritans and farmers and pioneers carving order out of chaos one little village at a time. A point of view contested rather strongly by the people to whom that chaos already belonged, but that is not the story that is being told here.

Ravn shakes his head and snaps out of his reverie; he's been called nerd boy all his life for a reason. "This is a beautiful place," he restricts himself to observing, and then focuses his attention on just following Rosencrantz and Roen. If he feels a little underdressed for the occasion he doesn't let it show -- but then, Ravn has been fighting a one-man war against the idea of dressing up since he was five years old and his mother forced him to wear a proper tie for the first time.

Itzhak is wearing slim-cut raw denim jeans, almost black with indigo, and black Converse with rainbow soles and laces. He's wearing a very fashionable shirt, also slim cut and of a length where it's meant not to be tucked in, instead letting its tails lie just above his hips. It's a sort of charcoal color, subtly patterned with dark red dots, and the collar--unbuttoned--shows that it's lined with a bright floral fabric. He's wearing the sleeves turned back to the elbow, the better to show off his pomegranate and olive tattoos on one arm and the Lictenberg-figure scars on the other. No tie, but hell, does he need one?

Sometimes, Itzhak could be accused of knowing he looks like the smoking hot romantic lead from an urban fantasy novel. Probably a really gay urban fantasy novel.

He's weaving through the crowd, intent on finding August's family, and his nieces. "Where's my girls at!" Look, it's before the conductor's come to the stage, he's allowed to be loud. He has been very well versed in this.

August is in his usual 'casual urban man' look, as Itzhak likes to call it: denim jeans, black suede boots, dark gray Henley under a dark blue, rib-knit cardigan. It's not completely informal, but it's not fancy. (He has actual fancy suits, from a time in his life only a few people really know about. Something about yachts and rich tech guys.) This means he's dressed almost identically to every other forty-odd year old man in the building.

A voice familiar to Itzhak (if not at this volume) announces next to him, "I found them first!" Before anyone can react, a black haired girl of maybe eleven or so has grabbed August around the waist for a hug. He grunts, blinking, pats the girl on the head. "Hi, Gabby."

"Hi Uncle Gus!" 'Gabby' releases August, grins up at Itzhak. "Hi Itzhak!" She's probably coming in for a hug, except when her gray-green eyes land on Ravn, she stops. "Who are you?" she demands.

"Gabby, that's rude." Another girl, identical to the first save for how she's a good two years older, emerges from the milling concert goers. She's in a simple, black velvet skirt and white top, with a cello bow (carbon fiber, from the look of it) in one hand. Her wavy hair's been carefully tamed into a bun. She winces at Ravn. "I'm sorry, my sister has no manners. I'm Rachel. Gabrielle's my sister."

Gabrielle's face twists in a manner that telegraphs she would be sticking her tongue out if not for an inevitable scolding about it. So Rachel's wrong, Gabrielle has some manners.

August sighs, fond and exasperated, adding to Rachel's introduction, "Abildgaard, these are my younger sister Zelda's daughters. Girls, this is Ravn. Where's your mom and dad?"

"Holding your seats," Gabrielle says. She grabs one of Itzhak's hand and begins to haul him away. "Come on!"

"Hello," Ravn says and for a moment there's something very subdued about him; something that clearly says I have no idea how to actually talk to small humans if I am not putting on a performance. When Gabrielle grabs Itzhak and starts dragging him along the Dane manages to suppress a look of relief. He offers Rachel a gloved hand because at least where he's from, that's the polite and non-condescending thing to do to a young woman -- or to a girl who acts in an adult fashion and hence deserves the credit. "Pleased to meet you. I'm told that 'no manners' is the natural state of affairs for younger siblings. I'm a friend of your uncle and Rosencrantz."

The cello bow nets a second glance. Formalities be damned, now Ravn is actually curious. "Will you be playing today?"

"GABBY!" Itzhak sweeps the girl up in a hug after she's done grilling Ravn on his existence. "This here's m'buddy Ravn. He plays violin, too." Ha, you thought you were going to get away with something, Ravn? Think again. "But he's shy," Itzhak adds, "so don't pester him." When Rachel appears, cello bow in hand, Itzhak presses his hand to his chest and for a very real moment looks like he might cry. "Awww, Racheleh, you look beautiful. Can't wait to see ya play."

Then Gabby's towing him off and he goes, calling over his shoulder, "C'mon!" in echo of her, grinning.

Gabby barely holds in a squeak when she's hugged. "You have to show me how to play Zelda better, I'm bad at riding the horses." And thus is Ravn saved from the small person.

Rachel isn't, it turns out, a blusher, though the way she looks aside and murmurs a soft 'Thank you' in response to Itzhak's compliment implies the same reaction. Ravn's offered hand is a welcome distraction, then; Rachel accepts with a smile, clearly noticing the gloves but polite enough to not ask. "Pleased to meet you." She repeats it like she's memorizing it for future use. Obviously this phrase is much more mature than 'hi' because the European-sounding uncle-friend has used it, so now she will too. Forever. (Or at least a month.)

Her eyes flit from Ravn to Itzhak, back to Ravn, a little wider. "You play too?" Congratulations, Ravn, you've elevated 'Uncle Gus' a few notches by being another friend who plays violin. Yet the mention of him being shy works like a charm; Rachel just nods and says, "That's cool." Gabby might not understand such things innately, but Rachel does; you don't harass someone about their playing. "I'm performing with my friends tonight. We're doing a quartet." She turns to follow after Itzhak and Gabrielle, beckoning for August and Ravn to follow.

As they make their way through the clusters of performers and family, August asks, "What did you and the girls decide to play?"

"It's a SECRET," Gabrielle informs them over her shoulder, stern. For once, the sisters are in agreement; Rachel nods, smiling.

"It's a surprise."

August narrows his eyes. Rachel just smiles wider. August sighs. "Fine, fine, I'll see if I can guess before you're up."

"You won't," Rachel says, prim and certain as only a tween can be.

Ravn looks after the girls (and their captive New Yorker), grey eyes sparkling with amusement. He's quite content to trail after August as the last man in their little group; this gives him a chance to throw another appreciating look around at the church interior and watch the interactions between the girls and their family (which somehow includes Rosencrantz).

It's not that he's surprised to discover that happy, harmonic families exist; it's that the way children and adults interact that fascinates him -- as it always does when he gets the chance to watch what he deems to be healthy families. Families where the kids are not taught to be quiet and obedient, where they are not told that when they are adults they get to be in charge but until then they need to represent. Which basically boils down to, children should be seen and not heard, and yes, actually, Ravn is very well aware that his own upbringing in a highly conservative, wealthy old noble house is not at all typical, and if anything bothers him about it at the moment it's how quickly he catches himself having a bitter taste in the mouth when he does look at happy kids.

So he looks at them, because they're August Roen's little nieces and they seem like great kids; and because looking at them and acknowledging that this is how children should sound and act, he gets to emotionally give his parents the finger. Which feels good, always. Yep, Rachel and Gaby, you have already made a friend.

He's happy to settle wherever the little group is directed to, and answer Rachel's question with a, "I do -- I practise with Itzhak back home. I'm mostly classical but we've found common ground in bluegrass lately." Man has no experience talking to kids outside of a performer entertaining the tourist brats for small change, and it shows.

Isn't that Itzhak's magic, more powerful than his ability to walk between worlds? He fits into families, becomes a part of them, mishepoche as he'd say. Gabby and Rachel might as well be his own nieces, August and Ravn his brothers. Without even trying, he does this. That heart of his! It needs to love. Much as he tries to bury it under all his tough-guy swagger, he needs to love.

As he lets Gabby pull him through the knots of people, he can't help it, he starts passing out compliments and encouragements to the young musicians as they go by. One violinist is in tears from nerves; Itzhak leans over, catches her eye, and murmurs to her, "You're gonna do great. You know this. You got this. Okay?"

Which he does despite the somewhat alarmed looks he gets from the parents. Why is a tall tattooed man suddenly talking to their daughter?

He also tries to guess what Rachel's playing. "A surprise? Well it ain't Bach. Or Beethoven. Or Mozart. Ravel? Mendelsson? Oh, oh, I know. Dvořák. Right?"

August watches Itzhak work his magic, gives helpless shrugs paired with unapologetic smiles to confused parents and guardians. 'He's just like this!' that expression says. They're kids stop being so terrified and/or crying, though, so no one complains.

"I've mostly been learning classical, but Uncle Gus has gotten me some jazz sheet music." Rachel beams about that. "It's hard, but a lot of fun. I can only play it with my jazz teacher, though. The classical teachers don't like it." She sighs, regret and resignation coupled in a classically teenaged way. 'Why are the old people like this' she means.

She flicks a faux innocent smile towards Itzhak. "Bartók." Rachel's tone is light and firm and she's 100% lying. She doesn't even both to hide her deceit either; such flagrant disrespect! August flicks her a narrow-eyed glance, says nothing. He has his own ideas on what it might be, based on some very direct questions a few weeks ago.

"She won't tell anyone, it's a secret," Gabrielle complains.

A bit more weaving through the slowly settling throng and they've found the appropriate row. No towering Eliza to point the way; instead it's a pale, hawk-nosed man with glossy black hair waving them down. "Here!" he says, to which Gabrielle calls back, "I know, dad."

"Well you're so short I was worried you'd never find me," 'dad' replies, and reaches out to pull August into a hug. "Hey, Gus, how you doing." Itzhak gets one too! "Itzhak, hey. So glad you could come."

There's no awkward pause; Rachel immediately gestures at Ravn. "This is Ravn, he's Uncle Gus and Itzhak's friend. Ravn, this is my dad." Rachel has, of course, left out an important part of this introduction, but 'dad' has it under control. He offers his hand.

"Joachim, so good to meet you Ravn. Rachel and Gabrielle are my girls."

Beyond him are more faces: a woman who must be Gabrielle and Rachel's mother by the similar features; next to her, an older couple who bear more than a passing resemblance to August and his sister. They wait, patient to meet the new person and hug the ones they already know.

Ravn returns the handshake with a, "Pleased to meet you, Joachim. I hope I'm not intruding too much -- I was promised good music and clever kids. So far, it seems at least half of it is true, and I am optimistic about the other half." He's clearly a little more on home ground when it comes to opening a conversation with an adult. The way he looks at the girls, though, contains no dislike or hostility -- it's more that they are natives to a world that is all but alien to him. The dictionary defines 'alien' as 'foreign and disturbing or distasteful' -- which is apt although in this case, what Ravn finds to be disturbing (not distasteful) is not the kids themselves but his own ineptitude in human relations. Oh well. Thirty-one is not too old to learn.

The way Itzhak weaves through the crowd fascinates him. He can do it -- of course he can, he's a professional grifter and raised in what his mum called 'polite society'. To the New Yorker, however, it comes naturally and easily, and that he admires. Today is a day of learning about what Ravn might deem 'healthy families', and mentally he is taking all the notes. Not because he's particularly planning on acquiring one of his own -- but because basking in the glow of people who genuinely care about each other is a warm and pleasant experience, and he's quite pleased to get to be part of it.

Itzhak enthusiastically hugs Joachim, complete with bro slap on the back. "Hey! You're looking great! Hablo Español ahora! Eh," handwobble, "un poco." Ladino is to Spanish what Yiddish is to German, so Itzhak has some cause to expect Joachim to be interested in that. When Rachel gives him a fake answer about what she's playing, he eyes her, then mock-complains to Joachim, "Ya daughter is fibbin' to me. Kids these days!"

The woman his own age, he leans in to smooch on the cheek. "Zelda, it's good to see you, how are ya?" And the older woman gets the same, Itzhak taking her hand carefully in his, as if she's spun of glass, before he goes in for the cheek smooch. "Ilana, you get more beautiful every time I see you. And Ben gets more handsome. How do youse guys do that? You gotta bottle that and sell it." Grinning, teasing, working his magic indeed, he shakes the older man's hand, too.

"Intruding, no way man." Joahcim's handshake is vigorous; this is a guy who makes a living on impressions. Import/export, August has said; the legal kind, that is, which requires the ability to make friends and navigate choppy interpersonal waters. Gabrielle overhears the comment about being clever, promptly beams, at which Joachim sighs in a put-upon, fake manner. "That'll go straight to their heads, my friend."

Gabrielle rolls her eyes. "DAAAAAaaaad."

"What, what? I just don't want your head getting too big is all." Joachim leans in to tickle her, and Gabrielle giggles, evading him and sitting heavily on the pew at the far end. Joachim and August share a hug, then August is on to introducing everyone to Ravn once Itzhak's done his rounds.

First, the woman who's a little younger than August--probably forty. Her face is round and her black hair wavy; like Gabrielle and Rachel, her eyes are gray green. "Ravn, this is my sister Zelda. Zelda, this is Ravn, a friend of ours."

Zelda leans foward to shake hands, smiling. "It's good to meet you, Ravn. Thanks for coming." She flicks a glance at Rachel, who's quietly conferring with a petite girl with platinum blonde hair, "Rachel really appreciates having other musicians come watch her play."

The older couple are next. August's mother, whom he introduces as Ilana, is the one he takes after the most: her face is squared off, like his, with a strong jaw and the same nose. His silvering hair is no doubt from her as well, as hers is entirely gray and white, smoothly wavy (though tamed back into a simple braid for the moment). Her hands are knotted with hard work and age, but she offers one anyways. "A pleasure to meet you, Ravn," she says. Her husband, Ben, has hardly any gray in his black, curling hair, something his son didn't inherit. They have the same eyes, though, and in Ben it's easy to see where August gets his robust stature. "Pleased to meet you, Ravn. Always nice to know someone else who can pronounce the family name properly."

The lights begin to dim, summoning the performers backstage. Rachel smiles nervously at everyone, gripping her bow. "Here goes nothing." Zleda gives her a quick hug, and off she goes with the bright-haired young woman.

Ravn finds himself wanting to admit that the idea of having other musicians coming to watch him play equates -- for him personally -- somewhat to volunteering to being dissected without anaesthesia, for the entertainment of the lions, the emperor, and the gladiators. He decides to keep quiet; this is one of those places where he's yet to meet anyone who actually understood that when he tried to explain it, and in recent months he's even starting to ask himself if he understands it. After all, playing with Rosencrantz has been nothing but exhilarating, and it's starting to dawn on him a little, perhaps, that what started out as not wanting to give his mother the pleasure of showing her little boy off, has become a ball and chain.

And maybe that dawning understanding is why he did in fact bring his violin even when, if asked, he'd deny having any intentions of actually opening the case.

He settles where directed after returning the Roen family's greetings. The comment about being able to pronounce the name warrants a smile; "I am not entirely certain that I do. I am Danish -- and I think the pronunciation is slightly different in Swedish. But, probably closer than an anglophonic tongue at least."

One thing Itzhak has said to Ravn is that it's excruciating for all musicians to play in front of other musicians ("unless you're Mozart and you don't give a fuck because you know you're better'n them"). It's the way classical musicians are trained in America, though, and he's well used to it. The European-nobility style of private violin tutors almost doesn't exist here, and certainly not in any capacity removed from schooling. A violin instructor is something a musician has in addition to their classes.

But nobody really likes it, not without experience. It's something a musician has to be trained to accept, for the most part. Might just be Itzhak's own peculiarity that he never minded, and seems to enjoy playing for other violinists. Of course, the man is an inveterate showoff. If violin didn't exist, he'd have to invent it.

This recital is, in fact, part of a young musician's training to accept this kind of exposure. And Itzhak, from the way he breaks out in a brilliant smile that could un-dim the lights, is looking forward to it.

He holds out his fist to Rachel, the left one, the one with DOWN tattooed on the knuckles. "Knock 'em dead."

Then finally he sits, practically wriggling with anticipation.

Rachel returns the dap before scurying off. Her platinum blonde friend pauses, follows suit with a shy little smile. Her expression bodes well* for Itzhak speaking to any of Rachel's friends, at whom she has no doubt gone on about him at considerable length.

"It's an improvement," Ilana assures Ravn. "And if you think getting anyone to pronounce it is a chore, try spelling it."

Ben sighs, murmurs, "You'd think four letters would make it easy."

August sits next to Zelda; Joachim winds up next to Ben because Ilana wants to be on Zelda's other side. No programs, or none are apparent. When August asks Zelda for one, she sighs. "Rachel made us promise not to look at them, had them not put any on our seats."

August frowns. "She's serious about this surprise."

"Mmmmhmmm."

August leans back in his chair, eyeing the stage as a teacherly-sort in a simple black, velvett dress steps up. Her introduction is short and sweet; she thanks everyone for buying tickets, as those benefit the school district's poorer children who can't afford private lessons or their own instruments. She also mentions they're doing a DAT recording to sell CDs, so please keep your hooting and hollaring to a minimum.

The recital is largely students of the same medium to advanced skill level, so no one has to watch a virtuoso blow them away. Or, that's the intent, but it's easy to spot a few budding du Pres, Perlmans, and Argerichs among them. Still, as most of the performances are quartets, duets, and trios, that helps balance things out. There's a broad array of music on display, not all of it classical: one trio (drummer, trumpet, baritone saxophone) do a version of Sing Sing Sing; two kids come on stage with a guitar and a banjo and perform exactly what everyone expects; a percussion quartet performs a rippling melody that probably no one but Itzhak recognizes. There is, however, plenty of chamber music, including Itzhak's menace, Copland, Liszt, and Bartok.

Eventually, Rachel and three other musicians--the platinum blonde girl from before, a young black man maybe Rachel's rage, and a slightly younger girl of possibly East Indian descent--all begin setting up. None of them have particularly fancy or expensive instruments; the sort of thing you'd expect as a rental or even a hand-me-down from a relative. (Given how carefully the young man handles his instrument the later seems a certainty.) August leans over to supply names: "Josiah, Lakshmi, and Rhiannon."

"I had enough fun trying to convince the US embassy that 'Abildgaard' is a name, not a throat condition," Ravn murmurs back to Ilana -- and politely neglects to correct Ben that only an anglophone would add a surplus letter to Røn, it's fine in its original three-letter version, thank you very much. "I actually keep a list of ways Americans mispronounce it. My favourite contestant so far is the gym coach back in town -- he's given up entirely. He calls me things like Apple Danish, Applegrabber, Apple Garden." Look, he can talk to people when he wants to. Or when he really wants to make a good impression on a friend's relatives.

Then the Dane falls quiet as the show begins. He watches attentively -- and finds himself mentally comparing himself to these kids, because how can he not? He's never wanted for private lessons or his own instrument. He's also never performed on a stage. For a moment Ravn has to remind himself that it's not a question of which is the better option -- it's about finding the middle ground where a kid has an instrument and a teacher, and learns to take pride in themselves rather than suffer crippling fear of attention. Always about finding middle ground. Life is never just black and white, rich and poor, privileged or not privileged.

Thoughts of existential dread and/or fundamental questions of social injustice are interrupted by familiar notes and Ravn has to smirk. Does he have every intention of some day duct taping Itzhak to a chair and make him sit through an entire performance of Paganini? Yes, yes, he does. He's just not quite convinced he's ready to pull it off yet -- the playing, that is, not the duct taping. The duct taping he's pretty sure he could convince several people to help with. Several of them will proclaim it kinky and do it just for shit and giggles, even if they have no idea who Paganini was, or what makes his compositions unique.

Itzhak groans in frustration when it's revealed that the concert is being recorded. Now he can't yell! Of course he'd never make noise between movements. From the moment he picked up a violin, that's been drilled into him. But after the piece? That's fair game, man!

And he loves 'Sing, Sing, Sing'. And he loves that piece from Primus! Sorry, that song from Primus. Uuuuugh but he applauds enthusiastically for everyone. Even though he accidentally laughed when he recognized 'Wounded Knee'. Oh well, now the recording will prove that someone recognized it.

He's sure not going to be a dick about Paganini when it's some young kid up there performing Caprice 24. She's the violinist he spoke a few words of encouragement to earlier. "Now I know why she was cryin', I'd cry too," he mutters sotto voce to August and Ravn. "Man, she's rockin' it though." There's a little professional jealousy there. It's hard for someone like Itzhak to watch a musician twenty years younger than him play something he can't. (Actually, he could, but not with such ease, not without a few months of practice.) Leaning back on the hard wood pew, ankle propped on his knee and fingers fanned across his mouth, he rocks back and forth a little, in time. Blissfully unaware of Ravn's devious plans!

Oh, but then, then Rachel's quartet hit the stage, and Itzhak unwinds, rainbow-soled Converse sliding off his knee, his big lanky frame leaning forward, all anticipation.

The four sneak glances out into the audience, smiling, though none of them wave or otherwise acknowledge their families and friends. Those stolen looks are all anyone gets.

Rhiannon is the one to count them off. The song plays less like a classical piece, more like a lyrical or choral song re-arranged for a string quartet. The heavy voices of the cellos give it a deep, somber tone of contemplation that a higer-voiced instrument would turn into a proclamation.

They barely get more than three bars in before Zelda's hand flies to her mouth in surprise. Ilana sighs, smiling, and takes her daughter's other hand.

August makes a low sound. He starts to say something--an explanation of his sister's reaction, perhaps--but subsides. It can wait. At the other end of the group, Ben hums softly under his breath in tune with the song.

Yerushalayim shel zahav
Veshel nechoshet veshel or
Halo lechol shirayich ani kinor

Yerushalayim Shel Zahav is probably the one Hebrew piece of music that Ravn would actually recognise, and so he does. He finds himself moving ever so very slightly, mentally following the high notes and admiring what is arguably one of the most beautiful anthems ever written -- and in his mind, Ofra Haza is providing the vocals because that is how he first became acquainted with Jerusalem of Gold years ago, from an Israeli student.

He does not understand the words. He never looked them up. He doesn't need to. If this piece being the crescendo of Schindler's List doesn't tell you what you need to know, then nothing will.

Itzhak recognizes the song, of course, within the first couple measures. He did not expect that to be what Rachel's quartet picked, and so at first he's mystified. What song could this be that sounds exactly like 'Jerusalem of Gold'?

....oh, say his eyebrows as they drift up. Oh. It is 'Jerusalem of Gold'.

Then he presses his palm over his mouth, too, long fingers splayed across his cheek. Because if he doesn't, he's going to sob out loud. Swallowing hard, nonetheless his eyes go glossed. They never waver, though. Itzhak is laser focused on the kids on stage, silently cheering them on. Just like you practiced, baby girl, hit that semiquaver like it said something about your ma.

As they rise to the crescendo, however, he can't stop the tears and he closes his eyes just for a moment. Goosebumps break out all over him as he shivers. The power of the song that he now knows is a direct result of that evening he spent with August's family--that evening August and Rachel conspired to get him to play, and he chose to play the mournful traditional Yiddish violin for them, this family that has lost their Jewish heritage--he can't help it. He has to bask in it, shutting out all other senses, letting it fill him to the brim.

When the last, heavy note fades, a sense of reverence pervades the silence that precedes the applause. Zelda's eyes are as damp as Itzhak's; seeing his reaction, she reaches over to take his other hand and squeeze it, smiling.

As the kids shuffle off stage (it's a little amusing, the cellos are almost as big as, if not bigger, than they are), August leans over to Itzhak and Ravn. "Zelda was a colicky baby. The only thing that calmed her down was when Grandma Roen would play this old record of hers. That was the song that got her to sleep the fastest." He focuses on Itzhak. "After you played, at Thanksgiving? Rachel started asking me about it." His eyebrows go up, as if to say, 'well done'.

The next group, a sextet consisting of a bassoon, a flute, a piccolo, a clarinet, an oboe, and a percussionist sporting a variety of. They perform two pieces, as one is quite short: The Chinese Dance, followed by Fantasia on the Dargason.

There's a fair bit of piano: a young man playing Moonlight Sonata, clearly terrified and yet making it look easy; a girl playing one of Chopin's Nocturne's ('You know--Frederick Fucking Chopin?'); a duo playing Danse Macabre (an electronic piano used for the second instrument).

There's quite a bit of clapping and cheering as the final students leave the stage and the announcer returns. She raises her hands, and everyone falls quiet. "So, as you may all know from previous years, we always ask the Vocal school if they could have someone come and perform for us, as a treat for the kids who've put so much work into their performances tonight, and to give them a chance to practice their own performing."

August makes a low sound. "Looks like we do get some singing," he murmurs.

Ravn watches Itzhak's expression silently; with the whispered explanation from August, the emotional turmoil on display on the New Yorker's face connects with similar emotions in the Dane -- emotions that he usually keeps under a tight lid. No, he is no exiled Hebrew, scattered throughout nations that hate his people, dreaming of a home coming to a country where finally, he might belong. He's never been persecuted for his name or his faith. He's never had to read his name in triple parenthesises by some dog whistling proto-fascist then calling his people 'globalists' to work around defamation laws. He's never been on the receiving end.

Nothing of that, that Ravn can relate to on a personal level. But the sense of longing -- for somewhere you have never seen, somewhere that may not even exist, that he has felt all his life. He is not convinced that Gray Harbor is his Jerusalem of Gold. But it's the closest thing he's found, and it's probably as close as it's going to get. There's a German word for this: Fernweh.

A therapist once told him, 'You won't find what you're looking for, Ravn Abildgaard, because it does not exist. You look for a place but what you need is human connection.' He walked out on that session. The privilege of money: You can fire your therapist if you don't like what they're saying.

Then August's quiet murmur snaps him out of his reverie and he leans over a little to very quietly ask, "That's not a bad thing, is it?" Maybe the local choir is awful.

Itzhak quietly pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket, so he can mop up. (It has a pattern on it that says 'Tears for Queers'.) Zelda taking his hand makes him smile back at her, brilliant and watery, and gently squeeze her hand in return. Long, nimble, calloused fingers, tattooed with STAY on the first knuckles, curl around Zelda's hand.

He smiles like that at August, too, trying not to sniffle too loud. Lucky for him there's more kids coming on and he can let them distract him before he has to slip off to the gents' to have a good hard bawl. He'll do that later, though.

"And she's not even gettin' married," he jokes to August, in a choked-up whisper.

He manages to get through the rest of the concert without being too embarrassing, at least, he hopes! There's maybe a little more crying during the Nocturne. Then he can't help it, he snorts a laugh when Ravn so discreetly asks that.

The announcer smiles, continuing, "I'm very happy to say, this year we have an opera student who'll be performing for us. Everyone please welcome Lamija Hajrović."

"Depends if you like opera," August replies under his breath. His tone says 'opera and I are not friends'. Itzhak has by now heard August's actual name for it: 'screechy opera'. He's entirely polite as an audience member, though, schooling his expression to placid interest. He has some real experience in pretending to pay attention.

The young woman who comes on the stage in a simple, pale gray dress is short, maybe only just over five feet, stocky and curvy in a way which makes her look older than she likely is. Her dark, black-brown hair is the kind that's riotously curly if left to its own devices; she's braided it carefully down her back.

She smiles at everyone, nods at the student manning the loudspeakers. No orchestra to back her up, just a high quality recording. Her voice will have to carry the day.

Oh, does it ever. It's an aria--not a surprise, given the givens--and though she's a soprano her voice is on the lower end of the range, full and broad. It makes the aria into a song of anger and grief rather than the casual madness it could otherwise represent.

Ravn mirrors August's sentiments somewhat. As a musician, he appreciates the technique and the range, and indeed, one would have to be a caveman to not be amazed at what the human voice can do. But at the same time, there's a little voice nagging at the back of his mind, whispering that if you need to read the program to find out what the hell she's singing about, she's doing it wrong.

He's sat through a lot of operas. It's what's considered proper performance art where he's from. At least, unlike his father, he never snored loudly during any of them. Ravn's own preferences for opera soprano runs towards stuff like Nightwish, though -- i.e., ignore the bloody soprano, enjoy the music. He does at least admit to himself that for someone who's classically trained he's surprisingly ignorant of the genre -- largely out of sheer pigheaded stubbornness.

Not this lady's fault, though. The least you can do is nod, smile, and applaud.

Itzhak sighs over the soprano's voice like a lovestruck idiot. He doesn't understand any of the words either, but does he care? For that, or that she's not the purest of coloratura sopranos? Like a cat cares that it's Passover, he cares. For one of the few times tonight, he permits himself to merely listen, to lose himself awash in music.

It's the curse of a musician, to have trouble letting go sometimes. Itzhak's been concentrating on the technique of the many young musicians to take the stage. The soprano, he lets himself just listen.

August takes a page from Itzhak's book; he simply listens, enjoying the sound of the singer's voice for what it is. This isn't the screechy opera he's used to, which is often the kind of thing he switches off immediately. It's a slow, thoughtful aria, more of an interlude when presented this way.

He looks sidelong at Ravn, half-shrugs as if to say, 'okay, this isn't half bad'. His mother is enthralled, though perhaps that's not a surprise; as Itzhak knows, her family is historically Italian, so perhaps it's as much cultural for her as anything else. Ben, on the other hand, is plainly doing the same thing as Ravn: looking politely interested.

The piece isn't long, and doesn't continue into the rest of the 'mad scene'. Lamija's voice trails off, her expression wistful and sad as the final note fades. The applause is as loud for her as it was the children, and the announcer returns with a single red rose for her, which she accepts with a beaming smile.

The students get to come on stage together for a photo, which has everyone on their feet and clapping. ...a few cheers and hoots and hollars sound out in the small church. Someone in here was feeling as stifled as Itzhak, and finally lost their composure. "So," August asides to Ravn, "do you like Indian? That's where we were gonna go, little place a few blocks from here."

Ravn glances in the direction of somebody's kid brother who finally gets to let off a little steam after having sat politely through the entire performance; somebody probably promised the kid ice cream for behaving. "Have they got a menu for weak-bellied white guys who aren't trying to impress their date?"

He's mostly joking, that much is clear form the amused sparkle in grey eyes. It's hardly an international secret that the Scandinavian kitchens largely are considered rather profoundly bland by the rest of the world (we do not speak of their various forms of fermented fish). He's also getting pretty desperate for a cigarette -- and mildly annoyed with himself about that. Just smoking one or two before bed in order to chill out from the more or less permanent stress of Gray Harbor is turning into more recently, and he really needs to have a talk with himself about that at some point.

Nothing stressful here, though. The Dane actually raises a gloved hand to very lightly punch Itzhak's shoulder as they file out. "You okay there, tough guy?"

Itzhak does all the stuff at the end of the concert he's not allowed to do during: a very loud whistle like he thinks he's at Yankee Stadium and a carrying roar of, "That's our girl!" Hah, let the recording pick up THAT!

He's just so freaking proud, and more than a little drunk on emotion and music. Everybody in their little party needs to get hugged, except Ravn who's exempt from enveloping, bone-crushing Itzhak hugs. "Hell yeah, Indian," he says happily to August. Ravn gets a brilliant grin in lieu of a hug. "Do I look okay? God I need a smoke," and as they hit the evening air he's already angling away, fishing pack and lighter out of the breast pocket of his button-down. He is a terrible influence on Ravn, obviously.

"They do," August assures Ravn.

Joachim leans in to add, "That's me, I'm 0 stars 'mild' all the way. I gotcha." And then he's wrapping his daughter into a hug and escorting the family to their car. August's parents, having parked near Zelda and family, drift that way as well.

They pause under some firs in the cool Spring evening for Itzhak's smoke. Portland isn't Gray Harbor; the air's dryer, less laden with the damp of the ocean. The rivers' humidity is capricous, comes and goes in waves as dryer, inland air sweeps it aside.

August stares out over the emptying parking lot. He's seeing an older Portland, the place he grew up in. Presently he blinks, turns to look at Ravn and Itzhak. "So. Powell's. It's a city-block sized bookstore. Figured we could swing by, they'll be open a few more hours."

"You had me at bookstore," Ravn murmurs with a smile and a last glance back towards the church and its interesting and oh so American mishmash of architectural traditions -- and he too reaches for a cigarette once the firs offer a chance. He lights it with a glance that defies anyone wanting to bring up the subject of asthma; and as no one does, relaxes slightly. "And at 0 stars mild, too. Why some people insist on trying to burn out their tastebuds every chance they get is beyond me. Jalapeños ought to be banned under the Geneva Convention."

Another look back towards the church, and then the Dane looks at his companions. "I'm glad I let you drag me along for this. This is an entirely different kind of musical experience than I was used to as a kid. These kids love what they do -- also when they're not perfect. And what's more important, so do their parents. This is what it should be like."

"You are playin' my song, Roen." Itzhak exhales a plume of smoke upwards. He's lit up like a wire, all but glowing with energy and delight. Asthma schmathma, he's not about to given Ravn shit about smoking. And he bestows that brilliant smile on him, a little bashful, when Ravn thanks him and August. He looks down, scuffing up cedar duff with the toe of one Converse. "Yeah. They do. Some of them, maybe not so much, sometimes the parents make 'em. But mostly? Mostly, they do. I did."