Larisa Jakeman
Translator Neil Jakeman
© Larisa Jakeman, 2018
© Neil Jakeman, translation, 2018
ISBN 978-5-4490-8644-0
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
INTRODUCTION
I never would have believed this tale had it not happened to Julian. His story is so strange, so unbelievable, yet I feel compelled to tell you all about my best friend. I feel everyone should know – has a right to know, so that just maybe this will in some way help us all to understand things which maybe we were not meant to understand.
Let me tell you first about Julian. He was born into a ‘well to do’ English family in Sussex. His parents being on the mature side of middle age, he may have been an unexpected child, but by no means unwanted. On the contrary, Julian was a blessing to his parents in their later life, especially after so many fruitless years of trying when their hope had almost been extinguished. Born into the middle class surroundings of East Grinstead to God-fearing parents, nothing was spared in making their new arrival comfortable in his newly decorated nursery, and attention was lavished upon this child, their ‘gift from God’.
I don’t know much more about Julian’s earlier life until he started at secondary school, which is where I first met this quiet, but intense boy. He had excelled at reading, spending enormous amounts of time in the School library, and it was not long before he exhausted the School’s limited supply of books and moved on to visiting the Public Library on a regular basis. He had fed on knowledge, consuming one book after another. Unlike the other students of his age, Julian preferred reading rather than watching television, finding more power and mystique in the written word.
He had great talent with the paintbrush too and produced outstanding landscapes in oils, which he preferred over watercolours. Slowly, with each expert application, the surrounding countryside became trapped in a moment of time with every blade of grass, every leaf on the trees springing into still life with each brushstroke. On a visit to Hastings, Julian had created a wonderful seascape on canvas, the only one he ever did. The blue sea had rolled in over a warm beach dotted with exotic palms. The sun centrally placed, half-visible as it sank into the sea. It was nothing like how I remember the weather or location that day as we arrived excitedly at the seaside in Julian’s father’s car, but it obviously come out of an inspired mind. He had given me this picture later, and it still hangs in my summer room, illuminating the conservatory with its grotesquely sized sun. I enjoy the way it fills the room with its vibrant energy, surpassing even the bright colours of the hanging baskets. I can relax, basking in the warmth of two suns, as if being somewhere else, in some other time.
Despite being an excellent scholar, Julian also excelled at sport. He was a good all-rounder and had been made Captain in the school cricket team. This fact alone had spared Julian the torment of merciless teasing afforded other boys who had pursued hobbies in music and art. Julian would sit for hours playing on his viola in his parent’s garden, hidden in a small recess between a huge lilac bush and flowering jasmine. His music was so beautiful, you had to stop and listen to how each note seemed to hold on to the next, artistically flowing into the other to form a melody. His music was both cheerful and soulful at the same time, and he never ceased to amaze friends and relatives who were ushered out silently by Julian’s mother, Pamela, into the garden. She would then ruin the moment by asking him to perform her favourite piece, but he would decline politely and quietly pack the viola away saying he felt tired. His music was private, and he had always preferred it that way.
So, it was that we became friends when we were 14 years of age. This was mainly since we lived across the road from his parent’s house. My father had worked as an Underwriter in one of the syndicates at Lloyds, and he had informed my mother that Julian’s father at that time was ‘something in the City’ (a euphemism given to those who usually owned half of it). Friendship with Julian therefore, had been actively encouraged by my mother as she said he came from the ‘right sort of family’ and it would do for me to have such social circles. To me, it was simply the fact that he was someone I could walk the mile and a half to school with. Julian and I preferred to walk, although on rainy days his Mother always insisted on driving him (and me) in the family car.
Our friendship was to change my life completely. I always considered Julian to be older and wiser than me, although in fact I am a calendar month older than he is. His thirst for knowledge overflowed into me, and I spent countless hours absorbing the scraps and leftovers of useful information that had poured out of him during our friendship. Through his art I witnessed the painting of beautiful landscapes and had come to appreciate the beauty of a sunset through the magic of his brush.
But it was his music that truly captivated my soul. I was the only person he would ever play to. Julian taught me the wonderful structure of music and explained to me how the notes were the building blocks of any tune.
“It takes a great architect to transform a pile of bricks into a magnificent edifice”, he used to say, “So it takes a good composer to create the same effect with music”. He was always very critical of his own work, never satisfied, even when those around him praised his achievements. He would depart and return much later with minute, but important tweaks which transformed the original ‘good’ piece into something rather unique and excellent.
In fact, it is to him that I owe my livelihood as a musician today. I became interested in his compositions and yearned to be able to do the same, and it was Julian who placed my initially clumsy fingers on my first guitar and encouraged me well beyond my own perceived limitations. Today I am considered talented within my own right, but I know this talent, although truly mine, would have remained hidden had not Julian tapped into it. He picked it out of the very centre of my being the way you might painstakingly prise out a winkle when at the seaside, only to generously donate it to your younger less able sibling, as a gift.
I have never once entertained any thought of jealousy in Julian’s abilities; rather I revelled in the sharing of his success and hung on to his words as you would an older brother (although strangely I nearly always fought with mine). The only negative vibes I ever had when in the company of Julian was my inability to feel good about my own achievements. My greatest musical piece always seemed lacking when I played it to him, although he always enthused and praised me. I felt musically humbled in his presence, but it had never been intentional, and more likely it was due to a lack of confidence in my own abilities than in his.
CHAPTER ONE
Julian: Sussex, England
2nd September 2003
I will always remember that particularly cold, grey autumn morning when time seemed to be passing deliberately slowly. I was bored, and not even working on my latest composition succeeded in cheering me up. I was making absolutely no progress. The clock in the study went into slow motion; the hands appeared to be frozen in time. In fact, I felt time starting to run backwards, and all my hard work to date was beginning to unravel the more I tinkered with it. Subconsciously I panicked myself into thinking I had a form of writer’s block and I remember thinking that I was too young to be cut down so early in my prime.
Deciding that I had best distract my attention, I picked up the previous day’s newspaper and attempted to re-read the headlines and even the advertisements. I then noticed a melody in my head, which constantly intruded, into my thoughts. The notes rambled lazily in my mind, starting in the middle and not quite finishing before starting again. It was annoying to say the least, and I recognised the piece to be an earlier composition of Julian’s, my favourite in fact, but it was now becoming an unwelcome distraction.
The telephone startled me as I half-heartedly worked on the score. I had an inexplicable feeling that something was not right, and somehow this telephone call would be party to it. Picking up the receiver, a familiar voice blurted out urgently:
“Michael? It’s Pamela!”
“Mrs Winfield?”