The Last Concerto

On an October morning peculiarly lukewarm, Johan was lucky enough to have an excuse to ponder. As always, he thought about chrysanthemums. He would always see them on the sewage, the rarely-open flower shops, and from the stitched memories of childhood. White and pale, the plant elucidated his last memory of his family, and every year he would add them to a small graveyard. 

Undesired pain was easy to remember. The last day he saw his family withered away like flowers; yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, he would hear the gaseous explosion of the house. 

As Johan entered the factory with his broomstick, dense carbon dust and acids stuffed his body ever filthy. Yet, obviously, nobody cared. The blue screens were the only reflection from their black, cold eyes. The redundant cacophonies clinking and spinning the wheel seemed to have neither a beginning nor an end. 

Johan, with his janitor uniform, dragged his feet along, then sat on a box. Nothing, even the desire to leave and go home, seemed to excite the pulsations of the workers. Only work, work, and work. 

Suddenly, among the sounds and grunts, the wall screen flashed, displaying an artificial reporter. 

“Welcome to Intelligent News 24/7. The city hall passed a bill expecting to fuel our Monotown. According to our revered President, it is “enforced to maximize science and

3 

technology while eliminating useless jobs hindering our perfect utilitarian future.” This will be changed from tomorrow. There will be a ceremony in front of the hall. The following jobs will be completely removed; our AI system will displace…” 

One by one, the names were called: artists, performers, writers, and all manual laborers. 

For the first time, the repetition ceased. There was only an air of still coldness among the workers. The bell was announced and they retired. 

*** 

Johan’s life was without a purpose, whether it be losing his remnant of childhood or his job, forever. Nothing was a path of fruitfulness to him. Scrutinizing the colorless chrysanthemums on the table, he clenched his fist impulsively wanting to tear them apart–until he remembered his mother’s last words. Though in old newspaper wraps, the white flowers were withering, not entirely dead. 

What would he do? He was meaningless other than his past wealthy family for the first ten years of his life. He should have at least been satisfied knowing the retribution that would be given to the factory that destroyed everything. At his own heart, he did not seem to easily blot out or express anything–whether it be morally good or bad. His heart was already hardened, separated from his own flesh. Nothing–at least in this society–could change him.

4 

“Sweetheart, your dad was wealthy because he was intelligent, but that cannot define everything. Just like we’d love to hear you playing the cello, there are more things to life than what we see. Never stop chasing the things that give you courage. I love you, son.” 

“Mom, where are you? Where are you?” 

But what did it even mean to him, to have true courage? 

Johan’s entire life was passive as a street cleaner since his youth. The only thing he was at least good enough to show his family was playing the cello, now an abandoned piece of wood that would barely be a fuel for the factory. 

Opening the closet door, Johan took out the full-size cello he had once found in the trash area. For some reason, the clean brown hue and curved sleek figure were convincing and too good to be neglected by anyone, reminding him of his innocent youth, when his sole joy was to play beautiful tunes in church that his mom loved and smiled at. 

“There’s nothing I can do except this.”  

Taking out an old bow, Johan plucked few strings from it–at first with a major scale, into a requiem, then, shaking his head, switched into the vivid concerto he had last played in front of his mom thirty-five years ago.

5 

Stepping out the door, hearing the blurred computer tunes from the city hall, Johan headed towards a goal, a dream–drawing from his memory and inspiration to the fullest. 

*** 

In front of the capitol, the President appeared. Exuding dark confidence on his face, he deliberately gazed, insinuating to the robots. 

There was a loud cry from the robot assistants, saluting at once towards the stout leader. “Greetings to our great President Damon!” 

As one leaned the microphone towards him, the President finally spoke. 

“To my pleasure, today is, and will be, a memorable day celebrating our newest revolution.” 

Then he began a long speech, each word through the televised screens breaking as a discord, destroying any kind of subtlety. By each sentence, the stinging discomfort grew. 

For Johan, his delicate strings would crack as the explosion he still could remember. Yet he held a single chrysanthemum–almost losing its pink hue–a spark of hope that was hard to kill. Johan immediately left his room, up through the staircase leading to the top of the building. As he reached, he looked downward towards the city podium.

6 

Barely recalling to position the bow, he traced the fingerings of his last ever concerto. Deciding to trust his instinct, he held on: the hopeful chrysanthemums and the passionate practice lessons from the earlier days. 

“Mom, only if you are watching me.” 

The initial swivels of the awkward harmony prompted Johan to apply pressure and precision toward the steady strings. Soon, exercising his arm more comfortably, the individual chords weaved into a peaceful beginning as he felt the flowering petals, the seedlings nowhere to be seen. Despite everyone else, he reached the crescendo, the melodies growing and emulating rich vibratos. The rhythms eventually blossomed into a beautiful garden. 

Now it was Johan who was inside his whole time frame, forever in the endless panorama of the flowering plants, which others joined in with melodic chords, and he imagined something new and greater–the blue sky whirling with the clouds, chrysanthemums with hope.