Nemo's work

Merle was exhausted. She had been endlessly pondering her successes and failures for two considerably lengthy days and nights, in preparation for a long awaited interview. Having the ambition and will of Nestor, her grandfather, she’d have thought it unfortunate would she botch the opportunity. The young entrepreneur had everything she needed to prevail, yet bound by her limited scope of the world, she was not able to recognize this as clearly as she would have liked to. All she could consciously hope to do was wait for the universe to reveal a series of aptly compatible variables in order for her dreams to take the turn they needed to. Little did she know, a cosmic curveball was about to head her way.

Walking down Broad Street, in the vicinity of her home, Merle notices something. “What’s this?” she mutters. She doesn’t normally have her eyes on the pavement; precipitation is the only exception to that. Revealed is a booklet, roughly the size of her hand, of coal complexion. With little to no hesitation, the book opens itself, using Merle’s hand as a guide. If lost, please return to: Nemo. “Nemo?” Flipping through the pages, a motherlode is uncovered. “Oh no.” Melodies, motifs, chords, songs. This belongs to somebody. Instantly, Merle’s nervous system activates. Questions upon questions arise in her mind, the most prevalent of which she is not yet able to vocalize, but can simply be stated as the following. Who is Nemo? Have they lost their notes? When and how will she locate them?

As she further explores the little black notebook, one thing becomes certain. This is a goldmine. Having had more than a few cello lessons in the past, Merle attempts to reconstruct some of these melodies. “Da, da da daa. Da daaa, da daaa.” She closes the booklet, lest her questions, still unanswered, multiply tenfold. “Who… what…”

Nemo, watching from afar, cracks a smile. Revealing a green piece of paper from the burrows of his jacket pocket, he writes, ‘Welcome to my world. Use it as you’d like.’ As if in an instant, he disappears into thin air, leaving nothing but his few words on the rain ridden asphalt of Merle’s driveway, a glimmer of light, dust and smoke, as well as the faintest song, vibrating through the molecules of air surrounding his vanishing point.

The moment Nemo recedes into space, Merle hears his disappearance. She turns towards the sound, recognizing the melody as one of the first in the booklet. “Was that…” Before she knows it, a voice becomes audible. ‘’Look.’ She looks and she sees. This must be him. ‘Welcome to my world. Use it as you’d like.’ “Oh my god. It’s him. It’s Nemo.”

—

A day passes, as does the rain. The essence of Merle’s life has shifted dramatically, as she hones in her focus on this little black book. As if from nowhere at all, she hears her name, followed by an instruction. ‘Merle. Complete the piece.’ Merle is no stranger to hearing sounds and bursts of staggered information, but over the past twelve hours she has admittedly been experiencing more of these auditory hallucinations than usual. The self aware young lady is able to attribute this to the recent unlikely event, especially having closed the book so prematurely. This time around, however, she knows there is something more concrete about the voice. The instruction felt much less like a command and more so like advice, as if there were a brand new source of information rather than the voice being generated by her own anxious mind. ‘Merle… Complete the piece.’ And complete it she just might.

—

Fast forward several weeks. Merle did not get the job, as her obsession with Nemo’s booklet becomes too great. Complete the piece… This instruction, starting off as benign, nonintrusive, has started to feel like a persecutory command. Once in a while, Merle finds herself talking back to the instruction. “But how? And to what end?” she whispers under her breath. And though this day she had done nothing differently from prior attempts, a thought occurs. Her background in music, though it may have sufficed given enough time, will never have done the piece justice. In fact, the very thing that has been holding her back from finishing the song is a sense that she finds it ever so moving, so much so that trying to finalize it would be sacrilegious, ruinous to the potential masterpiece. So, rather than trying to create her own set of melodies to construct the remaining portion, Merle decides to make a collage of sorts, one utilizing all the pieces doubly exposed upon one another, in order to fulfill what she now considers to be her promise. ‘At last, very good.’

In a matter of three painstaking days, Merle manages to identify the main motifs of the piece and place them in a certain order on a pin board, and at last indeed, the musical monstrosity is almost complete. Suddenly, a voice.

You have outdone yourself, Miss Parker. I am proud.

“Nemo? Is that you?”

Yes, Merle. It is I. Although you may not see me quite yet, rest assured, I am here.

“Who are you?”

Ah, the same ever present question. It is not a whom, that I am, rather a when and a where.

“What in the world…”

And though this may bring about a plethora of additional questions, I need You to do continue, and once you are done, I will require You to do the following. Tomorrow is Monday. At eight o’clock in the morning, You will consolidate the pieces you have gathered. This binder may do. You will pick up your phone when it rings. I will then direct the call to a friend of mine.

“Excuse me, a friend of yours? If you are not…” Merle stammers. “If you are not a whom, then how? What?”


You must not fight this, my dear. It is beyond your control. I will simply require you to cooperate, lest the music go to waste.

Nemo seems to have hit a nerve with Merle, for her cheeks grow flushed and she nods, eyes closed.

As instructed, you have completed the piece. This is not something to overlook. I know it hasn’t been easy. You have given up a potential line of work, have you not? Given the laws which govern alchemy, as you may have heard, this is not to be downplayed. You have given something up, now I must give something of my own. You will be redirected to a man named Frederick Schön. Some time long ago, you may have heard of him.

Indeed, Merle’s first cello teacher carries the same name as the man Nemo speaks of.

Here comes the fun part. You will meet with Mister Schön on Tuesday morning at 8:00 in the morning over a cup of coffee. It will be at that precise moment that you hand over the music, signed Merle Parker.

“Me? I had nothing to do with the creation of this piece. It is yours. I cannot rightfully do this. I’m sorry, I refuse.”

“I suspected as much.” Nemo, having until this moment only been present in the form of a voice, takes form. “Do you recognize me now?”

“Father?” Merle is caught by sudden shock. “You… you left…”

“Ah, is that who you see…” with a tone of slight surprise, Nemo’s form starts to waver. “I cannot stay long. You must do this for me, Merle. You must claim this piece as your own.”

“I… I can’t.”

“But you shall. I know this.”

As these final words are spoken, the vision flickers and dies out.

—

Tuesday’s dawn arrives, and Merle is ready. The piece is complete. The instructions are clear, and she doesn’t miss a beat. As the meeting with Frederick comes to a close, and she hands the piece of music over, the recipient bears a grin, and looks over to his side. “You are expecting this, are you not?” He reveals a briefcase, which Merle opens. “You may count it, if you wish.” As if in trance, the young lady starts humming. “Da, da da daa. Da daaa, da daaa. Da daa, da da,” to which Frederick responds, “This should provide for you and your loved ones for the rest of eternity, should you put it to intelligent use.”

Just as the figure of Nemo disintegrated, so does the form of Frederick. Within an instant, Merle feels a weight in her core, right next to the void within her stomach. “I can’t believe it.” And neither could they, yet there they were