Like most children, I owned a few toys. Unlike most children, mine rarely survived the week. My favorite was a small wooden soldier with a broken drum. I attempted to repair it using a string borrowed from one of Father’s violins. (He did not take this well.) I also owned a set of wooden blocks, which I discovered could be combined with Mother’s tin cups full of noodle soup to create a remarkably effective percussion set. (She was equally displeased.)
With each passing day, the boundary between transforming toys into instruments and turning instruments into toys grew increasingly blurred.
Music filled our home constantly. Father often remarked that music and language shared the same divine grammar.
He gave me small lessons in writing musical notes and ensured that I learned to read and write in German. He also insisted that I begin studying Italian and Latin early, arguing that Italians had invented opera and that one should understand their jokes.
One day, something unexpected happened. Somewhere between multilingual lullabies and harpsichord acrobatics – often conducted while dangling upside down from the bench – Father asked where I had learned this particular tune. I watched him pass through several expressions in quick succession: surprise, excitement, pride, and finally genuine joy, as he realized that his son had composed his first little piece of music.
The moment did not last long. His delight quickly gave way to horror as he listened to my alarmingly off-key singing and observed my casual disregard for the well-being of our fine instruments. To me, it was all child’s play. I had no sense that anything remarkable had occurred. Which, I suppose, made the entire situation even more troubling.