A Cupcake For You…

Mr. Beethoven

Unsure that she got the address right, the little girl paused in front of a dusty doorway on an unnamed street in Germany. Grime caked the walls, sludge creeped down the half-timber facing, and a rat munched at her shoelace. With a squeak, the girl startled the rat away with the shake of her toe, and knocked on the door.

While waiting, she felt bad for the little rat, and went searching round the corner, cupcake clutched in her small hand. There stood the rat, dejectedly roosting in the gutter. Crouching down beside him (or her), the girl broke off a crumb of yellow frosting and offered it to the rat.

“Everyone deserves a cupcake…even when it’s not their birthday.” The rat, one paw up, like a pointer dog, nibbled the crumb from the fingers right when a plate went crashing through the window, smashing into the building next door, raining cheap splinters all over them. The girl looked up to see a man with wilder hair than her history teacher’s pacing back and forth in front of the window, clutching his head.

“Mr. Beethoven!” she called. He ignored her, but she knew it was him.

“I’m coming up!” she warned, nodding a good-bye to the rat and letting herself in through the front door.

The stairs were creaky, like old arthritic people, she thought, jogging up in a pink skirt, striped stockings, and her usual scarf, despite the spring warmth. She slid on slick mold dozens of times when trying to reach only the second floor, but the girl continued, undeterred. This man in particular, above the others, needed a cupcake on his birthday. Though she knew how the story would end, she worried about him and what he might do to himself.

When she reached the top, she paused, unsure of which door to entre through, but when another crash sounded, she walked confidently to the door of the room it had come from. She eased the door open, making plenty of noise with her feet as she walked in so as not to startle him.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Beethoven!” she practically screamed, knowing he was deaf. He turned at the slight irritation in his ear to find an alien girl standing in his doorway holding a tasty looking confection. He forlornly picked a notebook from the piano top and found a pencil burrowed in a pile of papers. He handed them to her, meeting her halfway across the golden, sunlit room, gesturing for her to write. She’d figured she might have to do this, and had practiced writing in her best script, as she did now, “Happy birthday, Mr. Beethoven!” His features were illuminated by her message, and he thanked her in a raspy, much-unused voice.

She handed him the cupcake with its meticulous decoration of black music notes that spelled the song Für Elise across the yellow. Recognizing his music, he internally grimaced, and coughed into the arm of his ragged coat. He thanked her again and sat down at the piano bench, gesturing for her to sit anywhere she might like. The girl plopped onto the floor, exhausted after a day-long trek to find his home. Well, day-long meaning two hours since eight that morning.

“Who are you? Why have you come?” he asked. She picked up the book and wrote:

--It’s your birthday; I need to give you your cupcake.

She then scrawled out the motto that was printed on her apron at home.

--Everyone deserved a cupcake on their birthday.

The great, lonely musician nodded, finding her answer satisfactory, and she wrote:

--Going to eat it? eagerly.

His eyes narrowed, and the voice lunged at his hesitation.

Go ahead, one hissed, eat it. This little girl came all the way her just for youit mocked.

No, don’t, another warned. Have you stooped to such a level, accepting presents from a young girl? What, is she the only one left for you? It sneered.

Come on, the first one taunted. You can’t get lower than you already are. You’ll be dead soon, anyway. Why not enjoy the last delight of your life?

Mr. Beethoven started, wishing the voice away.

That’s right, you heard me—remember, you’re not deaf to your thoughts! I said it…dead! You’ll be…dead! So go right ahead, eat it, it hissed.

He cupped his hands to his ears, shaking his head back and forth. The girl sat on her knees, staring at him, knowing.

The voices laughed maniacally. You can’t block out your own thoughts! More laughter. Mr. Beethoven had begun to shake, trembling as though he was a glass of water in an earthquake. The girl had to do something. With those voices, how could he enjoy his cupcake? And besides, no one should be miserable on his birthday. The girl had many laws about what should and should not occur on birthdays.

She slid beside him on the bench and shuffled through sheaves of paper.

Eat it! Eat it you miserable, useless has-been! a voice shouted. They got more vicious as the years went by.

Finally his thoughts were pulled away by a faint but familiar tickling in his ear, and he saw the girl the cupcake in her lap, playing a song. His song.

Having been unable to find any sheet music that she could read clearly, the girl had begun to read off of her cupcake. She wasn’t particularly good, but she was good enough for him to recognize it, and it was good enough to drown the voices in his head, reducing them to incoherent babble on the other side of a dark tunnel.

When she finished the song, she opened the book and underlined her previous birthday greeting, to say it again, and smiled. Mr. Beethoven smiled back and reached for the cupcake. She left, content to have helped him, shocked that he had thought she was playing his song, as she had no clue where D-sharp was, and, while following the rhythms and the steps correctly, had started on the wrong note.

Both were happy in that moment: the girl, stumbling down the stairs, Mr. Beethoven, peeling away the wrapper. But then the voices resumed. Overcome with rage, he hurled the defenceless delicacy out the window.

--

--Sorry, much less humour this time round. Though I have a foggy idea for the next chapter, suggestions are, as always, appreciated.