AW モノトーンはあらゆる局面で最悪ですね。僕はそういうことはしません。全然違う雰囲気の音楽でも隠されたルートを通ってお互いコミュニケートできる部分があるからです。破綻しない、するわけないと解ってミックスするのはつまらない。音楽を作ることは、幽霊列車のようなものです。暗闇の中で列車に乗っていると、左右から時々びっくりするようなものが出てきて、驚かされる。ドキドキ、ワクワク、いろんな感情を経験するでしょ？ それが一番面白いし、自分がやりたいことです。
“There it is, I’ve got it!” we heard Freud crying, cheerfully, outside. “That’s the headlight, right?” he asked Schraubenschlüssel. My father raised his head from his hands and looked at me. “Of course that’s the headlight, you old fool!” Schraubenschlüssel yelled at Freud. “Get in, will you?”
“Freud!” Father screamed. He must have known, then. He ran to the revolving door. “Auf Wiedersehen, Freud!” Father cried. At the revolving door, Father saw the whole thing very clearly. Freud, with his hand feeling along the headlight, slipped toward the grille of the Mercedes instead of toward the door. “The other way, you moron!” Schraubenschlüssel advised. But Freud knew exactly where he was. He tore his arm out of Wrench’s grasp; he leveled the Louisville Slugger and started swinging. He was looking for the front license plate, of course. Blind people have a knack for knowing exactly where things that have always been are. It took Freud only three swings to locate the license plate, my father would always remember. The first swing was a little high-off the grille. “Lower!” Father screamed, through the revolving door. “Auf Wiedersehen!” The second swing hit the front bumper a little to the left of the license plate, and my father yelled, “To your right! Auf Wiedersehen, Freud!” Schraubenschlüssel, Father said later, was already running away. He never got far enough away, however. Freud’s third swing was on the money; Freud’s third swing was the grand slam. What a lot for that baseball bat to go through in one night! That Louisville Slugger was never found. Freud was never entirely found, either, and Schraubenschlüssel’s own mother would fail to identify him. My father was blasted back from the revolving door, the white light and glass flying in hisface. Franny and Frank ran to help him, and I got my arms around Arbeiter just as the bomb blew—just as Freud had told me to do.
Father grabbed the baseball bat from Freud. He did this very quickly. He picked up that Louisville Slugger as if it had lived a lifetime in his hands, and he swung it levelly, getting his shoulders and hips into the swing, and following through with the swing—it was a perfect line drive sort of swing, a level low liner that would still have been rising when it cleared the infield. And Ernst the pornographer, who ducked too slowly, put his head in the position of a perfect letter-high fast ball to my father’s fine swing of the bat. Crack! Harder than any ground ball Franny or I could have handled. My father caught Ernst the pornographer with the Louisville Slugger flat on the forehead and smack between the eyes. The first thing to strike the floor was the back of Ernst’s head, his heels plopping down one at a time; it seemed like a full second after the head had hit the floor that Ernst’s body settled down. A purple swelling the size of a baseball rose up between Ernst’s eyes, and a little blood ran out of one of his ears, as if something vital but small—like his brain, like his heart—had exploded inside him. His eyes were open wide, and we knew that Ernst the pornographer could now see everything that Freud could see. He had gone out the open window with one swift crack of the bat.