Orpheus

For 23 and ½ years not a soul in the village of Lorenzo Iglesia had seen Jerome Clement. He was, at one time: a notable living legend in the country of Argentina, a hero in his small, rural community, and a rumored worker of miracles. While accounts varied dramatically regarding his physical appearance, it was never questioned that Jerome was a green-eyed mulatto of considerable size. 

Each time the children would ask exactly how tall Clement was, he seemed to grow. At first, he was just above average height, standing handsomely over six feet. Then it was reported that he was at least a healthy six feet seven inches and often too tall to be comfortable. Now, it is circulated that Jerome Clement would have dwarfed Goliath — standing well over seven feet and eating 12 eggs, two loaves of bread, a pound and a half of bacon and all while downing a gallon of milk for his breakfast. 

Emerald eyes gave Jerome a unique appearance; still, it was his talents that brought him fame. From a young age it had been clear that his long amber fingers possessed an unrivaled aptitude for music. He quickly gained mastery of the piano, learning to play from his grandmother before most boys could even tie their own shoes. Later, Clement took to jazz and practiced both the trumpet and saxophone in primary school. Then when he was eleven years old, Jerome began to play the guitar. 

It is said by those who knew him best that his voice didn’t develop until he came of age. When he did, however, he began to sing alongside his guitar and the whole world stopped to listen. And while all of the village’s residents claim to have heard him, those who did, remember a voice which seemed to sing the sorrows of a thousand lost souls.

Nevertheless, Jerome's music was far from mono tonal. He was known to dazzle his audience with a wide variety of tempos and emotions. He would often depart from his guitar, and in the middle of his performance, begin blowing through his saxophone or running his fingers over the keys of a piano. Thus, if any one fact can be justly established regarding the genre of  Mr. Clement’s music, it is that it rejected the very idea of category entirely. 

The second source of the young man’s considerable notoriety was the romantic consequence of his music. Most couples over a certain age in the town of Lorenzo Iglesia asserted with confidence that they had met while under the spell of one of Jerome’s concerts. Further, many works of art, culinary dishes, buildings and businesses were all said to have been inspired by his music. Because of this, the citizens of the village professed to find something otherworldly in Jerome's melodies. 

Salvador Gonzalez, for example, knows that his mother was cured of her heart palpitations after hearing Clement on his guitar during the evening of Good Friday. Maria Lopez will tell you that her daughter's migraine headaches would vanish instantly after coming into contact with the sound of his saxophone. Anytime Ricardo San Jaun, the town butcher, has had a few drinks, he proudly tells whomever will listen that his epilepsy disappeared forever after accidently finding himself outside the window during one of Jerome Clement’s early piano lessons. 

The rumors among the village's small black community were of the same variety. It was often speculated that Clement had received his powers from his father, who had not been a man at all, but rather an angel, or perhaps one of the old Indian Gods who carried countless names.

Regardless of his origins, the town adored their musician. They treated him as if he truly were half man, half God. The people of Lorenzo Iglesia say that Jerome took the stage name of Orpheus not simply because of his near divine talent, but because of what his music was said to do.

However, fate would deem it inevitable that the village was simply too small for a man of his stature and abilities. That is why, 23 and ½ years ago, Jerome Clement packed his instruments, took what money he had, and left.

Years later, when some of the wealthier inhabitants of Lorenzo Iglesia made their way out of the village to vacation elsewhere, they found that the name of their small town had become synonymous with the legend of Jerome Clement. Naturally, this led to the already tall tales of the man who stood larger than life to be exaggerated even further. He had become an undeniable hero, a seven-foot-seven-inch miracle worker, and the greatest musician in South America’s history. All this, from a humble beginning in Lorenzo Iglesia. 

Then, 23 and ½ years after Jerome Clement’s departure, his grandmother Gabriella Mendoza—who had first nurtured his gift—passed away in her sleep. The town's black community had lost a leader, and the village’s ties to the Clement family had been extinguished. The mayor and priest got together and decided that a great funeral would be thrown in honor of Gabriella Mendoza. Not a mourning of death, rather a celebration of what Gabriella had given to Lorenzo Iglesia and the world. 

At once, news of this funeral spread the idea that Jerome might return to his home village in the north of Argentina. The men began to put important business decisions off in hope that they might once again be blessed by Jerome’s gift. Women, both single and married, went out shopping for expensive dresses and potions to enhance their beauty. After all, there had never been a man more handsome or with more beautiful eyes than the musician by the name of Orpheus. The children hoped to see him play, or at least eat a meal. 

The village was abuzz when—just a day before the funeral—word came from the local inn that a green-eyed mulatto had checked in with a guitar. Emilia Espolon was telling those whom she met in the tavern that she had heard the guitar playing from behind closed doors but would never have interrupted without an invitation. Had this man prepared a song for the funeral? Would the members of the village once again be given the joy of hearing heaven’s music? Everyone was asking these questions; every man, woman and child in the village of Lorenzo Iglesia wanted to know the answers. 

The funeral came on a bright, hot day. Not a soul was to be found anywhere but the ceremony. Only the best clothes were worn, color was everywhere, accompanied by joy and anticipation. Finally, when the crowd quieted, the priest began an oration of Gabriella Mendoza’s life. While describing her early twenties, a murmur rose from the back of the crowd and grew louder and louder, and soon the priest had lost his audience's attention.

Collective observation shifted towards a man who now stood at the entrance of the cemetery. The man had light black skin and glimmering green eyes. However, he was not what many of the older members of the community had remembered. A deep scar ran from his forehead across his eye down his cheek and to his chin. Many noticed, but none as loudly as the tavern keeper, that he did not have a guitar or any instrument in his possession. And the children, who had the most trouble keeping their voices down, almost all shouted: “He isn’t a giant! He isn’t even very tall at all!”

Perturbed by the interruption, the priest began to plead for the audience's renewed attention. But, at this time, the eulogy was of secondary importance. Men and women were rushing out of their seats to get a better look at the green-eyed mulatto. A barrage of questions came down upon him like a heavy rain. Was he Jerome? Where was his guitar? What had he been doing all these years? 

The man put his hands up defensively. He had not been prepared for such an onslaught. "I..." he began, then trailed off, but just a single word was enough to settle the crowd. They wanted a response more than someone stranded in the desert wants a drink. 

"The sight of the sun can still be blinding when reflected from a broken mirror," he mused.

The crowd was perplexed, what mirage was this? They wanted more, they expected him to sing, or at least explain his presence. 

Then, the priest let out a great roar like a tiger stepping on a thorn. "My tooth!" he shouted. "My tooth has come out." 

Sure as day, the man of God was holding a blood soaked molar in front of his face. The crowd became distracted once again. The preacher, seizing his moment, set the tooth down next to his old leather bible. "Please, ladies and gentlemen, be seated, it is not right for a eulogy to be interrupted in such a manner. Please, return to your seats."

Feeling half ashamed and half defrauded, the villagers of Lorenzo Iglesia made their way back to their respective seats. When the priest finished his eulogy, the people jumped into celebration. There was music, drinking and a display of fireworks. A crowd formed again intending to question the man with emerald eyes. This time though, he wanted no part of their frenzied interrogation. He exited the cemetery with polite haste. Returning to his lodge and according to the host, departing soon after.

His enigmatic entrance and exit left the townspeople to conclude that this ordinary man could not have been Jerome Clement. To assert such a possibility was impossible, unthinkable, even blasphemous. How could a disfigured man of average height and without an instrument possibly have been the village's greatest hero? And what of the priest's molar falling out? If this was a miracle, it was the most pitiful anyone had ever heard of. No, the priest was old and spent his weeks fermenting grapes for the blood of Christ. The loose tooth could be chalked up to simple coincidence. The answer was unanimous. That man had been an imposter whom the townsfolk had sniffed out in the middle of a scam. 

The answer was unanimous — until late that night when a choice few heard the soft strumming of a guitar and a voice which sounded as if it sang the sorrows of a thousand lost souls.