The Legend of SqueezeboxSqueeze: A Miraculous, Magical, Musical Tale

By Mark Shamlian

“I thoroughly enjoyed The Legend of SqueezeboxSqueeze. It was clever, original and heartfelt, evoking the full range of emotions. Musicians (of any age) especially will love this story and the illustrations.”

—Matthew Dykeman, Producer for NPR’s “From the Top”

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Written Dreams Publishing
• Release date: Dec 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732051157

Mark Shamlian

Mark Shamlian, freelance illustrator, portrait painter and designer resides in a semi-rural area outside of Boston with his wife, Gina. With his debut novel, The Legend of SqueezeboxSqueeze, he combines his love for illustration, music, and writing. When not engaged in the creative process, he lives an unremarkable life, enriched by various hobbies, humans and animals. For more info about Mr. Shamlian, visit shamliandesign.com or find him on Facebook.

Book preview

Prologue

Many claim to have been there over twenty years ago—insisting they witnessed the bizarre turn of events which began inside that rundown shop on Denmark Street. The fact is, only a handful of us really saw how it all went down—only a handful could have.

As years have passed, I feel it’s more important than ever that the whole truth be told. Just how did a small, unlikely hero succeed in changing the course of history? Who would guess that a story which began in such a small way, in that humble place, could’ve had such profound global consequences? There are those who will insist that the following narrative is only a preposterous tale—a legend—that never really happened. And there are those who would attempt to discredit me, as I am rather insignificant in the scheme of things.

For the record, my name is Veronica. I was just an observer then—a fly on the wall, but I kept a journal—a detailed record. I will leave it to you to draw your own conclusions. I solemnly vow that every word of the story I’m about to tell you is completely true. As I said, I was there.

Chapter One

It all began back in the fall of 1996 on an otherwise typical Monday morning. The place was Denmark Street, the mecca for all things musical in the city of London. Virtually any instrument or music item could be found here in one store or another. Musicians and tourists alike frequented the cobblestoned avenue to shop, to enjoy its offbeat charm and nightly live entertainment.

However, this late September morning felt more like winter with a blustery wind and raw chill in the air as people headed for work and shopkeepers readied their stores for opening. Tin Pan Alley, as the street was also known as, was gearing up for another busy day.

Sadly, it was also a typical morning for Mr. Cheng Lee at the accordion shop near the corner of the block. Back then, things weren’t nearly so busy. Business had slowed dramatically. Over the past several years, Lee’s Accordion Shoppe, and Mr. Lee for that matter, had experienced steady decline. The burdens of age had taken their toll on old Cheng, along with the passing of his beloved wife. His grief was compounded by the despair of unfulfilled dreams and nagging health problems.

Cheng felt anxious and quite alone, having no children to lend him support in his twilight years. The old man was circling the drain, in many respects, which might have explained his chronic attacks of vertigo.

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To me and a few remaining friends, it was obvious that any shred of optimism had left the old man, and his little shop reflected it. Out front, the sidewalk was often littered. The store’s dilapidated sign displayed neglect with its faded letters and random array of burnt out bulbs. Peeling paint marred the front door, and the shop’s windows were translucent with grime. Even graffiti artists ignored Lee’s Accordion Shoppe, considering it an inferior canvas for their handiwork.

Inside, the formerly bright-colored walls had become dull and dingy with time. In addition to a wide range of accordions, there were assorted brass instruments, woodwinds, and a few stringed instruments that the old man had picked up over the past four decades. Collectively, they sat ignored on the wooden shelves, tarnished, collecting dust, and even a cobweb or two. This gloomy tableau resembled a scene from an old Dickens novel. As a more or less permanent fixture in the store, I remember the sadness of it all too well.

Looking back, it’s a wonder that old Cheng summoned the will to carry on. It took all his resolve to drag his short, stout frame out of bed each morning. He somehow managed, although his retreating white hair was often uncombed, his clothes unkempt, and his shoes unshined. Occasionally, he shaved around his scraggy, white goatee and mustache, but the remaining hair on his head hid most of his ears and grew well past his collar before ever prompting attention. Sadly, Cheng was a shadow of his former self, a portrait of a life with so much potential and hard work but with precious little to show for it.

On most days, the old shopkeeper would sit for hours, idly staring out of the storefront window, observing the activity on the street. Sometimes, he would select a few antique windup toys from his collection that he kept in a cabinet next to his workbench. He especially liked a beat-up tin clown who played a drum; a faded duck, dressed in a tuxedo and top hat, who conducted an imaginary orchestra; and a short, fat, tin, British ceremonial guard who banged two cymbals together. Mechanical things comforted Cheng—mechanical things and good milk chocolate, especially Cadbury’s hazelnut.

As was his usual habit, the old man wound up each toy and gazed at them as they banged, clanked, and vibrated across the scarred wooden surface of his workbench. He would wind them up again and watch—and again. It put his mind in a kind of numbing trance. As he finished his last square of chocolate, he realized even this sweet, minor indulgence would have to go. He could no longer afford it.

As the morning wore on, the old shopkeeper began to ponder his long, disappointing life. His thoughts returned to his birthplace of China, and back to his boyhood. Rural life was all he knew as a child, but still young Cheng had sensed that there was much more out in the world for him to discover. Nevertheless, he never dreamed that one day he would finally settle so far away in a foreign land—in London, England, of all places.

As Cheng’s mind wandered, each windup toy slowly wound down and once again became a silent, frozen figure. On this cold, overcast morning, the old shopkeeper managed a weak smile as he recalled a positive experience that occurred shortly after his twelfth birthday. He remembered how he, his father, and older sister, Chuntao, had embarked on a long trip to the capital city of Beijing.

There, his sister was to attend a new school for exceptional students. Arrangements had been made for her to remain in Beijing with their aunt and uncle during the upcoming school year.

Cheng, like his sister, was also an extremely intelligent child. Even his name meant accomplished in Chinese. The boy was especially talented in the fields of science and math, and he dreamed of becoming a great scientist who would someday help mankind. From the beginning, young Cheng was curious about everything and had a passion to know how all things worked. Little did he realize how the trip would ultimately affect his life. His family was poor, and they made the arduous, twenty-kilometer trek on foot, carrying what they could on their backs. Toward the end of the journey, the children and their father had approached a park on the outskirts of Beijing. And it was there they heard a unique sound.

It was music, but not that of the Erhu, Dizi, or even the Pipa—musical instruments that they were familiar with hearing. The sound was something quite different. It seemed alive. Though weary, the children ran ahead of their father and into the park where they came upon a festive scene. People, young and old, were playing instruments. And in fact, most of these people appeared to be playing the same type of instrument, with some playing in small groups and some off by themselves. Later, Cheng learned that this musical activity was a Sunday tradition in this park—a fun tradition, no doubt.

Further ahead, he and his sister approached another small group of musicians. In their hands were the same curious instruments, each different, but somehow similar. The instruments had piano-like keys on one side and rows of buttons on the other side. These were connected with a type of bellows that made music when they were squeezed and stretched. The sound of the instrument was exhilarating; it seemed to literally breathe.

Proceeding down the path, they came upon an elderly man sitting on a bench in the shadows. The hour was late, and darkness was descending, making it difficult to see clearly. Emanating from the old man’s musical instrument was an enchanting song that drew the children closer. His instrument resembled the others, but was more compact. It had fewer keys on one side and fewer buttons on the opposite side, but sounded no less alluring.

Captivated, the children sat and listened. The old man reminded Cheng of his wise grandfather with his small, pointed beard and long white hair. What was that beautiful song? And what is this instrument called? inquired Chuntao.

My child, the song is called ‘Spring of West Lake’ and this instrument is called an accordion. It is also sometimes called a squeezebox, said the man with a smile.

By this time, the children’s father had caught up to them.

Though anxious to continue the journey, he paused to respectfully acknowledge the old musician. The man introduced himself. His name was Ling.

Cheng’s father bowed politely and then spoke. Thank you, Ling, for entertaining my children. However, we must continue our travels. It’s getting dark and we still have some distance to go.

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Ling bowed, turned to the children, and then leaned forward. Before you proceed on your journey, I want to give you both some words of wisdom, he said. He put one hand on each child’s shoulder and looked at them with a serious expression. "Life is also a journey—a magical one. Let music be your faithful companion. Musical instruments have wisdom of their own. They remember every song that they have ever played and every heart they have ever moved, long after we humans have gone. Each musical instrument is unique and special—much more than you realize. It is not clear if we choose an instrument or if it chooses us. But…if you are fortunate enough to find just the right instrument, there will be absolute harmony between you. You and that instrument will resonate in perfect unity together."

The old man paused before he continued. I can see that you are both special children. Chuntao, you will be very successful and have a long, productive life. You will be a blessing to your family. You, Cheng, will have a fulfilled life as well, but your path will not be as easy. However, you will make a difference in this world.

Cheng’s father was accustomed to hearing the proverbs and prescient pronouncements of wise elders. He did not take their words too seriously, though. However, he did consider the old man’s predictions intriguing, especially since he did not recall introducing his children by name. Perhaps Ling had heard him call their names before he caught up to them.

It was now becoming dark, and Cheng could barely make out the features of old Ling as he spoke. Something about him was unique. He had a transcendent quality to him, though the boy did not have such words to describe these kinds of feelings back then. He knew though, that this man was different, and that he would not soon forget him.

It was not long after this experience that Cheng decided he would learn to play an instrument—the accordion. Something in him had awakened for the first time, and he felt drawn to the unusual instrument. He yearned to know everything about it. How exactly did it work? What was inside of it? Was it difficult to play?

For much of the journey back home from Beijing, young Cheng thought about accordions. Finally, he asked his father if he could possibly have one. His father was kind and gently reminded Cheng that science was to be his future. He advised him that the pursuit of his academic studies should be his sole focus. And besides, the family was too poor. They could not afford such an extravagance.

Though disappointed, Cheng understood but he still believed that the accordion might someday be part of his future.

♫♫♫

Time passed and Cheng grew into a young man. He did acquire his first, treasured accordion and soon learned to play it exceptionally well. He was a natural. And as planned, Cheng studied science. Being especially gifted, he received a scholarship to study physics at the Imperial College in London, England. That first year at the university he met his future wife, Wenling. She also attended the same college, although her field of study was chemistry. The couple fell in love at first sight and were married within six months. Young Cheng had never been happier.

After six years and many notable academic achievements, he was hired as a professor at the university. Cheng had an inventive spirit back then, and he pioneered in the research of quantum-mechanics. He explored how time and space were connected. People marveled at his brilliance and his impressive engineering skills. He loved to design and build impossible machines and contraptions. He bragged to the science world that he would someday invent a device that would achieve time travel. His goal was to create a machine that could send people or objects forward or backward in time, and then return them to the present.

Eventually, it became such an obsession to Cheng that he put aside all his other interests. But unfortunately, as one invention after another failed, the funding from the university that enabled his research stopped coming. Then Cheng’s friends and colleagues began to avoid him, regarding him as an unrealistic dreamer who was perhaps more than a little eccentric. The only one who stood by his side and believed in him was Wenling. She never lost faith in her husband or his bold aspirations.

Cheng believed he was on the verge of creating the ultimate machine, but alas, he could not figure out one detail of a critical component: the Lorentzian-flash solenoid, the elusive electronic puzzle piece that might enable conquering the time barrier. He was so close to realizing his goal of achieving time travel, but with no money and no support from the university, he concluded it was simply not meant to be. Finally, Cheng gave up on his dream. He was so demoralized he abandoned science altogether—the disappointment and failure were too much to bear.

Hopelessness consumed young Cheng until one fateful day he happened upon his old, loyal companion—his accordion. It had been waiting patiently in its case under his bed for years. When he unclasped the latches and opened it, he managed a small wistful smile. Having not played it in years, he was comforted to discover that his musical friend had not abandoned him. Picking up the instrument, he placed his fingers on the familiar keys and began to play a melancholy tune that he had learned years before from an Irish woman. The instrument was a little out of tune, but it warmed his heart that he could still recall the notes of the song.

It was at that moment Cheng decided accordions would be his new life. The instrument had brought him only joy and had never let him down. He still understood it, inside and out. And more importantly, he knew how to fix it when it was broken.

One year later after he left the university, Cheng opened Lee’s Accordion Shoppe on Denmark Street. Wenling had also decided to leave her job as a researcher to help her husband in his new venture—which would last over forty years.

Excited about this new chapter in their lives, Wenling and Cheng moved forward. The shop was not large, but to Cheng, it was a small slice of heaven. In the center of the front part of the store were two workbenches where accordions could be repaired. The larger workbench was two meters long and had two drawers for tools. Cheng had also constructed a panel that was attached to the rear of the table, opposite of where his stool sat, on which he hung various tools. Beside the larger workbench stood a cabinet which contained many small drawers that held various instrument parts. Lining the side walls were shelves, from floor to ceiling, which would accommodate the numerous accordions, in addition to other instruments that would come later.

Next to this workbench was a similar one, but smaller for Wenling to perform the bookkeeping and other repair tasks to help her husband. In later years, it would become the work area for a part-time apprentice. Here, some of the same tools were laid out. Beside the smaller worktable was a