A friend gave me a CD of the 'Pathetique' Symphony as a Christmas

Host: The night air trembled with the faint hum of music drifting from an old record player in the corner of a small apartment. Outside, the city was half-asleep — rain falling softly, sirens fading in the distance, the world suspended between noise and silence.

Inside, the room was cluttered with books, vinyl sleeves, and the ghosts of a dozen unfinished conversations. A single lamp cast a pool of warm light across the floor, where Jeeny sat cross-legged, eyes closed, swaying faintly to the music. Jack sat by the window, cigarette smoke curling upward, the faint reflection of streetlights flickering across his grey eyes.

On the turntable, the unmistakable opening chords of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 cut through the quiet: “ta ta ta taaa.”

Jack: “Gustavo Dudamel said, ‘A friend gave me a CD of the Pathetique Symphony as a Christmas present. I went home, and I put on the CD expecting to listen to Tchaikovsky. But it started ta ta ta taaa. It was too long for me. I didn’t understand it at first, but then I fell in love, in love, in love.’ You ever fall in love with something you didn’t understand, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Always. That’s what love is — understanding that grows louder the longer you listen.”

Host: The music swelled, filling the air like light breaking through glass. Jeeny smiled faintly, her fingers tracing invisible notes in the air. Jack leaned back, the smoke from his cigarette catching the lamplight like a fading waltz.

Jack: “I don’t get people like Dudamel. How do you fall in love with confusion? If I don’t understand something, I walk away from it.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you expect beauty to explain itself. But real beauty doesn’t — it demands surrender.”

Jack: “Surrender’s overrated. I’d rather have clarity.”

Jeeny: “Clarity kills curiosity. You can’t fall in love with what you’ve already solved.”

Host: The strings rose, urgent and human, Beethoven’s notes pressing against the walls like a tide of emotion too vast to contain. The rain outside answered softly, steady, rhythmic — a duet between chaos and calm.

Jack: “So you think Dudamel’s story’s about music? I think it’s about obsession. He hears something he doesn’t get, and instead of turning it off, he keeps listening until he’s trapped in it.”

Jeeny: “Trapped or transformed — what’s the difference? That’s what art does when it’s honest. It doesn’t ask permission to change you.”

Jack: “You make it sound romantic. But most people don’t have time to be transformed. They want melodies that make sense — something they can hum.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why most people never fall in love with anything real. Real love — real art — it’s inconvenient. It confuses you before it completes you.”

Host: The music softened, the notes trembling like a confession. Jeeny opened her eyes and looked at Jack — really looked.

Jeeny: “When was the last time you let something confuse you?”

Jack: “Every day. You, for starters.”

Jeeny: “Good. Then you’re still listening.”

Host: Her smile lingered in the air like a held breath. The vinyl crackled, that gentle imperfection that made every silence between notes feel alive.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. Dudamel thought he was getting Tchaikovsky — a tragedy, a symphony of sorrow — and instead he got Beethoven: defiance, fate knocking at the door. He expected sadness, but got survival.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s why he fell in love. Because love doesn’t arrive the way you expect. It crashes in wearing the wrong name, the wrong key, the wrong rhythm.”

Jack: “You think people ever fall in love with each other like that? By accident?”

Jeeny: “Always by accident. Always in the wrong tempo. You expect Tchaikovsky — graceful, predictable — but then life gives you Beethoven: rough, relentless, overwhelming.”

Jack: “And too long, apparently.”

Jeeny: “Until it isn’t. Until you realize the length was what made it beautiful — all those movements, all that effort to resolve.”

Host: Jack laughed softly, his voice low, like the hum of a cello under a storm.

Jack: “So you’re saying the best kind of love starts as a misunderstanding.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because understanding too quickly is just recognition, not revelation.”

Jack: “And revelation hurts.”

Jeeny: “That’s how you know it’s real.”

Host: The music swelled again — that furious second movement, all strings and drums, the sound of struggle dressed as triumph. The lamplight flickered as if keeping time.

Jack: “You think Beethoven knew that when he wrote this — that love and confusion sound the same when you’re inside them?”

Jeeny: “He didn’t have to know. He lived it. He wrote deaf, Jack. He couldn’t hear the beauty he was creating — he had to feel it. Maybe that’s why Dudamel fell in love. Because Beethoven teaches you to listen with something deeper than your ears.”

Jack: “With your scars, maybe.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The record reached the final crescendo — wild, aching, triumphant. Jeeny stood slowly, walked to the player, and lifted the needle. The silence that followed felt enormous, alive, like an audience holding its breath after the last note.

Jack: “You ever think music’s just emotion remembering itself?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And listening is how we remember what it means to be human.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re in love with sound itself.”

Jeeny: “I am. Because sound forgives confusion. It turns what we don’t understand into what we feel.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his face lit by the last flicker of the cigarette, the ash trembling before it fell. He looked at Jeeny with something between admiration and surrender.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the trick, then. Don’t run from what you don’t understand — listen until it teaches you how to love it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Dudamel did. That’s what art does. That’s what we all have to do — listen longer.”

Host: The rain outside began to fade, leaving only the faint dripping of water from the eaves. The city was quiet now — as if it, too, had paused to understand something.

Jeeny walked back to her seat, her eyes soft but bright, the glow of music still alive behind them.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe the reason Beethoven lasts is because he reminds us that confusion isn’t failure. It’s the doorway to wonder.”

Jack: “And love’s the echo that never stops.”

Host: She smiled, and for a long moment, they said nothing. The world outside breathed. The record sat still — the silence humming with what had just been.

And in that quiet — after sound, after understanding, after argument —
they felt what Dudamel must have felt:
that impossible moment when confusion becomes devotion,
when misunderstanding becomes music,
and when the heart, finally, says:

I don’t understand it.
But I am in love, in love, in love.