music        news/events        bio        contact        recordings Vanishing Cream 2002 narrator piccolo clarinet in Eb harpsichord violin  cello childrens’ percussion ensemble    1: bundt pan, glockenspiel, gong, medium ocean drum, quicha, slapstick    2: bundt pan, gong, large ocean drum, quicha, slapstick, triangle   3: bundt pan, gong, large ocean drum, quicha, tambourine, triangle   4: bundt pan, gong, marimba (with 5), tambourine, tingshas   5: bundt pan, marimba (with 4), shaker, small ocean drum, tingshas    6: bundt pan, marimba (with 7), shaker, small ocean drum, tingshas    7: bundt pan, cowbell, marimba (with 6), sistrum, tingshas    8: bundt pan, marimba (with 9), medium ocean drum, tingshas    9: bundt pan, cabasa, marimba (with 8), medium ocean drum, tingshas duration 27' commissioned by Boston Musica Viva first performance: Steve Aveson with Boston Musica Viva & Marimba Magic, cond. Richard Pittman Tsai Performance Center, Boston / February 2, 2003 SCORE TEXT In the big untidy kitchen there was a drawer. Of course, there were many drawers, but when someone said, 'The string is in the kitchen drawer,' everyone understood. The chances were the string would not be in the drawer. It was meant to be, along with a dozen other useful things that were never there: screwdrivers, scissors, sticky tape, drawing pins, pencils. If you wanted one of these, you looked in the drawer first, then you looked everywhere else. What was in the drawer was hard to define: things that had no natural place, things that had no use but did not deserve to be thrown away, things that might be mended one day. So—batteries that still had a little life, nuts without their bolts, the handle of a precious teapot, a padlock without a key or a combination lock whose secret number was a secret to everyone, the dullest kind of marbles, foreign coins, a torch without a bulb, a single glove from a pair lovingly knitted by Granny before she died, a hot water bottle stopper, a cracked fossil. By some magic reversal, everything spectacularly useless filed the drawer intended for practical tools. What could you do with a single piece of jigsaw? But, on the other hand, did you dare throw it away?  Now and then the drawer was cleared out. Viola Fortune tipped the whole rattling ensemble into the dustbin, and restocked with string, tape, scissors . . . Then, gradually, these precious items left in protest as the junk began to creep back in.  Sometimes, in moments of boredom, Peter opened the drawer hoping the objects would suggest an idea or a game. They never did. Nothing fitted, nothing related. If a million monkeys shook the drawer up for a million years, it was possible the contents might fall together into a radio. But it was certain that the radio would never work, and never get thrown away. And there were other times, like this boring, hot Saturday afternoon, when nothing was going right. Peter wanted to build something, but he could not find any useful bits and the rest of the family would not help. All they wanted to do was laze around on the grass, pretending to sleep. Peter was fed up with them. The drawer seemed to stand for everything that was wrong with his family. What a mess! No wonder he could not think straight. No wonder he was always daydreaming. If he lived on his own he would know where to find screwdrivers and string. If he were by himself, he would know where his thoughts were too. How was he expected to make the great inventions that would change the world when his sister and his parents threw up these mountains of disorder?  On this particular Saturday afternoon, Peter was reaching deeper towards the back of the drawer. He was looking for a hook, but he knew there was little hope. His hand closed round a greasy little spring that had fallen out of the garden clippers. He let it go. Behind it were packets of seeds – too old to plant, not old enough to throw away. What a family, Peter thought as he shoved his hand right to the back of the drawer. Why aren't we like other people, with batteries in everything, and toys that work, and jigsaws and card games with all their bits, and everything in the proper cupboard? His hand closed round something cold. He drew out a small dark blue jar with a black lid. On a white label was printed, 'Vanishing Cream'. He stared at these words a long time, trying to grasp their meaning. Inside was a thick white cream whose surface was smooth. It had never been used. He poked the tip of his forefinger in. The substance was cold–not the hard, fiery cold of ice, but a round, silky, creamy cool. He withdrew his finger and yelped in surprise. His fingertip had gone. Completely vanished. He screwed on the lid and hurried upstairs to his room. He put the jar on a shelf, kicked clothes and toys aside so that he could sit on the floor, with his back against the bed. He needed to think.  First, he examined his forefinger. It was almost as short as his thumb. He felt the space where his missing piece of finger should have been. There was nothing. His fingertip was not simply invisible. It had melted away.  After half an hour of quiet thought, Peter went to his window which overlooked the back garden. The lawn looked like an outdoor version of the kitchen drawer. There were his parents lying face down on blankets, half asleep, soaking up the sunshine. Between them lay Kate who probably thought it looked grown-up to sunbathe. Surrounding the trio was the debris of their wasted Saturday afternoon–teacups, teapot, newspapers, half-eaten sandwiches, orange peel, empty yoghurt cartons. He stared at his family resentfully. You could do nothing with these people. But nor could you throw them away. Or rather, well, perhaps . . . He took a deep breath, put the little blue jar in his pocket and went downstairs.  Peter knelt down beside his mother. She murmured dozily.  'You should be careful of sunburn, Mum,' Peter said kindly. 'Would you like me to rub some cream on your back?'  Viola Fortune mumbled something that sounded like a yes. He took out the jar. It was difficult to unscrew the lid with a missing forefinger. He slipped on the single glove he had collected on his way through the kitchen. His mother's white back gleamed in the sunlight. Everything was ready. There was no doubt in Peter's mind that he loved his mother dearly, and that she loved him. She had taught him how to make toffee, and how to read and write. She had once jumped out of an airplane with a parachute and she looked after him at home when he was ill. She was the only mother he knew who could stand on her head unsupported. But he had made his decision, and she had to go. He scooped out a dollop of cold cream on the end of his gloved finger. The glove did not disappear. The magic seemed to work only on living tissue. He let the blob fall right in the middle of his mother's back.  'Oh,' she sighed, without much conviction. 'That really is cold.' Peter began to spread the cream evenly, and his mother immediately began to vanish. There was an unpleasant moment when her head and legs were still on the grass, with nothing in between. He quickly rubbed another fingerful across her head and ankles. She was gone.  The ground where she had lain was flattened, but even as he watched, the blades were straightening up. Peter took the little blue pot over to his father. 'Looks like you're burning, Dad,' Peter said, 'Want me to rub some cream on?'  'No,' his father said, without opening his eyes. But Peter had already dug out a fat blob and was spreading it across is father's shoulders. Now, there was no one in the world Peter loved as much as his father, except his mother. And it was clear as sunlight that his father loved him. Thomas Fortune still kept a 500cc motorbike in the garage (another item that could not be thrown away) and he gave Peter rides on it. He had taught Peter how to whistle, how to do up his shoelaces in a special way, and how to throw people over your head. But Peter had made his decision, and his father had to go. This time he worked the cream from feet to head in less than a minute, and all that was left on the grass were Thomas Fortune's reading glasses.  Only Kate remained. She lay contentedly, face down, between two vanished parents. Peter looked in the blue jar. Just enough left for one small person. He would have been slow to admit that he loved his sister. A sister was simply there, whether you wanted her or not. But she was fun to play with when she was in a good mood, and she had the kind of face that made you want to talk to her, and it probably was true that underneath it all he did love her, and she him. Still, he had made up his mind, and she had to go.  He knew it would be a mistake to ask Kate if she wanted cream rubbed on her back. She would immediately suspect a trick. Children were harder to fool than grown-ups. He ran his finger round the bottom of the jar and he was just about to let drop on her a medium-sized globule when she opened her eyes and saw his gloved hand.  'What are you doing?' she shrieked. She leaped up, knocking Peter's arm and causing the cream intended for her back to splatter over her head. She was on her feet, clawing at her scalp. 'Mum, Dad, he's put muck on me,' she wailed.  'Oh no,' Peter said. Kate's head, as well as her hands, was disappearing. And now she was running round the garden like a headless chicken, waving her shortened arms. She would have been screaming if she had had a mouth to scream with. This is terrible, Peter thought as he started after her. 'Kate! Listen to me. Stop!' But Kate had no ears. She kept on running in ever widening circles, until she collided with the garden wall and bounced back into Peter's arms. What a family! he thought, as he smeared the last of the vanishing cream over Kate. What a relief it was when at last she was gone and there was peace in the garden.  First of all he wanted the place tidy. He collected the litter on the lawn and tipped it into the dustbin–teapot, cups and all, thereby saving on washing-up. From now on the house was going to run efficiently. He took a large plastic bag up to his bedroom and stuffed it with loose items. Everything left lying in his path was deemed rubbish–clothes on the floor, toys on the bed, extra pairs of shoes. He patrolled the house gathering up loose objects that looked untidy. He dealt with his sister's and parents' bedrooms by simply closing the doors. He stripped the living-room of ornaments, cushions, framed photographs and books. In the kitchen, he cleared the shelves of plates, cookery books and jars of disgusting pickles. When he had finished his work at the end of the afternoon, there were eleven bags of household junk lined up by the dustbins.  He made himself supper–a white sugar sandwich. Afterwards, he chucked his plate and knife into the rubbish. Then he strolled through the house, admiring the empty rooms. Now at last he could think straight, now at last he could set about inventing his inventions, as soon as he had found a pencil and a clean sheet of paper. The problem was that loose items like pencils were probably in one of the eleven bags by the dustbin. Never mind. Before the hard work started he would spend a few minutes in front of the TV. Television was not forbidden in the Fortune household, but nor was it encouraged. The daily ration was one hour. More than that, the Fortunes believed, would rot the brain. They offered no medical evidence for this theory. It was six in the evening when Peter sat down in the armchair with a litre of lemonade, a kilogram of toffees and a sponge cake. That night he watched a week's worth. It was just after one in the morning when he lurched to his feet and stumbled into the dark hallway. 'Mum,' he called. 'I'm going to be sick.' He stood over the lavatory bowl waiting for the worst. It did not come. What did was more unpleasant. From upstairs came a sound that was difficult to describe. It was a kind of squeaking, flip-flopping, squelching footstep, as though a slimy creature was tiptoeing across a giant puddle of green jelly. Peter's sickness disappeared, and terror took its place. He stood at the foot of the stairs. He turned on the light and peered up. 'Dad.' he croaked. 'Dad?' No answer.  No use trying to sleep downstairs. There were no blankets, and he had thrown out all the cushions. He began to climb the stairs. Each step creaked and gave him away. His heartbeat was thudding in his ears. He thought he heard the sound again, but he could not be sure. He stopped and held his breath. Only hissing silence and his knocking heart. He edged up another three steps. If only Kate were in her room, talking to her dolls. He was four steps from the landing. If there was a monster shuffling backwards and forwards through a puddle of jelly it had stopped and was waiting for him. His bedroom door was six paces away. He counted to three and made a dash for it. He slammed his door behind him, bolted it and leaned against it, waiting.  He was safe. His room looked bare and menacing. He got into bed with his clothes and shoes on, ready to climb out the window should the monster break down his door. That night Peter did not sleep, he ran. He ran through his dreams, down echoing halls, across a desert of stones and scorpions, down ice mazes, along a sloping pink stodgy tunnel with dripping walls. This was when he realized he was not being chased by the monster. He was running down its throat.  He woke with a start and sat up. Outside it was light. It was late morning perhaps, or early afternoon. The day already had a used-up feel. He unbolted his door and stuck his head out. Silence. Emptiness. He drew the curtains in his room. Sunlight flooded in and he began to feel braver. Outside was birdsong, traffic noise, the sound of a lawn-mower. When darkness returned, so too would the monster. What was needed, he thought, was a booby trap. If he was going to think straight and invent his invention, then he had to settle the monster for good. He needed–let's see–twenty drawing pins, a torch, something heavy on the end of a piece of string attached to a pole . . .  These thoughts brought him downstairs and into the kitchen. He pulled open the drawer. He was pushing aside a packet of birthday cake candle holders that had half-melted last time they were used when he noticed his forefinger. It was all there! It had grown back. The effects of the cream had worn off. He was just beginning to consider what this might mean when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The monster? No, Kate, all of her, all in one piece.  Peter started jabbering. 'Thank goodness you're here. I need your help. I'm making a booby trap. You see, there's this thing . . .'  Kate was pulling on his hand. 'We've been calling you for ages from the garden. And you've just been standing there, looking at the drawer. Come and see what we're doing. Dad's got an old lawn-mower engine. We're going to make a hovercraft.  'A hovercraft!'  Peter let himself be led outside. Cups, orange peel, newspapers, and his parents—unvanished. 'Come on,' called his mother. 'Come and help.'  Thomas Fortune had a spanner in his hand. 'It might just work,' he said, 'with your help.'  As Peter ran towards his parents he wondered what day it was. Still Saturday? he decided not to ask.  Ian McEwan (b.1948)