Chapter 117: Art Is a Disease

“Do you recognize me?” The bartender, busy polishing a glass, was caught off guard by the strange question. He set down the glass and looked toward the man who had been unusually silent since entering the bar.

“Sorry, you look a bit unfamiliar. Have we met somewhere before?” The bartender strained to recall, studying Warren’s face, but he couldn’t match this customer to any face in his memory.

“Nothing,” Allen said, tilting his head back and draining his beer before ordering another. He remained silent, eyes fixed on the intoxicating liquid swirling in the glass.

He had been the drummer for a band at this very bar for three whole months, yet even the bartender didn’t recognize him.

Many things reveal their outcomes halfway through, yet some continue regardless—half driven by hope, the other half shackled by the sunk cost fallacy, lacking the courage to quit. He never questioned why he chose such a rebellious life, but now, everything felt utterly meaningless.

“Warren? Is that you?” A hesitant voice called from behind him. He turned to see a somewhat familiar face—a man in a worn jacket and ripped jeans, looking at him expectantly.

“Are you Angus?” Warren asked, uncertain.

“That’s right. Long time no see.” The man, bearing a hippie air, sat beside Warren and ordered a beer. “Still drumming?”

Warren shook his head. “I’ve decided not to be a drummer anymore.”

“Why?” Angus seemed incredulous; Warren’s dedication had left a deep impression on him.

“I don’t meet the bands’ standards anymore, and I’m broke. Just two days ago, I sold my drum set.” Warren took a long swig, the alcohol burning as it slid down his throat.

“God, you’re the most hardworking drummer I’ve ever known. When was the last time we met? If I recall correctly, it was three years ago, and you were already making a name for yourself. Man, you’re joking, right? You know why I hesitated just now to confirm it was you? Because if it was, I figured you’d be at some top-tier restaurant right now, discussing your next gig in New Orleans or Melbourne with music critics.” Angus couldn’t believe it.

“I don’t have the talent to become a top drummer,” Warren’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

“Damn it, you’re the most talented guy I’ve met. You must have been fooled by those so-called band leaders. They’re all jerks who don’t understand jazz. What do they know of art?” Angus was visibly frustrated.

Warren nodded in agreement and took another drink.

“You just haven’t found your chance yet—like Van Gogh or Bach. So many great geniuses were only recognized after their deaths. You shouldn’t give up on your dreams like this, Warren.” Angus’s voice carried a certain magic, and though Warren remained outwardly silent, a spark flickered within the ashes of his heart.

“Do you know Atwood Campbell?” Angus suddenly mentioned an unfamiliar name. Warren shook his head.

“He’s the world’s top jazz critic. That guy spends more time in the Vienna Hall’s review box than in his wife’s bed,” Angus continued. “He’s coming to London.”

Warren’s heart stirred, but before he could speak, Angus finished the thought for him.

“You’ve got to meet him. If he remembers you and mentions your name even slightly in the jazz world, in a few days you’ll be playing at the Royal Albert Hall.” Angus’s expression grew solemn, like a pope preaching to the masses from the Vatican, staff in hand.

“Is that possible?” Warren hesitated.

“Of course, and I promise you’ll meet him.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I have a friend whose father knows Atwood Campbell. He even took me to meet the critic.” Angus smiled proudly.

“So, if I want to invite him to hear me play, can you arrange that?”

“Absolutely, my friend. But you should know this.” Angus paused. “Big shots’ time is precious. You’ll need to buy his dinner time if you want him to listen to you play a piece like ‘Black Page.’”

“How much?” Warren was surprised to hear himself ask. Though the words came from his lips, the voice sounded foreign, as if another person inside him spoke.

“Ten thousand pounds.” Angus dropped the number casually.

“Too expensive,” Warren shook his head.

“If it were just a dinner, yes, it’s expensive. But that ten thousand pounds buys you the chance to meet him. Remember, the hardest thing to come by in life is opportunity. Do you still think it’s expensive now?” Angus smiled and downed his beer in one gulp.

“If you’ve made up your mind, call me.” Angus patted Warren’s shoulder and left him alone at the bar.

“Ten thousand pounds?” Warren muttered to himself. Then, as if recalling something, a thought briefly surfaced before he crushed it. He fought to stop himself from thinking further, yet that seed had quietly taken root in his heart.

Night fell, the bar’s dim lights casting a mysterious glow. On stage, the jazz band’s music wove softly through every corner. Warren stood at the bar; his glass, once full of amber liquid, was now empty. He lowered his head slightly, his throat involuntarily rolling as if savoring the vanished taste.

His gaze drifted across the bar, but familiar faces and lively chatter no longer sparked any interest.

A vague emptiness and loneliness settled over him, as if the entire world had ceased to matter.

He sighed softly and turned toward the exit.

Outside, the night breeze was cool against his face, clearing his mind somewhat.

The alcohol faded, but desire still stirred in his brain. He kept replaying the numbers in his bank account—just tens of thousands of pounds left, the sum needed if Lucas had to undergo a second surgery.

He thought of Lucas’s face, calm beyond his years, and imagined himself standing at a ceremony.

In a daze, Lucas’s face slowly merged with his own. Warren stopped, looked up at the full moon peeking through the clouds, and felt a strange emotion growing uncontrollably within.

He didn’t recall exactly how he dialed the number on the card, but when he regained awareness, he had arranged to meet Atwood Campbell at his hotel tomorrow at six in the evening.

He forgot how he returned to the dark basement. Almost as if to confirm, he opened his phone and stared blankly at a message showing a transfer from an account under the name Warren Griffin. A father had used the money meant to save his son as a stepping stone?

Warren lay in the dim basement, waves of nausea crashing over him. He dry-heaved a few times, then stood.

“Lucas’s surgery was so successful; he won’t need a second one. As long as Atwood Campbell acknowledges my talent, I’ll soon find a well-paying job. Yes, everything will turn out well.” Warren clenched his fist, speaking to himself.

An unfamiliar voice echoed in the empty basement: “I’ve sacrificed too much, abandoned so many things. Now the opportunity is right before me; how can I give up?”

Warren bought a new drum set and fresh clothes. He didn’t want any distractions as he faced an utterly crucial performance.

From afar, he spotted the old man frowning while flipping through a jazz magazine. Atwood Campbell was the epitome of a gentleman—whether by the understated yet costly Italian designer suit he wore or the way he regarded Warren.

Atwood greeted him warmly, and they sat at the table.

Surprisingly, Atwood didn’t talk much about jazz. Instead, he spoke as an elder rather than a top jazz critic.

“Do you love jazz?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Most young people are like you, interested in making sounds from instruments. But I’m sorry, in my view, there are only two kinds of people in this world: those who make noise and those who are musicians. Sadly, I haven’t seen a new face among the latter in many years.” Atwood leisurely cut his steak, his white whiskers twitching with each chew.

“What do you think art is, Mr. Warren?”

“It’s a form of expression, an inner spirit.” Warren hesitated, then shared his thoughts.

Atwood smiled faintly, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “No, art is a disease.”

Warren didn’t know how to reply. Apart from the faint clinking of cutlery, silence fell over the table.

He wasn’t sure what to ask. More than words, he longed to express through his drumming to this old man: Why is it so hard for me to reach my ideals?

The dinner lasted only a few minutes. Atwood glanced at his watch and stood, looking at Warren.

“Those who buy my dinner time never come because they want to eat with an old geezer. They think of other things. I suppose you’re the same. So, let’s get to the point. Time is precious for both of us and should not be wasted.”

Warren rose and followed Atwood. Upon leaving the hotel, the British gentleman called his driver and then asked Warren,

“So, where will you perform?”

In the cramped basement, the audience seats empty, hands numb and encased like cocoons—too many thoughts flooded Warren’s mind. He wanted to say something but remained silent, quietly giving the address of his practice room.

The night stretched long and deep. Atwood, sitting beside him, showed no sign of sensing Warren’s tension.

“How long have you been a drummer?”

“Seven years, sir. Seven years.”

After that, until the car stopped, Atwood said nothing more. The old man gazed out at the rapidly passing scenery, his thoughts unreadable.

Only when Warren sat before his drum set did Atwood remove his glasses and close his eyes. He raised his right hand and spoke solemnly, like a monarch.

“Child, prove to me why you belong there.”

Entering the drum room still slightly anxious, Warren now felt utterly calm. Sitting behind the drums, something seemed to flow into his heart through the instrument. He gripped his sticks, a clear beat beginning to sound within him.

He raised his sticks high and struck down hard—a performance rehearsed countless times in dreams now brought to life.

At that moment, he was no longer a divorced man in his thirties, nor a father. He wasn’t even Warren Griffin. He was simply a drummer—a drummer playing.

When the impromptu solo ended, Atwood applauded, but his words made Warren forget to say thanks.

“Warren, you play well, but something’s missing.”

“What is it?”

“Soul. I want to hear the breath of life, the sigh of existence.”

Warren stood, feeling a lump blocking his throat. He coughed several times before speaking.

“Mr. Atwood Campbell, can I become an excellent drummer?”

“Mr. Warren, you must know this world doesn’t reward passion alone. Every day I see dreamers as numerous as pigeons in the square, but very few ever cross oceans to reach the other shore.” Atwood’s voice held a trace of pity. He had seen too many like Warren—skilled, yet standing outside the halls of greatness. They lacked the potential to become top musicians. But that was no shame; it was God’s fault.

“I’ll contact some bands. Maybe you’ll find a job with one of them.” Atwood said no more. Years had taught him that at such moments, what Warren needed most was solitude. When people face the truth behind the veil, their hearts rarely feel good.

After Atwood left, Warren smashed his drum set and tore up his sheet music. He stood alone amid the wreckage of the drum room, like a lonely child.

“Patient in room 38 shows abnormal physical signs.”

“Postoperative complications? Looks like a second surgery is necessary.”

“Have you called the guardian?”

“No answer.”

“Proceed with the surgery.”

“Doctor, the patient’s account lacks sufficient funds to cover the costs.”

“Perhaps God will bless him.”