Preludes, page 10
“That’s not very flattering, Soph.”
She heard a chuckle from the other end of the line. “You know what I mean. No, I’ve heard nothing against him. No rumours of nasty goings-on in the back rooms or the bedrooms, no whispers or allegations. No Reddit threads. You really haven’t been alone with him? It’s been weeks since you started going out.”
“We’re not ‘going out.’ We’re just… doing things together.”
If you could hear somebody roll her eyes, Anne heard Sophia. “Potato, potahto, Annie dear. Go. Enjoy the day. You can call me from the car so he knows that I know, if it helps. Tell me about it when you get home.”
Chapter Eleven
Allegretto
William came by Anne’s building at ten o’clock the next morning. She had risen early to work on the suite for choir she had been commissioned to compose, and was happy with her progress so far. The second movement was all but complete, with its delicate trills in the sopranos and its syncopated rhythms in the tenors. It was bright and cheerful, an ode to spring, a counterpoint to the stately first movement. It was ready to be set aside until the third movement was complete. Then she could listen to the entire composition as a whole and work on the changes and reworking that would be needed to bring it all together.
Now for the third movement. She had her text, excerpts from a poem by nineteenth-century Canadian author and poet E. Pauline Johnson. She had read and absorbed the words until she knew them by heart, had picked apart the poetry for meaning and rhythm, and had spoken to an English professor at the University about the piece in case she had missed something of import in the words. Now she only had to wait for the music that would arrive to set them to their best advantage.
There’s a spirit on the river, there’s a ghost upon the shore,
They are chanting, they are singing through the starlight evermore,
As they steal amid the silence,
And the shadows of the shore.
There was a beauty and power to the words, one she did not want to disturb with forced melody. It would come to her. She hoped. In the meantime, she would allow her subconscious to work while she enjoyed the day with William.
He was already there when she stepped out of the elevator and into her building’s lobby. This was not a man to make a lady wait. He opened the car door for her and waited until she was seated to close it. In a moment, Anne thought jokingly, he would lay his cloak down across puddles so she could cross without getting her delicate feet wet in the mud. Still, while it was very old-fashioned, it was nice to be treated with such attention.
“Do you listen to music when you drive?” he asked as they merged onto the highway heading out of town. “I usually have something on, but I didn’t want to presume… music probably means something very different to you than to me. I just enjoy the pretty sounds. For you, it might be something of a busman’s holiday.”
Considerate again.
“Some music would be fine. What do you like?”
He nodded to his phone, which sat in the well between them. “The playlist is up. Feel free to scan through it. It’s hooked up to the Bluetooth, so when you find something you like, just hit play.”
She did as invited, and soon the sounds of Bach’s Brandenburg concertos filled the car. They were beautiful and intricate, but comfortable, like an old friend. Perfect driving music.
The highway slipped through the city, a long grey ribbon that carried with it all manner of vehicles from low sleek sports cars to hulking rigs and trailers. From the luxurious comfort of William’s car, it seemed as if they were staying still with the city and its inhabitants all rushing past them. The cabin allowed in only the barest trace of noise from outside; instead of the sounds of the road, all they heard was the soft cushion of Bach and the gentle ebb and flow of conversation. Outside their insulated bubble, the world rushed along at its relentless speed. The tall buildings of downtown gave way to lower structures and light industrial parks, which in turn tapered to parkland and vast fields. And through it all, the highway carried them, first along the lakefront and then northward and out of town.
They talked of everything and nothing, that pleasant but meaningless conversation that simply passes the time but then is forgotten. The weather, the upcoming summer music festival, the annual September book fair that took over the city’s streets. Had Anne ever gone to a reading? What did she think of crowded outdoor patios? Was a cloudy day preferable to one sunny but too hot?
It was all perfectly appropriate conversation for a drive, interesting enough to keep both parties engaged and satisfied, not so deep as to distract the driver from the road. It was comfortable. The silver road slipped through the countryside, and the time passed quickly.
“Nearly there,” William exclaimed as they passed a signpost. “Just another few kilometres to our exit.”
He was a good and confident driver, and within minutes, he guided the car into the exit lane and off the highway. A right turn here, a ten-minute drive, a left, and soon they were entering a small town. As they crested a low hill, Anne could see the blue lake in the distance, sunlight dimpling off the bright water.
“The development is on the far side of town, with access to the little harbour.” William turned down a street that led through a small downtown. It was, in many ways, typical of small-town Ontario. The commercial area was perhaps three blocks long, lined with rows of three- and four-storey buildings that looked to date from the early 1900s. Some were older, some were newer, but it was clear that very little development had taken place in over a century. Until now.
There, in the distance, just past the 1950s school building, and down the road towards the lake, towered a huge yellow crane. As they came closer, Anne noticed rows of cars and SUVs—belonging to the work crews, she imagined—and then a veritable armada of work trucks and other construction vehicles. They passed a small kiosk at the side of the worksite, where William waved at the person inside, and they entered the area.
“Well?” William beamed as he helped Anne from the car. “What do you think?” He gestured to the work-in-progress around them with the puffed pride of a new father showing off his offspring.
It was, to Anne’s eyes, a forest of steel and concrete. The bones of the buildings were there, waiting for the cladding of organ and muscle and skin—pipes and ducts and walls—to be completed.
The townhouses were closer to completion than was the taller condominium building, looking very much as they would when families began to move in. They lacked nice gardens and paved drives, but from the outside, at least, the buildings were finished. The tower—all eight storeys of it—was more of a work-in-progress. There was no gaping pit, but the structure was still very much in its skeletal stages, tall shafts of steel protruding from the solid concrete that formed its base. Like high, stacked chords emerging from a thick bed of supporting sound, a sturdy framework on which to hang the luxuries of walls and electricity, melody and ornament.
Mine is the undertone;
The beauty, strength, and power of the land
Will never stir or bend at my command;
But all the shade
Is marred or made,
If I but dip my paddle blade;
And it is mine alone.
The words of Pauline Johnson’s poem were already in her mind. Now, as the leaves swirled in the imagined landscape of the evocative passage, so did the notes in Anne’s head, a note here, a leaf there, until they came together in an eddy of light and sound and colour and tone. The strong power of the land, the undertone of permanence and solidity, the tall reaching trees, stretching to the opal-hued heavens of the first verse.
Where softly swings
The music of a thousand wings
That almost tones to sadness.
She could hear it, a single descant soprano voice soaring above the lush forest of harmony like a bright bird against the midsummer sky, looking down on the peacefulness of this landscape. She closed her eyes and committed the melody to memory, and then, to be safe, reached into her tote for her tablet and stylus to make some notes.
“Anne?”
How long had she been standing there? Had she been staring into space like she had lost her senses? Was it seconds? Minutes? She blinked and called the world back to her.
“Anne? Everything alright?”
“Yes. Sorry, William. It’s a piece I’m writing. It just came to me, seeing this…” She turned slowly in place to take in the sights that surrounded them.
“This?” He chuckled. “It’s hardly picturesque. In a few months, perhaps, or when the marina is complete and we’re out on the water…” He gave a quick shrug. “But all I see now is dirt and girders.”
He was correct, of course. There was little beauty in the harsh steel and rough concrete. But there was promise. The seeds were there. The inspiration.
“It was more the idea than the reality. The pilings are a foundation of sound. The beams are strong shafts of chords… It’s hard to explain. Sometimes ideas come, almost from nowhere.”
“That is a true gift.”
“Only sometimes. They don’t always come. Then I need to go hunting for them. That feels almost rude, like I’m disturbing a melody when it just wants to lie hidden. But I have to force it out into the open, and they don’t always like that.”
He was staring at her.
“You must think I’m mad.”
He pulled her into a one-shoulder hug. “Mad, in the most charming way possible. We should all have your sort of madness, Anne. What a beautiful place the world would be then.”
He released her and caught her hand with his. “I have a surprise for you. It’s August ninth today.”
She nodded at him. A little black rock settled in her stomach. She had hoped nobody would know.
“You hadn’t said anything, and I didn’t want to presume, but according to the orchestra’s website, it’s your birthday. I was presumptuous enough to order some cupcakes from one of the local bakeries. Do you mind?”
He asked with such concern in his eyes she could only forgive him. It was not his fault that she disliked the fuss that usually accompanied birthdays, and if the full extent of his presumption was a plate of cupcakes, that she could well stand.
“Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”
He led her past the nascent condominium building to where a lonely picnic table sat overlooking the harbour. A young man in jeans and a yellow t-shirt and matching hardhat was setting out a few small things, and at William’s wave, he nodded and walked away. This was not like Sophia’s grand spread in Niagara those few weeks ago, but it was welcome, nonetheless.
Two steaming paper cups of coffee stood waiting for the addition of milk and sugar, and a plastic box posed proudly between them, the clear casing showing off the towering piles of swirled frosting underneath. There were no ribbons or balloons, no edible sequins or birthday candles, just two rather elegant cupcakes. If she had to celebrate her birthday at all, this was perfect.
She told him as much with a huge grin and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was, she realised, the first time she had initiated any sort of real intimacy, even as tame as this.
He beamed back at her and invited her to sit so they could enjoy their late morning treat.
But all through the snack and the tour that followed, all Anne could think of was the snatch of melodic inspiration that had struck her earlier.
Later on, Anne had only fragmentary recollections of the day. She retained flashes of the semi-complete townhouses, of the concrete-walled tower, of the embryonic marina. A map-like image of the wide crescent of homes flitted through her mind, melding into the plotted out community centre and the posted plans and charts in the portable that housed the site office. William had spoken on and on about his project, and she hoped she had responded suitably. Her face hurt from trying to smile all day.
It had been a monumental effort to appear interested when all she wanted to do was come home and compose. The music had taken root in her brain, in her soul, and it screamed to be set free. The seeds had germinated and the plant must burst out of its casing and push through the soil into the light, to strive for the sun. To refuse this was to condemn it to death.
He had asked her once or twice on the drive home about the piece and she had answered the best she could. It was a suite for choir, based on the poetry of a Canadian poet, suitable for an advanced amateur group with strong singers. Her music was all original, not based on existing folk songs, but she hoped to evoke the feeling of traditional melodies through her use of modalities and strong rhythmic patterns.
He nodded and asked some more questions, and she could see his interest was genuine, yet she knew he didn’t understand. Not really. No more than she understood the allure of an empty lot, begging to become a cottage community, or the need to pursue wealth for its own sake rather than for the comforts a good income could provide. She understood, sort of. But not really.
Fred would get it. He would understand completely. The translation of concrete to harmony, of sunlight to melody, of steel to chordal progressions. The way the music filled her body and her mind until it was bursting. The compulsion to write it down, to work on it, to coax it into its best possible form. He would understand every bit of it. This was his life, too.
But Fred was gone.
She worked on her piece all that night and through the next day. Sophia left a message wishing her a happy birthday and asking about her day, which she ignored for the time being. She also ignored an email from Jasmine to finalise their coffee date. There was nothing from Marie.
By the second evening, she had enough of her piece written down that she could now step back and let it bubble for a few days. Like a stew on a slow burner or a wine that needs ageing, the space of time here was the magic that let her approach her creation anew and massage the raw form into something neater, tighter, more perfect. Like the mythical bears who licked their infant cubs into shape, she could now caress and stroke and guide her new movement into something approaching its polished form. But for now, she would let it sit.
“Anne, I wondered what happened to you,” Sophia gushed when Anne finally returned her call. “So? William? How was the trip?”
“It was fine.” How was that for damning with faint praise? “I mean, it was interesting. I’ve never been on a building site before. Things are closer to finished than not, but still, walking through a building before it’s put its clothes on is something new to me. Did he tell you about the ballroom?”
“The ballroom? Oh, at the condo tower. Yes. He’s offered it for fundraisers and functions. Did you see it?”
Anne laughed. “There’s not much to see now, but if you use your imagination, it’s wonderful. It’s a huge space, and they’re putting in a surrounding balcony and even an orchestra gallery so the music can come from above. I think he sees it as a venue for weddings as well as community needs, and it’s going to be wonderful. He tried to describe his vision for the clothing—the decor, I guess—but all I could see was some fabulous ballroom scene from a Jane Austen production. You know - those pastel dresses and tight breeches and long sets of dancers with the crowds drinking punch along the walls. Throw in some pale celandine-green walls and crisp white columns and trim, and I’ll be writing minuets for them to dance to.”
“And William himself?”
“Really, Soph, you’re a yenta.”
“Nonsense. That was my grandmother. I just want you to be happy. I know, I know. You are happy. But are you really, Annie? I always feel like there’s a light that’s gone out somewhere in your past. I wish you’d tell me about it sometime. So? William? Spill already.”
Another chuckle. “He is very nice. He was everything a gentleman should be. He had even arranged a very small birthday celebration with cupcakes. Apparently, my birthdate is on the orchestra’s website, which I should ask to be removed. He really was so excited to show me the place, he was like a little boy with a new pet. I hope I was enthusiastic enough about it. But I got an idea for my choir commission, and I’m afraid my mind was focussed elsewhere.”
“If your mind was lost in your music, I don’t think he noticed. He called to talk to Jeremy last night, and he spent most of the time talking about you.”
“What? Jeremy told you this?”
“Not necessary. He had the phone on speaker since he was working at his painting. I heard the whole thing. If you were distracted, our Mr. Barnett didn’t notice at all.”
Was this supposed to reassure her? Anne gave a little sigh. The man was charming and excellent company, to be sure, but it seemed he didn’t really understand her at all.
Chapter Twelve
Sforzando
The days turned into weeks, and before long, September was on the horizon. With the orchestra’s season starting so soon, announcements and advertisements were all over the press, and Frederico Valore’s handsome face was plastered all over the city. On flyers, on posters in the subway and bus shelters, in the newspapers, he was there wherever Anne looked.
She thought she was immune by now, that all this recent exposure had inured her to him. But every glance pricked another hole into her heart. Anger at his cruel departure; pain at the loss. She had sworn never to put up those walls again, but she also felt she would never really heal.
The concert season was also being broadcast far and wide.
The National
Philharmonic Orchestra
Introducing our new conductor
Frederico Valore
In a special concert of favourite pieces
Elliot ~ Preludes
Beethoven ~ Symphony no.5
Holst ~ The Planets
