Preludes, page 25
And so, at the appointed hour, Fred arrived at Anne’s apartment with his cello case in hand, ready to play.
This time, with sheets of printed music before them, they did more detailed rehearsing. “These lines here,” Anne mentioned a section, “where it sounds like it’s just harmony at first, that is where we should really pass the passage back and forth. Then the melody will emerge from the two instruments. Let’s give that a try.”
“Yes. I see what you’ve done, using the different registers of the cello to function both as the melody instrument, as well as to fill in for the figured bass part when the piano takes over. It’s masterful. And more importantly, I think, it sounds lovely. Alright, let’s try that section again. Is this the transitional note here?” He played a couple of bars and they discussed the structure of the piece before playing together once more.
It was nice. It was more than nice. Anne knew she was a competent pianist, if nothing special, and had played in several ensembles through the years. Sometimes she had played with singers for wedding gigs, or with a violin and cello to make up a piano trio, or with slightly larger groups such as piano quintets. There was something she particularly loved about these small ensembles. They were intimate, the company of musicians more akin to a gathering of friends, the music itself more of a conversation, rather than the grand pronouncements of a larger work such as her symphony.
But playing with Fred was something beyond even that. They completed each other’s musical thoughts. He was a particularly fine cellist, but moreover, he was a first-rate musician. He understood music like it was his mother tongue. Not the Italian of his childhood home, not the English he grew up with in the city, but music. Pure, unadulterated, blissful music. Pitch, rhythm, melody and harmony: these were his most essential thoughts. The musical phrases came as naturally as the words he spoke, his fingers and bow speaking more eloquently than Ben’s admittedly fine verse.
How she had missed this, playing music with someone who understood her almost as well as she did herself. They might have to stop playing to work out a transition or to refine a detail, but the essence of the music, the vital communication, the meeting of hearts and minds, was there intact from the beginning. Making music with Fred was as sensuous and intimate and elemental as making love with Fred. It was a connection at the deepest level, beyond words and beyond thought. It was the merging of souls.
“It’s a beautiful piece.” Fred leaned back in his chair and balanced his cello on one leg as he loosened the hairs on his cello bow and rubbed some loose rosin powder from the wood. “It deserves to be heard more than just once.” He stood up, stretching out his shoulder muscles from the physical work of playing.
“Oh. Thanks.” Anne gathered her sheet music into a pile and slipped it into the folder she had assigned for the purpose. “It’s a simple enough melody, but I was pleased at how the interwoven lines turned out. What I hear in my head doesn’t always work out in practice.” She watched as Fred placed his cello into the solid fibreglass case. He rubbed satiny wood with a soft cloth, caressing the instrument’s luscious curves, like a lover touching his beloved. Her body ached in memory. She gave herself a mental shake and returned to matters more mundane.
“Can I make some tea? I have a poppy seed babka from the bakery around the corner. Or would you prefer coffee? I’ve got espresso and decaf…”
She was rambling. She had so much to say, and she was so afraid of how it would come out. Of how he would react. But he surprised her by his own announcement.
“Annie, we should talk.” He closed the case and walked over to her at the piano. “Let’s have a tea and a chat.” He moved to the kitchen and put on the kettle. Of course. He knew her apartment, knew where things were kept.
She followed him and got out two mugs and some plates for the babka. They moved at their tasks in silence, comfortable and tense at once. How many times had they done this, worked side by side in the kitchen, making a meal or preparing a snack? It was as if they had never been apart, and yet it was strange and unsettling in all the best ways. Words kept taunting her tongue, promising eloquence before dissolving into nothingness before she could give voice to them. Did he feel the same?
She glanced over. He looked so calm, so at ease. Perhaps this was all in her own mind. She chastised herself for her silliness and dedicated herself to finding a suitable plate for the babka and bringing out the sugar bowl for tea.
At last, settled on the couch, side by side but not touching, Fred took a sip of tea and broached the topic, the elephant in the room.
“What do you feel about it?”
“About what?” She knew exactly what, but needed to understand his intentions perfectly. It was only when playing music, it seemed, that she could sense his every thought.
“Ben and Louisa. Us. But for now, Ben and Louisa. It’s very sudden.”
Was he trying to avoid the topic they both knew was lurking, treacherous reefs just below the placid-looking surface? She swallowed and nodded. “He seems very sure, like every roadblock in the world is just a little snag to be worked around.”
“Mmmm. I hope he’s not being too precipitous. A few months ago, he was ready to starve himself to death on the floor of my empty flat in Rome because of Claudia. When I found him, he hadn’t eaten in days. Now he’s marrying somebody else. To go from such black despair to such elation doesn’t seem normal.”
“He certainly isn’t the same man I met last August. I thought it would start raining inside every time he entered a room. Now he’s Mr. Sunshine and Rainbows. Is this sort of mood swing usual for him?”
Fred shrugged. “Not from what I’ve ever known. He’s always been a bit melancholy. I sometimes wondered if it was real or affected, if he was trying too hard to be the tortured poet.”
Anne laughed. “That is exactly what I thought when I first met him! I wondered which particular Romantic Poet he was trying the most to personify.”
“He seems genuinely happy now. Almost like this is the person he’s had inside him all these years that I’ve known him, finally given the freedom to come out.” He took a bite of pastry. “It’s as if Louisa was the key that set him free from this affected persona he had created for himself. For the first time since I’ve known him, I feel like he isn’t pretending.”
“Do you think he’s right? That this will really work between the two of them? You know Louisa better than I do.” After all, although she didn’t say it, he had been all but a couple with her for much of the summer.
Another shrug. “I hope so. I would never have imagined them as a match, but perhaps there really is more to Louisa than I discovered. Perhaps they really are just grabbing at what life has bestowed upon them. Love, after all, is not something one should throw away. Who knows when you might find it again.”
His eyes bore into hers. What was he saying? Was this some sort of apology? Was he asking her something? Or was it another accusation?
This was the time. This is when she had to stiffen her spine and speak. Tell him how much she had missed him, tell him how much she thought only of him. She knew he believed she and William were a couple, and she could not really blame him. William certainly had been working hard to give that impression, and she, she admitted, had not taken any steps to counter it. If Fred thought she and William were in love, it was only her own fault. He could not know that she had hardly thought of William at all since he had dashed off on business before Christmas. She didn’t even know when he was expected back in town. How could he know if she hadn’t told him?
She had been devastated by his desertion eight years ago. Was he now feeling that she had abandoned him? His eyes, dark and veiled, met hers and then flashed away. Perhaps he still cared. Perhaps there was still a chance.
The weight of the moment was too much to bear. She had to say something. She took a fortifying gulp of tea and a deep breath. “Fred, I—”
Her phone rang. Damned device. It was loud, too. They had been using an app as a metronome and the volume was set high and it resonated through the bluetooth speaker by the piano.
She wanted to ignore it, but the synthesised tones sliced through her thoughts, breaking her focus for just that moment. It was enough. She stopped mid-sentence, unable to go on. The words stuck, part way between thought and execution, and she couldn’t find them again.
“Where is the phone? I’ll refuse the call and turn it off. Where did I put it?” She jumped up, almost spilling her tea. Her eyes darted about the room in search of the offending item. The bluetooth connection to the speaker made it impossible to locate the device by sound.
There. There it was, on the small set of shelves by the piano. In a moment, she reached for it to turn off the ringer.
“It’s alright. You can answer it.” Fred looked deflated. There was resignation in his voice and gesture. Had he known what she wanted to say? Or had he dreaded something else?
Anne glanced down, her eyes moving without her permission. “It’s William.” She spoke without thinking. For some reason, she tried to avoid mentioning William in Fred’s hearing, and vice versa. It wasn’t a matter of trying to hide infidelity, more one of conscience. Still, as by some sort of arrangement with herself, she refrained from talking about William in front of Fred, and she never mentioned Fred when she was with William.
Fred’s reaction confirmed the wisdom of her actions. His face went hard and blank and he began shifting about. He put his half-finished plate of babka aside and stood up.
The phone stopped ringing and a moment later, another beep informed her of a message.
“It’s okay. Return the call. I need to get going.”
“Please, we need to talk. This can wait.”
She stared at the now-silent phone, but Fred was already dragging his cello to the door. “I’ll call you about the next rehearsal.” He found his jacket in the small front closet and wrestled himself into it, then shoved a woollen hat over his thick hair. In a moment he was gone, leaving Anne staring alternately at the door and at her phone.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Crescendo
Anne pushed her faux-fur-trimmed hood off her head and waited for the last droplets of melting snow to drip onto the mat. She caught a glimpse of herself in her hall mirror. Those tendrils of hair that looked so cute in the summer were less fun now that winter clothing was necessary. Hats, hoods, scarves… they all kept her nice and warm, but were unkind to her hairdo. How did Sophia manage it? No matter the season, her friend always looked so put-together. She could step inside from a blizzard and look like someone had just spent an hour making her look just right.
Perhaps it was time for another visit to the salon. Or perhaps she should just invest in some hair bands and cute indoor hats until the weather was more conducive to her new look. It was late January, almost February. It would only be two or three more months of winter headgear, right?
She tossed her hat onto the rack by the front door, hung up her heavy winter coat, and then took her tote bag to the couch. This morning had been busy with another session with the orchestra as they did more collaborative work on her symphony.
As arranged through a series of emails, Fred led the orchestra through the first movement, playing it and doing some spot rehearsing where technical or musical issues were obvious. Then, after the break, he had convened a sort of round-table to discuss it. This was one of the new initiatives with her position. She didn’t know if it had ever been done before, and it was… illuminating.
At first the musicians had been quiet, no one wanting to say anything even remotely negative about her piece. It had taken a great deal of coaxing on her part, and some initial comments from Fred, to break the ice and get the orchestra members to speak up.
“At the very beginning,” he had begun, “when the big wall of sound starts to break up to reveal the melody, do you not think it’s still a bit dense, harmonically speaking? I can ask these talented people to lighten up even more, and they will do a fine job of it, but this symphony is terrific enough that it won’t always be in the hands of such excellent musicians. Would it be worth thinning the parts a bit more so a… a less accomplished crew would still produce the same effect?”
“Oh, thank you!” the first oboist responded. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I did feel like I couldn’t play quietly enough to suit the music and still be heard.”
There followed a discussion about the intent behind this introductory passage. The symphony began with a great block of sound, every instrument playing at once in a grand triumph of harmony, a great edifice of sonority, before, one by one and section by section, they died down and dropped out, leaving only the barest harmonic cushion upon which the solo oboe melody could float.
But not bare enough, it seemed. Anne had agreed. The orchestra could indeed do what she asked to create the desired effect, but it felt strained. She had said as much to the orchestra and taken some notes, and the discussion had grown from there.
And so it had gone for over an hour. It was sobering to hear these thoughts, especially as the orchestra had warmed up to the idea and had stopped trying to polish their points into something perfectly harmless and palatable. She was used to hearing critiques from her professor and the two or three other composers with whom she shared thoughts and ideas; from most people she usually heard only raves. But it was also edifying. They had not been cruel or dismissive at all, their comments only paving the way to a better piece of music.
She would be a better composer for hearing what they had to say.
She threw herself onto the couch and pulled out her tablet and made a few notes, hoping she had written down all the pertinent points the musicians had raised.
And this was, after all, what she had hoped for in accepting the position. She had accepted the role of composer-in-residence, part of a collaborative project. It was exactly what she wanted and needed.
Fred had been everything professional and courteous. Since that night last week when William had called during their aborted tête-à-tête, he had not contacted her, other than to discuss plans for this morning’s session and to arrange for a final rehearsal before Ben’s wedding. The conversations had been short, almost to the point of rudeness. There had been no comfortable chats, no familiarities.
She couldn’t blame him. But she missed him, nonetheless.
This time when the phone rang, she answered it right away.
It was Ben.
“Let’s grab a cuppa somewhere. Things are about to get busy for me and we haven’t had a good chit-chat in a while. I’ve got so much I want to talk about. Can you spare an hour or so for me?”
He sounded excited and a little nervous. Was he having second thoughts? If nothing else, Anne knew how to listen and be a good friend.
“No problem. Name the time and place. The only time I’m busy is Wednesday evening when I’m babysitting my nephews. Tomorrow morning?”
“Brilliant. Louisa has a rehearsal, so it’s a perfect time. That place we’ve been to before? Ten o’clock, see you then.”
He was waiting when she arrived. She ordered a cup of coffee and some fresh toast with cream cheese and took her breakfast to Ben’s table. He had an empty cup in front of him and went to get a refill before settling in for a chat.
“You sounded anxious on the phone yesterday,” Anne began. “What’s up? Getting cold feet? You’ve got two weeks before your wedding. There’s still time to run away.”
Ben laughed. He didn’t sound anxious now. “No! Nothing like that at all. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. She’s wonderful, Anne. I’ve never known anything like this connection I have with her. I thought I loved Claudia, but I know better now. I was gutted when Claudia left me. I thought my life was over. But really, leaving was the best thing she could have done, because that’s why I met Lou.”
“It’s not just a rebound? Sorry, but I had to say it.”
Ben’s expression was hurt. “You don’t mean that, Annie. Not really. No, this is real. This is what I was missing all that time. When I’m with Louisa, I feel complete, and I never felt that with Claudia. No,” his eyes lit up, “now my life is perfect.”
Anne had always imagined that brides glowed with incandescent joy. She had seen Louisa at the rehearsal yesterday, and she seemed happy enough. Her smile was wide and genuine and she exuded an aura of absolute satisfaction with the world, from the sparkling sapphire ring on her finger to the tips of her now-magenta hair. But even her overt happiness was nothing to what Anne saw from this beaming, radiant man who sat across from her. He was the bridegroom and not the bride, but it made his joy no less palpable.
“Then I am delighted for you.” She did not say that she once felt the same way about his best friend. Maybe still did. “So, what did you want to talk about? Anything specific, or did you just want to gush about your bride?”
He leaned back in his chair, balancing briefly on the two rear legs before settling back onto solid ground. For a moment, his face took on that dreamy look that she thought only existed in novels. “I could talk about her all day, I could! But no, that’s not what I had in mind.” He grew a bit more serious. “I want to talk a bit about you. You and this bloke you’ve been going with. William Barnett. Tell me more about him.”
She frowned. “About William? We’re not— Why?” Suspicion at his motives stopped her words.
Ben gave a one-shouldered shrug.
She narrowed her eyes. “What did you want to know? He’s on the orchestra’s board of directors. That’s how I met him. And he’s a fascinating man. He’s well read and knows a lot about art and music. He minored in art history at university and played in the university orchestra for a while. He certainly knows a lot more about art than I do, and when we go to exhibits or shows, his comments are often much more interesting and informative than the official plaques on the walls.”
