Preludes, page 30
But now I hear that I was wrong, that you are not marrying him. I cannot speak to you tonight, my thoughts being where they are, but I have to try to be heard. You pierce my soul, Anne. You leave me in agony, but also in hope.
I once told you I was no poet. But for you, I will try.
There once was a very proud man
Whose life went according to plan
But he learned his success
Always felt somewhat less
For it wasn’t the same without Anne.
I was wrong, and I lost more than I knew. Is there any chance of a future for us? Being here with you, unable to find the courage to talk to you, is almost more than I can bear. Tell me, Annie, show me somehow. My fate is in your hands.
How many times she read and reread the short letter she could not tell. But reread it, she did until every word was etched into her brain.
He loved her. He still loved her! And he hadn’t said anything because he wanted her to be happy with William. He was willing to sacrifice his own hopes for her. He had put her future ahead of his own. If it was possible, she loved him even more for it.
She reached for the phone to call him now. Her fingers trembled as she touched his name on the contacts list, but it went straight to voicemail. Email, then, or a text…
No.
At once, she knew what she was going to do.
It was late, and she had another session with the orchestra tomorrow afternoon to workshop some elements on the third movement of her symphony, but there would be little sleep tonight.
She read Fred’s letter once more, placed it in her file of Very Important Papers, and got to work.
Giving full attention to the orchestra’s attempt at her symphony was one of the hardest things Anne had ever done. She had finally fallen asleep as the sun rose and had forgotten to set her alarm. Only her stomach reminded her to wake up, and she was nearly late for rehearsal. There would be no time to let Fred know what she had in mind.
Partly giddy with anticipation, partly terrified, she slipped into the auditorium and took her seat, notebook in hand. Fred turned to greet her, eyes blank, and she nodded solemnly back. Then he asked the orchestra to turn to the appropriate passage, and they started to play.
Following the play-though came the feedback session. This was becoming a source of genuine pleasure for Anne, as she heard the thoughts of the very people whose skills would bring her imaginings to life. Just as she was growing comfortable with the questions and critiques, so were the orchestra members growing comfortable with her.
After a productive conference about the movement in question, one of the trumpet players threw out a joking question. “So, Anne, what is up with these five sharps? Couldn’t you have written this movement in an easier key? You’re making me work hard for this!”
The orchestra laughed. Very few people enjoyed negotiating all those sharps and flats, and with the transposition required for the instrument, these black-note keys were a particular challenge for the trumpets. Anne laughed with them and apologised, but then gave a serious answer.
“Sorry about that, Rick, and this might sound strange, but that’s the key that’s the right colour. It needs to be that soft metallic brown that we get with this key signature. B major is no one’s favourite, I know, and I feel bad about the section in D-sharp minor, but if I transpose it up a semitone, it gets all orange and brassy, and if I take it down, it just becomes a sad shade of limp green, like old wilted lettuce.”
The sea of faces before her took on all manner of expressions, from confused to incredulous, and one or two, she was certain, thought her downright crazy. But the colours were there, and she had to write the piece as she wanted to hear it, in the proper colour.
“Tell you what, Rick. If you want to transpose your own part of the D-sharp to E-flat, I won’t tell anybody, as long as I can’t hear the difference.”
This received a round of applause mixed with laughter, and some of the musicians began shifting in their seats, a sign that they thought this session was over.
It was. Almost.
“We have about ten minutes left,” Anne went on before the orchestra got too many ideas about an early dismissal. “With Maestro Valore’s permission, I would like to try one more short work today. I do not think it’s too difficult, and I would like to hear it.”
The sea of faces nodded, almost as if they had rehearsed the move in unison.
“Maestro? Do you mind?”
He peered at her from his seat at the edge of the stage, a quizzical look on his handsome face, although his eyes were still veiled.
“Of course.”
“May I borrow your baton? I promise to return it in good condition.”
A tight smile. He rose and handed the slim painted stick to her. The handle, a slightly elongated ball of cork, was warm from his hand and she revelled in the feel of it for a moment.
She reached into her bag and pulled out sheets of music, which she sent around the group. One pile for the first violins, one for the cellos, one for the winds and brass, and so on all through the orchestra. “Everything is in order, so just pass them along. Whenever you’re ready. You will please forgive my skills here. It’s been a while since I was on the podium, and you are all quite spoiled by your maestro. I beg your indulgence. It is an offering, of sorts, to a friend.”
In a moment, the musicians were sitting at attention, eyes on her, waiting for the downbeat.
She raised the tip of the baton in a gentle arc to set the tempo, and music began to fill the hall. It was not new music, not to her. But it had never been heard before like this, played by a symphony orchestra. It had, until last night, only existed in a form for piano and cello.
She had studied conducting, long in the past, and was competent if not exceptional at the art. But this music she knew intimately. Every note had been born within her, part of her soul. It was her declaration, her offering. Her plea.
She turned towards the double bass section, then the violas, who began the gentle swell of rippling harmony that would support the tune. Deep purples of colour rose from the orchestra, matched and contrasted with flashes of pink from the oboes and deep blues from the bassoons, satin and velvet and silk. Then the violins added their voices to the cushion of sound, sending slivers of silver into the sonic mix, until the cello section at last took up the refrain in their rich burnished gold.
As the line passed from instrument to instrument, as it had previously passed from piano to solo cello and back, the melody emerged, now a multicoloured tapestry woven from the shimmering threads of the orchestra. It glowed, iridescent and tangible, bright and clear, with strong underpinnings in rich oak, the harmonic structure set by the lower voices, then moving through the musical forces, and back again.
It was a concerto for orchestra, her gift to the musician whose instrument was that ensemble, the maestro, the one who made the music sing. Her gift to Fred.
Fred had been reclining in his chair near the back of the violins, and as the music began, she saw him come to attention and sit straighter in his seat. She wished she could watch his face instead of looking at the orchestra. She ached to see his eyes as he heard this piece of music that she had written for Ben now being played for him. She had spent all night orchestrating it for these musical forces before her, and she sent a prayer into the universe that he understood.
A glance showed her that her efforts were not entirely for nothing. He was sitting quite upright now, as still as the grand piano beside him, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. He knew she had done this for him. She hoped.
Too quickly the piece was over. It was not long, after all, only five minutes or so. A few voices called out kudos from the orchestra, but the sounds scarcely registered in her consciousness. All of her attention was on one man, the tall conductor, still sitting immobile in his chair.
Before anybody could move, she turned back to the orchestra.
“Thank you. You played beautifully. I should let you all know that this piece was set with a poem in mind. It was written by a friend. May I read it to you? It won’t take a moment.”
She pulled out the text and held it in front of her. Were the words on the paper so fuzzy last night? No, silly. It was her eyes that were watering. She blinked, and the letters swam back into place.
“It’s called Pieces of Us.
We are, the poet said,
All of us made of pieces.
Pieces of joy,
Pieces of pain,
Pieces of others,
Pieces of ourselves.
We try, the poet said,
To rearrange our pieces.
To grasp our dreams,
To light our fires,
To find our loves,
To find ourselves.
And when, the poet said,
We find all our pieces
And lay them before us
A picture of our lives,
A space appears
That we had not seen,
That was somehow missed
In the sortment we were given.
You’ll find, the poet said,
Another with his pieces,
That fit with yours,
That fill the void,
That make you whole,
Both whole, together.”
She breathed the last syllable. The auditorium was silent, white emptiness of sound but filled with anticipation, electrical. And then, as one, everybody took a breath and the crackle of tension in the air disappeared.
“That was lovely,” someone said. “Almost as beautiful as the music.”
“Almost as beautiful as the composer,” whispered a voice just behind her, words meant only for her ears.
She turned to face those dark eyes, so familiar, so loved. There was nothing veiled about his gaze now.
Aloud, he said, “I believe, Dr. Elliot, that we have a couple of things to discuss about… about some music. Perhaps you have time?”
And she turned to him with as wide a smile as she had ever felt upon her face, “For you, Maestro, I have all the time in the world.”
What time was it? Was the sun shining or were clouds obscuring any remaining daylight? Was it snowing or was it clear? All these considerations were nothings, nonsensical trivialities. What mattered now was Fred.
She walked beside him through the streets, a hair’s breadth of air between them, not quite touching. There would be time for that later. First there must be words. If she wanted it, the merest shift would have her in his arms, nestled in the crook of his shoulder. A turn of her foot would rub her side against his. But she kept that sliver of distance. Though there were winter coats and hats and gloves between them, even a brushing contact was too much… for now.
This time, they would do it right. They would talk, clear away eight years’ worth of pain, these last few months of crossed purposes. She ached to hold him and have him hold her, ached to feel his lips, so familiar and so missed, against hers. But not quite yet. When their time came, it would be better and stronger for this solid foundation. Bass notes, steady and sure, the harmony holding the music together. Treble and bass, him and her, Anne and Fred.
They talked, at first, of lighter matters: Ben’s wedding, Louisa’s parents, the choice of wine. The streets disappeared beneath their feet as they threaded their way through the city, their destination a tacit decision, undiscussed but sure. Across the street, past the row of fashionable shops, behind the new theatre, past the coffee shops, and at last to Anne’s apartment.
Now, at last, divested of their winter coats and sitting angled towards each other on the sofa, they could approach the heart of the matter, their bodies not touching, but their hearts, at last, united.
How to broach the subject? What to say? Anne stared at him, so close, but still untouchable. His dark eyes met hers and she knew he understood, even if he too was not quite ready to put words to so many feelings.
For this moment, it was enough to be close and in harmony, to drink in the knowledge that he was here. His dark hair, mussed by his winter hat into something intimate, the long limbs, strong and elegant, those deep eyes that never failed to entrance her, they belonged here, not necessarily in her living room, but in her life. She let her eyes flicker closed for a second, just to allow his presence to envelop her, and she breathed in deeply, sensing the remaining remnants of his citrus shampoo. This, for now, was enough, and she let her senses celebrate in this unexpected glow.
At last, she opened her mouth. “Do you sometimes wonder if we…?” She trailed off, letting the silence speak instead.
“If we gave up too easily?” His voice was warm. There was nothing recriminating in it, only rueful.
She turned her eyes on him, but said nothing.
“I’m not angry, Annie. Not anymore. We needed different things then. You needed to finish your degree—yes, I know that now—and I needed to study with Buscagni. No, please, let me finish. If you had done what you said at first and come with me, and had not listened to Professor Russell, you might have finished Preludes, and it might well have been the fabulous piece it is now. But who would have heard it? Maybe some little provincial orchestra somewhere. You would certainly ever have come to the attention of the guys behind The Butterfly’s Kiss. He was at one of those workshops you gave. You’d never have become famous. And I think you would have known that you were missing out on something, even if you didn’t know what it was. You would have been relegated to the role of The Conductor’s Wife, always playing second fiddle. And you would have come to resent it. To resent me.”
His thumb worried his forefinger as he spoke, but his voice was tender as he continued.
“I was angry at first, so angry. I don’t know if I was angry with you or with your professor, but all I felt was the anger. I know now that she only did what she thought was best for you—”
Anne interrupted. “To be honest, it helped her career as well, being known as the mentor who honed all this.” She gestured mockingly to herself.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Anne. You are… you are incredible. All that talent, that sheer gift of music, within a beautiful wrapper, and coupled with the kindest soul I can imagine, that’s nothing to deprecate. You are amazing.”
He shifted in his seat. Was he now closer to her? He had made no attempts at physical contact yet. He must know as well how important it was that words come first.
His voice, when he spoke again, was so low it was a vibration as much as a sound. “I really believe now that she had your best interests in mind, or what she thought were your best interests. And you have grown into yourself and your music in a way you might not have otherwise.
“I was young and arrogant and I could not accept that you might put your career ahead of me, even for a year or so.”
“And I,” Anne’s eyes met his, “was too easily led. Why could I not have worked out a way to finish my degree from Europe? It would have been possible, I’m sure of it. But she somehow convinced me I needed to be here, in person. If we had…”
“If we had not let our egos and tempers take charge, we could have talked it through and made a plan. I would have liked you by my side.”
Now he did shift a bit closer to her. “I thought of you, Anne. Almost every day I thought of you. I wondered what you were doing, who you were with, where you were. Every time I met a new orchestra or travelled to a new city, I wished you were with me. I was a sad and lonely man.”
She cocked her head. “You must have had other… friends to share things with.”
His eyes fluttered closed. “Dalliances, a few dates here and there, yes. But there was never anything serious. No one could live up to you. There has always only been you.”
Her hand reached towards his and he grasped it with the fervour of a drowning man clutching a rope. Those long fingers, warm and smooth, intertwined with hers, every touch sparking amber flecks of love.
“And for me,” Anne breathed, “there has only ever been you. You are the final piece that’s missing from me. You make me whole.”
“And now?” His chocolate eyes were inches from hers.
“And now we try again, but with no egos and no anger.”
Fred laughed, rich tumbles of sound in the dark apartment. “I am a conductor. My ego is my stock in trade. But yes. Between us, no egos, and lots of discussion and accommodation.”
“We’re lucky, you know.” She had shifted to face him directly. “We lost each other, but we found each other again. I loved you so much, Fred, and I never stopped loving you.”
“As I love you, and always have.” He was so close, his eyes capturing hers. His free hand floated towards her face and he let his fingers rest on her cheek for a moment before moving to thread themselves in her hair. “Come,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, “come to me, Anne.”
The last inches disappeared between them, and he pulled her into his chest, arms around her back as hers snaked around his. For a long time they just clung to each other, him half turned on the couch, she with her knees curled beneath her, leaning onto that strong body she had known so well. Just being here, for now, was enough. It was the start of something new, emerging from the old, fresh growth appearing on long-dormant branches, stronger now for the deepening of roots.
It was a phoenix, arising from its own ashes, fierce and fiery, ready to soar again.
Then she felt his head move next to hers and light pressure fell on her brow. A kiss, gentle as a drop of rain, and as welcome after a drought. Then another, not demanding, not asking, merely giving.
She pulled back a bit to look at him, letting her eyes meet his. Was her smile as broad as his? Did her face glow with that same joy and contentment?
His hand reached up to cup her chin, and she nodded at him before pressing her lips to his. A gift, an offering. Her love, as pure as it could be. He accepted it and returned his own, and they fell into each other.
This was joy and contentment, not that panic-filled passion of the day of Dylan’s accident. This was the end of their estrangement and the start of something new and better: a prelude to a grand new part of their lives.
