By the fourth movement, the melody was prominent and irresistible as it bellowed triumphantly to its conclusion. Emma’s tiny embellishments and the flourishes she added through many of the measures were perfection. As we drew into the last section, I ached to continue the piece. We came together, the final notes resonating throughout the theater. When we finished, my attention turned to Andrew and Timothy, both looking flabbergasted.
“Let’s continue,” I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow. I gave Emma a small smile, which she returned brightly. I readied myself and we fell together into Beethoven's Violin and Piano Sonata, as if we’d been playing for years.
I would have asked Emma to continue for hours more if it had been possible. The audition had run well over the allotted time and I wouldn’t keep her. When she’d left the theater, my attention turned to Andrew and Timothy. My entire body was on fire. I hadn’t felt this way in years about a performance, not even with the Philharmonic.
“I want that girl here in the fall,” I said firmly, staring between them. “Do whatever you have to do. She’ll be attending the Bard.” Before they got a word in edgewise, I’d flown from the theater, my case in hand. There was only one thing on my mind after an afternoon like that. And it was an intimate evening with myself, a glass of scotch and my beloved violin.
Six months later.
2
Emma
Strange Fruit by Billie Holiday
Ravel, Concerto in G Major
Bach, Sonata for Piano and Violin in B Minor
THE ARM HOLDING THE needle of the red-oak turntable spun Billie Holliday’s Strange Fruit album. I imagined it filled the small apartment. It wasn’t much of a place. Just a small studio with cream colored walls adorned with photos of album covers of my father’s favorite musicians. I sat stretched across a beat-up white leather couch, admiring my father swaying in his recliner to the music. It had been one of his favorite records since I was a child, and he’d played Holliday’s music more times than I cared to count. He seemed to be humming the tune, choosing not to sing along and instead enjoy Billie’s silky-smooth tone.
I assumed the song had ended once my father turned. I studied his lips as he spoke. “Rebecca,” he grinned, sitting upright in his chair. “I think this should be our opening number at the Factory.” He was referring to the Knitting Factory, one of the premiere locations for jazz musicians in New York during the eighties and nineties. And to Rebecca Miller, the lead vocalist of his band Red Harvey and The Ramblers, which had broken up ten years prior. While Rebecca had been a beautiful woman, short and curvy with dark auburn hair and enchanting blue eyes, I’d looked nothing like her. I was tall, supposedly like my mother who had died in childbirth, with brown eyes and untamable blonde hair.
There was no need to blame him for mistaking us. Not anymore. Not after his diagnosis. A year ago I’d be arguing with him by now. “I’m your daughter. Emma. Remember?” Years of reminders grew tiresome after a while, so I’d grown to accept it. Instead, I spent early mornings just enjoying his company, regardless where in time he was or who he thought he was speaking to. At least he was able to speak to me.
When I glanced at the clock, I’d forgotten how long I’d been there. It had been a good day and he’d been in an upbeat mood all things considered. I’d got lost in his company. Silently, I cursed, getting up from the couch to fetch my coat.
I noted out of the corner of my eye, he was speaking again. After I’d gathered up my coat and keys from the counter, I walked back. When I was in sight of his face, I nodded to him. “What did you ask?”
“Do you think it’s a good idea?” My eyes drew on his lips as he spoke.
“What is?” I inquired, brushing a stray strand of blonde hair from my face.
“Opening with Billie at the Factory this weekend? Do you think we can swing it?”
I smiled, reaching down to take his hand. “You can swing almost anything.” My father looked pleased and settled back into his recliner. I leaned over to kiss him on the forehead. “I have to go now.” I hesitated, deciding not to call him Dad. It would just confuse him further, and the last thing I wanted was to dampen his cheery mood. My father nodded, reaching up to squeeze my upper arm. We paused on one another once more before I slipped away.
Outside, it was drizzling. I held up an unopened magazine I’d stolen from my father over my head as I scampered across the pavement. My old Subaru sat parked on the far side of the parking lot. As I stumbled up to the driver’s side door, I heard a snap beneath me. My body crumbled into the car, the magazine fluttering to the ground. My heel had caught in a small pothole in the pavement and snapped off. The single pair of black heels I owned. I managed to pull myself into the car with one functional shoe.
It was a twenty-minute drive to the Bard from the assisted living home. I barely had enough time to make it there, nevertheless a trip home. My body shifted, leaning over the center console as I rooted through the backseat. A pair of white sneakers sat underneath a pile of sheet music. I stuffed them on my feet, tossing the broken heels into the back without a second thought.
The faculty parking was close enough to the Bito Conservatory building I only had to make a short run to get inside. My parking permit had yet to come in the mail but I decided to risk it. It was my first day, with a professor that remained a mystery. Miranda Kepner had agreed to teach the class. She and my father had been friends for ages and I’d studied under her my entire childhood. Miranda was one of the most talented pianists I’d ever met, and I was awaiting the opportunity to learn under her again. It had been years now since our last lessons together. So, it was a shock when I’d received an email the week prior, explaining she’d be absent for the semester on tour.
The Bito was a sleek and modern two-story building with a white-and-grey exterior, and large windows stretching its length. It was surrounded by tall trees and an abundance of shrubbery and intricately designed landscape. The inside was as pristine and well-kept as it was outside. Polished wood flooring lined the hallways. Black and white photos of the city of Annandale-on-Hudson, performances in Sossnoff Theater and the school grounds lined the walls.
I’d walked these halls several times now over the past week, in preparation for my first day. When I had found the classroom, my hands ran through my damp locks, trying to make myself as presentable as possible. I took a breath and pulled open the door, stepping inside.
Every seat was filled inside the room. A woman stood at the whiteboard at the front, scribbling something across it. I inched down the aisle, finding Jenny’s bright red hair amongst the crowd. She turned and waved. As I fell into the last remaining empty seat at the front of the room, she came to join me. Before I sat down, I straightened my long black skirt and pushed my hair behind my shoulders. Jenny offered me a smile. The professor was still busy writing.
She’s talking about you. Jenny’s hands flowed in my direction. I’m pretty sure she thinks you’re an undergraduate student.
I broke into a small smile, shaking my head. I should have gotten here earlier, I admitted. My attention turned towards the whiteboard, watching as the woman standing beside it turned toward us. As soon as she did, my entire body stiffened.
Juliet Hamilton was the violinist of New York. The envy of every musician in the city. First chair of the New York Philharmonic and one of the youngest instrumentalist to ever join the orchestra. She was a true prodigy, if there ever was one. Rumor had it that she sometimes spent twelve-hour days in practice. I hadn’t expected her to be teaching an undergraduate seminar.
Her reputation wasn’t what struck me the most. Six months ago, she’d been a part of the panel at my graduate school audition. Right in the middle of Franck’s Sonata in A Major she’d stopped us and sent the graduate student accompanist packing. When Juliet had replaced her, I was in disbelief. Never in my wildest imagination had I ever expected such an incredible musician to sit with me. To want to sit beside me, a nervous applicant to the school.
I kn
ew the sonata we’d played by heart. There weren’t many that complimented the violin and piano so well. Even though I was unable to hear the tone and depth of Juliet’s violin, she was captivating in the way she played. Her whole body engaged with the instrument. I’d never been more connected to another musician in my life while we had performed.
Unfortunately, that afternoon six months ago did not seem to be the most present thing on her mind. “You’re the teaching assistant?” When she asked, I nodded. She said something else in a mutter I didn’t catch, but Jenny signed it. She called you highly unprofessional.
“I apologize,” I said quietly, sitting back into my seat. I dug through my backpack, pulling out the notes I’d made for the first lesson. First-year undergraduate students at the Bard took a four-semester sequence of coursework called the Core Sequence, which included theory, analysis and composition. The first class, Harmony and Counterpoint, was the freshman “weed out” class. If memory had served me right, it had a sixty-percent pass rate. If Juliet Hamilton was teaching, it would drop.
Juliet was facing away from me again, her attention turned to the far side of the room. I turned to Jenny, who filled me in on what she was saying. She dribbled on for a while, talking about herself. When she’d finished, she started straight into the lecture.
“Ms...” Juliet turned her attention to me.
“Harvey. Emma Harvey.” When I met her green eyes, they flashed for a small moment. I wondered if she’d recognized me from my audition. I fidgeted in my seat at the thought.
“I’m assuming you’re capable of writing notes?” Juliet nodded to the whiteboard.
I mustered a nervous smile. “Of course.” As soon as I got to my feet, Jenny followed. I noticed she paused by Juliet, but I couldn’t tell from my vantage point why.
Jenny answered her. “I’m her interpreter,” she explained, while she signed. Juliet turned to look at me again.
“I’m deaf,” I explained and her eyebrow raised. She seemed to ponder over it, before waving Jenny and me forward to begin taking notes.
Would anyone care to enlighten me on the differences between counterpoint and harmony? My attention turned to Jenny, unable to follow along with Juliet while her back was turned. Her marker squeaked as she scribbled the question across the board. My eyes scanned out into the room at the nervous first-years, none of whom were brave enough to answer.
I suggest we speak up. This is a collaborative course. I want students to participate. Jenny smirked at me as she signed. I observed her hands as Juliet continued. Counterpoint refers to different voices forming their own separate melodies. Their notes are produced at different times with different durations. Harmony refers to different pitches you hear sounding together. Counterpoint will create harmony, but a lot of music with harmony has only a single voice with the melody, in which case there is no counterpoint.
The minute I’d finished a few notes, I turned toward the class. Most of them looked puzzled. I cleared my throat. “Think of harmony as a group of independent melodies that happen and overlap, yet are designed to create a consonant effect. Think of harmony as what happens when you strum a series of chords in progression on a guitar.” Juliet turned to stare at me over her shoulder. The expression on her face was unreadable. Her posture indicated she was probably annoyed.
The class droned on. Jenny kept up with Juliet’s ramblings. She’d gone on her own tangents, drifting far away from the lecture that Miranda had prepared. Many of her examples came from experiences in the Philharmonic. It hadn’t occurred to me till I’d sat in a room with her for an hour, listening to her talk, how self-absorbed she was. Part of me couldn’t blame her. A woman of her talents deserved to be. At least to a certain extent.
Just before the class was dismissed for the day, Juliet retrieved that familiar black case from underneath the desk she stood at. The entire room was motionless as she opened it and tinkered with her priceless violin. The rumor was that it was a Jean Baptiste Vuillaume, known to sell for over two-hundred-thousand dollars. They were a rare commodity. Supposedly, it had belonged to her grandmother, Eleanor Hamilton, who was likely one of the few violinists in the world that compared to Juliet. I wondered what she intended to play that would pertain to the lecture. After I’d watched her tune and set music on a stand, I stepped forward and to the side, to get a better view as she’d settled her bow along the strings.
“Ravel’s Concerto in G Major,” Juliet had looked over towards me when she said it. It was a piece I wasn’t as familiar with, but I imagined I would be able to follow along regardless.
Juliet gave a long pause, taking slow deep breaths. Jenny had stepped up beside me. All at once, the bow drew across the strings, adagissimo. Slowly and carefully. I fathomed most of the notes in my head, with the slow way she pulled along the strings. When she moved into the core melody, her entire body engaged with the instrument.
The version she played was short. Just the first movement, I imagined. As soon as she’d finished, the class broke into applause. Juliet did not appear gracious. Instead she nodded, as if she had expected nothing less. I was surprised she’d picked the piece she had.
My attention fell on the small piano that was situated across the room. “Maybe a Bach piece too? Counterpoint was heavily used in Baroque music.” Again, Juliet’s expression was hard to read. I wasn’t sure if she was curious, annoyed or both. Finally, she nudged her head in the direction of the small Steinway upright across from us.
“After you, Ms. Harvey,” Juliet replied, making sure to keep attention on me when she spoke. I gave her another awkward smile and scuffled across the room. After I’d gotten comfortable at the bench, she came to join me, standing on the opposite side of the piano.
“Bach’s Sonata for Piano and Violin in B Minor?” I asked, not daring to question whether she knew it or not. There was no doubt in my mind she did. Juliet gave me a nod and situated the Vuillaume on her shoulder. At this angle, I had a good view of it. It was beautiful. The underside was striped. A reddish-brown, curly maple. The bow looked as expensive as the violin itself, with pristine hairs that must have been relatively new.
Two breaths. Relax. Begin.
My fingers splayed across the length of the piano as I dove into the melody. I hadn’t practiced this song in a while, so I took a moment to get my bearings. It wasn’t long before my eyes looked up to meet Juliet’s. They were locked onto me, reminiscent of the first day we’d played together at my audition. Not long after I’d begun, she joined in. Our motions seemed to complement one another. When she’d draw into her violin, I’d pull back to give her room. Then she’d relax, allowing me the opportunity to embellish the melody.
The arrogant professor that had taught the last hour of the freshman course disappeared. Instead of showing off, she blended with me. I admired every second she played, imagining the melody in my mind as if it was the first time I’d ever heard it.
Every time I played music since I’d lost my hearing, it became a delicate balance of imagining the song in my mind verses feeling it physically. Each tap of a key produced a prominent and distinct vibration, all of which I’d learned over many years of practice. The vibrations themselves had become my understanding of music. While I wasn’t able to hear it, I felt it. In my fingers. In my feet, as it moved through the floor. It allowed me to keep time, to understand the patterns in the melody and the shapes the song would take. Between my imagination of the song and being present with it, I performed without much effort. I enjoyed it much the same. I would often close my eyes to concentrate, but I couldn’t stray away from the beautiful way Juliet bowed and her fingers wisped across the strings. Her long jet-black hair braided behind her back, bangs swept across her head. Those piercing green eyes locked on me while we joined together in the main melody of the piece.
Not unlike my audition, Juliet and I lost ourselves in the music. What I had anticipated to be a movement or two had become the entire fifteen-minute-long piece. The students, in a class which ha
d ended a short while ago, sat motionless in their seats. When the last notes came to a close, we sat together perfectly still. I’d found myself so engaged that I’d forgotten to breathe, my panting filling the room. Juliet wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and the two of us turned towards the students who remained.
On Wednesday we’ll be going into greater detail about counterpoint. I expect all of you to have completed the assigned readings and come prepared with questions. Jenny’s hands flew into the air beside me. By the expression on her face, she was still entranced by our performance.
Truthfully, I had been too.
3
Juliet
Bach, Sonata for Piano and Violin in B Minor
Drunken Lazy Bastard by The Mahones
EMMA HARVEY. As soon as I’d turned to her, I knew who she was. I wouldn’t have forgotten her face, despite all the months that had passed. Even more beautiful now than she had been across from me on the stage. A dainty frame with soft tanned skin that paired well with her unruly blonde locks that trailed down her back. She was still dressed as awkwardly as she had been the first day I’d seen her, but she’d would have likely been stunning in anything she wore.
When I had said she was a gifted musician, it had not been haphazardly. There were few I would have been able to compare her to. I wasn’t ashamed to admit that I was enthusiastic she was here at the conservatory. There had been more than a few times I’d wished for the opportunity to play with her again. What I hadn’t expected was a feisty young woman who was prepared to challenge me multiple times during my first lecture. A lecture I had taught on more than one occasion. A lecture that any right-minded teaching assistant would have known better than to question me about.
Emma Harvey was not a typical student. Not by a longshot.
The class trickled out for the day. I turned my attention to my violin, moving across the room to return it to its case. My hand grazed over its top, admiring the beautiful patterns in the wood. Once I’d settled the bow into the clasps on the side, I closed the case, taking careful care. When I’d finished, Emma was standing beside me. Her interpreter, who I’d not been introduced to, close behind.
Forbidden Melody Page 2