Forbidden Melody

by Magnolia Robbins

  Somehow, I’d wandered out into the alcove that led from the main building to the practice room building. It looked chic and modern, just like the rest of the campus did. I’d been in a few times and imagined it would become a frequent occurrence soon enough. At the far end housed several rooms with upright Steinways for the piano students. I decided to go in search for one, since I had nothing else on my agenda to do.

  As I walked, I passed a flutist, a cellist, a vocal student, and a guitarist. I made small steps, admiring each of them before moving along. It was interesting to see how different every student was in how they played. Some used their entire body more than others, some kept time and some didn’t, some read sheet music, others improvised. I was always amazed, regardless. There was no way I could try to discern what they’d been playing without pausing, but I enjoyed admiring them from afar.

  Just as I’d almost made it to the piano practice rooms, I paused. I spotted a familiar face, her long black hair falling down her back in a simple braid. Juliet was facing away from me somewhat, but I had a clear view of her violin and her bowing. It looked as if her eyes were closed, completely lost in whatever it was she’d been playing.

  Normally, I wouldn’t have dared to stand and watch. It was frowned upon, and of all the people I should have left alone, it was Juliet. I tried to force myself to move onward, but I stood transfixed. My hand rested along the frame of the door, my body against the wall. I’d almost pressed my face against the glass, focused on her bowing and finger movements.

  While I’d never played violin, I was familiar enough with the instrument and the placement of the hands to keep up with what notes were being played. I’d been to enough orchestra shows and seen enough violinists play to hear the sound in my head, and the difference between quick bows verses long drawn out strokes. Juliet had been no exception. Her movements were so defined and precise, it wasn’t difficult for me to pick up. My only wish was that I could have heard what I only imagined was one of the most enchanting instruments that had ever been made. If it was Eleanor Hamilton’s violin, it was a treasure.

  The way she bowed and the pattern of her finger placement was so familiar it didn’t take me long to discern what she’d been playing. Bach’s Sonata. The piece we’d played earlier that morning. I wondered why, out of all the things she was working on, she’d chosen that piece. The idea that she might be offended by my comment had me mortified.

  My rampant emotions faded as I continued to admire her work. The way her lips pursed while she concentrated and the light way she held her eyes closed. Juliet’s fingers trickled up and down the neck of her Vuillaume. Her touches were so light and airy, those dainty fingers hardly making a dent in the strings. I tried to imagine what it must have been like to experience the subtle vibrations the instrument made with her careful touches.

  My breath had quickened along with my heart. The thoughts I had of her gentle caresses of her priceless violin were almost erotic. I yearned to be in her clutches like that, being as carefully played over as her instrument. Desiring someone knew me as well as she knew every crevice of that violin. To be as engaged by something as Juliet was with her music. A rolling heat rippled through me. My hands trembled against the doorframe as I fought to keep myself steady. Those long delicate fingers consumed my thoughts. Admiring her play those notes over and over again, with such precision and care.

  My breaths were turning audibly ragged the longer I stared. I’d confirmed that she was practicing the piece from earlier this morning. The portions with crescendos. Each time a little different than the last. She dragged me in with every dip and curve she made with her body, pushing herself into the melody she played. Every subtle change of her facial expression, hinting at the emotions she was experiencing as she bowed out the notes. It was all so complex and intoxicating. There weren’t words to describe it. All I felt was desire. Longing. I wanted to be in the room with her, wrapped in the song like we had been earlier. The world not having existed.

  When I couldn’t take it any longer, I fled from my position at the doorway of the practice room. The adjacent room was empty, a black Steinway against the far wall. I fell into the seat, my shaking, clammy hands frantically searching for keys. Bach’s Sonata rumbled through my fingers in a fiery blaze of emotion. My eyes closed, picturing Juliet a few yards away from me, separated only by a single sound proofed wall. The rampant emotions that had consumed me erupted in the length of the keyboard. Over and over I played, the pounding notes shouting my untamable desires, desperately hoping that somehow, she’d hear me.

  5

  Juliet

  THE LENGTH OF TIME I spent outside the classroom that morning was embarrassing. I wouldn’t admit that it was nerves although it truly must have been. There was a minute left before the class began and I was still staring at the clock. Waiting. For what, I wasn’t sure. A last-minute graduate student straggled inside before I turned and followed him. He was a flutist that Andrew and Timothy had picked to attend the Bard. Eric Yost. I had been skeptical, and judging by the disheveled state he was in and his tardiness, I wondered if I had been right.

  As soon as I’d entered the room, the entire dynamic changed. The students had been chatting before. I’d heard them through the door. Now they’d grown silent and unmoving. Most of them had given me their full attention. After I set the violin case on the desk, I turned towards the class, expecting myself to begin. Instead, my words caught in my throat. Emma had an intense gaze on me. Her lips pursed, leaning back in her chair in the front row. She was likely the only student in the room who didn’t appear intimidated.

  When I came to, I gave a quick scan across the room. I made sure I faced towards Emma and then spoke. “I trust that you’ve all done the readings, so we’ll move straight into solo melodic composition.”

  As with most of my classes, I started off with a story of my own personal experiences. It helped solidify the topics we covered in class. Real life examples, so to speak. When I finished, I noticed Emma, who was leaning over chatting with the young woman beside her. A friend, I’d gathered, by the way they were interacting. It wasn’t apparent to Emma that I’d been watching, too engaged with her friend’s lips as they whispered to one another. My eyes diverted to the hand that wrapped around Emma’s wrist. An uncomfortable feeling washed through me. A feeling I was not used to experiencing and therefore did not recognize.

  Ignoring myself, I cleared my throat. “Pardon my interruption.” When Emma’s friend turned towards me, she turned as well. The hand dropped from Emma. It only took a moment for me to recall who she was. One of Charlotte’s students. An opera singer, if I remembered correctly. “Your name?”

  The woman seemed startled by the interruption. “Lydia Beckham.” I recognized the name. She was a second-year who had auditioned the spring before last. One of Charlotte’s prized students. While I was a fan of the opera, I’d not cared too much for her style. She had too much contemporary flair to her, whereas I enjoyed the more traditional musicians like Maria Callas and Enrico Caruso. Lydia had always struck me to be much more like Pavarotti, who was overrated in my opinion.

  “Ms. Beckham,” I replied, taking a step forward. “As a second-year, I’d assume you’d be inclined to pay attention in class. Especially a class you are required to pass to graduate. I’m venturing to guess that Ms. Harvey doesn’t have life-or-death matters to discuss with you at the moment.” When I glanced at Emma, her cheeks had turned a dark shade of red. I wasn’t able to discern if she was embarrassed, angry, or both. Lydia threw her hand up in apology, and I returned my attention back to the class.

  I started back into my story, wanting to finish my thought. As I rambled on, I noticed Emma was still staring me down. She’d moved her hands, signing. You’re doing it again. I could tell by the way she moved through the signs she was angry with me. While I continued speaking, my hands moved in front of me to reply. What? I knew Jenny, who was sitting to Emma’s left, was watching our conversation, but I didn’t care
.

  Making everything about you. Emma didn’t hesitate signing in reply. I felt a tinge of frustration bubbling to the surface. Why I would let a student talk the way Emma Harvey did was beyond me. My voice trailed off. I turned away from the class then, making my way to the whiteboard. When I’d reached it, I scribbled notes as I began the lecture, filled with an adrenaline rush caused by Emma’s constant need to argue with me. I did my best to ignore her for the next few minutes, instead focusing on the rest of the students. After I’d lost myself in the lecture for a while, I changed my initial plans.

  “For the remainder of the class, I’d like you to compose a sixteen-measure piece you’ll hand in before you leave today.” I caught Jenny signing out of the corner of my eye. “This piece should be technical in nature. This is purely for me to get an idea of where you are with your knowledge. I expect most of you to be proficient enough to produce satisfactory work. You may use your text for guidance, but not each other.” My attention went to Emma, who was watching Jenny as she signed. “You can begin.”

  The group pulled out their composition notebooks and empty sheet music to work with. I settled back at my desk, thumbing through notes. Miranda had left me detailed instructions for her coursework I had been ignoring. I’d taught this course enough times to find them unnecessary. At least I’d assumed it would have been unnecessary until I’d been called out by a student for my teaching strategies. The realization made me think of Emma, who was studying a textbook shared between her and Lydia. I had half a mind to call them out on it, expecting them to work independently, but I remained quiet. Emma’s eyes glanced upward towards me, and my hands moved to catch her attention.

  Use your own materials. My movements were as agitated as hers had looked earlier.

  I don’t have a book. Emma replied in sign. Jenny’s eyes drifted back and forth between us. When she turned towards me, I gave her an annoyed scowl.

  You can leave. I signed. Jenny looked flustered when I’d said it and hesitated before she got up from her chair. My attention turned back to Emma, aggravated. You’re required to have the book for this course.

  Emma and Jenny exchanged brief goodbyes before she looked back at me. Can I work on my assignment, please?

  I waved her off, annoyed, and she turned her attention back towards her work. Lydia and Emma leaned into one another, studying the text. Occasionally, their hands would brush together as they’d flip pages. They exchanged small smiles with each other. I wondered about the nature of their relationship. Were they friends? More than that? What on Earth was I doing even thinking about such things? I had to turn away.

  Most of the students had emptied out of the room before class had ended, turning in their assignments. Lydia left on time, an interesting expression on her face as she sat the paper down on the desk. I imagined she was intimidated by me and it was what I’d wanted. These students were here to learn, not to make friends.

  It was ten minutes after the class had ended and Emma was the sole remaining student in the room. Her attention was focused on her work, so my gaze lingered on her without fear of her noticing. Her teeth were chewing on the edge of her lip, while her hands wisped across the page she was working on as if she was an artist drawing a picture. There was no way to be sure of what she had been doing, but I didn’t interrupt her.

  Once she made her last marks on her page, she looked up. My eyes gazed down at the papers. I listened as she gathered her belongings and shuffled towards the front of the room. When her work landed in front of me, I looked up.

  Thanks for letting me finish. Emma signed and turned to leave. I found myself reaching out to grasp her wrist before she got too far away. The minute I’d touched her, she turned back to face me. A cold chill ran down the length of my spine and I lost my breath. She was such a dainty little thing. Those big brown eyes stared at me, and I was unsure of how to read her. My hand lingered for far longer than it should have. Eventually, I let it drop to the desk.

  “Why don’t you have a textbook?” I asked outright. Emma did not strike me as the type of student who would come unprepared. Unlike some of her more privileged classmates, some of which had got in due to family or wealth, Emma had managed on pure talent alone. “You were supposed to have the materials before class began.”

  “Miranda and I had an arrangement,” Emma explained, looking uncomfortable. “I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.”

  “I was surprised to be teaching this course at all,” I admitted, leaning back in my chair.

  We studied one another while I fidgeted in my seat. “I presume you have it ordered at least?”

  “No,” Emma replied. “I was planning on sharing with Lydia.”

  “For the entire semester?” My body fell forward again, leaning in towards her. “You don’t think that’s a little absurd?”

  Emma’s facial expression shifted to one of annoyance. The book is over two hundred dollars used. I have higher priorities with that money. Lydia doesn’t mind. Just as I was about to reply, I hesitated. Did that mean she was unable to afford her books? I wondered if this was the case for all of her classes this semester. When I’d thought about it, I hadn’t seen her with the text for the undergraduate course yesterday either.

  “You can’t go an entire semester without textbooks,” I said bluntly.

  “I’ve done it before,” Emma retorted. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to go practice.”

  “With Lydia?” The words flew out of my mouth before I was able to stop myself.

  Emma looked at me, raising a brow. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. She’s my vocal student pairing.” Of course she was. “If that’s all, Professor Hamilton...”

  Let me purchase you copies. My hands flew in the air. We stood frozen after I’d signed it. I wasn’t sure why I had said it. There was no way that was appropriate for me to offer. Emma looked stunned, so I continued. “It’s not a problem, I assure you.”

  “I’m not interested in being your charity case, Professor Hamilton,” Emma said, her face twisting back to its annoyed glare.

  “Ms. Harvey, you are not a charity case,” I argued. “What you are is far too gifted of a student for me to allow you to fall by the wayside. I’d expect you to pay me back as you can.” It was an empty assurance. I’d expected nothing of the sort and would likely refuse if she attempted. If it allowed the possibility of her accepting my offer, I was willing to barter.

  Emma pondered for a long while. I let her, hoping she’d give in. I was disappointed when she didn’t. “Like I said, I’m not looking for help. I’ve done this plenty of times before and I can get away with doing it for two more years. If you have a problem with it, you can take it up with Miranda or the Dean.” And with that, she turned away from me, storming out of the classroom without another word.

  6

  Emma

  Or sai chi l'onore from Don Giovanni

  Addio di Mimi from La bohème

  Chopin, Etude Op.10 No.2

  Chopin, Tristesse

  THERE HADN’T BEEN A time in recent memory I’d been so angry. As soon as I rounded the corner out of the classroom, Lydia grasped my shoulder. I looked up to her. “I’m surprised she let you stay that long,” Lydia said, offering me a smile. When I didn’t return it, she looked concerned. “What’s wrong?” Her hand wrapped around my shoulders. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Professor Hamilton as she walked out into the hall behind me. She was looking in my general direction. Instead of standing there letting her gawk, I turned away, walking down the hallway with Lydia beside me.

  “Nothing,” I replied, deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble of mentioning. Lydia would just get more concerned than she needed to be.

  “This is going to be a long semester with her teaching the course,” Lydia said, shaking her head. I couldn’t help but agree. Considering the fact that for whatever reason, Professor Hamilton had taken some strange vested interest in me.

  We walked in silence to the practice rooms wh
ere we warmed up. My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket, and I fished for it. A text sat waiting for me from Miranda.

  Juliet Hamilton called me. I stepped out into the hallway as I read the message, shutting the door behind me.

  My fingers blazed across the screen. What about?

  She was concerned about you not having textbooks. I scoffed at Miranda’s reply. We’d barely parted and Professor Hamilton was already complaining. The woman was getting on my nerves more and more by the minute.

  It’s none of her business why I don’t have textbooks, I typed out.

  Juliet is a very persistent woman. When I’d read Miranda’s message, I let out a laugh.

  I’ve noticed. I paused before I sent another message. What else did she say?

  That it was unacceptable that you didn’t have the money to pay for them and that she’d be contacting the school board to get an increase in your living stipend.

  They gave me the maximum amount, I replied. I remembered, because I had been in awe they’d awarded me as much as they had. Graduate students didn’t lead luxurious lives with their stipends. It was enough to help them along. I’d signed up to be a graduate assistant just for the extra income. Tell her I don’t need her help, Miranda. I didn’t need to stir up any more trouble than I already had.

  Are you sure you’re okay financially? I know it’s expensive to take care of your father. Where are you staying? You know you can always stay at the house if you need to. We have a spare bedroom. I read the message over, frustrated. This was why I didn’t talk about it.

  I’m fine. I replied, my message curt. Tell her to stay out of my business. I shot off the message, guilty for being so blunt with Miranda. It hadn’t been her fault. Please, I added.