Forbidden Melody

by Magnolia Robbins

  Miranda didn’t message me again. I waited, wondering if she would, before I trailed back into the practice rooms with Lydia. Today we were working on “Addio di Mimi” from La Bohème. I’d never heard it before, but from what I discerned from reading the sheet music, it seemed in perfect range for Lydia’s vocal abilities. The piano accompaniment was easy enough to follow along. Once I’d fallen in good rhythm with Lydia, I was lost in thought. Before I knew it, I’d lost track of time. We’d practiced for nearly two hours.

  Lydia moved from her position across from me at the piano. I think that’s enough for one day. She smiled at me, coming to fetch the sheet music. Once she’d stowed it in her bag, we focused on one another. You seem distracted.

  I’m sorry. I am a little. We smiled at one another before she came to sit down beside me on the piano bench.

  She took my hand in her own. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too,” I smiled. When I looked at the clock behind her, I realized my private lessons were starting soon. Since Miranda was unable to teach me for the semester, I’d expected I’d be with Emerson Reed. He was a little more cut-throat than Miranda, but a good teacher regardless.

  The Bard Conservatory housed a small cafeteria on campus. Two walls were covered in large windows that showed off the beautiful grounds outside. It was as sleek and contemporary looking as everything else about the school. During the week, it filled up during lunch. Today wasn’t any exception. The noise of conversations and laughter reverberated across the hard walls. Lydia and I sat in a corner seat, next to one of the large windows, eating a turkey sandwich and chips we’d split. It was a beautiful day out, the sun trickling in.

  We chatted about our lives at NYU. Even though we’d only been a part a year, I barely knew her now. She’d grown up a lot more. Suddenly her skepticism about her career in music had vanished, filled with a desire to succeed. The remainder of her schooling was drawing to an end after this semester and she was being forced to act.

  The Oslo Theater in Norway was the destination for premiere opera singers in the world. Lydia, whose father played in the orchestra there, was convinced that was where she was headed after she had graduated. I didn’t have a doubt in my mind she was right. The thought of her being even farther away in a short time filled me with sadness.

  “They have pianists,” Lydia mentioned as we talked about it. “You could always come with me.” I smiled at her sentiment. We both knew our dreams were different after school. The New York Philharmonic was a dream I’d held onto since I was a young child.

  I remembered going to the summer concert series in Central Park with my father when I was a kid. Miranda had always gotten us good seats. It was one of my father and my favorite summer excursions. Even after I’d gotten my diagnosis after high school, I’d still been determined to play on that stage with those musicians. One day.

  After we tossed our food and made our way out of the cafeteria, Lydia and I parted ways. We’d agreed to meet up later to study, since I didn’t have access to textbooks. After she left me at the doorway, I made my way down the hallway towards the classrooms reserved for lessons.

  I was a few minutes early. My body rested along the wall outside, collecting my thoughts. Emerson was a tough critic. A stern mentor. I needed to be on my game tonight to impress him. Perhaps if I performed something to showcase my abilities. A series of Transcendental Etudes? Maybe something less technical, like Trois Nouvelles Etudes? My mind wandered until I was interrupted by the classroom door swinging open, nearly knocking me over. I stumbled out of the way, the teary-eyed student flying down the hallway, clutching her sheet music to her chest. She looked mortified.

  Damn. I didn’t realize he’d be that heartless. What was I getting myself into? It took me a good length of time before I’d mustered up the courage to walk through the doors and around the corner towards the front of the room. My eyes were at my feet as I walked. Unsure of how I’d react when I looked up and saw him watching my approach. When my attention drew upward, I toppled forward in surprise.

  Those bewitching green eyes were staring me down from across the room. While I’d been startled to see her sitting at the Steinway, she didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see me. My body stood frozen in the aisle between desks. Her expression read one of annoyance.

  “Ms. Harvey,” she’d made a careful effort to ensure I was paying attention to her mouth when she spoke. Her back arched, drawing herself straighter and taller, as if she was commanding a presence over me. It worked. I felt myself sinking towards the ground. “Tardiness is unbecoming.”

  Was this a dream? “Where is Professor Reed?”

  “Giving lessons, I presume.” Juliet raised a brow at me, sliding off of the seat. “Are you going to waste our time with mindless questions or are you going to sit and play?”

  “This has to be a mistake,” I breathed, still unable to move. Was I ever going to escape this woman or would she haunt me to the ends of the Earth?

  “It’s your time and money, Ms. Harvey.” Juliet leaned her body against the side of the piano, crossing her arms over her chest. I thought for certain I’d look away from her, but we remained locked together in a tranced sort of state. I wanted to ask more of her. Perhaps inquire why the previous student had been in tears when she’d left. Or why Juliet was teaching piano lessons at all. Instead I held my tongue, situating myself on the black cushioned bench. There wasn’t a person in this world that would distract me from playing. Even the formidable Juliet Hamilton.

  Juliet slid beside me at the higher end of the keyboard. I moved over to give her room. Our thighs, hips, and the length of our arms brushed together. We turned to one another, our faces in intimate proximity. “Hanon exercises,” Juliet spoke, and I felt the heat of her breath against the skin of my cheeks. “I’ll start.” She turned away from me, splaying her fingers along the higher register of keys, breaking into a scale with both hands. Eight notes in each measure, flowing together. I’d been practicing Hanon exercises since I’d first sat in front of a piano, so the one she was working on was easy to discern. A simple one that repeated, over and over. She paused and nodded at me.

  A few octaves down from where she’d played, I began, echoing the movements she’d made. This was a rather easy exercise, all things considered. So easy that I added small embellishments just to amuse myself. Juliet snapped her hand down on the keys in front of me. When I turned to her, she seemed annoyed.

  This time her hands flew in front of her. You’re not good at following directions, are you Ms. Harvey? We studied one another before she continued. Your notes run together. Noise. You’re playing like an arrogant high school student.

  Said the most arrogant woman I’ve ever met. I repressed a snarl. How would you have me play then? I knew my stiff and jerky hand movements gave away my aggravation towards her. She didn’t seem to care, moving her hands over top of mine, pressing them lightly to the keys. A long delicate finger spilled under my palm, curving my hand tall. The awkward position they forced on you in younger grade lessons. I fidgeted as she adjusted my hands to her liking.

  When I focused on her again, she looked satisfied and nodded towards the keys. “That’s better. Definition, please. Continue.”

  The whole dynamic of the exercise changed. I became hyper-aware of my actions as if it had been the first time I’d ever practiced the particular piece. My fingers danced against the piano. The first time I played staccato. Then legato. Then with two-note slurs. I played the piece over and over until a hand pressed against my shoulder. When I turned, Juliet had a strange expression on her face. She seemed more relaxed than she had been.

  “I’m assuming you have a variety of etudes in that repertoire of yours,” she replied. “Pick one. I’ll accompany you.” It was as if she had read my mind or that perhaps our minds were one and the same when it came to music. An etude. Of course she’d want to hear me play one.

  I wondered, if I were to ask her, what piece she would have chosen
for me. What would you pick? I signed after she’d fetched her violin. After she sat, she took it from the case and pondered on my question.

  “You strike me as someone who would beg to play a piece like Trois Nouvelles,” Juliet replied. I let out a laugh. It was yet another jab at my desire to play pieces that allowed for creativity and not so much rigidity. “Give me a G.” My finger drew onto middle G, letting it ring out into the classroom. The vibrations trembled in my fingertips. The note lasted a long time. Juliet’s lips pressed together as she adjusted the string on her violin to match the pitch. “Now a D.” We went through the motions, all the while I was observing her closely as she worked. When she finished all four strings, she looked satisfied. “I’d prefer something more technical, though it seems you have an affinity for straying from the norm.”

  What do you mean by that? I raised a brow.

  “Every time you play, you embellish the melody. I’ve never seen you play a piece in its true form,” Juliet strummed her fingers across the strings of her Vuillaume, directing her attention toward her instrument. When she focused back on me, I was giving her a dirty glare.

  You didn’t seem to mind my improvisations at my audition. I had come across more arrogant than I had intended, but I didn’t like being told what I could and couldn’t do.

  “I marked you off for it,” Juliet admitted. “It wasn’t enough to disqualify you, but had you been my student...” she trailed off. “While you’re my student, I expect you to follow directions.”

  I’ll play whatever you ask, however you ask. My hand gestures were gruff and angry. The expression on her face almost looked amused as if she was taking pleasure in my annoyance with her. What do you want to play?

  “I told you, Ms. Harvey,” Juliet rested the shoulder piece of the violin on her and let her bow roll across the strings. Even with her messing around, it must have sounded beautiful echoing through the room. “Pick something.”

  The two of us paused on one another. Juliet, with her graceful fingers wrapped around the neck of her instrument and the handle of her bow. My fingers lay curved against middle C, pondering over my next move. There was a piece I had in mind. One that might trip Juliet up if she weren’t careful. A Chopin etude. Considered one of the more challenging etudes ever composed. It consisted of rapid chromatic scale figures accompanied with chord attacks. Played sempre legato in the right, staccato chords in the left. A detail I’d chosen on purpose, after Professor Hamilton’s blatant attacks on my staccato.

  My fingers erupted across the keys, taking Juliet aback. I only needed to watch for a moment before I managed playing without looking down. She stared at me mesmerized, confused even. As my hands tore through the ternary form of the melody, I could feel each of the vibrations as they rolled down the white keys of the piano. When my attention turned towards Juliet again as my hands ascended back down the keys, I swore there was the tiniest hint of a smirk to her lips. I’d surprised her. Good.

  The small etude was only just over a minute long. I played it once through in a fury. When I finished, I brought my hands to my lap and looked up. “I see you practiced your staccato last night,” Juliet noted, fidgeting with her bow in her hand.

  “No,” I admitted, rolling my shoulders. “I’ve always been proficient in my staccato.” You aren’t proficient in your observations, I thought, but didn’t dare say it aloud.

  That hint of a smirk still lingered on Juliet’s lips. “You’ve made your point, Ms. Harvey. Shall we play something more... ah... appropriate?” I realized when she said it she’d been asking for an excuse to accompany me. The idea should have flattered me. It did, on some level. Regardless, I still thought she was an arrogant piece of work.

  My mind wandered for a while, trying to decide what I wanted to do. Juliet fumbled through her leather satchel she always carried with her Vuillaume. A few sheets of music fell onto the stand at the piano. After she arranged them, she sat down across from me. Tristesse. Another Chopin etude, meant for piano, but I’d heard versions with a violin accompaniment. I wondered if she’d picked the piece out for us. If she’d baited me into playing it with her. If she’d planned this out all along.

  “Do you know it?” Juliet asked. I nodded, and she smiled. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  “A sad song,” I said, remembering playing it in high school, the haunting melody ringing through my mind. “And simple.” I added the second part just to annoy her.

  “I prefer thoughtful. Longing, even.” Juliet argued, pulling the Vuillaume up to her shoulder. She gave me a nod, and I turned to settle at the piano, studying the music over again. Tristesse was believed to be one of Chopin’s most beautiful pieces. On the sheet music Juliet had given me, a few measures were marked off signaling the introduction to the violin accompaniment. I began where she’d marked, following along. Four measures in, Juliet readied her fingers around the neck of her instrument and steadied the bow across the strings. She settled into the low notes of the introduction, pulling out the first few with stunning definition. The ternary piano notes, a classic of Chopin, danced behind her as the bow rocked up the strings, reaching the higher registers in a matter of a few measures.

  As arrogant and cold as she came across to the average person, words wouldn’t be able to explain who Juliet was wrapped around that wooden extension of her. One minute enchanting, another haunting. One moment erotic, another chaste. That long braided black hair swept across her shoulder. Full red lips, pursed in concentration. Emerald green eyes like a smoldering flame of frenzied emotion, pouring out into every note. As much as I loved playing the piano, part of me loved watching her play even more. The ebbs and flows of her small dainty frame as it danced with the Vuillaume and that Morizot bow.

  As the first part of the song was played through, Juliet was lost, her eyes closing. I sat mesmerized by her elegant posture as she’d move every curve of her body with the music. Those small puffy lips parted, as if she was breathing in each fragile note that would exude from her. She was feeling it everywhere. Such a simple song, evoking such strong, real emotions within her. It was nothing like I’d ever seen before.

  Halfway through, the melody became a conversation. A string of notes sung by the violin and replied by the echo of piano keys rumbling through the room. It was a beautiful back and forth, which brought Juliet and I back to one another again. There was a small smile to her lips as she offered the reply to the cascading set of notes I played. It was if I had been asking into her soul by the emotive caress of the strings of her violin, and she’d invited me in with each riposte she gave.

  Once the back and forth subsided, the melody erupted into an almost a fitful shouting of piano. My fingers mashed artfully into the keys. My father, who had always loved this song, described this part as if someone was falling down a well, their voice growing softer and deeper and quieter. Fading away.

  The violent exchange of notes was almost enough to make it seem as though I was yelling at her. Strongly. About things like criticizing my staccato. Not being able to afford my books. Just being an arrogant know-it-all. Every bit of emotion went into those pounding keys that echoed through the wooden piano and into the floor. It was like I was wrapped into it like a cocoon. Those green eyes watched my every motion as I bled my soul out to her in a beautiful chaotic mess of notes. No one had ever stared at me like that when I played. No one had ever caused me to feel such strong feelings of desperation.

  After the piano part calmed, the intimate melody of the violin resumed, soothing the angry notes that rang in the room. Each piece echoed in my mind as Juliet drew her bow across the strings. It was like a sweet, melodic apology. I’d never thought of it that way before. Maybe it was just me, trying to make a simple teaching moment into some elaborate and magical story in my mind. Maybe I was more infatuated with this woman than I led myself to believe. It was hard not to be. If it weren’t for her terrible attitude, everything about her was enchanting. She was beautiful, with flawless ivory skin, a dainty frame
and fingers meant for playing an instrument like a violin. Those eyes. God, those eyes. Every fleck of green cut straight through me. As arrogant as they made her seem, they also were one of the most alluring qualities about her. That, and her thick and voluptuous black locks, that laid captive in barrettes down her back.

  While we played, it was as if I knew her. As if every note that spilled from her was explaining details that no one else could understand. She felt familiar, like something I’d experienced in a dream. A person I’d known all of my life. Someone who I was meant to know. It occurred to me, as we fell into the last few measures of the song that I was longing for her. Desiring to know anything and everything about her. Longing for her like the piano longed for the soothing notes of the violin in Tristesse.

  7

  Juliet

  Elgar, Salut d'Amour

  AS THE MELODY DREW to a close, Emma and I found ourselves transfixed on one another. The last careful slow notes filled the room, the violin finishing just a measure after the piano. After, I pulled the instrument from my chin, resting it against my lap and chest. Emma trailed a few stray notes on the keys, showing off her unique improvisational skills. As she’d promised, she hadn’t strayed from the melody. Even though I’d instructed her not to, I missed those tiny flourishes she added.

  “Very nice,” I said, when her focus had drawn on me. “The incalzando portion was exceptional.” I’d never heard that part played so passionately. Pianists tended to be clunky and jarring when they pounded out the loud powerful notes in the middle of the piece. It often came out cluttered. The way it had been played only a short while earlier had been the best rendition I had ever heard, which hadn’t surprise me. Emma had a curious look to her face when I said it, but she nodded.

  The remainder of the two-hour lesson, Emma practiced a variety of pieces on her own. While I had planned on grading papers while Emma played, I enjoyed listening. I’d never imagined being so engaged with a student. Generally, they were barely able to hold my attention in their clumsy nervous states.