Forbidden Melody

by Magnolia Robbins

  For the next hour and a half, I played through La Capanella so many times it was repeating in loops in my head. Emerson was not nearly as intimidating as he was made out to be. No more so than Juliet had been looming over me. The first few times I played the song through, Emerson had me read the sheet music head-on, something I was uncomfortable with. Especially since I’d lost my hearing. I’d liked to engage with the world around me. My playing changed drastically when I focused on the small details in the sheet music. Little fluctuations and rhythm changes I often took for granted when I played more naturally. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it, but it was good practice nonetheless, and it seemed to please Emerson.

  At the end of lessons, Emerson came to sit beside me at the piano bench. We turned to look at one another briefly. “Play a song with me?” he asked. I found myself somewhat taken aback. It was as if he was slightly star-struck in the way he’d said it.

  “What would you like to play?” I replied.

  “The first movement of Fantasia?” Emerson proposed. He fumbled through his sheet music for another piece and sat it in front of us. It was something I was only vaguely familiar with. A four-handed piece by Schubert. It looked challenging by the sheet notes, but not impossible. I nodded, my attention turned towards the music. Emerson took the hint, adjusting himself accordingly on the piano bench, at the lower register.

  It began with him, a steady crescendo of deep notes that ripped upward. My part joined in beside him. While I played, I tried to focus on hearing the notes in my head. This was a more difficult piece than some, mostly due to the fact that I was focused more on my own part than Emerson’s. Regardless, I enjoyed working alongside him. He was no Juliet but we still had a good rhythm between us.

  When the intricate and lengthy song concluded, Emerson was smiling brightly again. I turned to face him full on, and he spoke. “Juliet was certainly right about accompanying you. You are in a league of your own.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, feeling my face growing hot at the compliment from such a respected pianist.

  Emerson left me on the bench, gathering his belongings. I followed suit, closing the drawer to the piano keys and tucking in the bench. Once I’d shouldered my backpack, I walked over to meet him in the center of the room. His facial expression had changed drastically in the span of only a few seconds. Now he looked serious, concerned even.

  “Juliet wanted me to talk to you about having you switch over to lessons with me for the remainder of the semester,” Emerson got straight to the point. I could tell by the look on his face he was uncomfortable asking, and rightfully so. The look on my face had turned so fast it was impossible for me to have held it back.

  “She said what?”

  “Juliet’s schedule is getting a little chaotic because of the Philharmonic. She’ll be in and out a lot more frequently and felt like you’d do better if you worked with me.” Emerson looked uncomfortable being the messenger of this information. As if he knew the sort of reaction I might have because of it.

  Juliet hadn’t done this because of the Philharmonic. Even Emerson knew that. I could see from the look in his eyes. She was doing everything in her power to avoid me, and I wasn’t sure how it was making me feel. “Oh,” I managed to reply, shifting in place.

  “We’ll have to move your lessons,” Emerson said once I’d turned my attention back towards him. “And you certainly are welcome to play your duets with Juliet. This will be better, given her schedule.” Given her schedule. I wanted to yell. The words were so close to falling out of my mouth. Especially since I could tell by the look on his face Emerson knew it was bullshit. He probably knew exactly why she was doing it. The idea had me so embarrassed I couldn’t stay a moment later.

  “I’ll see you again this week?” I asked him, and he nodded.

  “Tomorrow at six.” Before he could get another word in edgewise, I scattered out the door, only giving him a small wave goodbye as I did.

  EVEN WITHOUT JULIET’S physical presence at the Bard, she taunted me everywhere I went the following few days. I heard the soothing notes of her violin accompanying me while I practiced in the Bito. She was critiquing my posture as I walked the halls of the conservatory. I heard her voice over top of Emerson’s during her lectures where she was absent. The smell of the woody scotch on her breath filled my nostrils while I showered in the evenings, while I imagined the soft press of her lips against mine in the rain.

  My mind had been wandering during the undergraduate Harmony and Counterpoint midterms. I’d replayed that scene in the parking lot in the rain a hundred times at least since it had happened. “I care for you,” Juliet had told me. “I care about you more than you could possibly understand.” She’d cared enough about me to dump me on Emerson? To run off to New York without explanation? What was this game she was playing?

  A knock on the desk I’d been sitting at brought my attention back to the room. Jane, a vocal student, stood in front of me with her paper at hand. “Ms. Harvey?” I hated how much that name had an effect on me. “Can I ask you a question about the exam?” The thoughts shook from my mind as I focused my attention on her.

  The entire day felt like a haze, taking exams and turning in assignments without hardly the ability to focus. Part of me hated Juliet for it. I was here to learn. Music was my life. When had she become so wrapped up in it to have this much control over me?

  Lydia had made me feel a little better as we made our way into the classroom for the Composition midterm the following morning. Just reference something Professor Hamilton said about herself in class for every question and you should be good, she’d signed to me. I couldn’t help but laugh at her comment.

  Emerson was sitting in for Juliet that morning. I could barely look at him as he handed me my test. As soon as I’d gotten it, I dove in, thumbing through the questions first to get an idea of what I was doing. Midway through the fourth page, I froze.

  Every other student in the class would work through this question like all the others. It was even a relatively straightforward question. A compositional analysis of a popular Chopin piece. A piece that was well-known on the piano, but had been performed with violin accompaniment before. There was a twenty-measure portion of the sheet music that was pasted into the exam. The melody rang through my head as I read it out in my mind. I could almost picture that first lesson we’d played it through together. Tristesse.

  I didn’t know what to think or do. My entire body had frozen above that page. My eyes must have scanned over each note a dozen times. It was at the very cusp of the angry outburst of piano, sliding into the soothing and apologetic sounds of the violin. Of course, this was just meant for the piano, but I’d never imagine it that way again.

  What was she doing to me? What game was she playing? Dumping me haphazardly onto Emerson, then leaving me such blatant yet cryptic messages. I couldn’t think. My vision went hazy. Once I’d caught my breath, I got up from my seat, walking to the desk where Emerson was sitting, and I dropped my test on the table. I didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, I grabbed my bag and moved swiftly out of the classroom. It didn’t surprise me when I was abruptly stopped a few moments later. He’d scattered in front of me.

  “You left in the middle of the test,” Emerson stated the obvious.

  I barely stayed to argue. “If you have questions about that, you can talk to Juliet.” There I’d gone calling her by her first name again. I didn’t correct myself, storming around him and down the hall without another word.

  The Bard made up the majority of the city of Annandale-on-Hudson. You could walk from one end of the city to the other in a short time. The surrounding suburbs made it seem bigger than it actually was. I spent hours driving up and down every street imaginable, trying to calm myself. It felt too small. Every turn I made, I couldn’t escape her. The entire city screamed her name, no matter where I went.

  The highway stretched in front of me, heading south towards the city. It seemed as if the longer I drove, the s
teadier my breaths became, and the less I cried. By the time I hit rush hour traffic on the outskirts of Manhattan, I’d felt as if I’d gotten my wits about me again. When I’d pulled into the underground parking garage of the Lincoln Center, the sadness and anger I’d felt had turned rapidly into panic.

  It was late afternoon now. The Philharmonic would be starting dress rehearsals soon. Every rehearsal was open seating. My father and I had come to David Geffen Hall on many occasions to watch. It had been years and years since I’d last seen the stage, but I was here now. For some unimaginable reason. Before I knew it, I was standing in the lobby, admiring the view of the city from the large windows that spanned the front of the building.

  I was inappropriately dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. My hair was likely a mess, but that wouldn’t have changed regardless. It was likely that my eyes were bloodshot and puffy from off and on crying while I drove. There was absolutely no good reason why I was here, outside of my raging emotions that I couldn’t keep under control. Regardless, I found myself wandering into the side hall of the auditorium.

  Every time I’d ever came to David Geffen Hall, it felt as if time stopped when I entered. Once I’d passed through the doors at the back of the theater, the room swallowed me whole. Four stories of maple towered above me and lined everything throughout. Box seats lined three sides, while the iconic Harlequin stage stretched on the far side. The hall seated nearly three-thousand people. It was likely there’d be at least half that many, if not more, at the rehearsal. I left the acoustically-preferred seats open, for obvious reasons, choosing to settle in a seat on the far side of the room, nearest to the violin section. I made sure I was an adequate number of seats back, behind a group of teenagers that had already arrived.

  As I had predicted, the theater filled up quickly. It was nearly at full capacity by the time the orchestra began filing on stage. They usually did it by groups. I waited patiently, until the strings walked in. Lead by none-other than the formidable Juliet Hamilton, herself.

  Seeing her made my breath hitch in my throat. She was wearing typical attire. A crisp white blouse, a pair of black slacks, and a dark-grey cardigan. Her attire wasn’t what had paused me. It was the fact that she’d released her beautiful black hair from its traps. It flowed elegantly around her, wavy, but tamed. She moved to the row of seats for the violins, until she reached her spot. Before I could stop myself, I’d gotten to my feet. She was nearly in front of me from my position in the theater. I knew I was likely bothering the couple sitting directly behind me, but I didn’t care. I hoped for a moment that she’d look up.

  It was only seconds after I had gotten my wish. Once she’d settled in her seat, her Vuillaume in her lap, I watched her body turn to look forward out into the audience. The whole contact between us had been in slow motion. Her facial expression didn’t change, but her posture had grown slightly stiffer. I knew without a shadow of a doubt she saw me, standing there.

  I felt a tug on my arm. The woman beside me was looking up at me, smiling politely. I watched her mouth as she spoke. “The couple behind you asked if you’d have a seat.”

  “Sorry,” I apologized, looking back to wave at them. When I’d settled back down, Juliet was still staring out into the theater in my direction. The expression on her face had turned to one of disbelief. Finally, she shook herself free of me, and turned her attention back to the music in front of her. It had been selfish of me to do, and hopefully it wouldn’t distract her. I couldn’t stop myself. Not after everything she’d done the past few days. She had to understand how real this was for me. That I couldn’t escape her. That I didn’t want to.

  The lights dimmed and the show began. In my haste, I’d forgotten to pick up a program on my way in. I turned politely to the woman beside me and asked to borrow hers, and she gave it to me willingly. The first portion was “Fall” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, which was classic and almost always a Philharmonic tradition to perform. While I was here specifically for Juliet, I couldn’t help but scan the entire length of the stage, admiring all the musicians. Hoping that one day I’d be privileged enough to join them on my favorite stage in the world.

  A particularly string-heavy portion of the song began. I noticed by the way the rest of the instruments had settled. My attention turned back towards the strings. As soon as I’d found Juliet, I was lost. While I’d been seated far back from the stage, I was still close enough that I could make out the facial expressions she made as she played. When her lips parted as she breathed in and out the delicate notes, all I could imagine was how they’d felt on mine. They’d been such a sharp contrast to everything else about her. Soft and tender. Sweet, even.

  The song slowed as the violins and violas took over. I watched the Morizot bow draw in long fluid motions over the strings of her Vuillaume. The way her body opened and then folded in on itself in a rhythmic way. Every once in a while, there was a small curl to her lips, hinting at the emotions she was feeling when she played. Wrapping herself in the caress of her instrument.

  Juliet’s expression was so similar to how she often looked at me when we played together. Every part of me craved that look. It felt as if the entire world ceased to exist in those moments. There was just music. Her fingers rolled up the length of the neck of the violin, in such a perfect way. I imagined how they had felt touching my cheek or gripped tightly in my hair, her mouth pressed to mine. Suddenly, I was in the rain again. The taste of woody scotch lingering on my lips.

  During the intermission of the show, I sat, pondering if I should stay longer or not. If I was going to approach Juliet after she’d finished for the evening, or if wanting to see her was all I really needed. Finally, I decided for both our sakes it was better that I’d left. As I got to my feet, I noticed her standing on the far side of the stage. I could tell by the expression on her face that she was contemplating approaching. The world moved around us, but all I could focus on was the way her green eyes were piercing into mine. As much as I wanted to go and explain myself, beg her yet again, my feet wouldn’t move. So instead, I turned and left. Not once looking back at her. I fled from the building without explanation. Deciding that if I truly mattered to her at all, if any of this was real between us, she’d come to me. She’d find a way.

  THE SMILE ON MY FATHER’S face the following Monday morning brought my entire whirlwind of thoughts and emotions to a standstill. Red was eating breakfast on the patio. It was crisp out, the colder weather starting to settle in. The flannel pajamas he was wearing seemed to keep him warm enough. There was something on the record player, I could see it moving as I walked into the room. The empty sleeve beside the turntable was for a Django Reinhardt album.

  I brought the throw from the couch out to the patio and wrapped it around him, being careful not to surprise him. He had a large smile on his face. As I sat down across from him, I reached out to snatch a piece of toast from his breakfast tray.

  “I love these fall mornings,” my father said when my attention drew on him. I wondered where he was now. The sorts of things might follow. Instead of speaking further, my father continued to eat his breakfast in silence.

  Before he got sick, my father and I used to spend nice mornings eating breakfast outside before I’d head off to school. Those memories were so startlingly similar to now, I wondered if he knew it was me. If he was present. It was always almost too heartbreaking to ask. Instead, I just let my mind wander, remembering times before we’d sat like this.

  Most of those mornings my father would sit with his guitar at the table. My father’s beat up Gibson ES-175 had such an iconic sound to it, any well-rounded jazz aficionado would have recognized it in a heartbeat. If they didn’t recognize it by sound, they would have certainly by sight. The front sported a large splintered hole that was nearly as old as he was. He’d bought the thing that way, never knowing what had caused the damage. It had seen decades and decades of love. When I was really little, my father would let me sit in his lap while he wrote tunes. Sometimes he’d
place my little hands to the worn frets and let me hold them as he strummed.

  “Emma-girl,” he would often say, “the world ain’t nothing without good music.”

  My world had never known silence, even after sound was taken from me. Music filled me from top to bottom. Redford Harvey had made sure of that. I saw the beat up Gibson hanging on the wall-mount in his living room. Before I could help myself, I wandered over to get it and the electric tuner that sat next to it. I paused the record player, which got my father’s attention. He didn’t argue with me, and simply watched me as I walked back out onto the patio next to him. I settled in the chair, letting the guitar fall into my lap.

  It had been years since I’d touched the thing. Before my father had been living here. He’d still been mostly coherent. The sight of it had made me sick to my stomach with the memories that would never be again. My father’s prime. The thing was likely horrendously out of tune. Once I’d fastened the tuner onto the neck, I plucked at the strings, one by one, watching the electric tuner tell me the keys they were in. When I’d look up at my father, in between bouts of tuning, he was still quiet. Just watching me, with that soft relaxed smile on his face.

  Most of what I’d ever learned on guitar was well-aged now. I strummed a few chords, trying to remember my finger placement. As I did, I watched my father’s eyes, curious to see if he’d give me any indication I was playing successfully. He looked satisfied, so I continued.

  The expression on Red’s face was one of pure joy when I started strumming the familiar chords of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline”. It was a song we’d sing on trips to school, taking turns harmonizing with one another. It was one of the first songs I’d learned the chords to on the guitar. And it was a song I knew he’d remember the instant he heard it.