“How was it?” I asked, and she smiled.
“Beautiful, as always,” Miranda replied, squeezing my shoulder.
“The wind section could be better this year,” Andrew noted, staring out onto the stage. “They should have picked more songs to showcase them. If I’d been playing this show, that wouldn’t have happened.”
“You should play more shows,” I replied, and he rolled his eyes at me. I turned back to Miranda. “I appreciate you all coming.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Timothy said, nodding towards the stage. “Though I’m sure they’re getting ready to start again. Wouldn’t want to miss your cue, Jules.”
I was about to correct him for his use of the annoying nickname I loathed hearing, but instead gave them a nod and shuffled back up on stage. A short while after, we’d resumed our places for the second half of the performance.
In addition to my condo in Annandale-on-Hudson, I rented a small apartment in the city for weekends like these, or when I wanted to get away. When I arrived back for the evening, I found my phone waiting for me on my desk in the study. I’d forgotten to take it with me to the show, which hadn’t been the worst thing. The less distractions I had, the better, though it was rare anyone called me. I wasn’t fond of the telephone.
Surprisingly, there was a few text messages from a number I didn’t recognize. The minute I opened the first one, I couldn’t help but smile. I thought it was best I stayed in town tonight. I’m sure you were wonderful, as always. I’ll see you on Monday. How Emma had gotten my number, I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t question it.
I looked at the clock, wondering if she’d still be awake. It was late in the evening, but I decided to try anyway. You were missed, but I understand. The show went well. I paused, pondering on what I should say, if anything else. But even the Philharmonic can’t compare to playing alongside you.
Before I had a chance to think about it, I sent it. As soon as I did, I fetched a bottle of scotch, pouring myself a glass. I stowed away the Vuillaume for the evening and settled in bed, pulling out assignments from last week’s composition class. Emma had agreed to retake her midterm this upcoming week. Emerson would proctor her, as I felt I would be too much of a distraction being alone in a room with her for too long.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I picked it up, scrolling over the text message, my smile never having left my face. It had been years since I’d texted someone like this. I’d never enjoyed it. Not until now. I hope the crescendos on the Vivaldi piece were flawless. I laughed out loud at the message.
Ms. Harvey, I believe you failed to realize my crescendos have always been flawless. I was still shaking my head when I sent the message.
Only seconds later, she replied. Whatever you say, Professor Hamilton.
The messages went quiet for a few minutes. I found myself distracted, checking my phone far more frequently than I would have liked. When I turned my attention back towards the papers I had intended to grade, the phone buzzed again.
What are you doing?
Grading composition assignments. I replied. And you?
She answered so fast, I was wondering if she’d even read my message. Thinking about you. My fingers ran over the screen, and I felt my shoulders relax, as a sigh escaped me. Wishing that I was with her, and that this wait didn’t have to happen.
I paused, wondering if I should respond. If it would be too much. My fingers danced across the screen. You were on my mind all evening.
I hope not enough to distract you from the show. Emma replied a minute later. I still hadn’t put the phone down, waiting for her responses like an eager child.
You’re never a distraction. I typed. Our messages went silent again. My hand kept finding the phone, hoping for an answer. I sent another message. I’ll see you Monday, Ms. Harvey.
I can’t wait. Goodnight, Juliet. Emma’s message came through after. Even when she typed my name, it made my heart spill out of my chest.
Goodnight, Emma. I sent my short reply. My phone returned to the nightstand and eventually I managed to focus my attention back to the assignments.
ON THURSDAY, THE DAY of the fall recitals, I returned Emma’s midterm to her in class. It had been flawless, only receiving a few points off for small errors she’d looked over. She looked pleased when I handed it to her. We spent the entire class, catching glances at one another as I worked through the lecture. There was such longing in her eyes every time she stared at me. At the end of class, she escaped quickly, knowing if we spent even moments alone in the room together without an instrument between us, there would be nothing stopping us from acting.
The Fisher Center was packed that evening for performances. Parents, family, friends and staff had all gathered to support the students for the biggest event of the semester. The building was an iconic one, an architectural dream. Not unlike the other buildings on campus, it was designed with a contemporary flair. Made of metal on the outside, with a roof that resembled a wavy piece of aluminum foil. My mother always made fun of its eclectic design, but strangely enough, I’d always admired it. The Sossnoff Theater it housed was even more beautiful than the building itself. Covered in a beautiful Douglas fir, it was far smaller than David Geffen Hall, but acoustically, it offered a decent performance space for its caliber.
Outside one duet with another violinist who had asked me to accompany her, and a duet with Emma, I would be participating as a member of the audience. Miranda had saved me a place inside. We’d picked our usual places.
I waited along a dark wing of the building, pacing the floor. After a brief text message a few minutes prior, I’d found myself outside the theater, feeling silly. Several minutes passed and I wondered if she’d show at all. If perhaps she’d gotten distracted. Just as I was about to pull out my phone to check on her, I heard footsteps around the corner. I paused, holding in a breath. As soon as Emma veered around the corner, the air in my lungs released in a long roll.
My entire body stood frozen at the sight. I hardly recognized her. She’d pulled her hair up onto her head in an intricate bun. Small locks dangled in ringlets alongside her slender and long face. While she never wore makeup, she had tonight. It had given exceptional definition to her already magnificent brown eyes. I hadn’t been looking at her face for long, wandering down the length of her. She wore an elegant black dress that fell at her curves.
I must have been staring with my mouth hanging open because I felt Emma’s hand wrap around my chin, tilting my face to meet her. Her lips were curled into a small smile. After she released me, her hands fell in front of her. You look beautiful.
Not nearly as beautiful as you, I managed to reply. Neither of us could stop it when we drew into one another. It was simultaneous. Her soft lips brushed ever so lightly against my own, sending an electrifying shiver down the length of me. A small sigh left my lips as my hand wrapped around the side of her face. Our foreheads pressed together after we’d broken apart. Our breaths were quiet and rhythmic.
A few seconds later I pulled away. Remember your posture when you play. It was more my attempt to be affectionate than anything. I knew she’d be flawless, just as she always was. Definition. Accentuate every note. Emma smiled at me without replying. I ran my fingers over her cheek one more time, and she leaned into the touch. “All the best,” I kept my voice quiet as my hand dropped to my side. She nodded and turned away from me. Just before she disappeared, she turned back on her heel to face me.
“Your grandmother used to tell you that,” Emma said. Her eyes had grown wider.
When she said it, I spent a long moment trying to process the words. Finally, I managed a nod. “How on Earth did you know that?”
“You told me,” Emma said, drawing closer. “Under the willow tree. At the lake. At Timothy and Miranda’s wedding. You said before every one of your shows, she’d pull you aside and tell you, ‘all the best.’ You told me you didn’t believe in luck, except for those words.”
My breath hitched in
my throat. I stared at her flabbergasted, unable to fathom how she had known it. “You must have read that in an article somewhere. Like I told you, I don’t remember that wedding. I wasn’t myself. And I certainly would have remembered meeting you.”
“You weren’t yourself because Eleanor had just passed away,” Emma said. She’d drawn closer still, until there was no space between us. “You’d barely managed to make it. I’d told you about my hearing. How they’d just diagnosed me. I’d just started losing it and they told me I’d never get it back.”
“Emma, stop this,” I said, my voice having grown louder. My foot fell a step back from her. I could feel a wave of anger washing through me. The mention of my grandmother and her passing stirred up all sorts of emotions. “This isn’t funny.”
“How do you not remember?” Emma looked pleadingly at me, as if her begging would bring any clarity to the situation. “You told me ‘trés belle’, after we danced together.”
Trés belle. The embarrassing slip I’d made at the mixer. At the thought of it, I felt my face growing hot. It would have explained her panicked reaction. Why she’d taken off from me without explanation.
I was trying to find words to speak when I saw the flashing of lights around the corner, signaling that the show was close to starting. “You need to get backstage,” I replied. Emma deflated in front of my eyes. There was a sadness left I hated that I couldn’t ease. She nodded. Just before she left, I reached for her hand, squeezing it. As soon as I had, she slipped away, disappearing around the corner.
When I had my wits about me, I made my way back into the theater. I found Miranda near the front. Timothy, Emerson and Andrew were backstage preparing to accompany students for the show. Charlotte was likely working with her vocal students, giving them a cheesy pep-talk like she often did.
“Where were you?” Miranda looked at me.
“Out for a walk,” I replied. Before Miranda could inquire further, the lights dimmed and the stage lit up. Our attention focused on the first group of students who entered. Vocal students, who opened with a group number.
Midway through the show, I left my seat for my first accompaniment with another violinist, Annette. She’d been the second-year that had played with Emma at her auditions. While she had improved over the course of the semester, I wasn’t as impressed with her as other students. She’d find a decent career at a symphony orchestra in a smaller program somewhere in the States. While she had talent, she wasn’t at the caliber of other students in the program. Even still, when she’d asked, I obliged, not knowing why.
Annette had chosen Bach’s Concerto for 2 Violins in D Minor. It was a challenging piece, one I had questioned her about. If it had been outside her capabilities. Still, she’d spent countless hours practicing and managed to master it to a level I was satisfied with. We received a round of applause as we entered the stage and took our seats. Annette readied her sheet music, while I prepared the Vuillaume that had been tuned only minutes prior. I watched her as she settled her instrument on her shoulder.
Just as we were about to begin, I noticed a movement in the wing off-stage, just beyond Annette. Emma was standing, arms crossed over her chest, watching. Our eyes met, and she offered me a small smile. I nodded and then turned my attention back towards Annette. She took several deep nervous breaths in, then the melody began.
Admittedly, she surprised me with her skill on the piece. She kept up with me quite well, and I did my best to keep in a rhythm with her, as to not outshine her. In previous years, I’d gone off on my own tangents. Miranda had been quick to correct me, so the habit died. Now, I was more careful. I took my time, quieted my portions of the song to let her shine. She surprised me, far surpassing anything I’d expected.
Every time I’d glance up for a moment, Emma was watching me. I was certain she couldn’t see our movements on the violins themselves, she looked mesmerized regardless.
As the piece drew to a close, the last few notes stretched across our bows in harmony, ringing into the theater. A long applause rippled across the audience. Annette looked pleased. We shook hands, and I wished her luck before I hurried off the stage. Instead of heading toward Emma, I walked off the other side, preferring that we avoided each other before we came on together for the duets.
I settled back into my seat alongside Miranda, drifting in and out of focus as the next few students played their performance pieces. Eventually I felt a nudge, as Emma made her way back onto the stage. The theater grew quiet as she sat at the Steinway underneath the concert shell. A chill ran down my spine as I watched her. In my mind, I was back with Timothy and Andrew, watching her in that Bohemian style dress as she strutted across the stage so confidently for her graduate school auditions.
Her grace was much similar tonight. Emma didn’t hesitate. I watched her settle the sheet music onto the piano and stretch her arms and fingers. She situated herself on the cushioned black piano bench, taking her time to relax. From the angle I was sitting, I could make out her face in its entirety. I could see the way her eyes scanned up and down the length of the keyboard, taking in every note. I imagined she was listening to them in her mind.
Emma took several deep breaths in, settling her fingers on the appropriate keys. Her focus went to the sheet music in front of her. We’d practiced so many times, I knew what to expect of her. The exact notes she’d play. What expressions would hint on her face at points in the song.
The first few introductory notes of La Campanella spilled from the keys from the higher register. Emma’s fingers played them effortlessly. I fought the urge to close my eyes and listen to her, but as soon as she broke into the main melody, I found that I couldn’t. Emma, not unlike many other occasions, had taken off from the traditional approach for the song. Instead, it was filled with improvisations. Flourishes unlike anything she’d ever played in practice. The song became unrecognizable.
I watched her in awe, working between the upper and lower registers, on a song which would have demonstrated her talents on its own. Now, however, it said so much more. She’d transformed it, just like she did everything in her life. Just like she’d done to me.
Had we met at Timothy and Miranda’s wedding? I tried to remember anything from that night. It had been in fragments. I’d spent the majority of it alone, in a drunken stupor. It could have been possible. A small possibility, but one nonetheless. I tried to imagine a point where I’d been outside, underneath a willow tree. Tried to imagine what she might have looked like. The things we might have talked about together, as perfect strangers.
Emma’s hands swept along the piano. I felt every note run through me as if I was drinking it in like water. It filled me up. She filled me up, in every way. As she slid into the allegro portion of the melody, my heart raced with the notes of the piano. Every once in a while, I’d recognize bits and pieces as they trickled in and out with the creation she’d turned it into. It came together like a whirlwind in the end.
The audience climbed to their feet as she wrapped up the final notes. As they were clapping, I disappeared behind the side entrance, making my way to the back so I could join her on stage. Before I entered, I pulled the Vuillaume from its case. As I made my way towards Emma, the audience clapped. I hadn’t noticed, my attention on Emma’s eyes.
She didn’t drift from me, even as I settled in my seat by the piano. As soon as I had, I watched her reach over to hand me sheets of music. They dangled in the air until I’d realized that they were meant for me to take. Once they were in my hand, I studied them over and felt a smile trickle onto my face. When my attention turned back to Emma, she was smiling too. It was a song we hadn’t practiced. In fact, we’d played it only once in our time of knowing one another, but I’d treasured every minute of it. Salut d’Amour.
I settled the sheet music on the stand in front of me, giving it a small glance-over. Emma turned her attention to the piano, examining the keys all over again. I watched her brown eyes shift down the length of the keys. When our eyes were
on one another again, I gave her a nod. The Vuillaume steadied on my shoulder, the Mozirot bow bouncing against the strings. There were only a few small notes of the piano before I began.
Salut d’Amour was meant for violin, but the way Emma and I had played it all those months ago, it had accentuated the piano in a way I’d never heard. I was certain she’d play it similarly again tonight. She hesitated for a small moment more before notes poured from her fingers. Gentle chords that lead up to the string introduction.
My body fell down into the violin and drew upward as I pulled into the first few notes in the middle registers. Long bow-strokes that stretched my arms. The melody, while simple, was so elegant and beautiful. Glissandos fell from my fingertips. The song was full of them. As I moved up and down the length of the neck of the violin, I heard Emma playing behind me. Instead of the normal chords that were played, she’d started her own harmony alongside me. My attention focused on her, our eyes meeting. I could see the desperation in her.
More passionate measures drummed down the entire length of me. We took turns, playing to one another as if we were the only two people in existence. While my body fell captive to the song, my mind drifted on that summer night all those years ago. At the wedding.
Emma hadn’t been wrong. My grandmother had passed just a few short days prior. I’d been devastated, hardly able to function. How I’d managed to show up was beyond me, but I’d known Miranda and Timothy since they’d first met. It would have been unthinkable for me not to be there. So I’d come, in spite of the fact that I was lost.
I remembered the ceremony. The events that had transpired at the reception had been another thing entirely. There hadn’t been enough scotch in the world to drown out my thoughts. Emma’s eyes bore into my own. Big brown eyes, filled with so much emotion. A chill shot down the length of me when I focused on her again.
Forbidden Melody Page 17