Aloha, Mozart
Page 32
He remained silent, holding her lightly in his arms.
“I’m dead,” she mumbled.
“My dear young woman.” He lowered his hands. “You gave up a great deal, and it probably does not seem worth it. Not even philosophers have resolved the dilemma you encountered.”
“I’ve ruined everything.”
He regarded her with a look of pained consideration. “In one sense that is true. Gossip dies out in time, although as long as von Wehlen is alive, he will never allow you to sing at the Festival. Not under another conductor, and not as a substitute, however badly needed.”
She held her breath in the awful realization that she had sacrificed far more than ever intended. Would she be allowed to perform in houses where von Wehlen did not conduct? Would she ever be invited to sing at the Met?
“No one owns music,” Jann said. “This is glorious. Don’t you see?”
She didn’t. Why had she ever admired Mozart? Taken a single voice lesson? Gone so far to end up with nothing?
Jann took the score from her, paged through it, and handed it back.
She looked at notes that unfolded in a familiar pattern, a melody line and supporting clusters of chords. Et incarnatus est. And the divine became human. The ageless gift, the spiritual resonance of music based on selfless love. In the past when life offered only misery, this same piece had spoken to her spirits with such grace and purity that it went beyond church or opera toward some higher goal. For the first time she knew what it was: the quality of mercy, the promise of forgiveness.
About the author
Originally from Hawaii, Waimea Williams spent a decade in Austria and Germany as an opera singer and has received fiction awards from Glimmer Train, The Lorian Hemmingway Competition, and Salamander Review. She has enjoyed the honor of a writing residency at the Ragdale Foundation, and her short story “Vienna Quartet with Dog” received First Prize from the Chariton Review in 2012. She currently lives near Honolulu.