Shadow Music

by Elisabeth Rose

  Nina went to bed early. She had work in the morning. She slept peacefully, untroubled by dreams of any sort.

  The music store where Nina worked was the largest in North Sydney. She travelled by ferry across the harbour and then if she felt energetic and was early enough walked the few blocks up the steep streets to the centre or more usually caught the shuttle bus.

  Riding the ferry at the beginning and end of each day, gazing out across the water as the little boat ploughed its way toward the magnificent arching Sydney Harbour Bridge was one of the best parts of her job. Sydney Harbour had to be the most beautiful harbour in the world, although she hadn’t travelled out of Australia, and had only images from TV and movies with which to compare it. Ships of all sizes and shapes manoeuvred up and down the waterway. Large container ships bound for Europe and Asia, oil tankers, yachts, harbour police, passenger vessels heading off to cruise the Pacific islands. Nina watched them all and daydreamed about going too one day, but only to visit. She’d always come back to Australia.

  This Monday Nina had other things on her mind. Yesterday she had successfully put it out of her thoughts, the music, but it crept back in when she began to relax her vigilance. The door to the spare room remained closed and at the moment she had no intention of opening it. She would have to eventually, she knew that. But not yet.

  On the ferry coming home after a typical, normal, rather dull Monday she told herself she was being ridiculous. It was a piece of paper, nothing more. The door remained closed.

  It stayed closed all week. She had no reason to go in there, often went for days without going in there. She didn’t play her violin every day anyway. She didn’t need anything from the room.

  On Tuesday she went to a movie with Gordon, on Wednesday she visited her sister, Thursday she went out with friends from work to celebrate someone’s birthday. Friday she went to the chamber music concert. Gordon didn’t want to go and was annoyed that she didn’t want to go out with his friends to someone’s housewarming party.

  “I don’t understand you, Nina! I’d rather be with you than by myself. It’s Friday night for Christ’s sake. How will it look when I turn up without my woman and say you wanted to go to some poncy orchestra thing instead.”

  “Come with me then,” she’d said.

  “I thought you wanted to be with me.”

  “Just because I want to go to a concert doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you!”

  “You should prefer to be with me.”

  “That works both ways, Gordon.”

  “I’m not sitting through some bloody boring concert!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Barbara was right about you. You are Miss Perfect. Too refined for the likes of us. I’m just a plumber.”

  “That’s ridiculous” Barbara clearly had an eye for Gordon and wouldn’t miss the chance to take a swipe at Nina.

  “Oh, yeah? Playing the violin. University degree. Looking like an inscrutable Chinese Buddha all the time. Lighten up, Nina!”

  “Goodbye, Gordon,” she said stiffly and hung up.

  She went to hear Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” and it was wonderful. She’d forgotten the impact a live performance could have, the immediacy and total immersion in the music at the moment it was produced. The concert venue was perfect for the size of the group, resonant and vibrant, the performers expert and dedicated. Nina sat enthralled and let the crisp, clear string sounds wash over her. The leader of the chamber orchestra played the solo violin part and he conducted as well, using his whole body and his violin to communicate with the other players. They played as one, perfectly in tune literally and metaphorically.

  Nina went home in a taxi, her spirit still dancing in the heights to which Vivaldi and the chamber players had lifted her. She dumped her handbag and jacket in the bedroom as she came in, kicked off her high heels and slipped on scuffs, went to the spare room, opened the door without hesitation and unpacked her violin. The music waited patiently for her on the music stand. This time she knew what to expect. She also knew how to control the power. A little. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted her bow and tucked her violin under her chin.

  The music responded and again she felt some other force lifting her, pushing her to keep playing. The beautiful melody captivated her once more and the tremendous sorrow she’d heard in the dream voice flooded into her body and out into the sound she produced.

  Her violin throbbed beneath her hands. It came alive and breathed the music with her. She reached the difficult section and made a better attempt this time, buoyed by the faint memory of the dream. Somehow she knew how it ought to go now but still didn’t have the ability.

  “I’ll have to practise!” she muttered in frustration. “Technique. I need better technique!”

  Still the music drew her to keep playing. She played this time because she wanted to. She wanted to get it right. At midnight her neighbour thumped on the communal wall and she forced herself to stop playing and shut the violin in its case for the night.

  Again that night he came to her in her sleep, pleading, demanding. “Play for me. You must play. It’s the only way.”

  The violin sounded, rich and full, played by a master. Other instruments sounded faintly. A flute, a guitar, a cello.

  “Why?” she asked in her dream. “Why must I play?”

  “So she will live.” His voice rose to a desperate cry on the last word and the music swelled around him.

  When she awoke on Saturday morning she remembered the dream clearly. She remembered the tone and quality of his voice and the way he played the music, the way he shaped the phrases, the nuances. She knew there were other musicians in the group. At least three.

  Nina went by bus to her regular Saturday morning Tai Chi class. She needed the calming exercises and familiar routine more than ever. Never had she had such a mess in her head as since she’d bought that piece of music.

  They went through the usual joint loosening exercises and then prepared for the meditation. From over a year of practice her breathing slowed naturally and her body relaxed, becoming heavy as the tension drained away. This practice was done in a standing posture and as Nina slowly raised her arms into the position known as “embracing the tree,” her thoughts strayed to Gordon and the fight they’d had. She allowed the images to slip into her mind and out again, refocussing her attention on a point in the centre of her body.

  The melody crept into her mind, singing through her head, strong and vibrant. She let it flow. Her instructor repeatedly assured them that meditation was not about forcing the mind to conform but about gently returning the awareness to the body’s centre when the thoughts wandered.

  “Mira is not dead.”

  Nina’s eyes flew open and her involuntary cry of surprise broke the silence. An uncomfortable rush of heat surged through her body and the music faded. If she hadn’t recognised the voice from her dream she would have sworn someone in the class had spoken. Her classmates continued their practice with closed eyes but Nina went to the back of the room and sat down, whole body trembling, too afraid to close her eyes and open her mind again.

  At the end of the meditation she rejoined the group. Brett, the instructor looked at her.

  “Was there a problem, Nina?”

  “I’m sorry, everyone.” Her cheeks pulsed with heat. Their puzzled smiles and murmured reassurances did nothing to console her.

  “Come and talk to me later,” he said.

  Nina nodded. What she could possibly say to him?

  The lesson continued. Nina went through the motions physically but without the mindfulness of her usual practice and it was with trepidation she approached Brett at the end of the class. A slim, compact, middle-aged man, sincere and dedicated to the art of Tai Chi, Nina knew he would listen to her with respect and offer any advice he could but she also knew he wasn’t a psychiatrist and couldn’t be expected to understand the supernatural either. Her recent experiences seemed to fall into one or other of the two
areas.

  “What happened?” He studied her through round, wire-framed spectacles.

  “I’m not sure. I heard a voice. I thought someone spoke to me. You didn’t, did you?” Nina asked with a little laugh which sounded forced even to her ears.

  He shook his head. “People experience all sorts of bizarre things in this practice. Do you practise much at home?”

  “Yes. I try to do some every day.”

  “You’ll go through different stages. I can see that you’re beginning to relax more now in the movements but there is still a long way to go. It’s like peeling away the layers of an onion. There is always more to go, more tension to release. For all of us, me included.”

  “I understand that and normally I can get into it really well. It’s just that today…”

  “Do you have any emotional problems at the moment? Stress?”

  “I had a fight with my boyfriend.” It sounded trite and petty but he nodded.

  “That could be troubling you. The mind is an extraordinary thing. It likes to replay things over and over when we’d rather forget them. Meditation is the best way of giving it a rest from itself.”

  “It wasn’t his voice though.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “No.” That was certainly the truth. “Thanks.” Nina smiled and walked with Brett to the door.

  “Talk to me any time if you need help.”

  “I will. Thanks again.”

  As soon as she got home she went to the spare room and, deliberately averting her eyes from the music, opened the wardrobe and searched through her pile of violin music. Scales and technical exercises, that’s what she needed. She tossed them onto the floor as she found them. All the books she’d slogged through as a child and hated.

  Nina sat crosslegged on the floor with her messy pile and sorted, discarding some as too basic and finishing with a half a dozen she thought would be useful. Then she got up and opened her violin case. The doorbell rang.

  “Bugger,” she muttered, considered ignoring it but didn’t.

  “Hello, Nina darling.”

  “Hi. Come in, Florence.” Nina stepped back out of the way, smiling. Florence from next door was always good value. “How are you?” A dose of reality draped in silver and gold jewellery and too much makeup.

  “Oh, the usual. Back’s playing up again and the waterworks need a bit of attention.” She laughed cheerfully. “Bloody pain in the neck, getting old.”

  “Cuppa?” asked Nina as they headed down the narrow hallway.

  “Never say no to a cuppa. Or to a bit of the other.” She winked lewdly at Nina who thought Florence’s days of “the other” were probably long gone.

  Florence made herself comfortable on the couch as Nina filled the electric jug.

  “How’s that good-looking Gordon?”

  “We had a fight.” She’d learnt it was pointless prevaricating with Florence.

  “You’ll make up. Just let him make the first move. Don’t let him see you want him back.” Florence patted her improbably dyed red hair with a be-ringed hand. “That’s the secret. I remember when I was working in Bangkok, at the most plush hotel, there was the most gorgeous man. He came to my show every night and hung around afterward. Brought flowers and champagne, the works…we had a fling. My darling, was he good in bed!” Florence rolled her eyes heavenward and clutched a hand to her substantial bosom. “I absolutely adored him but he was extremely jealous. Silly man. He could see how popular I was. My God, I was the toast of the town, everyone came to hear me sing. Everyone! I told him I didn’t want to see him until he could behave himself. I nearly died of grief but I had to do it!”

  “What did he do?” This was a new tale from Florence’s lurid past. Embellished or true? Who knew?

  “He disappeared. I thought he may have committed suicide, one nearly did you know. Over me.”

  “Heavens! Had he?”

  “No, no. He was just sulking, silly man…but he came to his senses, realised he couldn’t boss me around and keep me away from people. Especially in my profession. What did he expect? I would sing with a bag on my head and wearing overalls…or give it up? For him? I tell you, men need to know where they stand with you!”

  “So what happened?” Nina handed Florence her tea. Black with two sugars in a proper cup with a saucer.

  “Thank you, darling.” Florence rested the saucer on her black, satin-clad knee. “He couldn’t stay away. Four days he lasted and then he came back with red roses and a diamond ring. He wanted to marry me but of course I said no. There were plenty more where he came from and not nearly so jealous, too.” She chuckled throatily and winked a heavily mascaraed eye at Nina again

  “I doubt whether Gordon wants to marry me.”

  “Do you want to marry him?”

  “No! But…”

  “He’s got a great body and knows how to use it,” finished Florence with great satisfaction. Nina blushed and nodded, giggling.

  Florence continued with great but probably misplaced confidence. “There’s got to be more than that for the long haul…but in the meantime…make hay while the sun shines, I say. He’ll come round. If he doesn’t realise what he’s got then he’s a fool and doesn’t deserve you.”

  She crossed her legs and exhaled loudly. “Now, darling. I know how it is to be a musician. God knows I sang for nearly sixty years of my life. I know that sometimes you get carried away with what you’re doing and forget everything else but please, darling, not at one in the morning. I used to be up all night singing at one time in my life. In Berlin I did two shows per night. The first at eleven-thirty the second at two. I got so used to being up all night I hardly knew what the sun looked like. But now? Now I need my sleep.”

  Nina grimaced and began apologising. Florence held up her hand, flashing a fistful of chunky jewels set in silver.

  “No need to apologise, darling, just so as you know. I love to hear you play, you’re very good. Any other time. In fact you don’t practise nearly enough!”

  “I was about to do some, actually, when you came.”

  “I’ll go then.” Florence heaved herself up and then, steadying herself with one hand on the back of the couch, she ran her fingers over the crocheted rug. “Poor dear old Mrs. Lee. She adored you grandchildren. Always came in to tell me when you were coming to visit, Elsie did. I miss her. We lived side by side for twenty years. She was here when I moved in. Of course she was older than me. Fitter though. Looked after herself better.”

  “Didn’t spend her youth in nightclubs,” suggested Nina. Gran probably hadn’t set foot in one.

  “I had to. I was a singer and not an opera singer either!” Florence laughed uproariously as she headed toward the front door. Nina held it open for her then watched as she carefully stepped down the three steps to the path, her gaudy, hot pink shirt flapping over the black satin pedal pusher pants. Florence turned.

  “Bye bye darling. Take care. Thanks for the tea.”

  “Bye Florence. Look after yourself.” Nina closed the door and went straight to the spare room.

  She began with tone exercises then moved on to scales. Strangely, she was able to take the page of music off the stand and put it on the bed, replacing it with her study books. It didn’t seem to object at all. Did it know what she was doing? She shook her head and shuddered. Talk about madness!

  Next came technique building exercises, studies that she’d prepared for the endless round of exams in her later years as a student. The plan was that she would practise every day and then try the manuscript next Saturday with her regained technique. Pleased with herself and her newly designed regime, Nina put away her violin with no trouble at all. Of course it would take months of practice to be anywhere near good enough to play that piece at all well.

  Her stomach growled. She’d skipped lunch what with Florence coming in and then practising for what? Three hours? Nina stared at the clock, horrified. She must have been at work that long. No wonder she felt weak and light
headed.

  She cooked herself spaghetti and meatballs with a green salad, even pouring herself a half glass of red from the bottle she kept mainly for cooking although a previous boyfriend had recommended the label. She doubted whether Gordon drank anything other than beer. An evening in front of the TV, followed by an early night. She had practice to do tomorrow—Tai Chi and violin.

  ****

  During a quiet period at work on Monday, Nina went to the world music section and pulled out CDs of gypsy music from Eastern Europe, the Middle East, Spain, and France. She listened to several tracks through headphones, disturbed every now and again by customers, but heard nothing that resembled the music on her sheet. Sometimes there would be a phrase or a flashing violin part and her interest would be quickened, but it never developed into what she wanted to hear.

  Guitars featured prominently but she hadn’t heard the dream guitar strongly enough. Not yet anyway. Still, listening to this type of music gave her a feel for the style. Some of them certainly played with the same sense of abandon that her dream violinist did. She bought a couple to take home.

  Workmate Rolly looked at her curiously as she rang up her purchases at the end of the day.

  “Since when have you been into gypsy music? I thought classical was more your thing.”

  “I like all sorts of things. I’m interested in the violin playing. Have you heard any of this stuff?” Nina showed him the covers of the CDs.

  “No. We could play it in the shop tomorrow.”

  Nina laughed. “Wouldn’t Alistair love that! And Tien.”

  “I’d rather gypsies than the middle of the road pap he has on all day downstairs.”

  “You can but try.” Nina put her new purchases into her bag.

  “Coming for a drink? We’re all going to Mojave. Probably have dinner as well, later.”

  Nina shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ve things to do at home.”