Shadow Music

by Elisabeth Rose

  For once the ferry trip seemed to take forever. She sat impatiently watching the far shore edging closer and willing the passengers to get on and off quickly at the intervening stops. Finally she dashed up her street, put the key in the door and dumped her bag as she kicked off her street shoes. She pulled one of the CDs out and put it on as she changed, then threw together an omelette and salad for dinner, eating slumped on the couch as she listened.

  The music they played was similar in some ways, very passionate but not as romantic, more folk oriented. The Spanish music was exciting and she liked it very much in its own right, but it was not like her dream man’s playing at all. He seemed to be unique. Her page was obviously an original composition drawing on all sorts of sources. It had more classical lines, particularly in the first slow, melodic section.

  Nina switched off the CD player. Time to get to work. Time to practise.

  All week she followed the same routine. She got up earlier than usual to do her Tai Chi practice before work. After that she showered, had breakfast and caught the ferry. Each evening she arrived home at about six—sometimes later if she stopped off at the shops to buy groceries—cooked a quick meal, ate, then settled down to practise. She put in two hours every night, setting her alarm and making sure to finish by nine-thirty so as not to bother Florence or Dirk on the other side. Florence maintained old Dirk was as deaf as a post and drunk most of the time as well and Nina hardly saw him, but she still didn’t want to upset anybody.

  She slept soundly and had no more dreams or recurrences of the incident at Tai Chi. By Thursday her tone had filled out, her intonation and finger dexterity were markedly better, and she fell in love with her violin all over again. The nightly sessions became addictive.

  When the phone rang on Thursday just as she finished clearing away the dinner dishes, eager to practise, she snatched it up.

  “Yes,” she snapped.

  “Hey Babe. What’s happening?”

  “Oh! Gordon.” Her shoulders slumped. He hadn’t entered her head since that last abrasive phone call.

  “Miss me?”

  “Oh, um…” Her violin waited in the spare room.

  “Well?”

  “I’ve been busy. At work and…practising.”

  “I missed you, Babe. Missed you…a lot.” He lowered his voice. “I can be over there in half an hour.”

  Nina hesitated. Why should he expect to pick straight up where he left off, as if she would be panting for him? Especially after what he’d said to her.

  Her hesitation was just a bit too long. “There are plenty of others, Nina.”

  Florence’s words echoed in her mind.

  “Yes,” she said. “There are, Gordon.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It works both ways.”

  An arctic silence. Then, “If you’re waiting for an apology, it’s not going to happen.”

  “I’m not. I don’t expect one.”

  “Well, that’s that. It’s been…You’re a real bitch, Nina.” He slammed the phone down.

  Nina stood blankly for a few minutes then slowly replaced the receiver. He wasn’t as tough as he made out. Just as Florence had said, none of them were. She sighed. Gordon’s hurt feelings would have to fend for themselves.

  She almost ran to the spare room. Today was Thursday. She had practice to do. On Saturday she would try the music again.

  Chapter Two

  Saturday, lunchtime. She’d made herself wait until after Tai Chi. Nina opened her violin case with shaking hands. The music watched her take up the violin. It waited for her to lift her bow.

  “I’m going mad.” A strangled little laugh accompanied the words.

  This time she heard the difference immediately. And she heard the voice. His voice. The voice from her dreams.

  “Mira. Play for Mira. She is my life. My love.”

  She wasn’t expecting that, so close, so loud in her ears. The bow jerked from the strings. The voice stopped but the music beckoned. She started again, wary but determined, excited. The voice was real, not just in her dreams. He talked all the way through—strong, masculine, deeply resonant—an English accent! Not “proper” like the Queen but well spoken with some sort of regional tinge.

  The second section still defeated her, but she set herself to work on a few bars at a time. The voice faded as she struggled but she knew he was there, encouraging her, willing her on.

  “I can’t play anymore. I’m sorry. I need a rest.” She lowered her bow and stretched her arms and back. She sensed an acceptance of her physical limitations, that he knew she was doing her best, was committed, was willing, that she would continue.

  After a tea break and a hastily made and gobbled sandwich, Nina went back to practise. She made herself work on technical exercises. Her fingers wouldn’t move fast enough for some of the runs, and the chord patterns were odd and unfamiliar. She needed to improve her intonation as well.

  “You’ve got a lot of work to do, Nina,” she said. The phone rang but she ignored it completely. She’d forgotten to switch it to answer after Gordon’s call. The second time it happened she ran through to the living room, waited for it to stop, then pressed the “answer” button. “No more telephone,” she declared to the empty house. Or maybe to the voice in her head.

  Later she stopped to use the toilet. And she was hungry again. It dawned on her that the house was almost in darkness. She’d been playing all afternoon. The kitchen clock said 7:35. Nina gripped the kitchen bench and closed her eyes. What was happening to her? This truly was madness!

  “This way madness.” She’d been staring at that page all afternoon and the handwritten words had barely registered. Now they crashed home.

  Was she mad? Talking to yourself out loud is the first sign of madness. That’s what they’d taunted each other with as children. Especially as they’d had poor slow-witted George from down the street who muttered and mumbled to himself all the time, as an example. But he really was mad or at least slightly touched in the head. Harmless though.

  She closed her mouth abruptly. Put on some music, no not music, the TV, the radio, anything with real people. Nina switched on the television. Voices, American accents. Banal, mindless, perfect. And she’d make herself a decent dinner. Stirfry vegetables with rice. As she ate she tried to watch the television but her mind insisted on wandering sneakily back to the spare room, her violin, the music, his voice.

  That voice—so sad. Heartbroken. He loves Mira so much and she’s dead. She must be but he won’t accept it. Tears sprang to her eyes. What a tragedy. Who were they, these people torn apart by death, striving to come together again? For Nina had no doubt now that the man wanted to be with Mira more than anything and somehow he wanted her to help. But how? What could she do? Play that music? What would that achieve?

  On the TV people argued about something and left the room, slamming doors. She flicked to another channel. People sat behind a desk talking about politics. She flicked again. Dancing. Part of her desperately wanted to go back to the spare room and play, to hear his voice. The rational part of her said no.

  She listened to the rational part. For now. The thought of where the other would lead terrified her. She stayed glued to the couch wrapped in Gran’s rug.

  Someone pounded on the front door. The bell shrilled. She sat up abruptly, startled, the hair on her neck straining. She crept down the hallway and slipped the chain on.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Nina? Babe. It’s me.”

  Gordon. Nina rested her head on the door. What to do? He wouldn’t leave unless she spoke to him, she knew that much. She opened the door reluctantly.

  “Babe. Let me in. Please, sweetheart.” Drunk. Not falling down drunk but pretty far gone. He peered at her through the crack the chain left.

  “Babe. The chain. You’ve locked me out! Why Babe? I love you. Nina? Hear me? I love you.”

  “How did you get here? You didn’t drive, did you?” She couldn’t see his
car. Hadn’t heard it drive up. She always heard him coming with that throaty exhaust.

  “Steve drove me.”

  Nina liked Steve best of all that crowd.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the car…Babe, let me in…I want to talk to you…Please, sweetheart.” He only managed short bursts of coherent thought with gaps in between.

  “Get Steve.”

  “Nina. Come on. I won’t hurt you. I love you. Babe.” Wheedling now, leaning against the door frame.

  “Get Steve.”

  He turned and stumbled a few lurching paces down her front steps, waving an arm in the direction of the street, a vague beckoning gesture. A car door slammed. Seconds later Steve appeared and they had a muttered conversation. Steve came up the steps.

  “Nina? Hi. Sorry about this. He’s desperate. He wants to see you.” He gave her a frustrated shrug. “He’s not violent. He won’t hurt you, I promise. Just talk to him for a few minutes.”

  Nina drew a deep breath. Steve was sober. Despite his faults, Gordon would never hit or physically harm her. She slipped the chain off and opened the door.

  “Will you stay please, Steve?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to get involved in this.” Steve started backing away. Gordon passed him on the steps.

  “Steve, please?”

  “Come in, mate, if that’s what she wants,” Gordon said.

  Nina stepped back to let them pass. She closed the door and followed them to the living room. Gordon slumped onto the couch in an untidy sprawl of arms and long legs.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you back, Babe.” He held out his hand toward her, and when she didn’t move, let it fall. His mouth twisted into that smile she loved. Damn it! Her body was so weak. “Remember last time? Here? On this couch?”

  She did remember. He narrowed his eyes and the smile widened. He knew her weakness. So did she.

  Steve said, “I’ll go. He won’t hurt you, Nina. I’m sure. He’ll probably go to sleep soon.”

  “Thanks for coming in.” She flashed him a tight smile.

  “See you.” He beat a hasty retreat.

  Nina studied Gordon, hands on hips. He grinned back at her, knew he’d won.

  “Want some coffee?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m not giving you more beer.”

  “Don’t want beer. Come here.” His voice thickened with lust.

  Nina moved closer and knelt by the couch. She searched his face, stared deeply into his eyes. Who was this man? Did she really want him? Did she even like him? They had nothing in common apart from lust. Gordon returned her gaze as well as he was able and stretched one arm out to snake around her neck. He drew her close and kissed her, pulling her up onto his lap and holding her tightly pressed against his body. Nina gave up and abandoned herself to his embrace and the insistence of her own suddenly flaring desire.

  ****

  Gordon woke next morning in Nina’s bed with a splitting headache and someone drilling into his ears with a high-pitched, whining machine. He groaned and pulled the pillow over his head, trying to block out the sound, lying motionless to minimise the pain. Dimly through the mists of his gigantic hangover, it dawned on him that the sound was that of a violin. Nina played the violin although he’d never heard her. Wasn’t interested in that sort of music at all. It must be her.

  Bloody hell! What was she doing playing at this hour of the morning? He dragged himself into a sitting position and propped his head on his hands as the room dipped and swayed. His throat felt like sandpaper. Five minutes later he attempted to stand and managed to stagger to the door, leaning on it to steady himself as he negotiated the corner. It was Nina. In the spare room right next to the bedroom. Loud! Jesus Christ!

  “Give it a rest, Babe,” he croaked.

  Nina’s head whipped around. Her expression changed from one of surprise to complete anger.

  “Get out!” She spat the words at him like a snake, dripping with venom.

  “It’s early, Babe. My head’s gunna burst if you keep that up.”

  He stood half naked and defenceless in the hallway watching her through the open door. She looked different and it wasn’t because he was hung over. He hadn’t had a chance to look at her properly last night, not from a distance, unclouded by lust and alcohol, but now he saw how her cheeks and hipbones stood out, her arms sticklike. She’d lost the serenity and air of mystery that attracted him to her in the first place. A disturbing, unsettling intensity hovered about her and he’d never heard her speak like that before, to anyone.

  “It’s eleven in the morning Gordon, not dawn. I have practice to do.”

  Nina marched toward him and he thought for one horrified, uncomprehending moment she would strike him. He shrank back instinctively but she caught hold of the door and slammed it in his face. The violin began again, a strange haunting melody that put his teeth on edge and made him want to get away as far and as fast as he could.

  ****

  Nina heard Gordon moving about the house and gritted her teeth. The shower sounded for a long time, feet padded down the hallway, then the clinking of crockery in the kitchen. He’d leave soon. She kept playing.

  She still couldn’t get the second part right. Three bits were beyond her and would be for a long, long time. The voice coaxed and encouraged but he couldn’t help her move her fingers faster no matter how she tried. And she kept miss-pitching the top notes, sometimes flat, more often sharp.

  He spoke nearly all the way through now, still pleading with her to play, insisting that Mira wasn’t dead, that she would live but as she improved and her interpretation became better he said, “The Golden Dawn. It is the music. The music.”

  Then he said several times. “Love is the key. Love is the key to everything,” in a voice so sorrowful and at the same time so hopeful tears cascaded down her cheeks again as they had done that first time. Such a profound sense of emotion, intense, heartfelt, was overwhelming and so addictive she wanted to drink from the source continually. The man who owned that voice would be passionate and strong, vibrant and determined. Very determined. Not even death could stop him in his search. She envied Mira. She wanted him to speak to her the way he must have spoken to his lost love.

  Can you fall in love with a voice? Probably. People did it all the time with pop singers. Could you fall in love with a spirit?

  She was able to stop now when she really wanted to. All she had to do was try to play the passages that were too difficult. His voice faded then and she could easily lay down her instrument and bow.

  When she emerged from the spare room and went to the kitchen for a drink she was amazed to catch a glimpse of Gordon sitting at the outdoor table with Soda under his chair. He wasn’t exactly sitting, reclining was a better word, with his feet up on the table. He had her sunglasses on and a mug of something in his hand, the newspaper spread before him. She’d forgotten he was still in the house, assumed he’d gone home.

  She opened the screen door and he looked around as it slammed behind her.

  “How’s your head?”

  Gordon stared at her, brow creased in concern. “Do you know how long you’ve been playing?”

  Nina shrugged.

  “Three hours plus whatever you did before I woke up.”

  She stuck her hands into the pockets of her shorts. “So?”

  “Nina, you play the same thing over and over.”

  “I can’t get it right. That’s what practising is, Gordon.”

  He stood up too fast, then winced as his head caught up with his body. He took two paces and put his arms around her.

  “It’s a bit obsessive, isn’t it?”

  She stood like stone within the circle of his arms. He kissed her cheek then stepped back and looked down at her. She kept her eyes averted, staring at Soda who had got up and wandered over to scratch his claws against the wooden fence dividing her from Florence.

  Gordon pulled her close again and hug
ged her tightly. When was he going to leave? She wanted to have another try at those difficult bits. He sensed her withdrawal and let her go, pushing her away.

  “Look Nina. If you don’t want me to come around, if you want me to go, just say so. Although you didn’t mind me last night.”

  Nina stared at him then, her face blank. “You came here, remember. I didn’t invite you. And that was after you said and I quote, “well that’s that,” and finishing up with “you’re a bitch.”

  “You were happy enough to let me into your bed.” She couldn’t deny that.

  “Yes, well.” Nina flushed and he ran his hands over her breasts, teasing her nipples with his fingers.

  “Gordon.”

  “What?” he said softly and didn’t stop what he was doing.

  “You’re a bastard.” She didn’t want to do this now.

  “Am I?” He kissed her with the expertise she couldn’t resist.

  He took her by the hand and led her firmly back into the house, through the living room, down the hallway toward her bedroom. As they passed the spare room, Nina paused, glanced in, saw the music beckoning, her violin waiting. Gordon turned as he felt the tug on his hand.

  “No you don’t,” he growled, kissing her hard and maintaining the grip on her fingers.

  Nina leapt back as if scalded, her eyes frantically searching the hallway. Gordon stared open mouthed.

  “Babe?” Bewildered, frustrated.

  She closed her eyes, then opened them slowly. Her legs trembled. She steadied herself by leaning on the wall.

  “Babe? Come here.” He reached out a hand but she shrank back. “What’s wrong? Why are you scared of me?” Anger rising.

  Nina shook her head, speechless. Tears rose and spilled down her cheeks while frustration twisted his mouth in fury.

  “I don’t need this! Call me when you know what you want. If ever.” He charged into her bedroom, retrieved his jacket, opened the front door. He looked at her then, still huddled shaking against the wall.

  “You’re crazy, Nina.”

  The door slammed behind him.

  Nina’s legs gave way and she slipped to the floor, wrapping her arms around her bare legs, hugging herself tightly, sobbing in huge gasping breaths. Gordon must be right. She was crazy.