Concerto in Chroma Major

by Naomi Tajedler

  Ch 4

  E Minor

  Bordeaux and Blues

  Halina hesitates in the wings as the tuning A-note echoes through the auditorium. Hidden in the shadows, she observes the orchestra members tease each other while they tune their instruments and settle in. She should sit at the piano and chat, that’s what she needs to do. If she is to spend at least a full season with them, she ought to fit in, be friendly—make herself at home within the group.

  Easier said than done, her mother’s voice taunts, it’s not as if you’re the friendliest person to begin with.

  In the past, her mother did everything in her power to keep Halina away from the orchestras she was invited to perform with. Mariola poisoned Halina’s mind with lies about the other musicians, painting them all as snakes ready to strike her in their jealousy. Her younger self, firmly under Mariola’s thumb, was too afraid to check for herself what would happen if she answered the smiles and friendly attitudes.

  Three years away from Mariola have not helped Halina shake the instinct to put a wall between herself and others. Her position as soloist, set apart from the group, supported such a distance, but her reputation as the cold diva precedes her everywhere now. Maybe there is some truth in what Mariola said.

  “Shut up,” Halina says under her breath. She takes a deep breath with her eyes closed and hands tightened into fists to help her focus on one long inhalation and one longer exhalation.

  And then she steps out of the shadows. Eerie quiet falls on the group, and that makes her stand taller. She can feel her face set in a mask of arrogance.

  As she walks between four rows of cellists and violinists, Halina can feel their eyes on her as surely as the wooden stage that vibrates under her feet. She can hear the whispers rising across the stage, above the various tunings and amidst the different corps.

  “What is she doing here?”

  “The Ice Queen came down from her castle?”

  “Nah, the Ice Treble.”

  “The Les-Wein?”

  “Ah, good one, Philippe.”

  “Seriously, we don’t need her; can’t they find someone else?”

  “She brings the spotlight on us, crétins.”

  The last remark comes from a short, older woman with neatly cut hair and a severe bearing who raises her head from her violin to glare at the orchestra from behind the red rims of her glasses. Since her chair is right behind the piano bench, it’s clear who’s come to Halina’s defense: the alpha of the whole group, the concertmaster, who was undoubtedly consulted before Halina was hired. Whether she approved of the board’s choice or not, she seems sensible enough to understand how beneficial Halina’s presence is for the group, in terms of publicity.

  Some musicians whisper unhappily, but the concertmaster stands, her hand extended toward Halina. “Welcome to Paris, Piotrowski,” she says, her voice carrying through the group. A small smile softens her features. “Odile Moineau, premier violon.”

  Halina shakes Odile’s callused hand and then sits at the piano. She puts her hands on the closed instrument and finds strength in the lacquered wood. “When I arrived, I thought my driver had taken me back to the airport,” she says in jest. Internally, she berates herself for her strongly accented French.

  However, her little joke breaks some of the tension, and the group returns to their tuning with more jokes and guffaws.

  Joining the group, check. Now she just needs to make it last a whole season.

  Can I make it work that long?

  Leo must have said his goodbyes to Alexandra when he left, but when she does shake herself back into reality, she is surprised to find the room empty. The echo of rehearsal is a faint, distant sound.

  Putain de merde.

  Alexandra wipes her hands on her apron and puts it in a bundle on her workspace. She has done a lot. Her piece of chalk was put to good use, drawing Leo the shapes she needs to “carve the light” to her liking. Her first teacher compared creating a stained glass window to sculpting light rays, and the metaphor stuck with her. She used that phrase whenever Leo’s self-doubt threatened to suffocate his talent and would whisper that he should leave that chimera. The idea that their material was the light, not the glass, quieted his worries to allow his reason to catch up with the intrusive thoughts. After all, a light-carver sounds more prestigious than a window-maker, no matter how beautiful said windows may be.

  Alexandra sighs and stores the memories for a later time, when she’s able to linger on the nostalgia and its inherent bittersweetness. For now, she needs to wrap it up, in both senses of the word, and leave notes for Leo, since he’ll arrive before her tomorrow. She details what color they need to produce and which panels should be taken back to the workshop to remove some layers of enamel. Some colors need to be softer, deeper, more in tune with the rest of the composition.

  Turning off the lights, she is forced to focus on her spatial memory and her other senses to find her way out. In retrospect, that will be the reason for the way she catches it—more accurately, for the way it catches her.

  It is a soft, melancholic melody: just a handful of high notes on a piano over a repeated theme in a lower register. The theme serves as a background for the flutter of gradually higher notes. The music makes Alexandra freeze on the spot, and she has to support herself against the wall.

  She closes her eyes to let the music and the colors swirl around her head and rise to their full potential: deep red, as rich and enthralling as the finest wine for the background, the repeated melody; curvy lines in the whole palette of blues from sky to the darkest royal crisscross in time with the highest notes. To seize the whole concept, Alexandra must mentally add the LED system Leo developed. This is what she’s been waiting for, desperately: the inspiration for the main panel, the centerpiece of the composition.

  She opens her eyes and lifts her hands to help her visualize it: The two orange panels on each side, yes, they will bring more focus to the deep red, making it luminous and passionate. They’ll need to be careful with the enamel to give it depth and emphasis, since red pigments can be so contradictory and fleeting…

  Alexandra frantically searches in her pockets for her notebook in order to write it all down before the music stops and the colors fade. Creative energy thrums through her body. Now, if she could just put a face with the music…

  She’s well aware of the old maxim about curiosity, felines, and doom, but she is more canine, all things considered. Besides, it’s not just curiosity. Something in her needs, wants, to thank the person who is playing the main theme from Amélie.

  As quietly as she can, Alexandra finds her way to the concert hall. The pianist plays around with the melody to create new pieces one after the other, each of them a bubble of colors popping in Alexandra’s mind. From Alexandra’s perspective, at the top of the stairs leading down to the stage, the lone figure in the spotlight takes on a mystical appearance. The only mundane thing about it is a denim shirt, which covers a slim, yet undeniably feminine, body. Her long hair is a vivid contrast to the dark shine of the piano lid.

  Impulsively, Alexandra descends the stairs and walks closer to the stage. The woman doesn’t appear to have noticed her, or, if she did, she hides it very well.

  As Alexandra gets closer, the woman’s features come into focus: pale skin, blonde hair glowing silver in the spotlight. Now, Alexandra can fully appreciate how the woman seems to be made entirely of long, elegant lines, a Modigliani in motion.

  Alexandra’s lips stretch into a smile as she stops her descent midway and sits quietly. She wants to ask the pianist on a date or two, or a hundred, but she also wants to talk about her music, about her interpretations, about how she herself perceives the notes tumbling from the instrument into splashes of color. For now, she’s more than happy to listen and quietly bask—

  “Hey!”

  The voice startles Alexandra and the musi
cian, and the melody ends in a cacophony of notes pressed onto the keys with way too much strength. The burgundy is washed away by an awful combination of moss green, magenta, and yellow.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” asks the person who has just come out of the shadows. The musician squints at Alexandra, who watches a tall person march toward her.

  Alexandra stands, her hackles raised at the open aggressiveness of the young—well, the young person. She can’t tell for sure what gender they are, and she can’t bring herself to care. “I work on the foyer,” she replies curtly. “I just heard the lady playing, and it was so pretty I stopped for a moment on my way out.”

  “Pretty?” they repeat, their voice dripping with contempt, wrapped in a strong East Coast, cerulean accent. From the corner of her eye, Alexandra sees the musician tilt her head, still looking in their direction with a Mona Lisa expression. “Miss Piotrowski’s craft is not merely pretty. It’s pure talent and has been acclaimed as such all around the world, its perfection praised by the harshest of critics. She has no time for groupies and sycophants, so may I suggest you—”

  “Ari, enough.”

  Alexandra and Ari turn to face the musician now standing near the piano with one hand on her hip, the other over her eyes to shelter them from the glare of the spotlight still aimed at her. Her voice is just as attractive as her music, high without being shrill, the photisms a rich combination of peach and light orange. Her English is accented with a foreignness that echoes in Alexandra’s very DNA.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Alexandra says loudly to make sure she is heard. Ari rolls their eyes at her and crosses their arms over their chest. “I heard the music, and it captivated me.” She throws Ari a glare before she turns to the musician. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Still squinting against the spotlight, the woman looks at her. Alexandra would love to stay and talk with her if it weren’t for the almost-visible storm cloud gathered over Ari’s head as they glare back at her.

  “I’ll… leave you to it,” she repeats, nodding nervously toward the musician’s Cerberus. Then she turns to climb the stairs and practically runs to her car.

  Before starting the car, Alexandra gives herself a few minutes to calm down. The day weighs on her at full force: the inception of the commission; the bout of synesthesia, which took her by surprise; the remarkable, out-of-this-world woman who triggered it. All of it is more than Alexandra can handle in one day.

  “What was that about?” Halina asks when they are seated in the back of the car supplied by the Philharmonie; their chauffeur navigates traffic with ease.

  Ari keeps their eyes glued to their phone in a show of innocent disinterest. “What was what?”

  “Cut the BS with me, Ari,” Halina says firmly, annoyance building in her voice. She reaches across the armrest and lays her hand on their forearm, forcing them to look at her. “Since when are you so mean to spectators? To people who have every right to be around the concert hall, might I add?”

  Ari opens their mouth and closes it in a petulant fashion. Their twenty years of age is more obvious than ever. “She disturbed your creative flow.”

  Halina shakes her head, huffing in annoyance when the move sends a few stray strands of hair into her eyes. “I didn’t notice she was there until you barged in like a buhaj.”

  Ari’s eyes bulge out of their head. “Like a what?”

  “A bull,” Halina corrects, as she mentally berates herself for letting a Polish word slip out.

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry.”

  This is a moment for Halina to step up and be their boss, isn’t it? After all, Ari’s behavior reflects on her, and she can’t afford to have anyone in the Philharmonie, musicians or people who work on the building, against her. But it’s late, and the day has been long enough.

  A moment of silence stretches between them. The music on the radio fills the uncomfortable gaps. Never mind, Halina decides. The short woman didn’t sound too insulted when she walked out.

  A smirk finds its way to her lips. “Was she cute? I couldn’t see with that light in my eyes.”

  “Not your type.”

  Halina barks out a short laugh and rests her head against the window, her eyes lost in nocturnal Paris outside. “What’s not my type?”

  “American. And chubby.” They laugh derisively. “Like I said, not your type.”

  “If you say so.”

  “She was cute, though.”

  “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  The room is not nearly ready to welcome tonight’s fundraising gala, and Madame Loupan has made it very clear that they need to work faster. Alexandra tries not to let this affect her, but she cannot silence the bothersome voice in the back of her head relentlessly telling her what a failure she’ll be. They’ll have to work around the clock. They’ll start this brutal schedule tomorrow.

  She shakes her head and blows a curl away from her face as she walks up the ramp to the building. Winter is already here, and her breath creates a tiny swirl of fog. In the darkness, the building looks even more like a spacecraft. On a professional level and as a sci-fi fan, Alexandra is elated to have permission to come aboard.

  Leo will join her later, after a quick visit to his latest “bed warmer,” his words, not hers. Alexandra observes the crowd around her.

  Members of the board are easily recognizable by their stiff postures and the expensive, but subtle, jewelry their spouses wear. Musicians, members of the corps d’orchestre and choristers, are also easily recognizable. They move in groups and seem out of their comfort zones. Soloists strut, peacocks in color and demeanor, and charm the pants and wallets off the board members. Investors, special guests, plus-ones all look supremely bored or extremely high.

  Alexandra doesn’t care to find out who is which. She navigates the uninspiring whirlwind photisms of beige and gray to get to the bar. To summon her mother and sister’s uncanny ability to change the tide in their favor, she needs to increase the amount of alcohol in her body.

  She orders a Continental Sour and subtly checks to make sure the kimono fold of her dress is not too revealing. Just the top of her cleavage is showing. Good. Her outfit marks her as the quirky American artist who can bring color to the lives of these people.

  She smiles at the barman as he slides the glass toward her. Eyes closed, she takes a sip. The bitters and orange come together in perfect harmony, spicy and tangy and just sharp enough to keep her from getting drunk too fast.

  Humming in satisfaction, Alexandra shifts some of her weight onto her forearms, which are resting on top of the bar, to get some relief from her spike heels. She rotates her ankles.

  “Not comfortable on heels?” The voice is lightly accented. Its tone reminds Alexandra of her grandmother. Peach fills her mind. She immediately looks up to face the voice’s owner, who continues, “or do you want to attract everyone’s attention, because in that case you succeeded.”

  Alexandra can’t hide her excitement when she recognizes the pianist. Her blonde hair is arranged into a loose, tousled, side updo that highlights the natural elegance of her face and draws attention to the slope of her neck. Her outfit, a black and white jumpsuit with coordinated stilettos, strengthens the long lines of her body. Overall, the image reinforces everything Alexandra noticed when she saw her the first time.

  “It wasn’t my intention, but thank you,” she replies. Her heart beats faster as the woman comes closer. “I’m uncomfortable in these shoes, but heels are an essential component of a party outfit, or so I hear.” She tips her head toward the woman’s high heels. “You abide by that rule too, don’t you?”

  “You get used to it, when you don’t have a choice.”

  “My kingdom for a pair of flats.” Alexandra raises her glass in a toast. Her smile only grows when the pianist clinks her glass, filled with crushed ice, against hers. “I�
��m Alexandra.”

  “Halina.”

  Alexandra repeats the name in her mind; it fits the mystical-creature aura the musician projects.

  “You’re a pianist, aren’t you?” Alexandra asks—anything to prolong this moment.

  Halina nods as she cocks her hip against the bar and lets her glass hang from the tip of her fingers. “And who are you?” she asks back. Her focus on Alexandra makes her feel like the most important person in the room. “You look familiar.”

  Alexandra rests her back against the bar; not only does this provide relief, it allows her to show off her curves. “I’m in the building,” she replies, vague on purpose.

  She may not be the best at the game of seduction, but one thing is certain: she has to maintain Halina’s apparent interest if she wants to keep her. And Alexandra wants to keep her, and her inspirational presence.

  “One of the architects?” Halina asks, a puzzled look in her eyes.

  “Not quite,” Alexandra replies, laughter in her voice, before she sips her cocktail. “I work on the reception wing.”

  Halina’s eyes open wider with a glint of recognition. “Ah, so you are the Phantom of the Philharmonie. Do you know we can hear you sing sometimes?” she asks. She frowns playfully. “But since we never see you, I started to think the building had a ghost. But I thought your voice was much… deeper.”

  This time, Alexandra lets the laughter come out. “You heard my partner, Leo.”

  Halina takes a step back and raises one eyebrow. “Partner?”

  The inquiry is not at all veiled, and Alexandra smirks as she places her fingers under her glass and holds it to her chest. It drives Halina’s eyes to her cleavage. All Alexandra has to do is reel her in delicately.

  “Business partner and my best friend. We’ve been working together for the last eight years.”

  Halina slides closer. “No partner or plus one either?” she asks, her voice dropped huskily to keep the conversation private.

  Halina towers over her. The height difference pushes Alexandra’s buttons and matches her pattern of partners. She looks up and slowly shakes her head. “I’m all by my lonesome,” she replies, unashamed to purse her lips into a pout.