But now, I can hear a soft tinkling from somewhere in the distance. It’s so soft, it almost feels like I’m imagining it. But my brain recognizes it before I do, and as I make my way to the further classroom down the hall, I can hear myself humming along to the melody of “Fur Elise”.
The door to the classroom is open, and the sound is crystal clear now. I don’t have to look to know who’s playing. It’s her. It can only be here.
Her touch on the piano is exquisite, and I want to just close my eyes and let the music envelop itself around me. This piece that has been so overplayed, it’s been relegated to almost a cliched, banal experience, is coming alive to me like it hasn’t in years. Somehow she’s made this composition, this elevator, phone hold, cell phone ringtone music sound like what it was originally supposed to be… a love song. “Fur Elise”, for Elise… a music composed out of love, a gift from Beethoven to a beloved.
She breathes life, she imbues love back into it.
I creep to the doorway and peek around.
I watch her lost in her own performance. She’s smiling softly and swaying slightly. Her eyes are closed and she seems so at peace. And I know what that feels like. But it thrills me to see it manifested in her as well.
This woman… she could understand me. When so many other have tried and failed.
The familiar song is coming to an end and I feel my face flush at the thought of confronting her.
Get it together man, I psych myself up. I can’t remember the last time I was nervous talking to a woman, but everything feels new with her, and as if there’s so much as stake.
The music ends and I step into the room, clapping gently.
She stiffens and then whips her head around.
She does NOT look happy to see me. In fact, her eyes are both cold and distant, but it looks like she’s trying not to look angry at the same time.
I hadn’t expected she’d roll out the red carpet, but I thought that it’d just been cold feet that had her leaving last night without seeing me. But it seems like something much, much more.
“Hi, Cadence.” I still get a thrill out of saying her name. Like it ties me to her, knowing this information about her.
“What are you doing here?” She turns back to the piano, her back to me.
Her shortness stops me in my tracks. “You didn’t come see me backstage last night.” I state, hoping it would provoke her to tell me why. I can’t see her face but I hear her take a breath. But no words follow. I take the chance to take a few steps closer to her. “So, I thought I’d come see you instead.”
“How did you know where to find me?” Another question. This isn’t turning out how I’d hoped, I thought I was going to be the one getting answers. But if it relaxed her, I could play this game for a while.
“George.” I say, naming the music store owner.
“George?” She seems surprised at the name. “Oh. Right. The rosin.”
“Yeah.” One more step.
“So, last night? Why didn’t you come see me?” I ask again. This woman’s stubbornness is the stuff of legends.
“I did. I did see you.”
“You did?” I think quickly but nothing comes to mind. “Where? I waited.”
“You looked busy.”
“Well, that’s normal backstage, it’s crazy back there. You should’ve just come up and interrupted me.”
Her voice drops so low I can’t quite make out the words. “You didn’t look like you would appreciate being interrupted… with her, with that… woman.”
“Woman?” What was she talking about?
“The woman you were hugging and kissing. Outside your dressing room door.”
Oh my god. She saw me with-… Fuck! “Whoa, hang on Cadence, I can… um, shit. I can’t explain that.”
“No.” One word. Clear and firm.
“Just let me…” I scramble, I walk right up to her, hoping she’ll let me clarify what happened.
“No!” She turns around to face me. The forcefulness of her refusal seems to shock her even more than me.
“Ok,” I back off, holding my hands up in surrender.
“Sebastian.” Her voice wavers and I can tell whatever she seems to be struggling to say is both important and hard for her.
I let her take a breath, and take a risk and reach out, hooking my finger under her chin and lifting her to face me.
“Just say whatever you need to say. I’ll listen.”
My words seem to have an impact on her and she swallows and starts to talk.
“I. Just. Can’t. Sebastian. Do this with you. Start anything. Your lifestyle, this band and you being who I imagine you are, you’re going to break my heart. Last night, for a split second I thought I could handle it, and that I could just have some fun, but I can’t. And I’m glad I saw what I saw, because it gave me a taste of what would be in store for me, and as hard as it was for me to see last night, it’ll only be worse in a few days’ or a week’s or a month’s time. So you don’t need to explain or apologize about anything. Because it doesn’t matter. This isn’t going to go anywhere. I don’t want it to.”
I don’t know what to say.
But I think I know enough about this weird, mysterious woman to know, nothing I say right now is going to change her mind.
So I don’t. I will give her time.
I move my finger away from her chin but she doesn’t look away. Her gaze unsettles me, I expected her to turn away after the speech, but it seems to have emboldened her instead.
I pivot away from her and take a step toward the middle of the room.
“You conduct the orchestra?” I gesture to the semi-circle of chairs.
“Yes.”
“How big is it?”
“Almost fifty students.”
“Wow!” I’m honestly impressed. Even at my renowned music college, conducting a group of fifty is a task undertaken only by the best or the most committed. I knew she was talented, now I had a little sense of her tenacity and commitment.
“They any good?” I ask, expecting a humble response.
“They’re the best.” She answers, without missing a beat.
I can’t help but laugh at the way she says it so matter of factly. She says it without an ounce of bragging. She actually thinks they are the best.