The Composer: A Confession of a Dream
* * *
For the lion, and the blue boy
“What a dream I had,
Pressed in organdie,
Clothed in crinoline
Of smoky burgundy,
Softer than the rain…”
Simon and Garfunkle,
“For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her”
I found myself standing before a mirror in an antiseptic, all-white room, wearing an unfamiliar, midnight blue, sleeveless velvet evening gown that laced up the front of the bodice. My hair was long and piled on top of my head; a wealth of jewelled silver pins held it in place. Still, a few strands escaped the intended artistry, and I tucked them behind my ear. I turned as a door behind me opened onto an empty hallway.
The corridor outside of the room was as sumptuous as the other room had been Spartan. The walls were painted gold; a plush burgundy carpet with an oriental pattern ran the length of the floor, with white marble beneath, just visible on the edges. Spun silver and crystal chandeliers, lit by hundreds of white tapers, hung from the ceiling at regular intervals. The door from which I had emerged was at the end of the hallway, so I followed the carpeted path towards an archway.
Passing beneath it, I came to a huge room, again unpopulated and sparsely furnished, yet lavishly appointed with tapestries upon the walls, marble floors, an enormous wrought iron chandelier in the centre of the room, and a long mahogany table against one wall. Scattered across the table were several sheets of hand-written music, a sheaf of blank staves, and an inkbottle.
I looked about for the pen, for it suddenly seemed very important that I find it. I needed, wanted some connection to the composer, some tangible piece of him that could put me closer to him, a compulsion whose source I neither could identify nor understand, but it was not there. A small breeze ruffled the papers; voices, and the far-away strains of a piano floated into the room through an open window.
I gathered the sheets, one by one, in what I hoped was their proper order, holding them to my chest, and ran across the great room to the other door. I ran down a flight of marble stairs; the wall to my left was cut from stone into high arched windows with spiralled columns between, looking out and down into a courtyard with a fountain, to which I came when I reached the bottom of the steps. I clutched the sheet music to me, thinking only that I must find the composer, whom I knew must be the same person playing the piano, and return the sheet music to him. I turned in circles, trying to catch again the music that I had heard.
The courtyard was paved all in grey stone, the manse I had just exited rising on three sides, towering over both the fountain and I, in my bare feet, casting a long shadow in the late afternoon sunlight. I felt small in the shadow of the house, and I raised my face to the breeze, closing my eyes, listening again for the music.
I felt a touch at my elbow, and turned to find a man in his middling years, in a tri-corn hat and wig, wearing the typical clothing of the colonial Americans. Bowing, with his hand held out as though to guide me, he said, "Madame, your carriage is ready." We walked out of the courtyard through the arches on the fourth side of the square, and rounded the corner of the house. There was a large stand of evergreen trees bordering the lane that wound down the hill from the manor. From here I could see a vast expanse of forest, and a lonely track winding through it to a city on the edge of the horizon.
The coachman placed his near hand at the small of my back and helped me in to a large black coach-and-four, pulled by matching black horses. The inside walls were covered in a rich burgundy brocade, and the seats in a matching shade of velvet. Heavy curtains were drawn to either side of the four small windows that looked out the sides.
Snapping the reins, the driver clucked at the horses and we began to move. We passed out of the courtyard and out onto a lane that wound down the hill; the shadows lengthened and merged into dusk as the sun sunk behind us. I clutched the music to my breast, looking intently out at the falling twilight, as though by staring I could invoke the truths I sought.
Half-across a bridge, near the edge of the wood, with the perils of full night upon us, the coach lurched suddenly and the horses reared and screamed. There were voices shouting in the dark. The carriage rocked violently, and the snap of the carriage driver’s whip cracked the sky. The right wheel slipped into a ditch, pitching the carriage to the ground. When it came to rest, I know not, for I had struck my head rather sharply against the door.
I awoke in a tangled heap, my head pounding. I crawled out of the wreck, wriggling up through the door, and looked about. There was no sign of the driver or the horses, and it had grown perilously dark with the extinguishing of the lantern in the crash. The woods around me whispered ominously, the trees conspiring. Ahead, about a half a mile, there were the lights of a small city. I headed toward it. My dress was more of a hindrance than a help in this place, as it snagged upon every passing root, branch, and questing bramble, so I tucked the sheets of music inside my bodice, against my belly, in order to have my hands free for holding my skirts.
There were marble statues and fountains everywhere in that fair town; the streets were lighted at intersections with torches or burning lamps, but all was silent, save the sound of my bare feet, padding upon the stone streets. I began to feel uneasy in the heavy silence, and though it was not cold at all, I wished for a shawl or sleeves, and felt naked and vulnerable. I crept along the city streets like a vagabond, keeping close to the buildings.
All at once, as I passed an alley, a man descended upon me, and, covering my mouth with one hand, wrapped an arm around my waist and dragged me into the street. I fought him, but his grip was like iron and I was afraid (absurdly, it may seem) that he would damage the sheets of music. And so I was carried, struggling and tossing, into a house, where I was held down by the man, who shouted something unintelligible as he struggled with me. His partner entered from another room, pulling a dirty bit of cloth out of his pocket; I was blindfolded, and tied to a chair.
I heard the two men talking in a strange, harsh language and laughing. Discussing what they ought to do with me, I thought. I shivered. Waiting for the inevitable, I sawed at my bonds, rubbing my wrists raw against the rough twine they had wound ‘round them. No matter how much I struggled, the bonds held fast. At length my chair was lifted and I was carried to another place.
I then heard a bang, as of a door being thrown suddenly open and hitting the wall. The two men who had captured and bound me gave shouts and there was much shuffling and grunting as they fought whomever it was that had come in. I fought with my bonds again, whilst there was no attention on me, trying to escape the chair I’d been tied into. There followed a scuffle, with much shouting and grunting, though in truth, I heard only the voices of the two men who had captured me. There were two cries, in rapid succession, each followed by the death rattle of a man’s last breath.
I stilled, listening, but heard nothing, not even the sound of breathing. Someone had come in and two men were dead, and yet, after such a struggle, there was no belaboured breath, no sound of feet shuffling against the stone floor.
I was frightened, and shaking. I yelped as I felt two hands gently fall upon my shoulders. I jumped as I felt lips against my ear, and a whisper, "Shh...." Sure and delicate fingers removed the pins that had not fallen from my hair in the initial struggle in the street, and I was keenly aware of the feel of my hair tumbling about my shoulders. I could hear the breath of my new captor, now that he was closer, moving around in front of me. Swiftly, those fingers danced along the laces at the front of my dress as I struggled, uselessly; he loosened my bodice, freeing my breasts, and revealed the sheaf of music. I bent my head forward, tumbling my hair over the front of my dress to cover my nakedness. My captor laughed, an unpleasant and gravelly sound that sent a thrill of fear up my spine.
I felt the hands between my breasts and jumped again, moving as much as I could in my bonds, struggling in protest against the touch. Involuntarily, I cried 'no!' and the hands ceased, pausing against my skin, just at the top edge of the paper. I could feel the amusement from my captor, as he snorted a small laugh, and a tear slipped from my eye at the realisation of the futility of my action - I could not enforce my denial. One finger tipped my chin up, wiped away my tear.
I sensed my captor move from in front to behind me, felt my hands loosened but not freed. I was released from the chair, but not unbound. I attempted to untie the knots as he moved to my ankles, but this effort was met with a harsh slap that sent stars in my eyes. My ankles were hobbled, and I was lifted to my feet. An arm came about my shoulder, and I walked forward hesitantly. The hands turned me around, and pushed gently at my shoulders. I fell backwards onto a large, soft surface, like a bed.
Suddenly terrified, I tried to get my knees under me, tried to crawl away, to protect myself from this unseen one. The arms came about my waist again, the hands spread across my belly on top of the music, and I was crushed against the hard chest of a man. I felt his muscled thighs against mine as he leaned over me, the stab of a belt buckle into my lower back. Again, his lips brushed against my ear and he whispered, 'I believe you have something that belongs to me, and I mean to have it back!'
I was trapped, and I knew suddenly that this man possibly did not want to harm me, was toying with me, and I was at that moment very aware of his body against mine, the press of his chest against my back, the rasp of his stubble against my face. I gasped, 'I will yield to the composer, and no other!'
I felt his lips against my neck, just under my earlobe, his breath hot against my skin. I shivered, and he laughed, low and smoky. I caught my lower lip between my teeth and went still, for I had just realised the position of my hands, bound behind my back as they were, our bodies pressed so closely together. I felt the heat rise in my face and neck.
Carefully, slowly, I let my body relax just a little bit, as though I were softening under his touch. If this man were an enemy to the composer, he would want to have something that belonged to the composer. Not just the music, but a much larger prize. I moved my hands slightly, and heard him also become aware of their position. I smiled and brushed my shoulder back against him.
