For the lovers of music, and the music of lovers.
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Her hands ached. She had been at it for three hours at least, practicing scales, arpeggios, and passage work on her viola, her nimble fingers now worn and protesting. She glanced at her watch – 11:45 p.m. – and verified her three-hour estimate. She knew it was late, and that she should have been in bed awhile back, but she also knew that this was when she liked to practice most. Late at night, the rooms and corridors empty of people, of noise – just her, the viola, and the notes flying from her fingers. It had become a nightly ritual for her, and her sanctuary. A time that was just for her, a time for music.
She packed up, dusting the rosin from the polished, grained wood of the viola's body, loosening the alabaster hairs of the bow. She laid the viola securely in its bed of velvet, gently fastened the bow into place, and placed her music back into its pouch. She ran her fingers up the C-string, stroking from the fingerboard to the bridge. She loved this string; the lowest in pitch, it was what gave her viola the dark, hauntingly mellow tone that was its voice. When she played, she could feel the vibrations through her shoulder and running down her spine every time she stroked the bow across the string, as if her body was an extension of the instrument. With one last loving caress, she shut the lid of her case and zipped it, and, placing the strap over her shoulder, flipped off the light and stepped out into the dark hallway.
A moment's passage told her she was not alone. She heard the sounds of someone playing a piano. She was in the basement, where the practice rooms were, but the sounds were floating down from above, from the concert hall, she thought. She turned and began walking down the dark corridor towards the stairs. With each step the music grew in volume – it seemed whoever was playing was warming up. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, behind the door that opened up into the backstage area, the air was practically vibrating with the voice of the piano. She stood there, wanting so much to open that door, sit down backstage, and just listen. But to be standing there, even hidden safely behind the door, was an invasion upon the solitude of practicing, as she well knew.
There she stood, torn between staying and going. She should leave, she decided – but she was transfixed. Whoever was playing was slowly mesmerizing her, seducing her senses with the stroke of a finger. She heard the beginnings of an A minor scale, the player so slowly and so painfully milking the piano, each note seeping from the instrument as if in deep lament. She decided that she had to know who was doing this, to see who it was that held this power over the piano so as to make it weep.
She placed her hand on the cool doorknob, turning it slowly to keep it from squeaking in its old age. She had worked up the nerve to push the door open about an inch, when the turning doorknob gave a loud squeak of protest on its return to its original position. The scale abruptly came to an end, and the sudden silence hung in the air like an ethereal humidity. She stood as still as a statue, terrified that she had unwittingly made her presence known. A minute passed, then two, and still she didn't move, her hand retaining its grip on the treacherous doorknob. She realized that she was holding her breath, and she let it out as silently as she could, sure that her pounding heart would betray her. The silence refused to retreat, and though there was a thick red velvet curtain separating her from front stage where the piano sat, she still felt completely exposed.
She looked across the stage and saw the red glow of the exit sign. If she could make it across the stage and out that door, she would be fine. But she did not want to move – who was on the other side of that curtain? She lifted her right foot to take a reluctant step towards the exit, and as her foot touched the stage, a monstrous chord shook the concert hall, the shock of which nearly sent her to her knees.
Before the tidal wave of the first chord even had time to fade, it was followed by another, then another, in rapid succession. She recognized the opening of the Grieg Piano Concerto – a piece so passionate she could feel it in every nerve of her body, and one she knew well. It had been her favorite piece for quite some time, and she was amazed at what the song did to her body, the power it held over her. She could feel the pulsing chords from the ends of her hair straight down to between her legs. Her apprehension leaving her, she set her viola down next to the wall and slipped along the wall on the side of the stage. She stood just behind the heavy curtain, a sliver of light illuminating one of her blue eyes. And she saw him.
He sat behind the gleaming, black grand piano, his eyes closed, mouth set in a grimace of desire. She felt somewhat relieved, seeing how immersed he was in the music – he probably had not heard the door squeak. She had seen him around the music building, and knew him well – he was the piano professor. He was in his early forties, it seemed, his smooth brown hair graying slightly at the temples. Sometimes he wore glasses, other times contacts. Tonight he wore no glasses, the tiny lines around his eyes furrowing with the passage of notes. Occasionally his lips would part, and she heard his sharp intake of breath, as if he were breathing life into the music.
The lid of the piano was raised, the notes of the concerto pouring copiously from it. She watched him through the gap between the piano and lid, saw him swaying, the expression on his face moving from passion to pain to the lightness of raised eyebrows. Just below his chin, down his long neck, was a black bow tie set atop a white shirt. Her eyes followed the round black buttons of his shirt down the front of his slim body, disappearing into the folds of a black silk cummerbund. A glance below the body of the piano revealed his black pants, striped down the side with black ribbon, and his shining black shoes. His black tuxedo jacket was strewn across the top of the piano. She figured he must have just come from some sort of performance. Never did his eyes open. Were he to do so, he would be looking directly at her. The foot of the piano was closest to her, the instrument and curtain the only barriers between them. Her eyes bored into his face, daring him to look at her. She was captivated. His eyes remained closed.
She wanted to be closer to him, to be enveloped in his sphere of magic. Leaving her post, she padded across the stage behind the curtain, approaching the spot she knew he was occupying. She stood there, facing him; the pounding concerto was now louder than ever, having reached the peak of the first movement. She was so close to him, she could sense his heat, yet separated by a barrier of velvet - she needed to be even closer.
She dropped silently to her knees, fingers toying with the hem of the crimson curtain; feeling along it, taking care not to move it, she found the slit in the middle. She could see the far piano leg through the crack, the curtains slightly agape. She slithered like a cat along the stage floor, slowly – so slowly – penetrating the velvet, moving millimeter by millimeter so as not to move the curtains more than necessary; they were made up such heavy sensual material, they barely rippled as her body passed between the cleavage. She could feel the weight of the curtain trailing across her shoulders, down the curve of her back, up over her bottom, tickling down her thighs. The concerto never ceased.
She completed her passage through the curtains and looked up. She was underneath the piano, at the foot. She looked back at the velvet. Not a stir. She slowly turned her head and gazed straight ahead… just in front of her, a few feet away, was the professor. His shiny shoes played across the pedals of the piano, eliciting long moans from the instrument. Eyes gliding up his long legs, her gaze fell on where they met. Her position afforded her a perfect view of the middle seam of his pants, and what it covered, tightly.
