Dear reader,
In this story, music plays a big role, especially one piece I love dearly: Verklärte Nacht (Transfigured Night), a so-called symphonic poem by the German composer, Arnold Schönberg.
It might intensify your experience if you decided to hear it while reading the story (or before, or after.) There are a few wonderful versions on YouTube. The one I'd recommend is by RNCM String Orchestra.
Have fun.
Peter.
The Boston Symphony Hall bathed in a sea of light, sparkling off gilded ornaments and velvet chairs. The audience's murmuring mingled with the sweet chaos of musicians tuning their instruments.
For Peter Bridges going to a concert with his soon-to-be wife, Anne, had grown to be a very special occasion.
Dressing up, taking a cab, even doing small things like presenting their coats to the pretty girl in the cloakroom had become a beloved ritual of anticipation; as was walking Anne on his arm into the foyer where they had a drink before attending the concert itself -- he some wine, she a glass of mineral water, of course.
It was a treat to just be among people who did their utmost to look festive and elegant.
He knew Anne loved watching people, especially now that she didn't leave the house so much. She liked to comment on the way they behaved and dressed, laughed and talked; the older men in their smoking, wearing their distinguished silver hair; the young dressed-up girls, blushing with youth and excitement.
Peter loved watching Anne watching people -- the way her pale fingers held her glass, the red-lacquered nails arranged like a string of beads.
Could he ever not be a smitten schoolboy around her?
He loved to watch the effortless grace of her movements, even now; the sea-green jersey dress following the sweet contour of her swollen belly and prominent breasts -- only making her look even more sensual.
He loved the way her glossed lips stretched into a subtle smile, hardly exposing her white teeth; or the hushed throatiness of her voice as she whispered her comments, blue eyes sparkling with irony. He also admired the short bob of thick blond hair that left her neck free -- her pale swan's neck.
Kissable, so very kissable.
Standing there, watching her, he remembered; and remembering felt like swimming against a warm, bubbly stream filled with many fond occurrences until he reached their tumultuous first meeting -- just about six months ago.
Peter Bridges was a mild-mannered 32-year-old man with the ingrained reserve of an oldest son -- always looking for a reason behind things, and then trying to be reasonable about it with everyone involved.
It was why he excelled as a business mediator.
On that night, almost six months ago, he wasn't himself, obviously. He acted emotional and impulsive. Smiling at the memory, his hand automatically went to his jaw, rubbing it.
After closing a deal, a grateful client had taken him to a bar he'd never been to before. It was quite posh in a very brass-and-marble way -- not his taste at all.
He was with two women and three guys. Sitting down in a booth, they'd shared a bottle of celebratory champagne when he heard loud voices rising from behind the separation he rested against.
It was a woman's voice saying "no" and "It's over, I don't want to anymore" in an agitated way. A male voice was too deep and low to figure out the words over the music.
"No!"
It was almost a shriek and it tore Peter to his feet. Looking over the separation, he saw a woman wrestling to get herself free from a man's hands.
Her face was distorted, but it still struck him with its beauty.
Without realizing that he'd even moved, Peter found himself in the other booth, his hands on the man's shoulders, pulling.
Peter once more rubbed his jaw, right where the man hit him. He hadn't seen it coming, not being a fighter, let alone a trained one; but the blow unhinged something inside him, so he'd turned and hit the guy hard, right on the tip of his chin.
The man's knees buckled and his big body slid between the bench and the table -- his head bouncing off the edge.
All he knew was the pain in his hand and a soft body pressing into every square inch of his.
A mouth kissed him.
"Oh God," her voice whispered. "Take me out of here."
He had looked down on the unconscious body, then up to the faces of alarmed people gathering around.
"But," he'd said, reason returning to his dizzy mind. "Shouldn't we..."
There'd been no need to decide. The management had called an ambulance, and soon after came the police.
Returning to the present, he watched Anne's smile. Taking her empty glass, he suggested they should go inside for the concert.
***
Let's call it pride, the warmth Peter Bridges felt while steering his pregnant wife past rows and rows of chairs to find their place, somewhere in the middle of the hall.
They had a perfect view of the stage; the orchestra was already seated, waiting for their conductor. They were all dressed in black, and he saw only strings: violins, cellos, basses -- no flutes or copper, not even percussion.
On first violin was a cute Asian girl in a long silk dress, amazingly young for her position.
Opening the program they'd received, Peter read the title of the first piece to be played: "Verklärte Nacht," a composition by Arnold Schönberg.
He knew the piece and had grown fond of it -- hearing it on CD and radio, but never live, so, when he saw it would be played at the concert hall, led by one of his favorite conductors, he'd bought tickets at once.
Anne wasn't into classical music, really, but she seemed to love the wider experience -- just being there together to mingle with a festive audience, having a bite and a drink in the city.
Of course, there were the odd popular pieces she appreciated, like Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake or Beethoven's Pastorale symphony -- some Mozart too.
And she loved opera, especially Verdi and Puccini.
Tonight's opening piece wouldn't be easy listening, he knew, but it still was more accessible than the composer's later, atonal works. Peter had googled the exact translation of its title, Verklärte Nacht, and had found it to mean transfigured, or glorified, rather -- a night turned blissful.
It seemed a good omen.
A short applause welcomed the conductor. He bowed, and then turned around to lift his baton, causing silence amongst the audience.
The sound of deep strings, cellos and basses, crept into the hall, spreading a sensation of darkest night in a forest, a silver moon against a black empty sky.
Peter knew that Schönberg had been inspired by a poem with the same title, written by a Richard Dehmel. It had been printed in the program he held, both in the original German and in English, giving the piece another layer of meaning and an unexpected modern feeling -- lifting it out of the mere romantic into a new, much more personal reality.
At least, for him it did.
So, as the violins added a greater urgency to the music, he handed a second program to Anne, pointing out the text.
Returning his attention to the orchestra, he let himself be transported by the wonderful intricacy of the composition -- all the different instruments doing their individual dance; marionettes tied together by the conductor's magic wand.
Images flooded his mind.
They showed dark trees and silver moonlight, as they always had done, ever since he heard the piece a first time. There were stars in the vast stretch of the night's sky, but this time there also were two lonesome, vulnerable people walking hand in hand, lost in an awkward, halting conversation. They exchanged looks, he imagined, that turned from loving to desperate, from hurting to intensely loving again.
And then he heard her sobbing.
He turned away from the orchestra and saw Anne leaning forward, one hand to her face, her eyes fixed on the program.
"Are you all right?" he whispered.
She looked at him. The rims of her carefully made up eyes had a pink hue. Her blue irises shone, and he saw moisture build in the corners until one fat drop rolled down her cheek, leaving a trace of gray.
"I'm fine," she said and sniffed, trying to force a smile through her obvious misery.
Looking down, she opened her purse and found a small white handkerchief. Dabbing her eyes, she said:
"It... it is just so heart-rending."
***
Anne.
The poem was heart-rending, oh, it certainly was, but that wasn't the reason she cried -- not the main reason. Neither was it caused by the music that swelled and subsided, sending waves to drown her.
She felt lost -- very alone.
Through the blur of her tears she reread the first lines of the poem:
"Two people walk through a bare, cold grove;
The moon races along with them, they look into it.
The moon races over tall oaks,
No cloud obscures the light from the sky,
Into which the black points of the boughs reach.
A woman's voice speaks:
I'm carrying a child, and not yours,
I walk in sin beside you."
Anne's eyes wandered to the German version; she didn't know why, as she didn't speak the language.
"Ich trag ein Kind, und nit von Dir," it said.
"Ich geh in Sünde neben Dir."
Peter reached for her face, turning it his way. His gray eyes were in the shadows of his frowning brow.
"Don't you feel well?" he whispered. "Shall we leave?"
She shook her head.
"No. No, darling, no. It's all right. I'll be all right."
She forced a smile through her tears and sat up, putting her purse on top of the program in her lap -- the program with the poem.
Stupid poem.
Anne became aware of the music again. It sounded different now, as if it gained a new meaning, and it did, of course.
The groundswell of the cellos felt threatening. The violins mocked her. Even the gestures of the conductor seemed more aggressive, stabbing the air.
Six months, she thought.
One fist strangled her moist handkerchief; the other pressed into the side of her belly. She'd stopped crying; at least: there were no more tears.
Her eyes flashed in his direction.
"I walk in sin beside you..."
The words echoed inside her head. Then she looked down again, moving the purse to the side and exposing the text.
"...so, shuddering, I allowed my sex
To be embraced by a strange man,
And, on top of that, I blessed myself for it.
Now life has taken its revenge:
Now I have met you, oh, you."
Once more her eyes turned to him, as she felt the threat of new tears.
"...met you," she mimed without a sound.
Her free hand found his and she squeezed it without thinking. He smiled and looked at her.
"Isn't it beautiful?" he whispered.
"...I allowed my sex to be embraced by a strange man," she thought. "And I blessed myself for that."
