Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:
If you want love to last, stop falling in love; grow into it instead.
“Rose, listen to me,” he said.
She was trying, but nothing was going right.
“Passion is an integral part of human nature. You yourself possess all these things inside you at this very minute!” He had stopped pacing to deliver this vital piece of information, but now he resumed his circuit of the tiny room. “I’m not hearing it. You play the notes, yet they lack meaning.”
Her shoulders sagged as her hands slipped from the keys. “I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She stared absently out the window. It was dark. It seemed to be dark all the time now—dark when she left for school, dark when she arrived home. Dark was her mood, of late. She attributed this to a simple case of post-holiday blues. Most of the time she was content, when she was with her friends, and Declan, of course. Their relationship was strong and healthy. And she’d been doing her utmost to ensure it stayed that way: knocking on her wooden bedpost three times before sleeping, crossing her fingers the moment she slid into Declan’s front seat before school. Thanks to extreme vigilance she’d found seventeen pennies already; she kept them all in a “lucky” box under her pillow. Unfortunately, the New Year had brought with it no fewer than three Friday the thirteenths! She’d have to come up with some kind of excuse to avoid seeing him on those days.
But when she was alone with her thoughts, she couldn’t ignore a consistent nagging that cast a pall over her happiness. And with only minimal effort, the source became obvious. She knew the root of her discontent lay here, with Christophe. Without a doubt, finding her music once again had awakened a part of her she’d thought lost forever. For this, she had Christophe to thank. However, his behavior had slowly changed over the course of their friendship. He was becoming increasingly demanding, pushing her to play at a level she feared, quite frankly, was beyond her. It wasn’t so much in the execution of the piece where she floundered, but in capturing what lay beneath. He was constantly prodding and poking inside of her in an attempt to pull out the essence of the music. And the sensation was unsettling, as if he was stripping her bare and then, going a step further, peeling away skin, muscles, and bones until nearly nothing remained that hadn’t been taken apart and scrutinized. The more she attempted to create an appropriate distance between the two of them, the tighter grew his clutch.
“You’re thinking too much,” he told her.
“How is that possible?”
“Wait here.” He left the room and returned a moment later with a dark strip of cloth. “Turn around,” he commanded.
She twisted away and in an instant, he’d covered her eyes with the cloth, tying it securely behind her head. Reflexively, she let out a small gasp.
“It’s for your own good,” he said. She felt his touch on her shoulders. His fingertips followed their curves, pressing into her flesh. “Trust me…”
She tried to concentrate. Strange how losing her sight could make her feel so vulnerable.
“Now,” he went on, “with the loss of one sense, you are forced to rely on others. Stroke the keys—feel them. Experience the beautiful sounds you produce.” His grip on her loosened slightly. “Wagner’s masterpiece: longing, yearning, suffering, grief, sorrow, desire.” His voice gathered strength with each word. “It’s like magic!” She sensed him moving, and in an instant he was next to her on the bench. “The emotions are there. Dig. Unearth them. Tell me something you feel, right now. Surely something has moved you recently. What was this yearning?”
Her thoughts raced. She was confused, hyper-alert, alarmed by his intensity, yet her fear of letting him down outweighed all of this. “I’ve always longed for the perfect love,” she said, unsure whether to say this with a sense of humility or pride. She settled for somewhere in between.
“Aha!” he exclaimed. “The perfect love, yes. Why not?” He chuckled. “Man’s never-ending quest for ‘the one.’ How sad, however, that the definition of longing is to desire something unattainable. Are we forever destined to be disappointed, then?” She felt him shaking his head in disagreement. “Focus! The story of Tristan and Isolde is just that. The story of two people for whom love is unattainable—in this world.” He paused to let those last three words sink in. “Ultimately the lovers are united in the land of darkness.”
Where was this land, she wondered? “Are you saying that instead of true love, they longed for… death?”
“They are one and the same,” he told her. “The mysterious realm of the night is the domain of love. By day the lovers are bound by duty, their spirits smothered by falsehood. But by night,” he breathed into her ear, “their desires are fulfilled. In death they find their ecstasy.”
In death. But this made no sense. All along she’d thought man was supposed to be afraid of death. Wasn’t that why people chose to believe in heaven? Eternal life and all that stuff. Who in their right mind would choose the angel of death for their lover? The thought made her shiver. Death was evil. Death snuck in and stole the ones you loved right out from under you. If given the chance, Vivien would fight death tooth and nail.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Very quietly, so that she had to strain to hear, he murmured, “Do you long for such ecstasy, Rose?”
She wanted to remove the blindfold and look into his eyes. Without her sight it was impossible to read the true meaning behind his words. It seemed like a trick question. Was he referring to Declan? Or death?
“I don’t—”
She felt him reach across her body for her hand, encircling it tenderly with his own. His touch felt weightless, his skin warm, slightly rough. He pulled her closer and she sensed the moist heat of his breath. He flattened her palm, pressing it to his lips. She remained completely motionless. It seemed as if he was drinking her in, attempting to get a taste not of her skin, but of her very soul. Then at last he released her and placed her hands on the keyboard.
“Begin now,” he said. “You hold the key. Become what you play.”
And as always, she did as she was told.
Nineteen