REPEAT AND CODA
By
Allie Drain
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PUBLISHED BY:
The Bearthology Collaborative Library
Repeat And Coda
Copyright © 2013 by Allie Drain
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
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REPEAT AND CODA
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There was a small village just off the highway; a collection of the oddball shops that couldn’t be found in malls or anywhere else. Hidden away in the far corner of this strange gathering, a red brick building sat contentedly, its cheerful windows smiling out upon the street and twinkling as the sun hit the many metal ornamentations that stood on their colorful pedestals. From the small crack in the window, a soft string of music could be heard that would only be covered when the wind made the chimes that hung from the violin-shaped sign ring out. It was a welcoming sight, and, up and down the street, everyone would agree that Mike’s Music Shop was the most pleasant place to be in the world.
As the afternoon sun beat relentlessly down on the village, a man with russet hair threw the curtains of the music shop open, letting the warmth stream in as little, square patches upon the wooden floor. Flipping the sign from “closed” to “open,” his cerulean eyes glanced up at the tiny ball above the door and, with a cheerful smile, reached up with a finger and brushed the bell, the consequent jingling sweetly filling the airy room.
The man, whom was also the very Mike that gave the shop its name, was in a jolly mood. He whistled as he strode around his shop, dusting a shelf here, polishing an instrument there. As usual, his shop remained almost empty, save for a few rare customers that would wander in out of curiosity; but he wasn’t concerned by the lack of business. Here, among the many instruments, he found the joy which no amount of money could ever give him.
The little golden bell sang as the door creaked open. The familiar clacking of heels against the floor told Mike who had entered long before he had turned to look. As he had expected, a young woman, about seventeen years old, stood leaning against the glass counter, playing with the tuning forks and little metronomes in the display case.
“About time,” he joked. The small peals of tinkling laughter floated across the room to where he was sorting sheet music.
“I was held up at school.” Mike had to grin, knowing that what held her up wasn’t school, but rather her parents. The girl’s name was Claire Benoit. The daughter of an acclaimed pianist and violinist, she had virtually grown up under the loving eye of music, and was now Mike’s only regular customer. She leaned forward and flicked one of the tuning forks, which resounded in a clear E.
“That’s a pretty pitch.” Claire nodded, tucking her long, golden hair behind her ears as if to hear better.
“It’s my favorite.” The two fell silent for a few moments as the tuning fork persistently played its one pitch until even that had faded into the quiet. Mike watched Claire out of the corner of his eye. He could remember the first time she had stepped into his shop, hesitant and a little lost, almost eight years before, when he had started his little shop. Looking at her now, he could see that, while the young woman before him was physically different from the nine year old girl he had once known, she was still emotionally trapped in the past, more so today than she had been in several months.
Feeling uncomfortable with the pressing silence, Claire coughed, clearing her throat. “Have you gotten any new CDs?”
“You’re in luck. A whole new batch came in just this morning.” Mike wandered into the back room. There were a few bangs and the sound of ripping tape as he searched for the CDs. Claire was riffling through a stack of piano scores when the crackling of the old speakers made her look up, and a beautiful piano masterpiece began to fill up the shop. “Let’s see if you can guess this!” Mike challenged, walking back into the front room with a grin.
She cocked her head to the side, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. There was something about the song that was tugging at her memory, but she couldn’t quite identify it. “This sounds familiar.”
“Yes, I suppose it would.” Claire shook her head. It wasn’t just the fact that it was a piano piece that made it so familiar. It sounded nostalgic and melancholy and hopeful, all at the same time, and Claire was sure that she had heard it before. What was it?
“No hints?”
Mike’s smirk grew. “None.”
“Dang it.” Leaning against the counter, she scratched her head, trying to recall the name of the piece, or even pinpoint the style of the composer. Suddenly, the piano escalated from a mezzo-forte into a fortissimo, tumbling down the keyboard in individually dissonant chords that, when put together, became something astonishing, and Claire knew. “Wait…”
Mike looked over at her quiet declaration. She was still leaning against the counter, but her eyes were wide in abject terror. This abnormal change alarmed Mike. “Claire?”
Hearing her name called, Claire started. She looked around her, as if suddenly realizing where she was, and took a deep breath. “It’s Chopin,” she proclaimed, her voice slightly trembling. Running a hand weakly through her hair, she continued. “His Etude No.3 in E Major, also called Tristesse.”
“Do you know it?” Despite whatever shock that had fallen upon her, Claire tilted her head and gave Mike a scathing look. Really? her eyes asked. Even without words, Mike could detect the sarcasm dripping off of her. “I mean, have you played it?”
Claire turned away, dropping into a world of memories, her chocolate eyes glazed over and looking at a scene not visible to the rest of the world. “Once…”
“Will you play it for me? I haven’t heard you play in a long time.”
“Uh-“
Mike continued on, not hearing or seeing the objections that Claire wanted to make. “And I have a brand new piano just waiting for you.” Finally allowing a chance for Claire to speak, she straightened up from the counter and stiffly answered, hesitation clear in her eyes.
“I don’t know Mike… You know that I stopped playing piano a long time ago.” A very long time ago.
“Just give it a shot. What could it hurt?” He smiled encouragingly at her, but Claire remained undeterred.
“A lot.” Her cynical reply fell on deaf ears. Mike strolled across the room, completely at ease, and came to a stop before a shiny, white and gold grand piano, pulling the matching bench out in an invitation to Claire.
“Here we are. Polished and tuned and everything.”
“It’s beautiful.” In awe of the breathtaking instrument, Claire slowly walked closer to inspect it. Not even the black grand in her own home could match up to this. She ran her fingers lightly over the polished wood and golden accents, brushing the ivory keys with the most delicate of touches, entirely wrapped up in the piano’s splendor. Wondering whether the tone matched the physical looks, Claire experimentally pressed down on the middle C key, and, oh! What a rich sound it made! How exquisite the reverberation! Such a sound could not be imitated by anything in this world. It was too stunning to even think of playing with such clumsy fingers. Claire backed away. “I shouldn’t.”
“Chopin’s Etud
e No.3. All ready for you.” She glanced imploringly at Mike, begging him to let her be. She had already given up piano- there was no turning back for her, no way out of the corner she had dragged herself into.
“I don’t even know if I can anymore.”
“Don’t think about it. It’s like riding a bike. Your fingers know what to do.” Sighing, and with no more excuses left, Claire sat down on the piano bench. It seemed that she would just have to show Mike what she had been trying to say. She couldn’t play anymore.
But why not? Surely she could still recall what the notes had been, how she was supposed to perform. The memories made permanent by months and months of drilling and practice at the tender age of nine were not gone. In fact, she could recall them perfectly now. Why shouldn’t she be able to play?
Fortified by these thoughts, she straightened her slumped shoulders into the perfect, ram-rod straight posture that had been engraved upon her mind so long ago. Claire took a steadying breath, recalling the masterpiece from behind her closed lids. As the song