Angelina's mother had told her once to never perform at a venue that serves beverages in disposable cups. It was one of many little pearls of wisdom concerning good taste that she had strung up and given to her daughters, passing along the unspoken rules of high class life much like her father passed along his red hair. (Well, passed it to her. Big sister Rachel turned out blessedly blonde, taking the color along with most of Mother's natural grace. Anne had been left quite lacking in the important matters of inheritance.
This place certainly doesn't pass Mother's test; it looks more like a person's living room than a cafe, and the old scratched up coffee tables flanking the overstuffed couches of the sitting area are covered in textbooks, mugs of coffee, bottles of local beer, and soft drinks served, sin of all sins, in paper cups.
There certainly won't be any of her parents' friends in this crowd, nestled between the washed up old stoners and college students with unfortunate-looking bleached dreadlocks. On this little stage lined with electrical tape, she can't embarrass her family. She reminds herself of that as she pulls her violin from its case, steps on the little raised platform and looks, not at the faces in the crowd, but at a paper cup on the nearest table. Mother won't be here to criticize her, father won't be here to show her off to his cohorts, Rachel won't be here to coddle her when she turns shy. Vincent won't be by Rachel's side, kindly killing her with every formal nicety, making her want to scream.
She doesn't need to pretend that she's just fine here. She doesn't think about the music once she's touched her bow to the strings; doesn't fret over getting it right. She just thinks about all the things she never says in decent company and lets go.
If she does technically well at the song she's playing, she doesn't notice. If there's anyone even paying attention to her, she doesn't notice; simply gets lost in the melody, a piece that lilts fast and loose, spilling out her unspoken losses in that familiar, wordless, almost-human voice. It's beautiful; that's all that occurs to her- beautiful, messy, painful, loud. If there's applause when she's finished, she doesn't notice. Angelina has never cared much for spectators.
She packs up her violin after a piece or two and politely weathers the compulsory praises and greetings given to her by people she doesn't know; she can only assume that they are also involved in tonight's Open Mic event. She smiles and laughs along with their terrible jokes, as she's become skilled at doing, then attempts to make an escape as quickly as possible. She's done what she came here to do; what she dared herself to do, and she feels, if not better, a little bit relieved for it.
Unfortunately, she's prevented from leaving by a conspicuous, bright red obstacle. There's a man- on second glance, a kid, really- on bended knee before her, looking up through red framed glasses with an intense, adoring, toothy grin.
"Maestra!" He says in a surprisingly resonant voice (it rings out at an octave she would not have expected from someone so slight and effeminate), resting a hand over his heart, raising the other toward her, "That was absolutely beautiful. Your passion is unparalleled. My lady, you are a true artist, and I owe you no less than my deepest, most humble respect." He takes her hand, still bowing before her, "May I have the privilege of knowing your name?"
"Angelina," She says, too struck by his bizarre, archaic and unapologetically chivalrous presentation to be entirely put off by what would otherwise seem to be hollow praise.
"Lady Angelina," He says, rising to his feet, still bowed slightly before her while maintaining that intense gaze, "You must allow me to buy you a drink."
This part does put her off. She knows the implicit contract entailed in accepting the offer; she's been subject to it before, obliged to entertain someone whose attentions she may not want later, but who has bought himself a sense of entitlement to her time for his purchase. What this particular man wants from her, she can't imagine; it's probably not the typical come-on, as the kid's clearly just about as gay as they come.
"I can buy my own drink," She says, firmly, "If you want to talk to me, then just do it, but I'm not planning on staying here long, so don't expect me to."
"Ooh, bossy!" he says, with one hand pressed coyly against his cheek, "I like it!"
He takes her by the wrist, practically skipping over to the bar where he flirtatiously leans over the counter, kicking up one heel to reveal that he's wearing what looks like a smart pair of pumps.
"Pinot noir, in a real glass, please- aw, come on, honey, don't look at me like that, you know me; I'm not going anywhere with it." He flashes an ID card to the skeptical barista and flutters his dark eyelashes, "And then, my ladyfriend here will have..."
He looks toward her and she briefly glances at the chalkboard of offerings.
"Hibiscus tea," she says, "And- I'm sorry, what was your name?"
"Ah, where are my manners? Grell Sutcliffe," he says, shaking her hand as their drinks are set before them: a pink ceramic cup with a loose leaf tea bag that slowly bleeds color into the hot water, and a crystal glass of dark red wine. Apparently, the privilege of real dishes can be bought here with the right connections rather than cash- much like the commodity of respect in the world she knows. This Grell kid gestures toward the violin case that she keeps close.
"May I have a look?" He seems to catch her obvious distaste for the request and holds a hand over his heart. "I promise, one artist to another, I will be gentle."
She hands it over, and he opens the case reverently, lifts the instrument, and runs graceful fingers along the curves. She takes time to notice his painted fingernails, the color of which match his blazer, which matches his glasses, which match his tie, which matches his short, shaggy, red hair. Surely there must be a theme there.
"She's gorgeous," he says, with an adoring gaze.
"It's an antique," says Angelina, warily, "It was a gift, so... it's rather important to me."
"Hmm, but the way you handled her on stage, with such strength and force, I feared for her life," He says, testing the chin rest and mock fingering the strings. "You must treat a lady with a delicate touch."
"You're quite certain it's a lady?" Angelina stirs her tea, swirling the deep red that matches Grell's everything.
"Absolutely. With that passionate voice and resilience to your rough treatment, she could be none other."
"That's a fascinating definition of womanhood," she says, taking a sip of tea.
"It fits no one so well as you this evening, I think," He says, gently setting the violin to rest in its case. "You were the one who made her sing. Forgive me if I repeat myself, but the way you speak through your music is simply peerless. I feel as though I now know something about you that can only be spoken through song... as if we're kindred spirits of sorts."
She feels as if she ought to be put off by this sort of presumptuousness, the way she is by nearly all social situations that she's grown adept at politely enduring, but his words, for all the drama he dresses them up with, feel free of empty flattery. If nothing else, she's curious, and... desperately lonely. His talk of 'kindred spirits' reminds her all too well of that.
"Do you play?" She asks, locking up the case.
"Would that I only could! The skills required to seduce MademoiselleViolin have eluded me for years. I am a singer- by profession, in fact-if one might call our little unprofitable venture professional."
"Oh, you're in a band then?" She says, slyly smirking at the self-deprecating implication in his words. Grell traces one polished fingernail around the lip of his wine glass.
"Afraid so."
"What genre?"
"I don't think we could restrict ourselves to one single label."
She smiles wryly.
"Musicians who say that are always the ones who write the most derivative shit."
"Harsh!" Grell says, holding a splayed palm over his apparently wounded heart, his mock-offense melting into a slow smile, "Oh so cruel, milady... I like that even better. I suppose if I had to choose one style to describe what we play, it would Symphonic metal. I myself am classically trained; however, I've found the more respectable venues don't quite suit my needs. Music alone doesn't have quite the right impact without truly intense performance to support it, which is why we perform the most outrageous displays of staged gore and cannibalism since Titus Andronicus."
"Ah, so you have a gimmick that likens you to Shakespeare's worst play. Endearing."
Grell waves his finger emphatically.
"His most misunderstood play. There's much ado about nothing when it comes to lauding sophistication and restraint in high art, but there's just as much, if not more true value, in the unhinged, the visceral, and the grotesque. I dare say, it can be far more resonant."
"Death and destruction don't strike me as particularly artistic subjects."
"Mm, but consider, Maestra Angelina, how simple black may be a perfect foil for vibrant, vivid red hues. In much the same way, death, fearsome and dark, is a foil for life itself. In the same vein, the grotesque and morbid define the beautiful and the sacred, and true art questions the lines we have so arbitrarily drawn between the two."
"That's a lovely philosophy, though I can't say I find anything especially beautiful or moving about blood and gore in and of itself. I see enough of it in my daily life as it is."
"Oh?"
"I'm a med student, studying to be a surgeon."
Grell puts a hand over hers with an oddly sympathetic expression.
"Oh, love," he says, "You're in the wrong business."
She doesn't leave early as she planned. In fact, they remain as they are, sipping wine and herb tea until every last mediocre open mic act has performed and been thoroughly skewered by Grell's merciless commentary. They stay, talking, long after the sound equipment has been packed up and the bar closed and the floor swept and the barista says, for the final time, that they need to leave.
Grell rolls his eyes at the bartender and fishes through his blazer pockets for a card and a fountain pen.
"This has our band's website on it, but more importantly-" He flips the card over to find a blank space to write, "This is my number."
She thanks him, though she doubts she really will ever call. Tonight has been simply an escape, a chance to vent. It's been a welcome relief, but tomorrow she'll return to school, to family, to the solemn responsibility of pretending that nothing hurts her. As far as she can see, someone like Grell lives in a different world; his stories have an air of chaotic freedom to them that she can't even imagine possessing. She wonders if they could even begin to understand each other enough to really be the "kindred spirits", Grell has so quickly proclaimed them to be. As if he can read her mind, he touches her cheek, and it doesn't feel invasive or unwelcome, but strangely familiar,
"You have such an angry sadness in your eyes," he says with a wistful smile, handing her the card, "Should you ever feel the need, give me a call and you can pour your little heart out."
"Thank you, I- I'll keep that in mind..."
"You shouldn't be afraid, you know."
"Afraid of what?"
"To wear red."
She almost laughs at the assumption.
"What makes you think that's what I'm afraid of?"
Grell shrugs with a smug, knowing smile.
"Most other redheads are shy about the colors that God gave them and try not to stand out. You're dressed as if for a funeral, presumably to deflect all the attention you naturally draw to yourself just by being you; you have something no one else does, and everybody knows it. Red suits you so perfectly- in color and in spirit- why not embrace it?"
The warm flush of flattery is offset by apprehension; the last man to award her that precise sort of praise subsequently, thoroughly, broke her heart.
"What about you, then?" she asks, as they step into the night air and she pulls her coat around her. "Are you that sort of person?"
He gives the most wistful smile, and for a moment, she understands what he meant when he waxed poetic about the familiar pain in her eyes.
"Oh, honey, I only wish."