Christine did return the next night, as promised. In a testament to her dedication, she had the vocal exercises memorized and sang them as she worked. I could already hear the difference in her Voice from the change in breathing technique and a better understanding of how her vocal chords functioned. I watched as she worked, strangely gratified to see the lightness of her movements and the small smile on her face.
It was a pretty face.
Please do not mistake notice of a pretty face for anything more; I merely saw that her features were pleasing to the eye. Onstage and in auditions that could count for quite a lot; especially for a soubrette soprano who would play primarily the romantic-interest. In time, I hoped she might develop into a dramatic soprano – it would open a world of roles to her – but for now, her pretty face would be helpful in garnering parts that suited her Voice.
Ah, but now I have revealed my plans! In the past that would have meant your death, but in the past my plans would not have been nearly so innocent. Of course I did not plan to train her voice, only to allow her to continue as a cleaning-woman. I meant to make her a sensation in the music world and mock those who believed only a conservatory education could produce a fine musician.
So I sat watching her, dreaming her future. From the moment I was born, I had none of my own. I would take her future and bind it to mine. With a pretty face and a heavenly voice, the stars were not too far to reach. I could stand behind her all the way. I could see glory; what did it matter if glory never saw me?
Finally she came to the piano and sat down to the keyboard. I had given her permission to play it, but it gave my nerves a shock to see her actually do so. She was no great pianist any more than she was a great singer, but it was clear that the talent was there. I wondered what else she might be capable of, and why no one had taken the time to develop this latent musical genius.
I allowed her some play time before I gently interrupted her.
"Christine, when did you learn to play?"
She looked up, startled out of her private world. "I had a neighbor when I was little who used to teach me a little. I never really had lessons. Just…she taught me the notes and how to read music."
"What happened? Why did you not have lessons?"
She shrugged and stared down at the keyboard.
"You don't know? You don't know why you never had lessons?" I couldn't imagine why, but she was lying to me.
"I don't know. I just never did…have them." She was talking to the piano in a Voice so low I could barely make out the words.
"But you have the makings of a true musician. Was it the cost? Were there no academies nearby?"
"I don't want to talk about it," she mumbled. Her face was red and her hands were twisting viciously in the cuffs of her shirt.
Ignorant of the warning signs, I pressed on, "Did your parents never…"
SLAM!!!
The fall-board crashed home with wood-splintering force. I caught my breath and prayed that no wood actually had splintered. She was still seated, but her demeanor had changed entirely. Her cheeks were bright red, her eyes shot sparks, her jaw was locked in a tooth-cracking grimace. Somehow, she forced intelligible words through her clenched teeth.
"I don't…want…to talk…about it."
I was taken aback. How dare she treat a fine musical instrument in that manner! The little wench did not make enough money in a year to cover the costs of replacing a broken fall-board or refinishing a splintered frame. That piano was a fine antique; it was priceless. Secrecy and mystery be damned - I nearly stepped into view.
"You will never do such a thing again, so long as you intend to work in my theatre." I seethed.
She blanched; I can only assume she suddenly realized what she had done.
"I…I'm sorry." Red turned to white, the clenched jaw became an open O of surprise. "I didn't mean to…"
"I'm sure," I snarled. "Now, if you are finished tantruming, we will begin our lesson.
For the rest of the night, she was as meek and biddable as a lamb. She had spent her rage in slamming the keyboard cover. I, on the other hand, was still fuming.
At the time, I believed that I was angry with her for behaving so violently and irresponsibly. Perhaps I was, a little. But the real issue that gnawed at my heart was the fact that the angelic Voice belonged to a human being, with all the associated foibles and flaws to which flesh is heir.
The whole of the first week passed under the shadow of that incident. Neither of us spoke much; I could not reawaken the magic of that first conversation, mainly because she would not talk with me. "I'm sorry," was all she would say.
It is said that there are street-drugs which addict the susceptible user on the very first dose. So it was with me and conversation, no matter how inane. I desperately wanted that feeling of connecting to another person. Without it, I became more irritable than usual, which is to say that I was unbearable to myself. I began to believe I would be stuck in the mire eternally.
That is, until I perused the employee files and found that a part-time custodian had been hired to cover Tuesdays and Thursdays. A note attached by a paper-clip notified all supervisors to approach the employee from the front and make sure that had his full attention before speaking. Important information was to be delivered in a written format. The new custodian was deaf…and mute.
