Trust Con't

The maestro watched the artist at work. Her perfect concentration, the long pauses before she added to the sketch: the work had a grace and a rhythm that charmed him. He only wished he could see her face. She had such a sweet demeanor; he had grown fond of seeing it over the month when she sat on the sidewalk. The thing was impossible, though. To see her face, he would have to be in front of her and there was nowhere to hide.

When she set her pencil down with a finality that told him her session was finished, he likewise set his violin down and picked up his gloves. He slid them on, keeping a close eye on Christine, who was painstakingly cleaning the charcoal from her fingers. Every movement she made heightened his tension. She had promised, but the risk was too great to take his eyes off her for a moment.

"Maestro? Are you coming back? I'm done for today." She looked around her, but stayed planted in place. If this man could trust even a little – which she doubted- it was a fragile trust.

"I am here." He stepped out of the wings of the stage and crossed to the piano. "Tell me what you know of music."

"What do you mean? I mean, I had piano lessons for a little while. I was awful, but I remember about key signatures and tempo and stuff like that." He was still sitting there, expectantly. "And, I guess, I listen to a lot of Classical and Romantic music, so I know those composers and their styles pretty well. I've been to a few operas, but I could never begin to imagine how they got their voices to do that. I guess I just…never…"

Christine's voice faded out under his steady gaze.

"I see. After listening to opera, did you never attempt to sing what you heard?"

"I did, but I sounded awful. So I just don't sing in front of other people." Christine shrugged. "I'm scared to death to sing in front of you, in fact."

"I shall be the judge of whether you 'sound awful'." His voice softened. "But don't trouble yourself overmuch. You won't be singing opera today. First, I will ask you to sing some scales to determine your range and voice type and so on. Then, you must learn how to warm up your voice and how to strengthen it. Then we will work on legato and enunciation and breath placement and more. You may feel foolish much of the time in the beginning, but I promise that these exercises will make your voice what it ought to be."

Christine nodded. For the first time, she heard him speaking smoothly and comfortably. It finally felt as though he was speaking to her, as one person to another. In this mood, his voice had similar cadence to his music. It drew her in, making her believe in his promises of safety. It gave her brief peek at the hidden man.

The Maestro sat down and rested his gloved hands on the keyboard. The feeling was wrong, but nothing could be done about it. She was approaching, relaxed now that he had set her at ease. Too relaxed! He realized her intent was to stand directly next to the piano.

"That is close enough." Fear roughed the edges of his voice. Fear of what, he would not allow himself to examine. "I will play some scales. Simply sing what you hear on an 'ah' sound."

Bliss. Despite the imperfections and the looming job of eliminating them, this was bliss. Silently he catalogued her strengths and every imperfection. He imagined the exercises that would build the former and eliminate the latter. Carefully, he introduced lip trills and sirens, smiling to himself at her self-conscious initial efforts at both. Another flaw in his brilliant planning became clear: the design of his mask prevented him from demonstrating any technique. He had to describe each warm-up in detail, then correct her efforts until she was performing it correctly. The process was exhausting. Too soon, her voice began to tire and he resentfully acknowledged that she must stop.

"Excellent. You have a wonderful gift. Your range is impressive; you are a solid soprano with room for growth. There is flexibility which we might develop into a coloratura with some work. Tomorrow we will work on basic technique, which should be… What are you staring at?"

Christine started; her gaze had settled on his hands and rested there, unwavering.

"Nothing. But, Maestro, why are you trying to play piano in gloves? You could just take them off." She wanted desperately to take the words back as soon as they left her mouth, but the damage was done.

He stood up abruptly, rocking the piano stool on its legs. "Leave." The previously gentle voice was hard as flint, cold, and utterly unforgiving.

Christine winced as every door and window that had seemed to inch open slammed shut. Her teacher had turned from her, and it was her own stupid fault. Helplessly, she watched as he walked away without looking back, his hands in tight fists held oddly crossed behind his back. Ashamed, she also turned to gather her things and leave. This dismissal felt permanent and irrevocable.

Bag packed, she headed toward the door, taking one last look at the stage. He was still there, leaning against the back wall with both hands pressed flat to the cinderblocks, his head hanging low between his outstretched arms. It was an attitude of despair, not anger, and she stopped mid-stride. Since when did Christine Daae run from an angry landowner? Hundreds of times she'd been ordered from properties, and every time she'd found a way to stay or to sneak back in.

Besides, he just looked so…broken.

Quietly, she set her bag down. Using the breathing techniques he had taught her, she calmed herself. My art, music, my safety, she reminded herself. Gifts he had given her again and again. Forcing calmness, she climbed the steps to the stage. Soon she was close enough to hear his rapid, harsh breathing. He remained in that odd posture, though she knew he could hear her footsteps. It was an explosive stillness, like magnesium waiting for a drop of water.

"I'm sorry." She waited, but the only change was a visible increase in his tension. It seemed that he would press his fingers through the concrete. "It's only the second day, and already I've upset you twice."

There was no response, so she moved closer. At least he's not tossing me bodily out the doors, she thought nervously. She inched toward him, feeling as though it were some injured wild animal and not a man that she approached. Finally, he was only arm's length away. His scent reminded her of dark places with no sunlight, of cellars and basements no one had tended. Aware of her closeness, he turned his face from, cutting off even that small opening. Shutting her out. The opposite of what she had worked towards and of what she'd hoped for.

"Please know I don't mean to upset you. I never wanted to make you angry." His breathing quieted. He was listening, so she pressed forward. "But I'm not leaving. Not 'til I know you're alright," and she put her hand on his shoulder.

.

.

.

Frozen in shock, it could not move. It waited for the pain to come, but…there was none. There was only a weight, a warmth, a touch. It…he…tried to understand, but it was beyond understanding. She was speaking, but the words bounced in his turbulent mind and would not take on meaning. The voice was soft and soothing, though, like a balm. She was touching him. She was touching him. And there was no pain in her touch.