With our sexual impulses off the table for the time being, Sylvia and I enjoyed ourselves at the theatre. We were seated closely, side by side and I smiled most brightly when she exchanged her glove for the comforting enclosure of my own hands. It was a light performance, a comedy. While watching the stage and laughing in response to Pastor Benson's antics, I also marveled at the landscape- every mountain range and flattened plain that made my wife's hands. I couldn't help but revisit the first night that I touched them, when she undressed those unearthly fingers in the estate's cellar and shared with me her deepest secret. We were virgins then and yet, even now, even after gaining such an intimate knowledge of everything the other was made of, we remained fixated on these dear minutiae- she, my cupid's bow and I, the permanent indentions on her fingertips that the strings of her instrument had branded her with.
"Their violinist is rubbish," she whispered in my ear, lingering just long enough for me to adore her hot breath on my neck. "And the cello will die of shame before the night is spent. I have an idea, Boris," as she broke away from my atmosphere, her smile illuminated the dark room like sunlight. "What if I were to audition!? I could play behind a curtain or in the pit. Nobody would ever have to see me!" She must have felt the perspiration on my palm or otherwise felt my nerves spring alive because she heaved a sigh and abandoned the thought without even waiting to hear where my mind was.
In the corner of my eye, I could see John craning his neck. He heard something, something that I suspected he was listening for all night. I tried to relax, tried to remind myself that I was among friends, but the feeling that had been lurking in my gut for the last couple of months was beginning to swell.
"Captain," John's hand fell heavily on my shoulder as the candles were unshaded and intermission began, "I must step outside for a moment."
Sylvia sulked in her seat and made her irritation known with a rather childlike, "I'll have you know that I am very upset."
"Tonight," I begged, not wanting to start a fight, "let us save this discussion for tonight when we are at home."
The kiss that I gave her lovely knuckles only ignited her defiance, "I need the powder room. And no!" She glared as I shifted my weight, meaning to rise and follow her there. "I do not require your assistance. Stay here, why don't you! And meditate upon how utterly two-sided you can be, Boris!"
There was no hiding my defeat. She had snapped at me before, but this time it packed a definitive punch because what she said was so true. Supporting and even loving such a spirited, gifted woman was to swim against a raging current. What she did not know was that I wanted her to play her violin at that theatre, I wanted her to take ownership of every composition she had ever conjured up. She was the great magician, I was nothing more than her harebrained assistant and yet, it was I who held all of the power. I was still learning how to wield it, how to call the punches without stepping on her toes. This evening, I had failed her with nothing more than a nervous glance. There was no telling what my other unjust punishments my apprehension would lay on her shoulders next! I sat there in absolute woe. When John reappeared, he took notice of my obvious distress.
"Crying at a comedy," he pushed me down the bench a ways. Rough consolation. Testosterone is such a peculiar thing. "Did you and the Mrs have a domestic?"
I looked up, pulling my hands away from my face. "Sylvia was cross with me."
He scowled, as though I were nothing more than a blubbering infant and he an indifferent parent. "You are being watched."
John's lips curled into sneer as he pointed to an onlooker who was seated with his legs dangling over the nearest balcony. Hurriedly, I dried my eyes and took a better look. Banastre Tarleton, of all people, was watching my little episode unfold through a pair of golden opera glasses and heavens, did he appear to be enjoying himself! Every blood vessel in my body reached optimum heat and burst on the spot like kernels of corn. I wanted more than anything to throttle that damned man. Not only for his ridicule, but for Sylvia, who had asked me to do just that the next time that I saw him. That would be the perfect way to make amends with my wife! Head upstairs and push that chuckling fool over the edge and into the orchestra pit like a ragdoll! Enraged and enamored with the freshly penned plotline of my heroic quest, I leapt to my feet and started towards the stairway that Sylvia would appear beside at any moment, ready to bear witness to my triumph. That was how I had planned it, at least. She would have to be the scene's most engaged spectator! Otherwise, what would be the point?
I was a quarter of a way through the house when that folksy screech of an intermission tune cut out. It could not have been the start of the next act, no! Everyone in the audience was either mingling or engaged in rhapsodic pockets of conversation, most likely discussing how the Pastor had accidentally lost his trousers in the scene with the nun. Such scandal! But like the caterwauling of that "rubbish" violinist's song, that topic of conversation was quickly dropped and exchanged for praise. Praise for the next number and clearly, to even the most poorly trained ear in the house, the change of musicians. She could play behind a curtain, she could play across town, she could play in a noisy bell tower during a thunder storm and I would know in an instant that it was Sylvia. The conversing ended and everyone returned to their seats, just to listen to her rendition of the comedy's simple score. It was not her own composition. I prayed to God that she would not be so bold, but there were so many insertions of who she was as a musician from the slowing of the tempo to the flourishing interludes that were clearly improvised.
"That woman," John, of course, jostled my shoulder from behind, "she is a runaway carriage. You must either pull hard on the reins or sit back and allow her to carry you to someplace unexpected." As we neared our seats, he whispered slyly, "I know who she is. I have been picking away at this puzzle for weeks now, Boris. She is from New Jersey, she takes those accursed gloves with her everywhere and as an aficionado, myself, I know what hours of playing can do to a person's fingers. Let alone a lady!" I was going to hush him, but a neighboring playgoer did the job for me. The volume of John's voice dropped, just as Sylvia reached an indulgent crescendo. I might have blushed. Nay, I'm certain that I did! Remember, my Sylph handled her violin as though it were a lover. The musicality of her lovemaking always had and always will arouse me, especially in those tenderly cataclysmic climaxes! I held my breath. "I know who she is," John repeated, "and your secret is safe here."
The remainder of the play was most torturous. I kept expecting her to return, to stop playing and retreat to my side before anyone could realize who that mysterious angel in the wings truly was. There were others back there with her, seamstresses and dressers assisting the actors, technicians with their ropes and pulleys, and that dethroned accompanist was surely nearby. I felt violated, as peculiar as it sounds. I felt as though a part of me that should not belong to anyone else was snatched away in the night. "How can it possibly be safe?" I murmured beneath a noisy applause. "I feel as though I am attending a circus and my wife has volunteered, with no prior meditation or safety nets, to walk on a tightrope!"
"If you start crying again I am going to murder you in your sleep, Captain. Besides, as of tonight, you are part of the company, too." He caught my livid glare. "Don't you look at me like that. With a voice like yours, it would be a damned waste not to recruit you to the world of the theatre!"
"As a soldier, Sir, I am certain that you are aware of the constraints on my schedule…"
"That never stopped me." Even in the dim light, a blind man would have been able to see that wicked wink of his. I was confused, and it showed, so John elaborated. "Check your programme, why don't you? Tell me who the director and writer of this fine little theatric is."
The scrap of paper in my hands was positively contorted at this time. The ink had smudged between my sweating palms, rendering it barely readable. Yet, I was able to glimpse the outline of a name. "Unbelievable. You?"
"The musician that you heard before was Mildred Benson. She is the Pastor's sister and was, frankly, so inebriated earlier that being relieved by Mrs. Bordon so that she might go and nap in the haystack outside, most likely made her night. Trust me on this, Boris, nothing is quite so dramatic as it seems!"
I hunched over and held that pitiful position until the curtain call, at which point, I was forced to stand. Typically, those playing in the orchestra pit and the wings would not go unacknowledged. I was mortified just thinking about what would happen next. Halfway through, I felt someone purposefully bump into my elbow and caught Sylvia in my periphery. She snuck back to her seat amidst the commotion and for now, her secret was safe. Now, the choice of reaction was up to me. I wanted to make my frustration known but casting it onto her seemed unfair. I reached for that divine hand of hers and held it tightly as the crowd applauded her ghost. We left the theatre without saying a word, John allowed this, though I knew that I had not heard the end of his plan to turn me, awkward, bumbling Boris Babcock Bordon into an actor!
"Are you still angry with me," I asked, holding her tightly as a gust of chilly wind traveled down the street.
Sylvia heaved a gentle sigh and changed our direction. She pushed my back against the still-warm windowpane of the neighborhood bakery and removed her gloves. Her naked fingers danced across my face and hairline before venturing to the back of my head. Her lips were fiery raindrops against my throat and as she moved closer still, I felt her passion rising sweetly. It was a kiss that she gave me, nothing more and yet, as we walked home, our satisfaction was undeniable. It was the sort of kiss that stops clocks and causes the landscape to melt like a wet oil painting in a fire. She silenced my fears, I stifled her rage. Her pink tongue was a voyager, lapping up my unspoken words and turning their sourness into sweet, golden honey.
"You are a runaway carriage," said I, my lips still reverberating with the forcefulness of her incredible passion, "and I pity the fool who tries to pull the reins or stand in your way."
Sylvia laughed, her neck straightened, then swayed gracefully to the side. "Our way," she corrected me. "Let us pity whoever tries to stand in our way. We are on this journey together, remember?" Our lips joined again in a silent and peaceful union. My tension had grown sore as my body relaxed, but now, all pain was beginning to melt away. I stole a glance at the stars that were beginning to appear in the heights of the wintertime sky. First fights are inevitable in all partnerships, but Sylvia had managed to make ours far more remarkable than others. As was her way.
