Chapter 13:
The Music of the Night
"Nighttime sharpens,
Heightens each sensation.
Darkness stirs and
Wakes imagination.
Silently the senses
Abandon their defenses."
Renee stepped out into the crisp air of the Dublin night from the warmth of Sullivan's pub. She had left Constance asleep in their room, and had not told her that she was going out. In truth, Renee herself did not know where she intended to go, and had avoided the question when posed to her by Shadow's wife. The weight of her gun was comforting as she slipped her hands into her pockets for warmth. She turned down the rubble-strewn street and walked as she had so many times before, just watching the world go by, a song from the pub worming its way through her head.
"Slowly, gently
Night unfurls its splendour.
Grasp it, sense it
Tremulous and tender.
Turn your face away
From the garish light of day,
Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light,
And listen to the music of the night."
This Dublin was not the city she had known. The multitude of starving beggars and prostitutes made it more apropriate for the flicks than for real life. Nervous Party members danced furtively down the sidewalks, no longer arrogant in their superiority, nor insular in their fear.
Night did not disguise the holocaust with darkness. Instead, the harsh streetlights emphasized the deep shadows cast by the wreckage, and the shadows in the gaunt faces of the inhabitants. The bright lights cast an eerie, unnatural light on this horrific world, outlining every shining object in inky black. The images were dreamlike, the emotions heart-wrenchingly real.
"Close your eyes
And surrender to your darkest dreams.
Purge your thoughts
Of the life you knew before.
Close your eyes,
Let your spirit start to soar!
And you'll live
As you've never lived before."
Suddenly, movement caught Renee's eye. She looked over, but it was nothing but the telescreen, denouncing the COR sabotage of the Dublin salvage operation. Renee was tempted to snort, but stopped herself, as it would draw undue attention. It was obvious to anyone in Dublin that the Party had no intention of salvaging her city. She kept walking.
The people were more guarded now. Even proles had carefully sculpted faces designed to betray no emotion, no disapproval, no anger. The invisible masses had become painfully visible to the Party.
She stopped on a street corner, looking down a small street that was lined with stores and pubs. There was a Party member standing under a streetlight, arguing with a whore over her price. Stupid, she thought. The street, even with its lack of telescreens, was bound to have microphones to record any activity. Any Party member stupid enough to argue with a prostitute was begging for attention from the patrols. Renee headed down the street, and tried to step around them, but the young man's face caught her eye.
Michael.
He held her gaze for a split second, then shoved his money into the whore's hand and waved her off.
"What, do you think I'm asking for charity?" she almost screamed indignantly.
"Get out of here!" he shouted. "Go on!"
She slapped him across the face, then strode off, money in hand.
Michael and Renee stared at one another.
"Softly, deftly,
Music shall caress you.
Hear it, feel it
Secretly possess you.
Open up your mind,
Let your fantasies unwind
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight:
The darkness of the music of the night."
Michael looked down the street after the prostitute, then grabbed Renee's arm. She hissed in pain, but followed him away from the main street, further into the darkness. They walked quickly through the maze of streets, avoiding any with telescreens, finally stopping in a dead-end alleyway shrouded in shadows.
Michael released his hold on her arm and stepped away from her, his back against the alley wall. He took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth. Then he reached out and touched her hair.
"You're alive," he whispered, letting his hand rest on her shoulder.
Renee reached up and lightly stroked his cheek, savouring the sensation of his stubble under her fingertips. He was thinner than she remembered.
"So are you," was all she could think of to say. He smiled under her fingers, then took her hand away from his face, holding it to his heart.
"How?"
"We got out before the bomb hit. Our house was gone before we got back..." She wanted to tell him everything, about the COR, Waterford, Galway, and Baile Saoirse. But she did not. "We managed to leave the city, and we only came back yesterday." She paused. "You?"
"Got out as soon as you left me. Picked my way through the streets on the way home, and I've been playing the good little Party member ever since."
"Except at night," whispered Renee wryly.
"Only occasionally. Good thing, too," he said softly. He lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips. "It's worth the risk, now."
She smiled, but said nothing.
"Let your mind
Start a journey through a strange new world,
Leave all thoughts
Of the world you knew before.
Let your soul
Take you where you long to be!
Only then
Can you belong to me."
She concentrated on every sensation, every contact: her hand in his hair, his lips on hers, his hands on her back, the taste, the smell, her racing heart.
"I love you," he whispered, then dove back into the kiss.
Did she love him? Looking back, Renee realized she would never know. It was a fleeting moment, stolen from the world that controlled them, and any outside perspective distorted the memory. She might have whispered it in his ear, but whether she meant it then was another thing entirely. She often wondered whether he had meant it as well.
"Floating, falling,
Sweet intoxication.
Touch me, trust me,
Savour each sensation.
Let the dream begin,
Let your darker side give in
To the power of the music that I write:
The power of the music of the night."
An alleyway tryst is often the least romantic of encounters. It is the realm of the underworld, of prostitutes and thieves. However, it was the perfect disguise for lovemaking in a world that condemned romance. To a passerby, the couple could have been any whore and her customer, but to Renee and Michael, the dark, cold reality disappeared as they fell together into a world where the Party could never keep them apart.
"You alone can make my song take flight.
Help me make the music of the night."
Author's Note:
As you've probably figured out, the song is The Music of the Night from Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera.
For those of you who were kind enough to care, yes, Michael is alive, and yes, he was unscathed by the bombing of the Warehouse. And don't worry, there will be a reason why he showed up at that particular moment.
Disclaimer:
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.
The Phantom of the Opera is by Andrew Lloyd Webber, with lyrics by Charles Hart and Richard Stilgoe.
The Music of the Night
"Nighttime sharpens,
Heightens each sensation.
Darkness stirs and
Wakes imagination.
Silently the senses
Abandon their defenses."
Renee stepped out into the crisp air of the Dublin night from the warmth of Sullivan's pub. She had left Constance asleep in their room, and had not told her that she was going out. In truth, Renee herself did not know where she intended to go, and had avoided the question when posed to her by Shadow's wife. The weight of her gun was comforting as she slipped her hands into her pockets for warmth. She turned down the rubble-strewn street and walked as she had so many times before, just watching the world go by, a song from the pub worming its way through her head.
"Slowly, gently
Night unfurls its splendour.
Grasp it, sense it
Tremulous and tender.
Turn your face away
From the garish light of day,
Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light,
And listen to the music of the night."
This Dublin was not the city she had known. The multitude of starving beggars and prostitutes made it more apropriate for the flicks than for real life. Nervous Party members danced furtively down the sidewalks, no longer arrogant in their superiority, nor insular in their fear.
Night did not disguise the holocaust with darkness. Instead, the harsh streetlights emphasized the deep shadows cast by the wreckage, and the shadows in the gaunt faces of the inhabitants. The bright lights cast an eerie, unnatural light on this horrific world, outlining every shining object in inky black. The images were dreamlike, the emotions heart-wrenchingly real.
"Close your eyes
And surrender to your darkest dreams.
Purge your thoughts
Of the life you knew before.
Close your eyes,
Let your spirit start to soar!
And you'll live
As you've never lived before."
Suddenly, movement caught Renee's eye. She looked over, but it was nothing but the telescreen, denouncing the COR sabotage of the Dublin salvage operation. Renee was tempted to snort, but stopped herself, as it would draw undue attention. It was obvious to anyone in Dublin that the Party had no intention of salvaging her city. She kept walking.
The people were more guarded now. Even proles had carefully sculpted faces designed to betray no emotion, no disapproval, no anger. The invisible masses had become painfully visible to the Party.
She stopped on a street corner, looking down a small street that was lined with stores and pubs. There was a Party member standing under a streetlight, arguing with a whore over her price. Stupid, she thought. The street, even with its lack of telescreens, was bound to have microphones to record any activity. Any Party member stupid enough to argue with a prostitute was begging for attention from the patrols. Renee headed down the street, and tried to step around them, but the young man's face caught her eye.
Michael.
He held her gaze for a split second, then shoved his money into the whore's hand and waved her off.
"What, do you think I'm asking for charity?" she almost screamed indignantly.
"Get out of here!" he shouted. "Go on!"
She slapped him across the face, then strode off, money in hand.
Michael and Renee stared at one another.
"Softly, deftly,
Music shall caress you.
Hear it, feel it
Secretly possess you.
Open up your mind,
Let your fantasies unwind
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight:
The darkness of the music of the night."
Michael looked down the street after the prostitute, then grabbed Renee's arm. She hissed in pain, but followed him away from the main street, further into the darkness. They walked quickly through the maze of streets, avoiding any with telescreens, finally stopping in a dead-end alleyway shrouded in shadows.
Michael released his hold on her arm and stepped away from her, his back against the alley wall. He took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth. Then he reached out and touched her hair.
"You're alive," he whispered, letting his hand rest on her shoulder.
Renee reached up and lightly stroked his cheek, savouring the sensation of his stubble under her fingertips. He was thinner than she remembered.
"So are you," was all she could think of to say. He smiled under her fingers, then took her hand away from his face, holding it to his heart.
"How?"
"We got out before the bomb hit. Our house was gone before we got back..." She wanted to tell him everything, about the COR, Waterford, Galway, and Baile Saoirse. But she did not. "We managed to leave the city, and we only came back yesterday." She paused. "You?"
"Got out as soon as you left me. Picked my way through the streets on the way home, and I've been playing the good little Party member ever since."
"Except at night," whispered Renee wryly.
"Only occasionally. Good thing, too," he said softly. He lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips. "It's worth the risk, now."
She smiled, but said nothing.
"Let your mind
Start a journey through a strange new world,
Leave all thoughts
Of the world you knew before.
Let your soul
Take you where you long to be!
Only then
Can you belong to me."
She concentrated on every sensation, every contact: her hand in his hair, his lips on hers, his hands on her back, the taste, the smell, her racing heart.
"I love you," he whispered, then dove back into the kiss.
Did she love him? Looking back, Renee realized she would never know. It was a fleeting moment, stolen from the world that controlled them, and any outside perspective distorted the memory. She might have whispered it in his ear, but whether she meant it then was another thing entirely. She often wondered whether he had meant it as well.
"Floating, falling,
Sweet intoxication.
Touch me, trust me,
Savour each sensation.
Let the dream begin,
Let your darker side give in
To the power of the music that I write:
The power of the music of the night."
An alleyway tryst is often the least romantic of encounters. It is the realm of the underworld, of prostitutes and thieves. However, it was the perfect disguise for lovemaking in a world that condemned romance. To a passerby, the couple could have been any whore and her customer, but to Renee and Michael, the dark, cold reality disappeared as they fell together into a world where the Party could never keep them apart.
"You alone can make my song take flight.
Help me make the music of the night."
Author's Note:
As you've probably figured out, the song is The Music of the Night from Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera.
For those of you who were kind enough to care, yes, Michael is alive, and yes, he was unscathed by the bombing of the Warehouse. And don't worry, there will be a reason why he showed up at that particular moment.
Disclaimer:
Children of the Revolution is by Marc Bolan.
Nineteen Eighty-Four is by George Orwell.
The Phantom of the Opera is by Andrew Lloyd Webber, with lyrics by Charles Hart and Richard Stilgoe.