Chapter 3
Music, Monsieur?
My night dragged on. I was plagued with the thoughts firmly embedded in my mind and the bed was getting smaller and smaller as this miniscule room closed in on me. I had to escape, the room was closing in on me, as was my mind; there was no way I could do more than close my eyes and escape for a few moments before thoughts and feelings dragged me back to reality once more. The absurdity of my current reality was striking, being alone; so out of place and far away from the life I knew. I was so restless to go and play that magnificent pipe organ. It was gloriously out of place in this otherwise abysmally simplistic building. There was so much they could have done with the monastery to make it more practical; I could tell that from the hall I had walked down and the sitting-cum-library-cum-music room they had. Even in the foyer they wasted space and allowed no comfort or practicality. Maybe I would entrance them with my architectural expertise as well as my musical prose one of these days. We would see how things played out first, no easy work from me anymore, even for You! If I could even find paper to sketch a few of the designs and images in my mind I would be able to pass the interminably long drawn out time; instead I had no release. Ha, that would be perverted, to draw the images in my mind in this place. No doubt they would show me to the door were I to give into my twisted imagination and draw the true images in my mind, the ones I truly needed to purge. I laughed when I thought of something I had not previously considered: suppose I had not been born with this deformity, but with my curiously intense libido. This led to another shocking thought; it probably was best I had my horrible face, as there was no telling what I would have been without it. Was the libido the result of my deformity or was the deformity Your way of reigning in my overpowering dithyrambic ardor? That bore deliberation, so I mused upon the thought, enjoying the idea of feeling this way without my distorted features holding me back.
With twisted and passionately ambiguous pictures reeling round my mind, I must have found release in sleep, for when I opened my eyes again, there was brightness coming through the little window I had not noticed in this appallingly small and dreary place. My God, this place looked even worse in the daylight. I really did experience a sharp pang of desire then to be back at my lair, my space and my Populaire. Waves of hate and disgust washed over me as I once again relived all I had done and lost in so short a span of time. Why do we take so long to build something treasured and take so brief a time to destroy the cherished pieces of our lives? Self-recrimination, self-revulsion; I was a master of these. Had I not been taught them early in my life, thanks to Madeline? Ah, poor Madeline, my pathetic mother, never allowed happiness, forced to raise a child she found no comfort in, the reason for her reclusive and quite maniacal existence. A hate for life was built in me through her own despair for our shared existence.
I realized it was doing no good to lay here full of angst and revile over the past. It was truly time to just cut my losses and move on. If this was where I was to be for now, I had to make it more bearable. Before breakfast I would approach Brother James and get parchment and mechanicals for my creative needs. Maybe I could begin to purge some of this anger and angst through these outlets. They worked before, they could possibly work again. Though having a name for my concupiscent thoughts did not make it easier for me to ignore them; with a face to envision my lasciviousness with it was a wholly different perversion altogether.
Forcing these thoughts firmly and finally behind the door in my mind, I was at last able to get out of my ridiculously inadequate bed and stretch my length at long last. Now was the time to begin anew. I washed my face in the basin with the water from last night. It worked to remove any traces of sleep that may have crept in unnoticed. Then I found my mask, cleaned off the smudges as best I could, rearranged my hair to its correct position, and placed the mask upon my face. Maybe eventually I would not need either the mask or the wig to feel accepted; however being that I was previously known as the 'Devil's child' without these vanities, I thought it best to spare the Monastery that visitor for the time being. I placed my clothes back on, starting with the white dress shirt, cravat, vest and coat. I would at least begin my time here with common genteel appearance, to remind them that I was not a monk and define where I stood on their beliefs. I was glad that it was the black and not red or blue that I was wearing. I would miss dressing as such when I had to rid myself of these clothes.
Lithely, carrying the scraps of food and dishes from last night on the small tray, I found my way to the sitting room, for lack of a better definition. I would have called it a 'great' room; however, I saw nothing great about it other than size and the mistress gracing the corner of the room. Shame they had placed her there, she was a grand diva and needed a stage to glorify and reign within. It was then that I decided to name her. What name? Of course, the only name grand enough for such a beauty, Christine; the only name that yet existed to be placed somewhere other than the darkness of my mind. It would be sweet agony to play Christine, but the torture would be worthwhile; I would be with her in more ways than one.
"Good morning."
I started, my thoughts being pulled to the moment. I colored at the idea that someone may have caught my thought processes. I knew they were not hidden from view as I would have preferred them to be and had not thought there was a reason to hide them having no idea anyone was there. "Oh, good morning brother James."
"I trust you rested peacefully last night?" said Brother James as he took the tray from my hands turning to retreat to the kitchen and continue his preparations for breakfast.
In reply, I nodded, and then I stopped him, "Brother James, do you mind if I go over to the pipe organ and play her a bit before breakfast?" Damn, I had said it again, her. Well, at least I didn't call it Christine outright; that would have been my total damnation.
He turned and gave me that wry smile, seeming to understand something unspoken, and replied that he would be most grateful for some music to liven his chores with. Appreciative beyond measure I turned to go to the organ, belatedly remembering I meant also to ask about parchment and writing materials. He was gone already so I would have to wait until later.
I went over to the organ, careful to inspect the pipes for flaws or other damage which could occur if the pipes were not properly tended to. They were gleaming; no doubt the predecessor had been as enamored of her as I was already feeling. I reverently sat down at the keys, stroking each one in their stead, feeling the seductively soft yet firm quality of the ivory, smoothed by use. I felt the foot pedals and found each one for each octave I would use, this was truly a work of art, and I was quite speechless when I was finished inspecting her thoroughly.
Rubbing my hands together to ensure they were limber enough for the music in my mind, I placed my feet in position and prepared to bring my tapered fingers down upon the instrument beneath me, waiting patiently for my hands to know her. The eroticism I felt at this grand diva's presence was all too familiar. My eyes misted over; I lost my every thought but Christine, and I was once again playing for her. Resisting the melancholy urge to play Dies Irae, I instead found that Ave Maria was coming out of my hands. It flowed and wrapped its way around the cold stone walls warming each corner with rich melodious strains. I continued with some of the more mundane compositions of my contemporaries after the Ave. I was sadly out of practice at the masses I had learned in my youth, but I was resolved to try to call one or two of them up. Soon I found myself singing the mass while I played one particularly poignant remembered mass—the one I had wanted to play when Sasha died. That was the moment I lost my faith; remembering this rushed me to the present. I lost the feeling for the music and abruptly stopped. Panting for air, utterly spent from the music I had purged from within me, I had not noticed my audience. They all clapped for me, each one coming up and introducing themselves to me. Obviously Brother James had told them not to ask me my name or anything else, as not one of them pried. They then announced that the breakfast was ready and I should come and eat