The night rested around them in sugared quiet. Calm unlike any he had felt in years filled his bones as Christine filled his arms.
People say the oddest things, like 'the sleep of the innocent' or 'sleep like a baby'. Erik had been around enough children to know they were snuffly, drooly, yowly things when they slept but, curiously, he had his first taste of what it meant. It wasn't about being quiet or still- it was about drifting and letting sleep find you, rather than seeking it out. It was waking up and knowing that all was well and simply falling asleep again.
It was knowing that, when morning came, the next day was going to be as good if not better than the last, and it was okay to sleep until then.
Wonderous. Or it would be if Christine was asleep, too.
The first time she just kissed his head and smoothed his hair. The second time she cuddled him and got up to use the restroom.
The third time he stroked her chin and neck and finally asked, "What is it?''
…
She cried. At four in the morning, his beloved was sitting dead in the middle of his bed with him tucked around her like a strange shawl. Erik rocked Christine in his arms and sang softly into the benevolent night.
How strange that Christine felt she shouldn't cry. Like she didn't deserve to. She'd had to hold it together for her father's friends, colleagues, and her own. They praised her father's strength, his perseverance, and spoke softly of his weight loss and the ravages of chemotherapy. Her father had suffered, he was the one who was sick after all, but her struggle was invisible. They spoke of her father's pain, not the long suffering daughter who'd coordinated hospice, given up her budding career, ruined herself financially, lost friends who couldn't handle it and didn't know how to help, and had to turn to the charity of near strangers just to finish what she'd started years before.
She was his daughter, they'd said, and hadn't she grown into such a pretty girl?
"And I had to give him what he wanted, Erik. I wasn't able to tell him no."
"Shhhh, sweetheart, It's fine. You carried out his wishes. It's terrible but maybe that's what love is sometimes," he said softly. "Doing what they can't do for themselves."
She cried harder, so Erik caught her shudders and gasps in his arms. She'd never been able to put them anywhere before, he supposed, so it was as good a time as any. "How did he decide? Did you both agree?"
Christine wiped her eyes. "Yeah. He wanted it if he had a severe stroke, lost his sight, or he… if he…" she shook under his hands "If he lost his hearing,"
Years ago he would have thought this a strange idea. Sight, certainly but… hearing?
But now he was a musician, and he was hard pressed to imagine a harsher fate.
"It wouldn't have just been his hearing," Christine continued. "If any major system showed problems, it meant the cancer was blocking blood vessels."
"So what happened?"
Christine snuffled a half smile and looked at him over her shoulder. "It was hard to talk after the surgeries and all the tubes, but he'd write notes. He was dropping words, or phrases were backwards, and one day he just wrote musical notations and numbers. He was so frustrated with me until he read his notes and realized something was wrong. Later, he was playing cello and couldn't read his music."
Erik buried his nose in her hair.
"Then he kept playing the same phrases over and over. Louder and louder, until he shredded the bow. He… he couldn't hear. He could only feel the vibration in the wood and, for a little while, it was enough."
Her hair was frazzled in sprays and mists. Erik smoothed some down and twisted it lightly into a coil. "He was so good that he could hear it through his fingers,"
"Yes," she sighed. "But it only lasted a month. It wasn't enough and it wasn't going to get better. So he spent all evening writing me one more note."
Christine hugged herself and Erik joined in. She was too small.
"We looked at his wedding album, watched videos of his concerts, my dance and singing recitals when I was little. When we were part way through my first undergrad concert," Christine drew an unstable breath, "he tapped me on the shoulder."
Erik held her as the words cut off. He held her when she clutched his arm and tried to crawl under his skin and shuddered through grief so profound it made you dizzy just to be near it. The years she'd spent growing up too soon- it was so much worse than her internet profiles let on, but that was performance life for you. Casting agents knew you online before they heard your voice these days, so she'd pretended to be a ray of sunshine until she couldn't anymore.
"It's funny," she hiccuped. "It wasn't until about a month later that I realized the hospice doctor had given us exactly everything we needed to do it. I guess… I guess they knew."
Christine pressed a soft cheek into his chest and held on, wracked by the occasional sob now rather than every breath tearing holes in her. Erik stroked her back and hummed songs she liked, songs from the radio, and whatever notes he could throw together at this hour. When the first shimmers of purpley pink lit the leaves outside, Chistine was soft and limp in his arms. He laid her down, draping her over the pillows before settling the duvet over them both.
The sleep of the innocent, Erik mused. Lead filled his limbs again as a brushstroke of peace swept the turbulence from the room. Deep water peace, clear and unrippled.
He'd never been strong for someone else before; only himself and only with Nadir's urging. It was a thought that would have to wait- half asleep and dreamy, Christine had scooted closer and tucked her arm by his. Coherent thought fell away as Erik offered her access to his pillow before slipping away from the edge of morning, back into dreams.
…
Reyer was branching out. The room smelled like a grim attempt at barbecue. Thankfully, other senses soon overtook the space as Erik launched into his repertoire to warm up. What a musician curated mentally said as much about their life as their musicianship. Erik's own catalogue varied wildly, seemingly selected on the whim of a multitude.
It fit him, though. He'd lived two lives and started a third and, given the circumstances, it was little wonder that his music leaned toward the melancholy and the mad. Yet, buried deep, was a green sprout. Something new.
Haunting phrases told a story of tempered yearning. It was a sound of old loneliness, a thorny feeling to translate, so it was useful that the melody had been locked behind the walls of Erik's mind, quietly tended until it could be dealt with.
Sometimes the most beautiful things in this world were ones that hurt, too. The trick was twisting a thread of hope through it. Without it, sad songs were just… sad. Sad could be beautiful, he supposed, but it made getting a second booking a real problem- venues, as a rule, didn't pack their schedules for major depression.
There was something that felt unbalanced about an unrelieved sad song. The music hung on you; it made the space around you sticky and full of doubt. It rather reminded Erik of Reyer's lunches; unsatisfying and mono-dimensional, yet capable of permeating the air around it.
Resolved phrases went far to cut the sludge. Auditory rhymes, fifth intervals and major lifts. Erik was on the verge of adding the ring of hope to the song when a tapping came from the door. With a sigh he tore his hands from the keys and stood when the door opened.
"Ah, Erik," Dr. Allen said as he came in. "I'd hoped to catch up with you. Got a minute?"
"Sure. Probably due for a break anyway." Erik stretched his fingers and reached for his coffee.
Allen leaned against the desk. "I got your message. And I also got one from nearly every music director in town and the dean of the music department at the university. You've adopted quite the project."
Erik cradled his cup and nodded, waiting.
"I'm not saying no, I just wanted to make sure it wasn't too much. I mean, you mentioned taking some time for upcoming court dates. You're known for pushing the limits in general but I just want to make sure you're not, you know… taking on too much."
"I'm ambitious," Erik said flatly.
Allen flicked the metal rim of the old desk. "I don't want to- hell, I can't replace you and I don't want to try. Assembling an entirely new production of a major choral symphony with nearly a hundred performers ranging from the age of five to sixty-five while in court and holding a day job is more than ambitious, Erik."
"The finished score is in my box account. I sent you a link. It's bare bones when it needs to be, and full force where it matters and the court case is out of my hands. I just show up a few times."
Allen took a deep breath and blew the steam off his cup. "You're going to do this by sheer force of will, aren't you?"
Erik smiled. "It would be nice to have your support, too."
With a soft chuckle, Allen shoved away from the desk and made his way to the door. "You know, the dean said you did stuff like this. I thought he was exaggerating." He opened the door and turned. "Of course you have my support, though, I'm betting we'll need a bigger auditorium. I'll make some calls."
"Allen?"
He turned, nearly spilling the remains of his coffee. "Yeah?"
"Thanks. Oh, you know that big church on seventh street?" Erik waved his coffee around vaguely. "You know, the one with great acoustics?"
"Yep, why?"
"I called the pastor. He's already agreed to let us use the space."
"Of course he did."
…
Nadir sipped his thick coffee and sighed. It was lovely and fragrant and might give him an edge in the game tonight. "And where is the mythical Christine tonight?"
"Home with her roommate," Erik replied and set a plate on the drying rack. "Christine said she just got back from a trip and needed girl time."
"Ah, a trip with the rich boyfriend?"
"Two week tour of Paris, Marseilles, Berlin, Dresden, Madrid and Barcelona."
Nadir set down his cup and tapped at the foam. A divot formed in the froth. "A dancer, right?"
"Ballet. Christine says she's one of the best in the country. She's just had a tough financial patch and had to take work around here instead of Chicago or New York."
"Well," Nadir said as he set out the chess board. "That explains the rich boyfriend. Need a hand with the dishes?"
"They're done. And I'm pretty sure she means to have him clear her path to the European stage." Erik dried his hands and tossed the cloth aside. "Are you black or white tonight?"
"White. It never hurts to have a patron in your corner." Nadir began setting the pieces. "Speaking of having people in your corner, what's the latest news?"
Erik's shoulders tensed minutely. "You'll be getting a call soon to do a statement." He rubbed under the mask and sighed. "I give my first one tomorrow."
The chess pieces jiggled as Nadir dropped a pawn. Sloppy, he chastised himself. He hadn't done that in years. It shouldn't rattle him but it did. Maybe it was because it was so much more personal this time. Not for him, but for Erik. For the first time, Erik had something real to fight for and that meant some of the past could finally rest.
When his hands steadied, he set the rest of the pieces. "Does Christine know?"
"I told her. Everything."
"Everything?"
Erik sat heavily, then carefully faced all the black pieces forward. "Everything."
Nadir knew when words were unsaid, but a man wears a mask because he wants to keep some things hidden. "Is she going with you tomorrow?"
"Yes, and then we're going to rehearsal right afterwards. You're invited if you'd like to come," Erik watched as Nadir moved his first piece. "Zadir is coming soon. I'm sure he'd love to see you again."
"So the Iranian master of the six string violin is making the trip?"
Erik grunted and moved a piece. "He lives in Portland. But yes, he's passing through the area and can make a few rehearsals."
Nadir rubbed his hands together and launched his defense. Erik was being predictable and today was his lucky day, he knew it. "Well if Zadir will be here, then I'm sure my Cara and I can make the time."
…
Erik wanted a drink. A drink and a shower and a long, long nap. Preferably with Christine tucked against him.
But the first sectional rehearsal, with a twenty strong chorus and a thirty piece orchestra, was assembled and ready. He swallowed and adjusted the mask, butterflies flapping his ribs.
The deposition had gone according to script. It didn't make it much easier, but at least the questions posed had been anticipated.
"Thank you for coming everyone. If you hadn't guessed, this isn't an attempt at perfection. It's an experiment in celebration, at doing the impossible just to say we gave it a shot." Erik shuffled his notes and shuddered for a moment at the sense memory of other papers in his hands. Reams of printouts, highlighted and full of annotation, prepared to prompt him and keep the questioning direct.
He refocused his attention. This was music. Music, not spreadsheets, memos, and a labyrinth of emails and text messages. He would be asking the questions here, and the answers would sing back.
His world. His domain. Not theirs.
"This isn't exactly the standard version, so double check that you've got the right parts and all the sheets. Right, get ready for notes." He patted his jacket and looked around until there was a tap on his shoulder.
Christine held out his pencil. "You forgot it at the deposition. I grabbed it on the way out."
Erik reached past the pencil and grasped her hand, cradling it close. It had been a long morning, made infinitely easier to bear with her near. The aggravations and distractions were muted as long as she was with him. He might have made it, but there was no way he could have grabbed a sandwich and immediately looked over his music notes for a rehearsal without her. Musicians around the city would be buzzing about this little display, but let them.
Her knuckles were tender beneath his lips.
"Thank you," he murmured, then tapped the pencil on his stand. "Places! Alright, close enough for today. Let's do a rough run on the fourth and fifth movements just to see where we are. Ready?"
He raised his trembling arms and gestured to the brass and strings. Bows and curved metal rose at his cue and stormed the marble walls when he flicked his wrists. Erik commanded the players through the flourishing rises and falls of the piece. The center of the action, but nothing like sitting at a painfully chic desk with a panel of staring lawyers, ready to pin you like an insect.
You had to know the text; the urtext, translation and paraphrase. The pace here determined the unfolding elsewhere, and a misstep could make a huge moment fall flat or uncover an unplanned complication. Rush and miss the delight of the transitions and crescendos; lag and risk burying the texture and contrasts in the piece. Mistakes were fine, missed notes were fine. A far greater sin was to play all the right notes but lose the piece.
Maybe lawyers felt that way about testimony, and thought cases were like performance. The very thought was disgusting and was mercifully swept away by the soprano section outdoing themselves.
Erik waved his arms. "Whoa whoa, everyone. Let's back up a few measures to the entrance." He jotted a few notes and tapped the music stand with the pencil again to draw down the rumbles. "That was great, but imagine you're angelic heralds, so float it in, don't kick down the door. Again!"
From the soprano section, Christine smiled and nodded. Erik felt his soul soar and, steady and sure, held up his arms once again.
…
He let Christine drive. To be fair, she took the keys when he couldn't find the ignition. He'd used everything left in his mental tank to storm the stones of the church with as much sound as he could squeeze from the rehearsal.
Every bit of sound, all of it. He'd take it in and rebuild himself. The deposition had leached something vital out of him and the two hour rehearsal had put it back. Marble-polished echoes, the rumbles of the drums, throaty pulls on cello strings, and silvery gleams of voices vibrated through his bones. Despite chewing his pencil down to the lead, the work washed away the morning and left him clean and aware.
"Still with me?" Christine asked as she pulled onto his street. Their street?
"I'm good." Streetlights pulsed in sweeps across the dashboard, like the rise and fall of music. The rise and fall of her voice.
The rise and fall of her body in dance, or against him in passion.
The world snapped into sharp focus. Once the car was parked, Erik circled around to meet Christine.
"Keys," he said softly.
"What? Oh, of course."
Erik tucked his arm around her and kept her close, could feel her warmth and how it chased the suggestion of evening chill. He managed to wait until the door was closed behind them and she backed up, leaning against it the moment he made a move toward her,
"Tired?" Erik said, tucking her hair aside.
"Wide awake," she replied. Neither of them reached to turn on the lights and before he could consider or even recall where the switch was, Christine was on her tiptoes and he was leaning over, bracing against the door to keep from falling.
The carved details of the door cut into Erik's palm as Christine pressed his top lip between hers. Cool air bit his throat because it was almost too much, too fast and not enough, so he nudged to get at her bottom lip and let it slip by his own.
There is a style of singing, where two partners wind their voices together so that neither has just the melody or harmony. It requires exquisite attention and sensitivity between the partners or the illusion falls apart. The third voice they create is a mirage, a dream.
And yet, it is the tune you hum when you think of the song.
When he drew back, the dark entryway cast them in shadows cut by the broken light of the back door porch light. It illuminated Christine and the reflections in her eyes made Erik pause. He could see the outlines of his mask, but she left him no time for doubt and quickly took his mouth again.
This was the first time that kissing Christine, being with her, wasn't an event. It was normal. A precious addition to the landscape of his life.
Erik drew back again. "Can I ask you something?" he panted as he pressed his mask lightly to her forehead.
"Mmhmm," she crooned against his cheek.
He swallowed. "Is this… normal? Do ordinary people spend a day together and then decide it's not enough and then do this at the end of the day?"
She raised an eyebrow at him. "This? You mean..." She caught his earlobe between her teeth and trailed a finger down the front of his shirt until he shuddered.
"Yeah, that," he sighed, twitching at her touch. "Am I... are we… normal?"
The hot breath by his ear withdrew and Christine looked up at him. Her smile was so sweet, so full of joy that Erik could feel his heart swell. When she cupped his cheek, he leaned into it.
"I really, really hope so," Christine said, her eyes filling. "Because if everyone could be as happy as I am right now, the world would be an amazing place."
She might have planned to say more, but the words were smothered by kisses that felt tight because Erik was smiling. Barely able to cover his teeth, and a glow warmed his face. As the heat spread, the kisses softened. Christine pushed away from the door and reached up to brush the exposed side of his face, caressing near the edge of the mask where his skin was achingly sensitive.
Her fingertips explored him, carefully lingering by his false hairline and the ridge of his brow before tracing down, following the sharp cut of his cheekbone down to the kiss. Her touch on their lips, and the sharp contrast between the hot satin of her mouth and the cool searching, now on both sides of his face, pulled a whimper from deep in Erik's chest.
He let his fingers join hers, feeling the kiss for what it was, as sensual as lovemaking, as intimate and vulnerable as being naked. Her other hand traced the mask.
He could do this. They were far past this. Together, they kept the kiss and left the mask on the table by his bed, discarded for the night in favor of themselves and each other. Was this normal? Maybe not, but it felt good and right. Ordinary for them, maybe. Ordinary for a third life.
Christine held him from behind and stroked his scalp, jaw, and shoulders. The aches and strains of the day melted away at her hands, then she stoked the flame in him, cupping him gently before cradling the ache between his legs until he gripped fistfuls of bedding in his trembling hands. Then he returned the favor, spreading her open and mouthing her lightly until she giggled. She stopped giggling quick enough when he began in earnest, kneading her thighs and turning his inexhaustible attention span to turning her into a swollen, creamy mess.
He was Apollo, and she the Lyre. A symphony of touch and sense; places where the strains of love and perspective smashed together and became something more. Evenly matched and more than the sum of themselves. There was no mirage- the illusion was real.
Lyrics from Italian and French operas, bits from German masses, and English sonnets spilled from him as he rose up. She stretched out her arms, murmuring broken pieces of the answering phrases. They had their own language, remaking the meanings as he thrust up with a gasp. The night was intoxicating and saturated with them and he breathed it in with greedy pulls.
Rises and falls followed tempo, pulsing with feverish sensuality. Their kisses grew sloppy and hungry as the first stirs hit him. Those fingers, so curious and tentative at the edge of a kiss, now worked at the rising heat as cries in the dark grew more insistent and desperate. The hard shudders took his breath away as Christine arched up, clenching and shaking, ripping his climax from him.
Limp and ragged, Erik pulled away long enough to collapse at Christine's side. They were red faced and sweaty, disheveled and dumb. She looked like a very satisfied hag. He didn't want to think about what he looked like.
"I love you," Erik said, as clearly as his fast breaths allowed.
Christine grabbed him, dragging him back. "I love you,too. Though, you might want to work on your delivery for next time."
He buried his face in her chest and wrapped his arms around her. "Don't worry. I don't plan on saying that to anyone else."
She gripped him tight with her thighs and sighed. "Good. Me neither."